applesaucedream | Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

Current Music: Evening July 27th/Morning July 28th

Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

The woods are dark and deep, but not particularly lovely. If anything, they feel dangerous, as if something terrible might come lurching out from behind any given tree and tear into the nearest warm body. What that terrible thing might be is anyone's guess. A cat with hands? Slenderman? Stegosaurus? Actual cannibal Shia LaBeouf? All of the above in a horrible mob? It's anyone's guess. But every dreamer will be absolutely convinced that there is something unspeakable out there, and that it's after them.

The dreamers have two things on their side. The first is that there is actually nothing dangerous lurking in these woods (with the possible exception of other dreamers). The pervasive terror the dreamers are feeling is just that: a rift-given feeling, nothing more and nothing less. That snapping twig or rustle in the undergrowth is almost certainly just a squirrel or something else equally harmless.

The second is that no dreamer is alone. They all will be reunited with - or introduced to - their dæmons, a source of comfort in this dark, intimidating wilderness. However frightened the dreamers might be, at least they have someone with them who definitely doesn't want them dead.

[OOC: as ever, any and all are welcome! You don't have to be in the game to join the fun. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. And the party only stops when you want it to; feel free to backtag forever.]

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The suggestion to leave sounds like a really fucking excellent one, right up until the point that Johnny grabs him -

"Don't fuckin' touch me," he snarls, snapping out of the other man's grip so viciously he nearly topples over again.

No. No, he is not panicking. He is not. He is not panicking. The place is dark and blurry, that is fine and it has always been, his breathing is a perfectly acceptable rate, his heart is going at exactly the right amount of beats per minute that a heart should be going at given a fair amount of adrenaline, he is not shaking, not even slightly. He is not trying to shrug off the awful, clinging sensation of fingers wrapping around his arm, fuck he is fine, fine, he is fine, he is fine, he is fine.

Nathaira pushes her head beneath Rush's hand, forcing his fingers to stroke at the rough fur there. He almost reflexively lashes out at her too for initiating physical contact, but the feeling is - comforting, weirdly. He won't question that. He needs to get a handle on his breathing. He needs to get a handle on this. He can do that. He is not panicking.

"Go," Nathaira whispers. "We have to go."

Yes, they do. They have to go. They have to - fuck, he is shaking.

He is not panicking.

"Whoa!" Johnny lifts his hand away at once, stepping back. "Jesus! Fuck, sorry, I was just trying to help!"

Nova pushes her nose against his cheek, chiding him silently - look, he's afraid. Be gentle. You know how to be gentle, don't you?

Johnny feels a pang of irritation - what the hell business does he have having a rabbit soul, when he's such a prickly fucking asshole? He brushes it all aside in a hurry when another, louder snap resounds just to his left.

"Look, I'm sorry," he says again, through his teeth. "Let's just - let's go. All right? You okay?"

He starts inching forward, resisting the urge to reach out and make another grab to hurry Rush along.

"I am perfectly fucking fine."

He is perfectly fucking fine. He is not breathing too hard. His heartrate is acceptable. Everything is acceptable.

He is not panicking.

The sound of twigs crackling somewhere very close by serves as an adequate impetus. Nathaira nudges him, none too gently, and the brusque action is familiar enough to spur him onward. His breathing is normal for someone about to embark on a late night run for his life through unrecognizable woods, pursued by a creature of unknown origin. His heartrate is acceptable. He is not panicking.

He doesn't check to ensure Johnny is keeping pace as he tears off, unidirectional but with marked navigational ineptitude as he also does not check to see where he is going, only that he is moving.

Rush is small but the panic - the lack thereof, he is not panicking, he is not panicking - the adrenaline is increasing his rate of movement considerably. He will exert horizontal force x and vertical force y in the forward motion of running, he will exercise his knowledge of gravitational pull, he will propel himself forward parabolically, he will breathe and he will be fine, because he is not panicking.

Nathaira is beside him, streamlined and efficient, and he is running and breathing and not panicking. Rush prefers not panicking. A round of metaphorical applause for a reasonably balanced mental state.

Keeping pace isn't a problem so much as keeping track of him. The woods are dark as hell, and it's by some small miracle that Johnny doesn't trip on a root and faceplant into the dirt many times over. He can hear Rush breathing, that's mostly how he manages to follow him.

"Okay, okay!" he calls finally, when his body is starting to revolt. "We've gone far enough, man, stop! Stop."

He drags to a halt and leans heavily against a tree, panting. Nova wriggles, and he sets her down at last, letting her move curiously toward Nathaira. It doesn't feel entirely safe here, but at least it seems quieter.

Johnny casts a wary glance at Rush. "Are you okay?" he asks.

The sound of Johnny yelling alerts him to the fact that the other man may well be in danger or injured or dying. How dreadfully inconvenient. Rush skids to a halt out of instinct, but further inspection reveals that Johnny is not in actual fact in danger or injured or dying, but merely tired. He prepares himself to comment on the blinding idiocy of stopping when they are so obviously being chased but his senses finally catch up to his brain and indicate that he is also, infuriatingly, tired on the account that he is having trouble breathing.

He is fine. This is fine.

Nathaira sniffs at the rabbit, it - he cannot recall its name and it is unimportant. Nathaira seems curious at it rather than annoyed as he is, which is just further proof that she cannot possibly be the manifestation of his soul or whatever similar nonsense, because if this were the case she would be telling the rabbit to fuck off and mind its own business.

Johnny has to ask if Rush is fine as well, which earns him a glower.

"I am -" He has to breathe. He has to breathe. And clutch at the stitch in his side. And breathe. And grind his other hand at his eyes, the base of his palm driving into one eyeball with the intent of triggering a pain reflex. He is fine.

"I am fine," he says, entirely unconvincingly, breathless and agitated and not panicking in the slightest.

"You're not fucking fine," says Johnny. "I'm not an idiot, and I know what freaking out looks like. If you don't want to talk about it, that's fine, but don't bullshit me."

Why he cares, he doesn't know. It's not like this guy is giving him any reason to reach out.

"Is there anything I can do," he says, impatient with himself for trying so hard when he doubts it'll work out in his favor. "Even if it's leave you alone, or whatever."

Gaining a little confidence, Nova butts her head up under Nathaira's chin in solidarity.

"That is a difference in opinion," Rush responds tightly. "I am perfectly fucking normal."

Fuck, he's better at lying than this. His breathing is erratic. His breathing is erratic. Rush isn't even sure if he has a 'normal', a baseline. He's lived so long without one.

He has to move. So he paces, tight and controlled, and gives his heartrate and breathing adequate reasons to be erratic. Perfectly normal. He is tired. He is fine.

"You're not," snaps Nathaira. "You're not even doing a slightly good job at hiding it."

"I did not ask." The headache he didn't realize he had is getting unbearable. Now both hands go to his temples, applying pressure, he must restore his breathing.

Johnny sighs heavily. So much for that. Not like he blames the guy, this kind of stubborn refusal to talk shit out is pretty familiar. He's gotten a lot better at it lately.

Rush is still flipping out, and Johnny's instinct is to move forward and pat him on the back or something, but he reacted so badly to that last time that instead he stays put and feels useless.

"You know," says Nova after a moment. "Having Nathaira outside you has... advantages. If you try petting her, maybe... maybe that would help?"

She looks at the panther, then up at Johnny. "It helps us," she says.

Johnny says nothing, feeling embarrassed.

Rush freezes and stares at the rabbit for a long, distasteful minute.

"In what way is a communicative hyperintelligent leporid qualified to dispense psychological medical advice?" he asks waspishly. "You realize this is the case? You understand what you've recommended? You made the suggestion that I go and pet a cat to make myself feel better?"

"Actually," rumbles Nathaira, sliding her head beneath his hand in a motion that's now becoming nauseatingly familiar, a sort of forced stroking, "plenty of therapists recommend petting cats to treat anxiety. It lowers blood pressure."

Rush does not know what to do with that and will therefore not respond to it. He will not admit to indirectly taking advice from a rabbit. That would be fucking absurd.

Nova sniffs, unimpressed, and hops back over to Johnny, with Nathaira focused on Rush.

"Come on, man, don't be a prick," mutters Johnny, bending down to pick Nova back up. "It's not just that she's a cat, it's that she's part of you. It's comforting because it is. There doesn't have to be a fuckin... psychological medical precedent for it."

Nova reaches out with a little front paw and gives him a tiny bap. Be nice.

He will not admit that the way Nathaira is now rubbing her chin against his leg, like some fucking domesticated house cat, is bizarrely reassuring. His brain latches onto strange things in times of high anxiety, this is statistically true given his history and this particular instance is no exception. His breathing, at least, is no longer erratic.

"It's comforting because it is," parrots Rush, almost imperceptibly rolling his eyes at the phrasing. "Eloquent. Truly. Someone give this man a PhD."

"Quiet," his panther orders, flicking at the back of one knee with her tail. He stiffens at the feather-light contact but recovers admirably enough to stare at her, deeply suspicious. Is he being admonished by a panther? He is being admonished by a panther.

Johnny flips Rush off casually, without any malice behind it. He's an obstinate jerk, but he's having a rough time, and from the sound of things he's not a rifty, at least not yet. Worrying after someone else make it easier to ignore the slow burn of his own dread.

"That's better though, isn't it?" he says, barely resisting the urge to smirk.

"Shut up," he fires back.

"What was that you said about eloquence?" purrs Nathaira.

"You can also stop talking." But he hasn't stopped petting her with one hand, awkwardly. Petting her serves his interests. This is the only reason. "You're not even supposed to be able to vocalize. You don't have the physiological capabilities. How are your vocal chords producing those noises?"

"Don't overthink it. You might break something."

Rush has no answer, so he merely huffs quietly to himself and resumes his disgruntled petting. If this panther really is an extension of his self, then she would know there's too much damage in that neurological area already, all of it horribly beyond repair. And none of it anyone's concern but his.

Johnny shrugs nonchalantly and sits down, holding Nova in his lap, making a little show of petting her as well. It is really comforting, even though she's just as nervous as he is - at least they have each other, this rare point of contact.

"So," says Johnny, not sure what else to do. "Doctor of what?"

"I'm a cryptographer," he says shortly. "Mathematician. Why in the everliving fuck would you care?"

Nathaira nips at his hand, some absurdly scolding action, and he jolts away.

"What the fuck."

"He asked," she explains impatiently.

Johnny can't generate enough self-respect to give much of a shit about Rush's continued jackassery. Really, he's just enjoying watching Nathaira's attempts to get him to chill. He reflects briefly that he's glad - and maybe a little surprised - that he gets along so well with Nova. Their initial meeting had been a little shaky, perhaps, but it certainly didn't go on this long.

"Cool," says Johnny calmly. "Not the life-saving kind, though. That could be useful, even in a dream. Which would make me care more."

Nova nuzzles against him and gives him a little nip as well, maybe taking a pointer from the bigger, older soul-creature. Johnny smirks down at her. Come on now.

"Should you ever come up against a hyperspace gateway address cyphered in an algebraically decimal alien locking grid, you can let me know," Rush counters in a marginally less caustic tone than usual.

Never mind that it took him two years to crack the last cyphered address he encountered and he'd more or less had to mentally torture himself to do it and the solution they'd implemented hadn't even been his because he was not good enough, would never be good enough, would fail at that endeavor like he had and would so many others.

He stops petting the panther because it feels too fucking bizarre to continue doing it, instead hooks both hands around the back of his neck and occupies himself examining the asymmetrical arrangement of the trees, the quantum subdivisions of dream particles that comprise the air, the leaves, the dirt, and wonders if it would be possible to observe their structure on a molecular scale, then almost immediately dismisses the idea. What would that accomplish?

His mind is locked in distant stasis, trapped in cryogenic stagnation, billions upon billions of light years away from any feasible solution to this problem, and his consciousness has been displaced to here, an entirely unrelated anonymous forest with an equally anonymous man and his rabbit that have no empirical grasp of the space in which they occupy and, apparently, no intellectual drive to examine it. Rush finds that grating. Immensely so.

"Who're you?" he snaps with perhaps more rough diction than is strictly necessary, an attempt to maintain conversational norms that he has a purely basic grasp of. He only recalls the fundaments of interpersonal dialogue, one of which is that when the opposite party directs a question in relation to the subject's person, the subject must respond with a question of equal association and magnitude.

The stream of science-fiction sounding nonsense makes him want to laugh, but he manages to keep it contained. There's no reason why it can't all be true, it's not like he hasn't met weirder, more science-fictional things. To say nothing of an angel.

And then that unfriendly demand, out of left field. Johnny blinks at him. Jeez.

"Johnny Truant," he says slowly. "I'm nobody." He shifts his arms a little closer around Nova, tucking his knees up. "I worked in a tattoo parlor in Los Angeles. Then I fucked up my life and almost lost it. Now I'm here." He focuses on his shoe as he scrapes it gently over dried leaves. "Manhattan. When I'm awake. It's hard to explain if you haven't already come through."

There, is that satisfying? It's more than he'd ordinarily be willing to share, but not so much that he feels exposed yet.

Rush has nothing to say about any of that, merely put the question forward as it seemed the socially acceptable thing to do, but evidently that was a computational error on his part as Johnny does not seem to want to actively discuss it so he decides that's enough discussion relating to their own personal selves for now. He's still working on reordering the chaotic neurological sludge in his own internal thought processors, a dismissal of the high vibrations of toxic anxiety and whatever the fuck else is there that shouldn't be.

"Come through," he repeats, narrowing his eyes. "As in a wormhole?"

"Sort of," says Johnny, relieved Rush is picking up on that rather than any of the rest of it. "I mean, I don't know one way or the other. We call it the Rift. I don't know that anyone knows... what it really is, or how it works."

He rubs distractedly at the back of his neck. "Sound like something in your doctoral wheelhouse?"

Now that is infinitely more intriguing than whatever stories this person might have about souls or personal history.

"Why didn't you mention that earlier?" Rush asks mildly, dropping his hands and staring at him. "An anomaly of that scientific consequence that exists in Manhattan? What is it? Who discovered it? What does it do?"

And how does he get to it he almost adds, but bites that one off. He is in stasis in a ship in a different part of the universe, he reminds himself, and whatever possible access he might have to a...Rift of any nature is simply out of the question at the present time.

Johnny gives him a put-upon sigh and a stare to match. "I don't fuckin know, man, I'm new here. It pulls people out of their universes and into a new one. Into Manhattan. And it puts us all in these dreams, and that's all I know."

He shrugs and pushes a hand through his hair. "Nobody's figured out how to go back through yet, or anything. But I guess you haven't come through yet. Sometimes that happens." He's not sure whether he wants to say 'lucky you' or not, with someone this fucked up, coming through might be a blessing. He oughta know.

That's fascinating, in a frustrating, distant sort of way. Rush wishes he could analyze it. The ramifications of that sort of thing existing, how it apparently diverges into multiple parts of different universal, possibly pandimensional constructs, is singularly incredible. Completely unheard of, even in his own work that frequently involved subspace wormholes. Such things pale in comparison to this.

"There's a multi-branal penetrative force existing in the very accessible confines of Manhattan and you never thought to mention that earlier?" The sheer scope of a discovery like that is staggering. Rush can't possibly conceive of why anyone would simply forget to mention it.

"Usually the people I meet here already know about it," says Johnny, raising an eyebrow at him. "It's kind of the reason these things happen, you know? Also we were sort of busy."

Something cracks in the woods, muffled and distant, and Nova stiffens, stretching her ears out to listen. Johnny manages not to lose his composure. He doesn't feel up to running again just yet.

"You being here might mean you're gonna come through soon, I guess," he continues, "or it might not. You might forget the whole thing, I guess. I don't know."

"Like fuck," he answers incredulously. "I'm not going to be forgetting an interdimensional force that can breach diverging D-branes, I don't care how long I've been in stasis."

Three years, hopefully. If they reach their planned endpoint. Or possibly forever if they don't.

While Johnny may be well at ease with the disturbing noises in the woods, the snap of an indescribable something provokes a shuddering jump from Rush and a low, menacing growl from Nathaira. Rush is really fucking tired of the perpetual rate of increased adrenaline, but - and he makes sure of it this time - his breathing is not erratic. Yet.

Tender Lumplings Everywhere, Life's No Fun Without A Good Scare [Open to All]

tw: minor panic-related things

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