Can't Stand the Distance, Can't Dream Alone [open to all]

[applesaucemod]

The sleeping rifties might have a difficult time realizing they're dreaming this evening, in part because tonight's dreams are atypically vivid, even compared to the rift's usual efforts. Perhaps that is because it's drawing so heavily from the memories of the dreamers, themselves, and using that information to recreate their home worlds in stunning detail. And that is the real reason the dreamers might not be eager to accept the unreality of the situation: the situation is one that many of them have been hoping for for months or even years. In their dreams tonight, the rifties are going home.

Perhaps they arrive in the same moment that they left. Perhaps months have passed at home, or they might even find themselves arriving before their departure point. But those are small details when compared to the overwhelming realization that they're back where they belong.

They're not alone. Many dreamers will find the rift has given them a companion for the return trip. Well, an uncomplicated return home is probably more than anyone could have hoped for, anyway. And for the unwitting visitor, perhaps another universal displacement will be easier to bear with the addition of a local guide.

[ooc: usual dream party rules apply; all are welcome, and dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Also at the players' discretion: when their character arrives in their 'home universe,' and how many (if any) locals they'd want to run into.]

Comments

[peacefulexplorer]

The grinding whirr of the naquadah ring and the thunk of engaging chevrons is so sharp and familiar that for a moment Daniel can't find anything wrong with it. It feels completely natural, from the roaring vortical surge of blue-white as it storm-roars outward to the watery snap of the spiraling fluid energy kawoosh reshaping itself into the oscillating, rippling puddle. It only strikes him once he's been hurled through the shrieking tunnel of tearing space-time that he hasn't been through a stargate in weeks.

He gets no time to consider the incongruous timeline before the gate discharges him out on the other side in a far more turbulent exit than necessary; inertia is constant even through gate travel, even through the spaciotemporal fold between two artificial wormholes in separate coordinates of the galaxy. Yet the stargate ejects him at his destination violently and sends him hurtling onto the new planet in a torqued parabola. One shoulder glances off the raised dais but he manages to twist the awkward landing into a partial roll, avoiding injuries worse than simple bruising, then rights himself immediately and unclips the P-90 at his tac vest to bring it up defensively.

Daniel gets about thirty seconds to appreciate the old feel of the gun, disturbing in its familiarity, before his world detonates.

The dais gets rocked by a low, rumbling explosion, a deep and percussive force that sends fragments of debris pinwheeling in Daniel's direction. He ducks behind the DHD for cover, groping for the radio that apparently isn't there. A second impact - are those missiles or energy-based weapons or sonic-based technology he can't tell he can't tell there's too much happening - rocks the gate again, and before Daniel can consider dialing home a third blast smashes into the platform barely several meters away. No form of evasive maneuver would have been sufficient. He tumbles backwards off the dais and scrambles to get back to his feet

Threat assessment: alien planet, unknown coordinates, unknown assailants, explosions very very nearby. Force and magnitude of attack unknown. Gate unsafe.

Get to higher ground.

[wildmage_daine]

Daine lands shoulder-first in three inches of snow, the wind knocked out of her and her bow dropping to the ground. Confusion and déjà-vu wash through her in equal measure, and she just lies there for three beats of her heart before an achingly familiar grey face fills her view.

And what sort of move do you call that? Cloud asks her, huffing out an annoyed breath in Daine's face. Were you going to take on a handful of enemy mages single-handed? Idiot foal! Her teeth close around Daine's shoulder, hauling her upright, all the while continuing to berate her. I let you out of my sight for a few weeks, and you get all kinds of foolish notions--what are you clinging to me for? she finishes, her tone taking a turn for the baffled as Daine throws her arms around the pony's neck.

A few weeks? Daine protests weakly as she turns her face into Cloud's mane. Hot tears are streaming down her cheeks. Cloud, I've been gone for months.

She can feel Cloud's confusion at that pronouncement. Nonsense, she mutters, though her tone has softened. You weren't in Carthak that long.

"Not Carthak," Daine says aloud, struggling to her feet, still leaning against the pony for support. She notes that she's wearing the same clothes she was when the rift first took her. "I was--somewhere else." She falters uncertainly. How could she even begin to explain Manhattan to Cloud? She casts a glance at the surrounding wilderness - a real forest, nothing like the Ramble - and shakes her head, overwhelmed. "Is it… is it really the same day I left?" she murmurs, as much to herself as to the pony.

There's a snort from Cloud, who can't seem to decide if she ought to be concerned or annoyed by Daine's inexplicable chatter. You've hit your head or something, she concludes. And you're lucky that's the worst of it. Come on, let's… she trails off, then turns to look at something behind Daine, her ears flattening in suspicion. Who is that? she demands to know.

tw: fantasy gore

[noteasybeingblue]

The rain-spattered streets of this city are coated in water and blood in equal measure. The heaps of demonic corpses are immeasurable, piled between alleyways and quickly trampled beneath the feet of the next oncoming hordes. The Los Angeles has long since crumbled from its former proud metropolitan sprawl, rendered completely unrecognizable. Hellish fissures have erupted from the ground; the sky is become a darkened, bloody smear streaked with stars; the rain has progressed into a hail of fire belched from the choking black clouds overhead; swarms of heterogeneous beasts, winged and tentacled and horned and cloven, scale the formerly mortal-owned buildings of cement and glass and shred them to their foundations.

And it is glorious.

For despite the diversity and number of Hellbeasts, despite their endless ranks, none have come close to laying low the conqueror, the God-King, the Merciless, the eternally triumphant. Illyria strikes down her foes tirelessly, gleefully, and revels in each one's demise.

Finally, this world has become a hair more aligned with the one she knows. Illyria is still a god, still a king, and she still knows what it is to conquer. This world will be hers, and every demon that does not bow will be crushed.

[rae_of_sun]

Sunshine has been here before. Both in the sense that it's Charlie's, and she's here all the time, and in the sense of returning to work after an absence that involved all sorts of freaky shit better not discussed - not least of all because she doesn't even have an actual temporal absence to account for, so uh, thanks to the rift for that? Except it's not really a favor. This might be easier if everyone understood that there had been an… upheaval. If it wasn't - for all intents and purposes - all in her head.

She's been handling it pretty well, she thinks. Avoiding her mother is perfectly in character, so she hasn't had to deal with that, yet, and okay, maybe she's been getting atypically choked up upon encountering basically everyone, but she has yet to reach Charlie-drifts-absently-into-the-bakery-to-talk-to-her levels of weird. If she can get through her first day back without having a meltdown or twelve, she will count this as a success.

It's not that hot in the bakery - not by her standards, and she handles the heat better than most - but she's still feeling a little bit stifled. So she's taking a break in the little courtyard adjoining the bakery and kitchen, pulling in deep breaths of the late summer air and telling herself: it's okay. You're okay. You're home. This is good. This is good.

this is so big, I'm so sorry

[johnny_truant]

[ooc: courier new text was taken directly from a scene in the book, made present tense and third person for the purposes of this. Apologies to Mark Z Danielewski, and also everyone.]


Johnny wakes up because of the radio, KROQ's Love Line, this time drenched in purple rain, and there's Hailey, he remembers Hailey, disturbed face, incredible body, came over that one time it was a really nice night and then she was gone in the morning for reasons he could never understand? - she's on the radio now, describing to Doctor Drew and Adam Carolla how he--"this guy in a real stale studio with books and writing everywhere, everywhere! and weird drawings all over his walls too, all in black. I couldn't understand any of it."--had dozed off only to start screaming and yelling terrible things in his sleep, about blood and mutilations and other crazy %&#@, which had scared her and had it been wrong of her to leave even though when he'd been awake he'd seemed alright?

An ugly shiver rips up his back then. All this time he's believed the cavorting and drinking and sex had done away with that terrible onslaught of fear. Clearly he was wrong. He's only pushed it off into another place. His stomach turns. Screaming things is bad enough, but the thought that he's also frightened someone he feels only tenderness for makes it far worse.

Does he scream every night? What does he say? And why in the hell can't he remember any of it in the morning?

This has happened before. No. Oh no. It's happening again.

Maybe he does remember. He remembers a dream, or was it a dream? Can't have been; it was too, too real, and he's too different, yes, there it is, the new tattoo on his arm, non sum qualis eram, proof of the point. Something isn't right. He's back. He's home. He's home.

No.

But the thing with Hailey happened ages ago, so long ago, did the rift - did it send him back too far? Is this it? He's just here now, no more Gabriel, no more TARDIS, no more anyone? Just like that?

This is fucking unbearable.

He kicks off the sheets and tumbles out of bed, landing hard on the floor. His instinct is to look for Yarrow but he's gone too. They're all gone. He'd only just been approaching the fourth month of his new life but it was all so much, so good. Better than life has ever been. Even with Zagreus. Even with that.

He picks himself up, breathing too hard, too fast. He checks to make sure his door is locked. Returns a second later to put on the chain. He needs more locks. (He remembers needing more locks.) His heart starts hammering. He retreats to the corner of his room but that doesn't help. Fuck, fuck, fuck--isn't helping either. Better go to the bathroom, try some water on the face, try anything. Only he can't budge. Something is approaching. He can hear it outside. He can feel the vibrations. It is about to splinter its way through the Hall door, his door, Walker in Darkness, from whose face earth and heaven long ago fled.

Then the walls crack.

All his windows shatter.

A terrible roar.

More like a howl more like a shriek.

His eardrums strain and split.

The chain snaps.

He's trying desperately to crawl away, but it's too late. Nothing can be done now.

That awful stench returns and with it comes a scene, filling his place, painting it all anew, but with what? And what kind of brushes are being used? What sort of paint? And why that smell?

Oh no.

How does he know this?

He cannot know this.

The floor beneath him falls into a void.

Except before he falls what's happening now only reverts to what was supposed to have happened which in the end never happened at all. The walls remain, the glass holds and the only thing that vanishes is his own horror, subsiding in that chaotic wake always left by even the most rational things.

Here now is the darker side of whim.

He tries to relax.

He tries to forget.

...He can't forget. He doesn't want this anymore. He left this behind. This already happened and he already wrote it down. What more can he do. What more can he give.

"Gabriel," he whispers, helpless, desperate, pleading, lowering himself gently down to his knees. "Gabriel, can you hear me?"

Long, dusty silence. He stares at his hands on the floor and wills it to open, swallow him up, take him away. He can't. That's gone too now. Good.

Then: footsteps in the hall. Ordinarily Johnny would never go out there. Especially not because of footsteps. But it might be Gabe. It might be.

He gets up, unchains and unbolts his door, opens it. Steps into the hall.

There's someone there, but he can't know if they're real.



[Gabe may indeed answer this prayer but don't let that stop you from throwing anyone else at poor messed up little Johnny. He can meet anyone in the hall and it will probably be terrible.]

[bluesuit_handy]

Andrew sits back in his lounge chair, scratching behind the ears of the little havanese dog curled up against his big, pregnant belly. Before him lies a lake, its water reflecting the triple moonrise above. Behind him lies an adorable, stub-nosed spaceship big enough to house the equivalent of a small flat inside. His expression is troubled; though he ought to be pleased to be home he's instead struck with anxiety over the fact that James isn't here with him. Last time they went through the rift there was a delay between their arrivals, but there's no guarantee that things will happen the same way twice.

The little dog on Andrew's lap and the golden retriever splashing about at the lake's edge snap to attention at the sound of someone approaching, waiting in readiness as Andrew turns to look as well. The third dog, a big wire-haired mutt, leaps to his feet beside the lounge chair and begins barking hysterically, the sound surprisingly high-pitched, like he can't decide if he's crying or barking.

"Oh, hush!" Andrew admonishes him. Then, to the person newly arrived, he adds even as the golden retriever comes dashing up toward them, "Don't mind Harry, he's just an idiot -- Kate, no!"

Lucifer's Adventures in Hitchhiking, or Things Sam Lacks: Good Communication Skills, the AU

[wentdowntogeorgia]

When Lucifer opens his eyes, he is laying on his back in a graveyard, looking up at the watery Kansas sky. He is wrapped up in the familiar flesh of his former vessel, but Nick is not in the same condition that he was in Manhattan; he is battered and broken, a wrecked shell like he was when Lucifer abandoned him in Detroit. The vessel is dying and Lucifer's Grace is barely more than a spark, and it takes most of even that small amount of power left to him to get Nick back into an inhabitable shape. At least with his Grace burning so low, the vessel can contain him without being damaged, but it has left him little more than human.

And his wings.

His wings had been wreckages even after his first Fall, all scars and sinew where he'd been burned and healed and burned again in Hell, but they had at least been functional. Now, they were nothing, just bare bone and ash, and he feels the loss of them acutely. Worse is the pervasive silence all around him, the great yawning emptiness overhead where Heaven stands hollow and abandoned.

Angel radio is silent. He cannot hear his brothers and sisters, feel their presence mapped across the universe in a Grace-light starchart. Knowing Gabriel's warning did not at all prepare him for the awful truth of it.

He is free and Heaven is a tomb.

It takes some effort for Lucifer to get to his feet; he is near powerless, has no idea where Michael might be, no plan and no direction. He does not know where Gabriel is, either, but he can at least take a guess and hope that he's in New York. New York, which is across almost half the entire continental United States from where he is. Had his wings still been functional, twelve hundred miles would have been nothing; he could have crossed it in an instant, at the speed of thought. Now--

Now, he has no choice. He walks.

Lucifer doesn't walk quite the whole way. For a few hundred miles past Indianapolis, he rides in the backseat of a van belonging to a man who'd picked him up off of the side of the road with about half a dozen cats. He thinks of Castiel and how he'd ridden in Dean Winchester's car, and he agrees with him: they are slow and confining. The close quarters and animal reek causes them to part ways in the little town of Bethlehem, West Virginia, and he continues walking.

Sometimes, he stops at gas stations or cheap convenience stores to purchase sustenance with what little loose money is left in Nick's pockets. His Grace is returning to him, slowly, but he has to keep burning it off to keep it down to a level where it won't damage his vessel and to keep himself off of Hell's radar (the angels are dead, and he does not trust the demons not to think that one more dead angel would be to their benefit with him weak and the threat of Heaven gone), and it's too low to negate the body's biological needs. He doesn't know how easy it will be to find another if he ruins this one, so he has to take at least the most basic care of it.

He sleeps, at times, though he thinks that sleep may not be the right word for it; he passes out in places, in stoops and on the side of the road. He doesn't remember actually losing consciousness, just the sick, hard jolt of coming back to awareness hours later.

It takes him some two weeks of walking and hitchhiking to make it to Manhattan.

It takes him a little while even after that just to find evidence of Gabriel's presence, but he knows his brother is alive, so that makes the signs easier to spot. He follows the trail of pagan trickster magic and well-hidden angel Grace back to a warded apartment building. His Grace is so weak that the wards barely even recognize him, and he is able to enter; he likes to think that he has done this on purpose, as a way of passing through, but he knows that isn't true.

He is dust-caked and weary, his ruined wings throb down to the roots; his feet are in an unknown condition, because he simply hasn't taken off his shoes. By the feel of it, they've become two giant blisters, and the muscles of his legs have become increasingly uncooperative. His knees ache, especially on cold mornings, and the idea that this body is past middle-age is an uncomfortable one. In a state of constant decay, and over halfway to dead. He needs to find a way to keep Nick from dissolving around him, or he needs Sam.

Lucifer knocks on the door.

((Technically, he's going for Gabriel, but anyone can find him at any point during his Fabulous Misadventures.))

[bibliophale]

Well, this isn't right at all.

That is, it's not current.

He's standing in a vast expanse of grassland near the bank of what he knows to be the Euphrates, foothills to the east, and a city in the distance. He stares at it in momentary disbelief. The circling gates are not yet in their full splendor, nor the the Hanging Gardens, nor the Tower, which they called the Etemenanki ziggurat. But it is unmistakable nonetheless.

"Babylon," he murmurs, awed and aghast, and his voice comes out nothing like the nasal tone to which he's lately grown accustomed, but deep and rich and thick.

Aziraphale remembers this body - how could he forget it? He kept it for rather a long time. A Sumerian, currently dressed as an infantryman.

This is long before the Arrangement. Before so, so much. He can't tell precisely when - sometime in the 17th century. 1700s BC, that is. Goodness knows what he's meant to be doing right now.

But why is here? Has the Rift put him back? Has it put him back here?

"Bugger," he hisses before dredging up his Sumerian. This is no place for Modern English.

Devoid of options, he walks toward Babylon.