Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

[applesaucemod]

Somewhere in the cosmos, there is something bright, and young, and playful. Somewhere, this being watches over their little flock and does their best to make those people safe and happy. Somewhere, that godling and their flock celebrate the winter holidays in the happiest of dreams.

And somewhere closer at hand, a sleeping giant stirs.

The bright tapestry of dream threads gathered by Zephyr is suddenly yanked hard enough to pull it from its temporary mooring. Something entirely unlike the little godling reels in the dreamers so neatly gathered and packaged up for it, bringing its own toys back to their proper place and taking all the others it can with them. Unsatisfied, it reaches out again and again, dragging in dreamers from all across the multiverse. It will snare them, all of them, and then it will possess them completely.

Perhaps it's fitting that when the stolen dreamers arrive in this new shared mindscape, they'll find they've been designated the Rift's Christmas gifts to itself. Each might awaken inside a dark box, or cocooned in…is that tissue paper? When they claw their way out they'll be greeted by the sight of an enormous evergreen tree laden with twinkling lights and kitschy knickknacks looming overhead. Beyond the shadow of the tree the rest of the world -- that is, the living room -- is just as large. Or is it that the dreamers have just become very small? Giant packages wrapped in bright paper form an obstacle course, but the wooden floor of the room is wide open between the tree and the hearth where an enormous plate of cookies and glass of milk await a cataclysmic Santa Claus.

All in all, things are fairly normal as far as the rift's dream gatherings go…at least on the surface. The more telepathically sensitive among the dreamers may notice an undercurrent of something darker, more urgent, and more possessive than normal. The rift isn't just sampling the wares of other worlds tonight; this time it means to play for keeps.


[OOC: This is the second part of our crossover with wethelost! Part one can be found here. Usual dream party rules apply: all players and characters are welcome regardless of whether they are currently in the game, and characters may remember or forget the events of the dream party at the discretion of their players.

For reference, characters of average human height are roughly four inches tall according to the scale of their current surroundings. There is an entire giant house beyond the living room; characters will find a kitchen and dining room on the same floor, a staircase outside the door of the living room that leads up to a second floor with two bedrooms and a bathroom, and another staircase off the kitchen that goes to an unfinished basement. Feel free to add details as needed!

This event takes place on evening of August 8th/morning of August 9th in Applesauce time, and December 31 in WtL time.]

Comments

Nicholas Rush | Stargate Universe | Big Applesauce

[lottawork]

[tw: claustrophobia and panic]

Oh fuck. Fuck. No. It's too small. His arms can't even stretch their full length in front of him, he can tell the plane parallel to him is a mere inches away from his nose as he breathes, tight and rapid and terrified.

He can't move. Fuck. Fuck. No.

Rush thrashes against the tiny space with exponentially increasing desperation, wiry and small and unable to find purchase in the smooth walls of his confinement. He can assign this, this space a designation of nonreality, because he may not have the clearest idea of where he was prior to this but he is reasonably certain that he was not boxed away and sealed into a coffin in recent history for fuck's sake.

He struggles momentarily to cry out, create the adiabatic transverse wave (his mental faculties are still in place and functioning but not altogether optimally) but the sound dies unformed in the rasp of a panicked set of unresponsive vocal cords. There's a whisper and crackle of paper beneath him, what, did no one have the fucking courtesy to embalm him before they buried him alive fuck fuck fuck he's had consciousness in this unreality for hardly a few minutes, he is going to die already, contained, muzzled, trapped, buried and alone and strangled and bolted into this private achromatic hell of vasoconstriction and dyspnea.

Finally, victoriously, the lid of his premature coffin gives beneath the pressure of a battering, writhing, panicking scientist slash cryptographer who launches himself immediately from his prison of cardboard and tissue paper with no fanfare whatsoever. Rush's momentum carries him as far as the base of a tremendous tree, and immediately as his back strikes it he sinks to the ground, trembling, making repeated and failed attempts to mitigate the crushing, vaguely postictal neural strain of trying to alleviate clenching, relentless panic, eyes snapped shut.

[etherthief]

Well, this is ridiculous. She recognizes all the decorative bullshit as 'Christmas', though someone - she suspects the Rift - has taken it predictably too far. Having already punched her way out of her confinement, she takes a minute to look around, when a muffled crash and subsequent heavy breathing draw her attention over to the base of the monster tree.

Fuck, how many people are wrapped up in these boxes? This seems seriously messed up, even by the usual standard. She picks her way over to the source of the noise, peering down the precarious slope of a red-wrapped box, and sees-

"Rush?" Oh shit, he doesn't look good. She grabs a handful of ribbon tied around the box she's standing on and scales her way down like a goddamn rock climber. Which is pretty badass, she thinks, but it's not like Rush is in any state to notice.

"Hey, hey." She crouches over him. Claustrophobic panic response, looks like, if he just fell out of his box. Pretty understandable. "Hey, it's Iman. You're okay." She rests a hand carefully on his arm.

Rashad Durant | OC | Big Applesauce

[omnomnom_feels]

Option 1
For a time when he first awakes, Rashad simply lays still in the dark and tries to assess where he may be. It does not take him long to decide he is not in the waking world; if someone were to encase him in a box it would take a considerable degree more effort than this has done. There is, too, something he can sense, something he can taste that reminds him of the first shared dream he experienced, when the world around him was itself full of malice or joy by turns. His attention turns toward the feeling of greed that weaves through the stuffy air around him, clear for the sensing but too strange and frictionless for him to grab hold and share. Something tells him, too, that to feed on this thing, if even he could, might make the fire he started in Aziraphale's shop while under the influence of the angel's wrath look like a tiny, sputtering candle.

At last he decides that he understands as much of the situation as he will while encased in what seems to be a very large cardboard box. He is able to stand when he so chooses, stooping after he hits his head on the inside of the lid. He feels his way around the inside and, finding no particular weak point, simply chooses a spot on the wall of the box and rams a burning hand through it. He lets the flame flicker out just a moment later in favor of methodically tearing at the edges of the hole he has made, preternatural strength allowing him to rip out great strips of the stuff until there is enough space for him to climb through, his breath barely quickened from the exertion as he gazes about at his new surroundings.


Option 2
Who is this he senses? It stands to reason that his would not be the only mind forced to manifest itself inside a festive package, and it is not surprising that other types of beings would approach the situation with more (read: any) emotional tribulation. Were Rashad a snake his tongue would be flicking out to taste the air; as it is he stands with his eyes half-lidded and tastes the air with hidden sensory organs that have no analog in the mortal world. There, in that package -- perhaps he tastes a familiar set of ambient feelings, or perhaps there is someone upset enough by their surroundings to promise him a quick (if unsatisfyingly ephemeral) meal. Rashad comes to attention and makes a beeline for the source, climbing over and around the packages in his way to arrive next to where this person is entombed.

"Is someone in there?" he calls, trying to sound concerned and helpful and as though he does not already know the answer for a dead certainty.

Option 2, feel free to nom some of this panic

[lottawork]

The horrible clenching fear has only mounted the longer he remains trapped here. Rush can only lapse out of the incessant trembling and hyperventilating long enough to pound at the walls of his tiny, aphotic prison. He cannot form words. He cannot breathe. He's going to fucking die here.

The blood and epinephrine roaring in his ears nearly shuts out all exterior noise, but the voice is clear enough to cut through numbness of writhing, pressing panic.

"Yes," Rush croaks out. In any rational sense he would be loathe to fold beneath the crushing mental overload and plead for help, but his lungs feel gagged with cotton and the sweat and shaking and boiling vertigo in his head burn away whatever sense of rationalism he may have possessed. "Fuck - please. Get me the fuck out."

Daine Sarrasri | The Immortals quartet | Big Applesauce

[wildmage_daine]

Oh, Goddess. Not again.

Daine presses her palms against the smooth, white walls that enclose her, breath coming hard and fast. It's not exactly like her cell in Carthak - there are no concessions to a prisoner here, no pallet or bucket, only an oppressive crowding of… paper? Why paper? But it doesn't matter. All that matters is that Daine is in, and she wants out.

She hits the wall with her fist, and is met with a hollow thud and less resistance than she'd expected. It's more akin to thick plaster than brick or stone. Well, then. Daine shuts her eyes, and thinks of something big.

Her festively-wrapped prison was sized to house a girl, not a dinosaur, and her new, three-horned head makes short work of one side of the box while the bulk of her body and tail tears through the others. She tosses her head to rid it of a few scraps of tissue paper, then takes her first look at her bizarre surroundings. There's an enormous tree towering overhead, but the more immediate concern is the number of other colorful crates like the one she was in. What is this?

The triceratops shape feels too conspicuous, now. Prisons have guards, and just because no one's shown up to shoot at her yet doesn't mean no one's on the way. Daine shifts down into snow leopard shape and crouches low to the ground, listening for any sort of approach. All she hears, though, are rustlings from within the nearest crates. If she was wrongfully imprisoned, maybe they were, too.

Daine slinks up to the side of the nearest one, then gives it a few pats with her paw. Hello? Is anyone in there?

[infinitemayonnaise]

"Yeah! Yeah, there's someone in here!" Nitou isn't quite sure how he got there, really. This is not his tent. The sounds of rustling from inside the box intensify as he tries to get out, or at least to find one of his magic rings for a little bit of assistance in blowing part of that prison up. "What's going on out there?"

Daniel Jackson | Stargate SG-1 | Big Applesauce

[peacefulexplorer]

Daniel wakes up sandwiched between an avalanche of tissue paper and the crinkling, steep walls of what looks to be, as far as he can conceptualize it, a massive gift bag, the sort that one uses for gifts that are too awkward to wrap into a box. He gets approximately twenty seconds with this confused revelation before he tries to stand, promptly loses his balance, crashes into one of the bag's walls, and sends the whole thing tipping sideways. Daniel spills out of one side in a tangle of limbs and shredded paper. A few swipes of his hand brushes the lightweight synthetic snow from his hair and shoulders and clothes as he rights himself, and a cursory glance proves to be less than what is required to take adequate stock of his surroundings.

"I think," says Daniel after a lengthy pause to examine the massive tumble of jumbo-sized packages, the colossus of a Christmas tree towering overhead, the equally disproportionately oversized surroundings, "I can safely assume this is a dream."

Saying it aloud doesn't make it any easier to process, or any less subtly terrifying. Depending on how one interprets relativity, the environment has either become very big or Daniel has become very small, and either way that means he's not in any great hurry to meet the presumably equally pythonic owner of whatever house this is.

With a final, determined shake to dislodge any further scraps of tissue paper (he misses the one that has stuck itself resolutely on the back of his head where it flutters, triumphant, with each tiny movement), he begins cautiously winding his way around the forest of far-too-large packages. If he woke up in a bag in a dream, someone else could be in the same predicament, and it might not be as easy for them to get out.

[wildmage_daine]

Daine is creeping her way down the length of one particularly large crate (she can't hear anyone inside, which is a relief; she's not sure she wants to deal with whatever would need a box this large to house it) when she hears someone else approaching from around the corner. Oh, bother. Friend or foe? She glances around for a convenient hiding place, sees none, and then turns her attention to the wall of the crate beside her. Could she climb it? Only one way to find out.

She gathers herself, then leaps, claws extended. They tear right through the wall's outer surface, which proves to be more paper, and there's an embarrassingly loud tearing sound as she falls back to the ground, a huge strip of paper coming with her, stuck to her paws. It takes a few moments of frustrated clawing to free herself, tail windmilling as she kicks the surplus paper away and rolls to her feet, and of course by that point the approaching two-legger has reached the corner and is staring at her. Maybe she ought to just be grateful he's not screaming.

Wait. She knows him. Odd's bobs, she's got to stop meeting him in big cat shapes like this. Daine gives her fur a brisk shake to resettle it, then swishes her tail idly, as if getting tangled in paper wasn't the least bit embarrassing. Daniel.

Melanie | The Girl With All the Gifts | Big Applesauce

[all_the_gifts]

Her crumpled paper cocoon lies somewhere below her, but Melanie can't see it anymore. The branches of this enormous tree are too thick for that. But dense foliage makes for easy climbing. The only challenge is avoiding a jab from one of the long needles, but her little hands and feet can find purchase between them. She's sticky with pine sap and a little breathless from the climb, but she can't smell the people below anymore, so that's nice. It's safer up here.

It's probably safe enough for a break, in fact. She sits down on the striped curve of a giant candy cane. The sweet mint smell is almost overpowering, but that's probably just as well. From here, she can't see much - colored lights as long as her forearm reflect off of shiny glass spheres that hang from the branches, and she's close enough to the trunk that she can only see scraps of the blank, white sky. There is no wind. Also just as well, but it's starting to niggle at the back of her mind. What is this place?

[chalicejoker]

Hajime's still transformed and prowling around the area trying to figure out what's going on here. He doesn't know where he is or what he's supposed to be doing there, but he does know he doesn't like it. Investigating the gigantic tree seems to be a good idea, though Hajime wasn't expecting to see any kids sitting up in said tree on a candy cane.

The Kamen Rider stares up at this spectacle for a moment before calling out to her. "Do you need any help up there?"

Illyria | Angel | Big Applesauce

[noteasybeingblue]

Anyone who believes they can imprison a God-King will be punished accordingly.

The flimsy material of the walls folds easily beneath one strategically positioned fist, and Illyria exits the despicably fragile four-walled construct with a look of distaste. She is a god, and she will not be so easily bound.

This place, this much sturdier and larger construction, has the audacity to be larger than she. In her true form, Illyria could doubtless tear this thing of mortal make to shreds and pieces and roar her victory over its remains. In this pathetic size and shape, she will settle for the less grandiose option of dismantling it piece by piece, atom by atom if necessary. It has sought to challenge her, and for this it must suffer.

Illyria will start with her own prison. She rends the brightly colored box asunder with cold, ruthless efficiency, and starts onto the next, tearing away the paper coating it in great long strips. It is only when she hears the voice within that she pauses. Others, like her, have been unjustly held captive as well. This must be rectified.

The God-King flexes one of her shell's hands into another fist, and drives it through the thin jail wall without pause.

[wolfishsurvivalist]

A yelp comes from deep within, before the lid is kicked at viciously, long claws snaking around the edge of the hole made by Illyria's fist and ripping cardboard away as the captive growls like a mad beast.

A description not too far off as more wrapping is torn away to reveal the wolfish woman within, madness in her eyes and fangs gleaming as she ripped and dug at her prison until she could properly see out.

"Thanks." She snorted heavily, shaking shreds of paper from her fur as she glared out at the room above, grateful for her rescue but irritation at the kidnapping leaving her hackles bristling. "Where the hell is this?"

Sunshine | Sunshine | Big Applesauce

[rae_of_sun]

Oh, triple carthaginian hell. What is this, butcher paper? Yuck. On the plus side, the whole dark vision thing means that Sunshine can easily make out the sparse details of her confinement. It's some kind of papery material, and it's way too goddamn tight, like she's been mummified in this crap. Too thick for her to just poke a finger through, too tight for her to get enough leverage to tear her way out.

She can't even bend her legs, or manage anything more than a wriggle. Shit. Shit. Okay, don't panic. Are you a magic handler, or aren't you?

She can't move much, but she can move enough to flex her wrists and press her palms against the paper around her. She wants something else under her hands, something easy and familiar and malleable. Her light-web glimmers faintly in the darkness, and she gives the paper a firm metaphorical shove.

The paper crumbles away, coating her hands in flour. Coating most of her in flour, in fact, because she was lying on her back and she didn't exactly think this through. But she's free, is the important thing, and she sits up with a crumple of non-transmuted paper and several puffs of very-transmuted flour. "Ugh," she announces, making a futile attempt to brush herself off and only succeeding in spreading more flour liberally about her person. Well. Could be worse.

Sunshine gets to her feet, coughs a few times, and peers at her surroundings. Gods and frigging angels. Where is she?

Re: Sunshine | Sunshine | Big Applesauce

[watcher_giles]

Giles glances around when the woman appears in a puff of - is that flour? He isn't sure whether he feels better or worse knowing that he's not alone; considering that he still doesn't know where he is, any company could possibly be of the bad kind.

The woman makes her way to her feet as Giles walks toward her. She turns slightly, looking around, and he gets a better glimpse of her face.

"Hello," he calls. "Don't I know you?"

Johnny Traunt | House of Leaves | Big Applesauce

[johnny_truant]

The only thing that keeps him from outright panic is that he's been here so many times before.

The dark, the heavy air, the thick, entangling layers of - is that paper? - yeah, the overwhelming scent is paper, not rust. That isn't better, considering. He remembers the part of the story when Will was lost in the house, burning pages to stay alive - just darkness and paper, that's all he had, and that's all Johnny has now, albeit a more claustrophobic variant. Instead of floating in the void, he's wrapped up tight, papered and enclosed. He can feel the walls pressing around him - if he tries to squirm around he hits the sides of it, flimsy but narrow, coffin-shaped. The paper covers him and there's no ripping it, either; its been taped around him, tight and unyielding. Because he's breakable. Get it?

He almost laughs, but it's a sickly, choking sound instead. Oh shit, he is panicking. Just a slow boil this time, building up in his chest and seeping out now. He struggles against his bindings but there's no give at all. He's going to die in this fucking lonely little dream, and it won't be the first time, but it will be slow. A lonely suffocation under layers of fucking paper, how poetic, unless someone finds him and thinks him worth unwrapping.

[wildmage_daine]

And Daine thought her confinement was bad. When she comes across a coffin-shaped bundle, tightly wrapped around the two-legger inside, she feels sick. Forgetting caution - she doesn't care who's in there, no one deserves such treatment - Daine bounds over to the wiggling package and places a paw on it, gentle, testing, not wanting to make things worse for whoever's inside.

Hold still, she says. I'm going to get you out of there.

It's only the work of a few moments to get through the paper wrapped around the box. The tape takes a bit longer, as she has to take care not to nick who might be on the other side, but she only has to get through half of it before she can flip off the lid to the box, freeing whoever's inside.

… Or not. Daine huffs in consternation at a pale cocoon of paper and more tape, as if this is some sort of cruel joke. Well, this is just mean, Daine mutters. Then, Hold very still, so I don't hurt you by accident. She pats at the bundled two-legger for a moment, trying to discern where the paper ends and they begin. Then she hooks her claws through a layer of paper and tugs. It tears easily, almost ridiculously so, but there's so dratted much of it. She braces one paw on the edge of the box and works with the other, carefully slicing through tape and tugging paper aside until the unlucky person's face is finally exposed.

Johnny. Daine blinks down at him, surprised, then hastily adds, It's all right, it's just Daine.

Aziraphale | Good Omens | Big Applesauce

[bibliophale]

[oc: Aziraphale's angelic powers have been nerfed again, seeing as the rift is in such a great mood. Telepathic/power-sensing entities might still get a whiff of angel off of him, but he's essentially human right now.]


Oh good grief, what is this? He's drowning in tissue paper. Another dream, obviously, and this one seems just as holiday themed as the last. Isn't it August?

Someone has gift wrapped themself an angel, and not a happy one at that. There is far too much tissue paper in this enclosure, which itself appears to be a box - a little push against the lid of it shows it to be thick cardboard, and it doesn't take a wild stretch of speculation to imagine it's been taped up with probably colorful wrapping - ugh, is this some kind of joke? If so it's becoming rapidly more concerning. The tissue paper is packed in densely enough that his mobility is grievously limited, and outside that is a layer of what seems to be plastic. When he pushes against it, he is rewarded with an ear-shattering POP. Oh, great. Bubblewrap.

Enough of this. He miracles it all away.

Or... no, he doesn't?

What - oh, no. He tries again, or to transport himself out, or wake up, but he can't.

Grand. The Rift often doesn't let him wake up from its communal dreamscapes, but only once so far as it actually taken his powers away from him. And that one was particularly unpleasant.

He wriggles around irritably, trying to get himself into a position to force the enclosure open, but he doesn't have the dexterity or the strength necessary for that, and all he succeeds in doing is making more awful popping noises, even louder for the enclosed space. Why does the Rift so enjoy tormenting him? What did he do to deserve this?

He hears noise outside the box - a sort of shuffling and rustling, muffled behind layers of wrapping - and he raises his voice, hoping with all his might they aren't Satan or something similarly unpleasant.

"Er, hello?" he calls. "Is that someone? Can you get me out of here?"

[all_the_gifts]

Melanie's taken to creeping out along low-lying branches, the better to observe what's going on below without actually putting anyone at risk. There isn't much to see so far; it's mostly just confused people milling around and climbing out of whatever box or sack they found themselves in. She's leaning out a little to admire the colorful paper on one of them when a muffled series of pops emanates from within. Was that gunfire? The noise is so startling that she actually loses her grip on the branch and lands on the top of the box in question, feet sliding over the surface as she scrambles to right herself. Oh no, oh no, that was so stupid, if someone in there has a gun they'll hear her and…

… Wait. She knows that voice.

"Aziraphale?" Melanie drops into a crouch, ready to move in an instant if he shouts a warning. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock Holmes | Elementary

[honeyedwords]

[CW for talk of drugs, talk of the possibility of nonconsensual drugging, concern about relapse]

Waking up in unfamiliar places is - well it's still cause for concern, obviously, but it isn't a wholly unprecedented experience for Sherlock Holmes. There are several explanations for how one could come to find themselves awake and disoriented with no recollection of falling asleep to begin with, after all, and given his... status many of them are familiar and none of them are good. Less explicable, however, is being in what appears to be some kind of papery cocoon.

He's not bound, as he quickly finds, so if this was the ultimate fate planned for him by some particularly whimsical (would-be?) killer then it wasn't a particularly well thought-out one. Though thick and waxy, the paper tears easily enough, and soon he's on his feet, squinting at the room around him with a critical gaze as he waits for his eyes to adjust to the comparatively bright lights. Two things immediately become obvious: that the paper that had been encasing him is brightly colored and festively patterned like the wrappings of a massive gift, and that either he's much more disoriented than he thought or the room is truly massive. Sherlock covers one eye with his hand and stares at the far wall with the other, waiting for it to come into focus properly, then switches to the other eye and tries again when it doesn't.

Frowning intensely now, Sherlock turns to the nearest wall this time. Judging by the scale of the rest of the room, it shouldn't be more than about a meter and a half away or, for a man of Sherlock's height, no more than three strides away. Placing one foot carefully in front of the other, he begins to walk at as close an approximation to his natural gait as anyone can manage when actively thinking about walking, where at six strides he very decidedly has yet to bump into the wall.

Well, then. There are still a number of plausible explanations for what's happening here, each of which can and should be adequately tested before jumping to any conclusions, but Sherlock has a sinking feeling that those are going to begin to dwindle rapidly as soon as he starts.

hello my favorite Sherlock

[all_the_gifts]

By now, Melanie's seen her fair share of people reacting to these surroundings - enough to know 'atypical' when she sees it. She's perched on a branch at about the equivalent of a second story window, height-wise, and she watches this man's progress with curiosity and approval. He looks a bit odd, but there's an undercurrent of sensibleness that she can appreciate. He's experimenting. Testing. Not panicking or looking upset, but not bearing himself like a soldier, either. All good things, in Melanie's opinion.

She has to shift a little to continue watching him as he paces beneath her, and in doing so, she accidentally knocks an ornament off of the oversized tree. A jingle bell bigger than her head plummets to the floor and bounces noisily, trailing string and hook behind it. Melanie stiffens, appalled with herself. That was unacceptably clumsy of her. Not only has she given herself away, but she could have hurt someone. Stupid. Stupid.

"Sorry," she says meekly, glancing between the man and the downed ornament. "Accident."

Hajime Aikawa | Kamen Rider Blade | We the Lost

[chalicejoker]

Waking up tangled in tissue paper and in a cramped paper box was not a pleasant experience for Hajime. There was a brief moment of panic--the cramped quarters felt unpleasantly like being sealed inside a playing card as he'd been for ten thousand years--immediately followed by rage. Fortunately, he seemed to have been brought over with his cards, because what's a present without all the relevant accessories?

He wastes no time in transforming into his armored form of Kamen Rider Chalice, summoning up his bow, and tearing his way out of that paper box covered in heart-print wrapping paper. Anyone in the area will see an armored bugman burst out of the side of a box in a small explosion.

Once he's free, he'll be stalking around the area trying to figure out what is going on there and where he is...and looking for his girlfriend. He's tense, and he's not at all in a good mood, for it has not occurred to him that this is only a dream. But after a while, he'll calm down enough to drop the armored transformation.

[watcher_giles]

The sight that greets Giles would be more instantly recognizable - had he ever seen it from this particular position. But above him, through the gauzy haze of what is clearly tissue paper, rise the handles of what can only be a gift bag. He can't say that he's ever been inside a gift bag before, but here he is now.

Experimentally, he pushes against the paper surrounding him - nearly cocooning him, truth be told - until his hands reach the wall of the bag. A gentle shove tells him that his confinement is fairly lightweight and should give under enough pressure. With that in mind, he starts rocking back and forth, stepping as much as he can toward one side of the bag to push against it before doing the same in the opposite direction. After a couple of minutes, the bag gives a final, slow lurch and topples over, spitting out Giles - and half the tissue paper, it seems.

Tumbling a few times, unraveling from the paper as he goes, he finally comes to a stop a short distance from the overturned bag.

"I'm getting too old for this," he mutters as he hauls himself to his feet.

[peacefulexplorer]

In his search for any others who might be kept in disconcerting little boxes, Daniel somehow missed the tall gift bag that begins rocking shortly after he passes it. He turns, gaping, about to call out to whoever may be trapped inside, but out comes the - someone. It's a bit difficult to tell with all the paper spilling everywhere and around him, but Daniel doesn't think he recognizes him.

"Hey," he calls, waving from his position next to the man's former prison, now safely on its side. "You okay there?"

Bigby Wolf - TWAU

[bigbadsheriff]

Waking up in a box was not something Bigby was particularly pleased with, much less with decorative tissue paper wrapped tightly around him.

Bigby growls in frustration thrashing his way through the paper followed quickly by the thin walls of the box he was placed in eventually topping out onto the hardwood floor. The wolf can only grumble as he rights himself, dusting himself off of stray bits of torn paper and box debris. Maybe he went a little overboard in demolishing the box, but Bigby wasn't exactly great when it came to being put in small enclosed spaces against his will.

The sight of a typical mundy christmas set up only sets Bigby in a worse mood as he scowls out at his surroundings. "Really-? Really?" He was kind of in the middle of something back in Fabletown, he didn't have time for this kind of shit.

[wolfishsurvivalist]

"I know, right?" She knocked some loose paper off her head and kicked at the tinsel that was trying to tangle up her feet and trip her. Hauling her cane free of the tattered box she'd torn herself out of with a little help, she twisted and craned her neck to stare up at the tree above her. Fur bristling and nose wrinkled in distaste, she snorted heavily and shook her head.

"Go through two different versions of hell and end up in one that looks like Tchaikovsky's fever dreams. Go figure." She grumbled to herself before cocking her head at the sheriff. "Bet you anything that whoever dragged us here is laughing themselves sick right now. Hilarious."

Elizabeth - Bioshock Infinite

[escapedbird]

[CW for mention of torture. Spoilers for end of Bioshock Infinite!]


Elizabeth just sits down on the lid of the box she just escaped from, releasing a tired sort of sigh. Her own natural curiosity is ebbed by how tired she is. Even with the power of universes at her fingertips, her body still aches in a very human way. Her fight out of a box didn't really help matters either.

The brunette finally forces herself up, making a slow trek away from the gathering of presents under the tree. If Booker is here, he's likely run off in search of her or in some kind of trouble by now. Even if her own feelings are conflicted about the man, she still has to make sure he hasn't gotten into too much trouble.

Delsin Rowe | InFamous: Second Son

[banksywannabe]

There's very little ceremony to how Delsin makes his entrance. One second there's a very neatly wrapped box sitting there still as can be, the next it's spewing smoke while its lid is soaring across the room, smouldering slightly thanks to its explosive ejection. Delsin alights on the edge of the box, or at least tries to. The fact that it's cardboard and not some sturdier structure like he was expecting means him coming down on it from a ten-foot leap into the air only serves to knock it over on its side. All told he recovers pretty well, rolling when he hits the ground to minimize the impact in such a way that he winds up back on his feet at the end, looking like he totally meant to do that.

One of the flashier escapes of the night accomplished, Delsin takes a moment to draw the smoke coming off the remains of his now upturned box into himself and take in his surroundings.

"Hhhuh," he says, because honestly that's all he can really think to say on the matter just now.

[justshutupraz]

"If you kept that up, you probably would have burned everything down you know." Really Lili isn't any better, her own box is a charred remain in a distant corner. Not that she's going to admit to that, nope. "But, I guess you get a 8.5 for being a flashy nerd."

Justin Law | Soul Eater | a_facility/We the Lost

[deafscythe]

[ cw: claustrophobia/body horror/general ptsd/alcoholism. technically on hiatus, tags will be slow. ]

A: Everyone within a six foot (five inch?) radius gets about a half-second of warning in the form of a sudden glow of blue light from a package before the paper tears from the inside. Apparently, this particular human-shaped tissue-wrapped package was in fact full of very sharp guillotine blades on very long chains that have chosen this particular moment to burst out in all directions.

The blades vanish quickly, leaving a mostly-human figure panicking in the middle of what's left of the tissue paper. He's blond, average height and extremely underweight, wearing a poorly-fitted suit. The only thing not-quite normal is the large amount of fluffy, pastel-blue fur in the form of a six foot long tail and a ruff around his neck. That, and the blades still sticking out of his arms like they belong there.

He's also not handling the situation well, ripping at the paper as if it burns him, and struggling to breathe.

B: Justin Law is fine. He's perfectly fine. His hands shake and his skin burns and he feels like there's someone watching (studying, observing, recording data and keeping track). But he's fine. He just needs to figure out what's going on, why this particular dream (it has to be a dream, unless it isn't) is so different.

But that will require a clearer head than he currently has, and as things stand he doesn't have the focus for anything more than constant pacing, limping from present to present and cutting them open.

[wolfishsurvivalist]

"Jesus, Justin! Watch it!" Mika barely managed to throw herself to the side in time to avoid losing a leg at the knee and possibly a few inches off her tail, and she hung from an ornament and wheezed unhappily. The panic subsided long enough for her to realize what was going on, and her skin paled, scars standing out vivid against her skin.

"Shit! I thought it was just me that got pulled here. Justin, are you going to be okay?" If someone was raiding the Meadous there was no time to lose, they had to find their way back and protect each other as well as their little godcub.

Ophelia - Brutal Legend

[drinksnotears]

"This is... new." Ophelia really isn't sure what else can be said about her very twinkly surroundings. It's nothing she's ever really seen back home, nor anything like Eddie described to her.

Much less has she ever been put into a colorful bag with soft paper wrapped around her. If this is some Tainted Coil ploy, it's certainly the strangest one yet. Ophelia steps away from her shredded bag, swords in hand as she lurks around. When she spots someone else relatively human shaped, she calls out to them.

"Hey! You there! Do you know where we are?"

[wolfishsurvivalist]

"Not a damn clue, unfortunately." Baring her fangs in irritation, Mika could only offer Ophelia a shrug as her shoulders and tail drooped. "I'd go try to sniff around, but seeing as I'm apparently ten times smaller than I should be, this is gonna take a while."

"So I take it you don't know where we are either then. Damn, there goes that idea." With a gusty sigh, she sagged on her cane, she was getting too old for this.

GHB (AU) | Homestuck AU =&= Gamzee Makara (AU) | Homestuck AU | Jarjammed/WTL

[baphometal]

The first year passes and he doesn't know how all he's still alive. His child is gone. His Gamzee is gone and still ain't yet come back. All the rage and sorrow burns him up from inside and as it bursts on the anniversary, melting him down from without and leaving ghost and bones alone, he thinks it the end of that.

He can't build his home back up, he can't leave the island. Although the others make all about the talk tick tocking on the fucking clock in what things is passing onward with him still waiting by a motherfucking shoreline wondering if he ain't just been washed to sea. The house was never here. It was all a joke.

Gamzee Gamzee Gamzee

He goes insane. He comes back down again, just so he can go insane once more. Just to taunt him with the tastes and the never having.

Three. Fucking. Years.

No one touches him. No one would dare. It's been three motherfucking years and those what ain't up and left know better than to tell him to get his ass gone from here. Sure, some made to fucking try, some what was being of relation. He saw Carmine. She cam here, spoke, and he saw her go. He got to hear the voice of his aging mother trill away with her notions of what oughts and shoulds that he's got no intention of listening to, whether through phone filter or not. He won't hear a damn thing from others.

Paparazzi can get fucked. The police can join them, for all the help they've given. His baby boy was a forgotten face on a fucking milk carton and they all went on like ain't none of it mattered. His temper turns foul and his mood even more so. The guitar collects dust and he looks like a human being for once, with darkness under his eyes and a permanent scowl tattooed upon his lips. Tick tock, timebomb is he, becoming nothing but seething rage beneath a surface, building up a wall what protects him from the unfathomable loss, hair greying fast upon his head.

And then, finally, all those years what dragged like a sodden corpse in the sand, trailing after the second hand, they all go away.

They evaporate all in a single instant of breaking his heart, when he wakes in a box, tearing it open to something only barely unbelievable in the wake of hearing his son's voice again at last.

He hears the wail and cry and he hears the frantic scramble from within the box oh so close to him. Panicked gasps and whines of fear, he hears it all and only this, as he goes forward and rips through the box and paper. It may as well be water. It might well be motherfucking air. Nothing could possibly stand between him and now. The box comes right the fuck apart, bringing light up into that dark space so that what's within's gotta blink up to parse the shadow he casts.

His kid. His baby boy. His Gamzee.

They gape at one another for all a second too long. Then comes the scramble, desperate, four arms reaching, one boy with horns and a painted on smile, a man without entirely. They reach and grasp one another tight, hauling so that in no time at all they're wrapped in each other's arms, his boy's arms thrown around his neck and his own arms around his son. His hand holds the back of Gamzee's head and Gamzee burrows against him like the sweetest parasite and ain't neither one of them is making a sound what ain't of sobbing relief and years of bitterness falling away at last.

----

More than hour later, they haven't moved. Both they're eyes are closed but ain't neither of them are asleep, nor hanging on any less. Goat rocks gently like the swaying sea, and those he's not about to open his mouth, he hums soft melodies, all the songs he couldn't sing while his boy was away. And Gamzee listens to each one. Neither of them care where they are.

Re: GHB (AU) | Homestuck AU =&= Gamzee Makara (AU) | Homestuck AU | Jarjammed/WTL

[broomsticklance]

You know what's really awful? Being stuck inside a box when your legs work like crap on the best of days. And okay, yeah, all the pushing around of his chair has given Tavros pretty strong arms by now and he can use his legs kind of okay with the braces these days, even though it's years later and they still hurt like hell if he stands too long...

You know what, the longer he thinks about how big of a pain in the butt this is going to be, the longer he's going to spend trapped in this stupid box. He's going to throw himself against the lid and hope it's not tied on.

It's not.

He can see the top of that huge mane of grizzled grey hair poking over another box halfway around the tree, unmistakably Goat Makara's, and he's not entirely sure he wants to go over to him, even if he's the first thing Tavros recognizes here, because Goat's been kind of really awful to everyone, even people who're just as upset about Karkat and Gamzee disappearing, but he's family and that should count for something, shouldn't it?

It takes way too long for Tavros to make his way around the tree, but he does and he's there... and it can't be... can it?

"Gamzee?"

This is a dream, right?

Dustin Silver | OC | Transmigration 9/WtL

[scruffy_mcjackass]

This isn't like any dream Dustin's had before, forced or otherwise. He's certainly not in his own mind--a trend that he hasn't enjoyed these past few weeks--but he can't parse if he's in a mind at all, really. He's...somewhere. The mind of something unfathomable? A hub created by a skilled telepath? The Void? Wherever he is, he must be suffering from sleep paralysis, because he can hardly move despite being fairly sure that his eyes are open...

...No, that's not right at all. There's a brief moment of panic where Dustin wonders if he's been bound and buried, but a swift thrash and some tearing later proves that his prison isn't one to be afraid of. The small, scruffy-looking man who claws himself out of that wrapping paper cocoon looks more annoyed than frightened. Confusion only settles in once he realizes that he's not alone. It can't be an imagined party from a single individual, because he recognizes the faces of a good number of the people here, both from the Meadous and the dreams he's been exploring. Unless someone has a very vivid recollection of that same group of dreamers, this is something different. And in either case, those involved have some explaining to do.

Interrogations begin as soon as Dustin walks up to someone, step brisk, shoulders hunched and brow furrowed in determination. "You," he barks, pointing the finger of his metal hand at whoever is in his path. Even if it's someone he recognizes, they get the same demands. "Name, brief description of current universe of residence, where you think we are and how you think we got here. Make it quick."

[peacefulexplorer]

Freeing people from their disturbingly cheerily-wrapped boxes is becoming something of an unofficial job for Daniel, and at least it helps him ignore the low, thrumming undercurrent of something unsettling. It's the Rift, probably, and likely not happy that all its new toys are bursting their ways out of their neatly compartmentalized packaging. Good, Daniel thinks with an atypical spike of savage pleasure as he tears a satisfyingly long strip of paper from yet another tall box. The Rift's put him and everyone else through enough.

Someone arrests his attention quite forcibly by marching right up to him and rapping out orders. After a moment of surprised blinking and the notching of a faint frown, he answers accordingly. Everyone has their coping mechanisms, after all.

"Daniel Jackson," he says, drawing out the words patiently. "Manhattan, New York, Earth. Well - right now there's this whole Rift thing. Spaciotemporal warping, redistribution of dream consciousnesses, need I go on?" He slides away from his box that, after a few polite taps on its exterior, proves itself to be devoid of a captive, then shoves his hands into his pockets and cocks his head at the other man. "Sorry. It, uh, it happens sometimes. Other minds occasionally get drawn in."

ianto jones - torchwood - bigapplesauce

[i_jones]

Ianto becomes aware of the darkness, of the blissfully muffled quiet, of the supremely comfortable, fleecey bedding beneath him. It's... actually quite nice. It reminds him of nights spent in Jack's little bunker under the office, damp stone walls and a bed a little too soft for Ianto's tastes. Being lulled to sleep by the hum of machinery in the Hub. The susurrus of other dreamers beyond his walls - it is a dream, of course, you don't spend several months in the dreaming without recognizing the taste of unreality - is just quiet enough to act as soothing white noise. He could abide this, he thinks, this warm, soft bed in this mysterious, dark room. You know what, he doesn't even care that it's mysterious. He doesn't even really care that he's back in the dreaming. It's that nice. Maybe he'll ask the TARDIS to update his room a little when he wakes up. Yeah. This isn't bad.

[andhiswife]

A little ways from his box, a quiet voice is running through variations on the theme of 'oh dear.' The volume is more or less steady, but there is considerable pitch fluctuation, and the tempo is impossible to pin down. "Oh, dear. Oooooohhhdearohdearohdear," says the voice. "Oh. Dear." The speaker has some experience with spells and curses, but never before has she been shrunk, and in surroundings that would flummox her even if she were the proper size.

She needs to sit. So she does, with a heavy thud, right on the lid of Ianto's box. It gives a little, but not enough to worry her into standing back up. She has - very literally - bigger things to worry about.

Terra | Kingdom Hearts

[wheretheresawill]

Deeply confusing? Yes. A distinct improvement? Also yes. Terra is used to finding his consciousness trapped in a small, dark space - that said space gives way after only moderate struggle is a pleasant surprise, as is his ability to struggle in the first place.

"What-?"

This doesn't look like one of Xehanort's tricks - and why set a trap for what you've already caught? - but they're tricks. Terra looks around slowly, hoping to find something or someone familiar while keeping alert for any sign of Xehanort.

[dawnwardroad]

Riku has been trying to find anyone else amongst the maze of gifts, though this is probably the last person he was expecting. Mostly on account of the fact that he isn't sure who this is. They do look oddly familiar in a way he can't quite place.

"...Hey." It takes him a moment to stop staring and speak up.

(frozen comment) Zephyr | We the Lost | Locked

[divinefluff]

Zephyr's just looking away from the dreams to work on a drawing for a moment - something special for Lady Harriet, the Mailsloth - when there's a sudden, intense pull. The little god slams a hand down on their notebook and uses their tail to keep their crayons in place, as well. When the pull stops, they blink, looking up and around in confusion. How very strange! Everything's still here in their room, though, except-

Zephyr goes very still, the fur along their nape fluffing up in fear. Except their dream tapestry is gone. They stretch out their senses, flinging their conscious out across the planes in search of their flock and the other dreamers they'd pulled together. Nowhere! Nowhere! Where are they?

The young god is becoming frantic when they finally sense them. There's relief followed almost immediately by dread. They can sense something holding the dream tapestry, something very much older and larger than they are. Is it someone they've offended? Another god-like being that doesn't like having their flock pulled away for dreams?

Zephyr reaches out to the Rift tentatively, apologetically. They hadn't meant to steal anyone away. It had only been for dreams, and it will be over soon. Please give them their tapestry back?

There's no reply from the Rift and Zephyr's anxiety spikes as they remember Dustin's question: 'Are you in control of this?'

They try again, a little more firm this time. They're very sorry for any offense, and they'll let all of the other dreams go. Please give back their flock.

The sense of a single word and sentiment is returned to them:

No.

They're not sure what to do with that. They hadn't expected just a flat refusal. That's not fair. Zephyr hadn't been hurting anyone. They'd returned everyone to their rightful places the moment they'd woken up each morning. They aren't holding onto the dreamers, just letting them into the dreams of others and making everyone have nicer dreams. That's not fair at all.

Give them back, please.

No.

Give them back!

No.

Give them back right now!

No.

With an inhuman cry of frustration, the little god lashes out against the Rift, clawing at it, biting, trying to get ahold of the tapestry and their flock. They will not let another bully like Pai take or hurt their people!

Graham Specter | Baccano!

[bright_and_blue]

"RrrrrrrrrrrrRRRRRAAAAAHH!"

No mere gift box is a match for Graham Specter. From inside one of the festive packages comes what is practically a roar as a young man in a mechanic's jumpsuit suddenly bursts out of it, sending bits of paper and cardboard flying. He stands with his arms raised triumphantly, holding a giant monkey wrench in one of his hands. Well, relatively giant in this case. He grins widely as he surveys the scene, but it quickly dissipates as he tries to comprehend what he's seeing.

"Huh? What's this? What is this? What sort of game could this be? Am I supposed to be someone's Christmas present? Wait, did I ruin the surprise?! Ah, what a sad story! Some child's dreams of having the gift they've always desired ruined by my ignorance!"

Graham clutches his head, looking devastated for a moment before the confusion returns.

"But what child would want me as a gift? Now that's a weird story! I'm not much of a tin soldier or doll! This can't be right. Ah, this is too weird! Someone tell me what's going on!"

Considering how much noise this guy's making, it's impossible not to hear him. Trying to ignore him might be your safest option.

[chalicejoker]

The armored guy who had been walking by the box stops for a moment, stares at the source of all that noise, and decides that no, no, he doesn't really want anything to do with someone who's going to be making that much noise and yammering on about presents and nonexistant giant kids wanting them as gifts and so on and so forth. So he's just going to try to get out of there without being noticed, even if he's bad at stealth.

But hey, at least he looks like he would have made a good Christmas present with that cool armor of his.

Andrew Noble | Doctor Who (heavy CRAU) | Big Applesauce

[bluesuit_handy]

Out at the edge of the spread of presents, a gift bag rocks back and forth weakly but insistently. "Come on!" groans a voice from inside. Fear at being confined somewhere unfamiliar is giving way to annoyance at his body insisting on being all round and difficult to turn over in a confined space. He's been stuck on his back for a good ten minutes now, wadded tissue paper acting as padding but also as reinforcement to his confinement.

It's gaining momentum now, each rocking motion bringing the bag closer to the point at which it will finally tip over, but he's also starting to get fatigued by the effort. It's bloody ridiculous, pregnancy is. How do people even survive it?

~foreshadowing~

[andhiswife]

Her surroundings are so far outside the realm of the familiar that it's almost a comfort to see someone in a recognizable predicament. It seems she's not the only one to have arrived in some kind of stiff-walled, oversized sack. As it rocks to one side, the beribboned handles dip almost to within grabbing range, and she hesitates for only a moment before hurrying into a position from which she might be able to reach them. As the bag rocks the other way, she calls out: "Hello, in there! Do that again - back this way!" She eyes the top of the bag as it approaches, repositions her feet, and braces herself to leap.

Peter Vincent | Fright Night (2011) | Big Applesauce

[fucking_ebay]

The good news is that Peter can see from the moment he comes into awareness. The bad news is that the world is distorted by a layer of cellophane between him and it, and he's laying awkwardly across several hard, cold shapes. Looking up, he sees some kind of wood -- no, wicker arch under which the cellophane rises to be bound by streamers at the top. Looking down, he sees more of that same wicker material forming a giant bowl, and looking behind him ---

Alright, that's the biggest bottle of scotch he's ever seen. And there beside it, vodka, rum --

"It's a bloody gift basket," he realizes, face contorting as he looks all around himself again, understanding dawning. Slumping back against the bottles, he rubs his eyes hard and tries to think if he's pissed off Gabe lately or if it's just the rift again. "Fuck this."

[peacefulexplorer]

Over the sea of bright paper and shining bows rises a woven wicker curvature, weirdly banner-like with its topping of vibrantly colored ribbons. Daniel's been using that as his navigational point of reference while he works his way past gift after gift, stopping at each one that looks like it might contain an unfortunate captive. He's had limited success, but he's drawing closer to the tall basketlike design, which could definitely contain someone (or, as Daniel tries not to think with a grimace, something of a deeply unpleasant nature).

It's wrapped in an opaque covering, obscuring whoever or whatever might be within. A gift basket, then? Something along those lines, anyhow. The sloping walls are too tall for him to see over, because of course they are. Not to be deterred, Daniel tries knocking on the wicker, then shoving at it with a half-heartedly braced shoulder. As predicted, it doesn't budge.

"Hello?" he calls as a last resort with the hope his voice won't be muffled beyond hearing range. "Hey, anybody in?"