applesaucedream | Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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.]

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The breathless, wordless siege of fists on his confinement flies back when something hauls him bodily away by the back of his shirt and he strains reflexively, writhes against his captor, but the tension of their grip brings the collar of his own fucking shirt up until it's almost cutting into his neck, they're going to fucking strangle him, and the thought that immediately pursues this revelation is that this is the most superfluous fucking manner to go about executing him as there was already a significant likelihood that he was about to die by asphyxiation fucking regardless.

They heave him backwards and he stumbles after in a jumble of pain and panicked instinct, there's the distant crackling, hissing fold of reality rebelling against its unanticipated warping, and then he strikes ground and rolls without warning. The unbearable pressure of his shirt squeezing itself around his neck loosens in a palliating blaze of force and area and weight and volume and the liberation of kinetic energy and he can fucking respire again. Rush breathes in a sequence of unstable shuddering wheezes, gasping, choking, gripping fistfuls of crumpled paper as some form of fucking stabilizing force. Fuck, fuck, they're on the ground. Fuck. And Asadi -

Asadi, he constructs hazily, is the one who propelled them out of their imprisonment. And she is - currently hunched on the ground, obviously in some extreme amount of pain.

Four successive attempts allow Rush to make himself relatively upright and kneeling with one hand to the side of his head and the other ground against the floor in a taut, bracing fist. Shit - fuck.

"Asadi," he wrenches out, ragged and reaching his unsteady free hand forward in an effort to snap his focus beyond the mental atonal smear following that surge of phobic release.

"Yeah," she bites back, not really meaning to snap but having a hard time concentrating on anything other than the pain. He fucking arm is probably fried. She's not sure she can move it. Do things like this stick around after you wake up? Can she even fix it? She tries to flex her hand and can't.

"Fucking shit," she mutters angrily, and lowers herself the rest of the way down, unconsciously entering a prayer pose, resting her forehead against the hardwood floor. The grains of it look huge this close. The pain is spreading up past her shoulder, a dull ache that resonates throughout her chest. Fuck, it's like being in school all over again.

"Hhrhghhhgh," she groans on a long single breath. "Are you gonna fucking be okay or what?"

Swallowing is a laborious, dry-sticking effort but Rush manages it with closed eyes. His axons feel fucking flayed, his nervous system a knotted, adrenalized disarray. The hand that stretches out, wavering, soon drops back to support his body which is, ridiculously, aching and refusing to cease its intermittent oscillations of vibrating nerves and muscle.

Another rattling, wresting breath, then another. Scrub and re-fucking-set. He will approach this rationally, a compensatory intellectual embarkation to rectify his former lack thereof.

"We've outlined a solution set," says Rush. The words, caught between steadying pants, are a dim haze in ears that are muffled in the thick, sluggish ebb of his own lingering dread. "The output is optimistic." He will narrow the solution set. Asadi has performed admirably under poor circumstance, and now she may be suffering in a more tangible sense. Fuck. Rush breathes, his eyes remain shut, he breathes. She is suffering in a tangible sense. "What about your solution set?"

God, what is he talking about. What are these words. Solution sets? Is this a fucking math problem? Her arm is broken and possibly beyond repair, and he's asking her about her solution set? She grits her teeth.

"I am fucked," she says harshly. "That was - you don't force it like that, it all ricochets back up and now the whole fucking arm is-" She breaks off with a wince as she tries to pry open a hatch to get a look at the innards. "I don't have a fucking solution set, you incomprehensible fucking prick." She lets out a breathless cry as she forces her arm open and takes a moment to breath unevenly before lifting herself up a bit and staring dismally at the smoking circuitry. "Goddammit," she murmurs. "Ugh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean - just." She puts a hand to her face, trying to calm down. She doesn't like losing her cool in front of anyone, much less a colleague.

Asadi is upset. Rush makes note of this. She is upset and this is within reasonable parameters; her arm and whatever technology it is comprised of appear to be unresponsive. This is a problematic solution set.

His breathing is still irregular. This is not rational as he is out of that space and he will be fine, he will be fucking fine, he is going to proceed logically and intelligently. He will have to compose an adequate hash function to counterbalance their respective lowered rates of output. He is free from it, the crushing, compacting, breathless tightness of space meaning he can torque the circumstantial layout into something more workable if he prioritizes. He can prioritize, he will prioritize: (a) mangle his fucking lungs into fucking optimum, (b) evaluate Asadi's arm, (c) evaluate Asadi, (d) verify location, and this is as far as that chain of events can progress in the foreseeable future.

Uncooperative lungs reach a fragile stability and the arm does not look fixable given their current lack of tools or equipment so Rush will proceed to the item three.

"We should go." Fuck. That is item four. He's operating out of order. Unacceptable. "Are you - you are - all right?"

Edited 2014-12-29 21:31 (UTC)

"No, I'm not!" she explodes, more or less. "Fuck you, I got us out of there, didn't I? I'm not going anywhere, I don't even know if I can get up again. This thing is tied into my brain, do you understand? That stunt I just pulled could have caused brain damage, still could." She's struggling to get a rational fix on the situation. They're dreaming, that's been established as far as she's concerned, and there's every reason to assume she'll be fine again when she wakes up, but what if she isn't.

Okay. Okay. Worst case scenario: she wakes up, still damaged. She'd have to amputate the arm. And probably wouldn't get it back. Maybe the Doctor could come up with something, maybe - no, fuck Satan, she wants no favors from Satan. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. She spent a fair amount of time with one arm, she can do it again.

Right now is just the pain and the stress, and Rush not knowing what to do. She closes her eyes and takes a few long, steadying breaths. If she were home, she'd just call David, or Ana, but she's not home, they can't help her. She never would have done anything so stupid in the first place.

"I..." She finally sinks a little, exhausted and afraid. Her entire body is flooded with electricity and static, she can't move without excruciating pain, and she can't just sit here swearing about it. "I need help."

So. Not simply manipulated neurologically but nervously ingrained into her system, which is fascinating in its own right and -

Not relevant, sadly.

"All right," says Rush. "Fine." Help. They can achieve that, surely. His hands are shaking, but he has a solid enough understanding of advanced technology. He has helped repair Ancient craft of unintelligible design, certainly he can - possibly - manage this. Possibly. Fuck. Uncertainties. He fucking detests uncertainties.

"I am," he begins in frowning, disordered indecision, "I have - limited experience with - do you want me to - should I - ?" Vocal expression, apparently, is not in his current capacity. Now that his physiology is asserting itself in a manner that is more or less a state of equipoise Rush has a fair amount of control over his motor coordination, hands trembling less fiercely when he lifts himself off their weight and shifts back to his knees.

She lifts her good hand in an attempt to wave off the stuttered questions. That hurts too, though not as much. Everything hurts. Fuuuuck.

"Not that. We can't do anything about that here. If I wake up with it, then... then I'll have to deal with that. Right now, I just..." She chews her lip in consternation and looks up at him. "Look, I'm sorry, I know you don't like being touched, but I... if we're going to get anywhere, I'm gonna need you to help me walk. My entire body is basically short-circuiting right now, it'll wear off, but... I don't know when. And I don't know what'll happen when it does."

Steady voice. Maintain eye contact. Slow breathing. You're fine.

Surely this space cannot affect externalized physical change? It shouldn't. That should not be acceptable in theory. Fuck. Lasting physical should not be workable in thesis, not applicable to the purest of subjective realities. He keeps his eyes closed and breathes in a faint, erratic pulsing of mechanical intent, in his private axis of depersonalized cogitation.

"Yes." The word is clipped out sharply before Rush can track the reasoning behind its conception. Rising proves complicated in that he must exert more than the typically requisite effort to bring all his motor coordinates into planar organization, but he braces himself on two feet with only minimal failing in balance. Next. Would be. Assist. Assistance. Yes.

He reaches down, fisting one hand into the material at Asadi's good shoulder, and pulls her upright, drags her good arm over the unstable slope of his own shoulders. It is possible he is implementing an excess of speed and force in this maneuver. He endeavors to slow accordingly with limited success. Motor control is - proving difficult.

Not a very elegant manner of hoisting her up, but it does the job. He gives him as much help as she can, trying to limit her face's contortions, gritting her teeth to keep from making any sound. Everything hurts like crazy, her muscles have gone all stiff as if from overexertion. She leans on him as much as she dares - he's not very stable either, of course - and sort of limps along beside him, trying to hold him up and use him as a crutch at the same time, which is even more exhausting.

"Over there," she rasps out, nodding jerkily toward the wall, a little alcove - not enclosed, but secure - between the wainscoting and a dresser or cabinet of some kind. Stereo stand. Who cares what it is, they can prop themselves against it and hide from any potential predators, whatever those might be. Most of her usual nonchalance, her willingness to fly in the face of potential danger, has been dampened by her state, and that digs at her like a rock caught in her shoe, but it helps that it's Rush. She's realizing neither of them are very good at this.

The tremendous manifested environment is sorely interfering with Rush's personal ability to navigate like the grossly overproportioned fuck it is. He grits his teeth on an asymmetrical plane as they edge along, toward the sufficiently secluded recess. One, one zero, one one, each step is absolute fucking agony on physiology that is overtaxed, overstimulated, but this is understood, perpetual, recognized. It is how Rush operates. On an edge. On an asymptote askew, the nearing of a state of absolute exhaustion without touching it.

Reaching the alcove is only a relief in the manner that he can plant his free hand on the surface for relative support.

"Better?" he hisses out. Asadi does not seem better from his current perspective but it's possible his perception is flawed on several accounts. 'Better' is a point on an ever-changing fucking scale on which both of them are positioned fairly low even when contextually aligned to their former states of being. 'Better' also seems like the necessary thing to say as a stabilizing utterance. Possibly.

"Yeah," she says, a bit breathless. She braces herself on the furniture, whatever it is, and carefully eases her weight off him, riding gravity's momentum to turn herself so her back is against the flat wood surface. She slides slowly, carefully, to the floor and, with a bit of grimacing and grunting, manages to stretch her legs out in front of her.

"Wish we could get some fucking water," she mutters, reaching her right hand over to adjust and feel out her left arm. Pretty numb, now, which is sort of better than pain, but only sort of. Kind of a bad sign in the long run.

She lays her arm in her lap and starts tinkering a bit with the open panel, poking around now that everything's calmed down a bit more, safer to touch. She clicks her tongue unhappily at the results. Lots of shit fused together. No motor function in most of the fingers, definitely no way to expand them into her toolset at this point. That might have come in useful for getting out of this room or house, if that's an option, but oh fucking well.

"I guess we could just wait this shit out," she says reluctantly, finally looking back up at Rush. "I'm not really any good to you right now."

He watches her sink to the ground without seeing her, snaps his head up and turns to pacing in a release of relentless energy he has no business expending. One hand hooks automatically over its adjoining shoulder, sinking fingers into the aching muscle. The ellipsoidal motion of pacing freezes for a marked instant as he holds out the other hand, observes the faint trembling fluctuations of its fingers, then clenches it and drops it to his side.

His head twitches, involuntary and paroxysmal, as Asadi speaks, or has been speaking - Rush has not been tracking the line of conversation as he was not aware it existed.

"Yes, well." He feels as if there is an unspoken expectation that he should sit, but he won't. He can't. He - won't. Vaguely, Rush realizes he did not exercise any sort of preparation when he began speaking, and has no destination in mind. "Yes." Mindless repetition. Cognitive stagnation. Extenuating conditions. Fuck this, fuck this Rift and its bizarre fucking machinations. He has enough on his fucking mind.

Well, he either doesn't care or he's not equipped to deal with it. Probably both, mostly the latter with a helping of the former. Iman doesn't care if he cares. She doesn't need him freaking out over her, over anything, ever again if she can help it.

"You need a problem to solve?" she says after a moment. "Get me a tool. Basically anything will do, at this point. Bit of wood, if need be, or... like a staple or something. There's gotta be something somewhere. Can you do that for me?"

He shoots Asadi a look that he hopes utterly conveys his utmost disdain at being reduced to carrying and fetching.

"Will it diminish the necessity for mutual physical support?" he snaps, but doesn't remain for an answer to the question, simply pivots on one heel and moves unerringly in the direction of the tree. Direct, on an invisible grid. He has no idea what Asadi expects him to do or attain, but his mind has been made panic-strewn and variegated, and even as a theoretician he has always been primarily mechanical in practice, the great physical fucking curse to his being. His breathing has diminished to regularity in accordance with his return, upon which he flatly deposits several stiff, tapering pine needles to the ground. He jerks one hand at them in demonstrative weariness, then retreats to the one corner of their pathetic hiding space, other hand now repositioned bracingly on one shoulder.

What, he doesn't like that? What else does he want to do? Scribble on the walls like a lunatic? Sit here and ask her awkward, useless questions? She keeps her head down at the snap, flipping him off only when his back is turned. Does he think she likes requiring his 'support'?

She doesn't bother to thank him for the pine needles. They're not very sturdy, but they'll do in a pinch, and they're thinner and more versatile than a piece of wood would have been. She picks one up, holds it in her teeth to break off an edge to a size she can work with, and then starts poking through the circuitry of her arm.

"If being of assistance to me is such a huge fucking hardship," she says after a moment, head down, eyes fixed on her task, "then feel free to fuck off, and find something more befitting of your skillset."

He can leave her here to founder. She doesn't care.

It is only upon physical confirmation that he has sunk to ground level that Rush accepts dropping to ground level as an adequate course of action, and he braces the heels of both palms against his temples in fluid, soothing reflex.

He has a headache. Possibly. Do headaches exist in empirically unproven spaces. He will have to obtain confirmation on that.

Perhaps he has a headache in his sleep.

"Fuck," says Rush, abrupt, self-evident disgust boiling behind the word. He's asleep despite all his efforts to avoid it, fucking again. And - no one else is talking. No one else is talking because Asadi has been talking but has, presumably, finished, and he has retained none of it. One hand drops away from his head as he stares. "What."

She grits her teeth, half because poking around in her arm fucking hurts, sending little shockwaves up her arm and down her spine, and half because god damn can he just listen to her for once. "Fuck," she says, slow, as one would to a child, "off. I can tell you don't want to help me, aren't equipped to help me, whatever. You think I haven't seen it before? I've seen it before. I've spent my entire life surrounded by assholes like you."

No, she hasn't. They haven't been as brilliant, for one thing. Rush thinks nothing of himself, and the assholes she's been around have all been egomaniacs to some degree, and Rush isn't that at all - that's why she puts up with him. But right now, now is not the moment for any stray compliments of his character. She's had it. She's done.

"Just get away from me," she snaps, focusing all her attention on the arm she mangled for him, for which she will never receive a fucking thank you. "Go do whatever it is you need to do. I'll be fine."

She will be fine. A scientist is always fine.

His head drifts to a skewed axis with an involuntary narrowing of eyes. Sitting down, he understands, was a terrible idea, and he rectifies this immediately in a sharpened snap of poor muscular coordination. He has not achieved full control of his limbs yet, fucking apparently, but they stand, however abysmally.

"Good." Rush delivers the word with blunt, honeyed derision. "Do enjoy your mechanical failure."

It is a matter of minutes to clear the area, and leave Asadi to her malfunctioning discord of cybernetics and nervous system glitches.

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Better to Receive than to Give [open to all]

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