applesaucedream | Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

Current Music: Evening of August 14th/Morning of August 15th, 2013

Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

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Hello, dreamers of Manhattan. The Rift knows that things have been kind of rough, lately. The last dream didn't go as well as it had hoped. Consider this an apology of sorts, and a hearkening back to the good times you've shared.

It's a grand old (and potentially familiar) cabin house that the dreamers will find themselves wandering. The furniture is plentiful and comfortable, the floors are strewn with cushions and blankets, and there are cheerful fires burning in the grates. It seems a little odd that the house still manages to be on the chilly side despite looking so warm, yet it is.

Oh, well. You'll just have to find another dreamer or two and ~~spoon up and fall asleep like little baby cats~~ get cozy. It shouldn't be difficult; most of the dreamers (excepting those with strong telepathic defenses or deeply ingrained cuddle-averse personalities) will find themselves feeling friendlier than usual, along with an almost overwhelming desire to snuggle up to someone. How convenient that the house seems designed for that very purpose!

~~And if some of the cushions are Hello Kitty themed, well, that's just coincidence.~~

[OOC: Standard dream party rules apply. Characters will be affected by the dream-whammy to whatever degree makes the most sense for them, and will remember or forget the events of the dream at the player's discretion. Backtag into infinity.]

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"I'm, um, I'm Callie," she replies, having practiced this introduction so it feels a little less like fibbing. She wasn't expecting him to want to hurt her at all, but the reassurance is another friendly gesture, and she feels a bit calmer already. If only people weren't so insistent on wanting to see her when she is dreadfully unworthy of being seen, though.

"I would prefer to remain covered, actually. It is preferable for both of us," she hurries to add, lest he think she is suspecting him of any ill will.

"It's nice to meet you." But Callie apparently doesn't want to come out. Was the glimpse of green indicative of a different species, something she doesn't want people to know about?

Not to be deterred, Daniel tries again.

"It's okay, really." She really does sound very young, and probably still startled on top of it. He silently berates himself over that less-than-ideal first impression but forges on, voice steady, "I used to be an explorer in my old universe. I met a lot of different people, different species, of all shapes and, and sizes and colors. Honestly, some of my best friends were aliens." He isn't sure he's making the right sorts of assumptions here or if this is even helping, but he adds, "quite a few of them were green."

She wasn't referring to the aversion to humanity so much as what he said about finding her existence incredible and inspiring, but the aversion is actually rather accurate as well, at least currently. She has the feeling neither of them is particularly interested in discussing humanity right now, though. Engaging ones are certainly few and far between.

At his words, her smile takes on the faint edge of a smirk as well. "I could tell I wasn't a wholly new concept to you. Would you care to tell me a little about it?" Because at the time she hadn't bothered to delve any deeper than his surface thoughts, put off by his behavior no matter how intriguing his memories might be. And now, even if he prefers her true form, he might find a conversation with her more enjoyable than if she'd simply dig up what she is curious about.

'Wholly telepathic' does imply, then, that she had a complete awareness of him once he entered as well, but of course. She would be aware of anything interacting with her systems, for she was the source of the rather frustrating twenty-minute exercises of a self-contained self-consistency paradox in the nested conditional. But the TARDIS embraces certain forms of nature, certain defiances of physics, she is not those forces incarnate - time and consistency and entropy are unforgiving and she is, mercifully, the opposite.

Rush smiles, more complete and earnest, encouraged by the TARDIS's welcome wish for conversation.

"In my native brane, I worked for a government program with access to a network of intragalactic wormholes." Ridged with the faint layer of disgust; Rush has little to say, in general, to government programs and their institutional pyramids of bureaucratic self-righteous corruption. It was an association of convenience, and because of the beautiful nine-chevron cypher that they needed someone to open to them, someone who would throw themselves without regard for mental well-being at the problem repeatedly until it yielded. "Our understanding of space and time and spacetime was less than complete - all we knew was what we traveled through the stars to assemble a basic understanding of, and even then our resources were limited and our comprehension - flawed." A small frown burrows behind dream-constructed square frames, the smile slipping. "We were only human."

Yes, Daine says, hopping up onto Tim's shoulder. If he's not going to pet her, she'll just have to preen his hair. You should go outside. It's nice. Better than being caged up all the time.

Tim startles a bit when the beak dips into his hair. He's not used to being - being preened like this. There are little fragments of memories from before the hospital and everything, how his mom liked to stroke his hair, but they're so alien and so removed from who he is that it's a little alarming.

"I want to," he admits hesitantly, but his eyes feel drawn to the ground, the carpet that feels plusher and softer than anything. "But it just - I wouldn't be the safest person to be around."

He shivers a little, partly from the cold and partly from that mortifying confession, and keeps staring at the floor. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be around other people. Alex had the right idea.

Hmmmm… I don't think I know any Williams. Daine scrambles to his other shoulder by way of the top of his head - his hair is so mussed, anyway, it's not as if she's doing any permanent damage - so she can examine him from the other side. But you do still look familiar. I s'pose it'll come to me eventually.

With that tabled, she curls around the back of his neck like a furry little scarf. Are you cold? she asks, giving him a little pat with one paw. It's a bit nippy in here.

Daine pauses, giving him a pensive look out of one eye as he shivers. He might like birds, but she can't do much to keep him warm in this shape. Something fluffier is in order. She hops down into his lap in a rustle of feathers, then takes the shape of a large, fluffy cat. Much better. Daine stretches across his lap and commences purring, the sound rising and falling as she breathes.

Why wouldn't you be safe? she asks, not sounding particularly perturbed by the notion, only curious. Most folk can be dangerous under the right (or wrong) circumstances.

Daine's new shape flows to accommodate itself to his lap, only a little less surprising the second time around. Without any idea over what else he should be doing, Tim absently starts stroking her, running fingers through long, silky fur. It's a little soothing to have a loudly purring cat curled on top of him but his heart is still hammering, entire body tensed and jumpy from the question. He has to resist the tug of his own barely regarded memories that want to replay themselves in his head like a grotesque, tortuous, high-speed slideshow.

Tim's at a loss for words. It's not explaining it that's the issue, it's having to explain it without really saying it. Just knowing him has proved to be a death sentence in its own right.

"I don't mean to be." As if intention comes in any way into this. "Just, there's some - bad stuff I've had to deal with, and people might get pulled in."

Is that vague enough? Tim hopes to fuck it is. Daine's been so nice to him. He doesn't want anything to happen to her.

Ah, so it's that sort of business. Daine hopes he hasn't got all tangled up with any gods or anything as complicated as that. That happens sometimes, she says sympathetically, twisting in his lap so she can press her forepaws against his stomach and knead him. Was it a god? Or a goddess? They can be such a bother.

Blinking up at him, she adds, But if you've come through the rift, your gods probably can't reach you anymore. I know mine can't. Bad news for her, but it might be a comfort for him.

"Uh." Tim blinks at the cat, looking innocently up at him and asking about gods of all things, like it's no big deal or anything. "Neither? I don't know what it was. I just know it wasn't -"

Wasn't human.

Wasn't anything.

It shouldn't have been able to exist.

There isn't an explanation for that thing, because that thing shouldn't have existed. He just knows he looked at it, pale skin stretched over an elongated, inhuman skull and it gazed right back and between the blood hammering in his ears and the panic drumming in his chest and the static searing into his head he knew he couldn't understand what it was, because it was so far removed from anything the human brain could process. He doesn't know how it works or how it acts, because it never does anything, simply drags his fear out into the open and stands there with arms that move without moving.

Tim swallows. His hands have stilled and he hastily goes back to petting the cat. Pet the cat. Act normal. There's nothing wrong with him. There's everything wrong with him.

"I don't think it worked like that," he continues delicately. "I don't think there's anything it can't -"

He is talking way too much. Tim's throat closes and he concentrates on the reassuring motion of petting, back and forth and rhythmic.

Poor Tim. No one should be upset in a nice dream like this. Daine ups her purring efforts, still absently kneading his stomach. Don't worry, she says, pouring as much reassurance in her tone as she can. Unless the rift brings whatever it was through, I doubt it can reach you anymore. If her gods aren't stronger than the rift, she doubts whatever's haunting him is any different.

Anyway, she adds, more practically, there's nothing that will harm you here. This is a good dream.

"I hit you because you're an arse," Ianto clarifies, giving his shoulders a good shake to reposition the blanket and draw it around him. This dream is annoyingly cold. He also hit the Doctor because he probably wouldn't get a chance to in real life. The TARDIS wouldn't stand for it. But she can't get mad at him for something he hasn't technically done. Loopholes!

"And I'm the only one who seems to notice that everyone you string along ends up dead or abandoned. I won't let you do that to a child." He's also the dude who's been living in your metaphorical attic for nearly a week, but whatever.

He tries to smile, but it comes out cracking and weak. He's the source; the thing is keyed to him. Maybe he even created it out of his own head, but there's no way to know. The only thing he can be certain of is that it isn't gone, and it's his fault. And f he keeps talking about it Daine might get dragged in too. He can't let that happen. He can't let any of it happen again.

"Yeah," he forces himself to say, burrowing fingers into the soft fur around Daine's neck and scratching. "It is a good dream." It's the best dream he can remember having in, well, ever.

"That's a real mouthful of a name, but then I suppose you are Welsh." The Doctor doesn't have any ready sarcasm for being called an arse though, nor indeed any real argument, point of fact. Blanket man's pretty much got the right of it, there, though that's a lot of stones in a glass house for someone who introduces himself with a punch in the face.

So this whoever he is at least knows who he's assaulting/addressing, that much is clear. Shame that knowledge isn't mutual, but knowing his name wouldn't make him any less wrong. "Don't be so stupid, you don't know what you're talking about in the slightest," he argues, angrily but not very eloquently. He just doesn't understand all the details, and the Doctor's been caught too flat-footed to make a good start. He takes a quick breath and recalculates, digs his hands into his hair roughly. "This isn't travel. I'm not putting her in danger, she was already there. There's something hunting her, something huge and terrifying that's already killed her once, and anything might end up in Manhattan through the rift, and already has. What exactly would you do in my place?"

Is it just him, or did she just scoot deliberately closer to him on the sofa? He suspects it was the latter, but that doesn't make any sense. And, looked like...? Is that just a generalised statement of resemblance or something more noteworthy? He again suspects the latter. Well that's interesting and all, but not worth following up on. "No, it's definitely not too late for me. And you should be glad. I came here to investigate the rift and get everyone it's trapped home." Or whatever passes for home, anyway. The rift seems almost as partial to the disenfranchised as he is. But everyone came from somewhere. Probably? "Why were you nervous to visit?" Small-scale fidgeting aside, she seems quite socially adroit, not the type to be nervous about dropping by. Definitely closer on the couch, too.

~~Do it, bro, he dares you.~~

"Did she." It's been a while since he and the TARDIS last spoke (Andrew tends to get the impression that she forgets about him much of the time, which isn't quite as disturbing anymore as he rather thinks it ought to be), but since when is she going around telling people the Rift took him? And who is this bozo, anyway?

"Who are you?" he asks coldly. "Are you some kind of -- oh."

A thought has occurred to him. He doesn't like it. "No. You aren't. Are you? Blimey, I hope not, just look at that face!"

"I am. Close your mouth before flies get in," which is as much to revel in his surprise as it is to say 'shut up.' Like he's got any business talking about faces, with that chickeny aspect, complete with ridiculous plumage. "Took you long enough," he says smugly. "I don't remember being quite so slow." Shots fired, he sits up from his interested, arms-on-knees lean, folds his legs up crosslegged on the hearth instead; he won that round. But he still strongly suspects he might be the one being slow on the uptake now; he just can't work out how, exactly. "She said you were replaced by the eighth, who had the decency to pack it up after my arrival."

Iman is just going to have to get used to the polite condescension, if she's genuinely interested in befriending the TARDIS. It's not like she even does it on purpose, or is likely to be deterred even if it was pointed out to her.

And Iman apparently doesn't go for the easy questions. She can't blame her for being thorough, though, and will do her best to answer. "My origin isn't as straightforward or linear as those options," she begins with a slight shake of her head. "The seeds of my species lay in the time vortex, naturally occurring since the beginning of Time itself. The Time Lords used these to engineer time capsules, until they had drained the vortex of all seeds and were proficient enough to grow us themselves. I am a Type 40 TARDIS; my construction is eons removed from those origins." This is delivered in a somewhat lecturely tone, nothing more than a small excerpt from her databanks. And if Iman wants to sit, she's going to have to suggest it herself; there is no marked difference between the two positions to the TARDIS, especially here where any comfort is imaginary.

Hey, more cuddling. He could get used to this. "I haven't done much dreaming at all lately. I'm glad I caught this one instead of...what was it, giant cats?" That doesn't sound like a good time.

"What happens in your good dreams? Ohh, lemme guess." He smiles, not actually wanting to guess, but definitely wanting to joke around. "Everything is made of waffles and I'm there. Naked."

The fidgeting becomes a little less small-scale at that, as she turns her focus to her hands and begins carefully, almost subconsciously smoothing out the blankets. "Because I - it's hard for me to... meet people," she says. "I don't want it to be. I really like people! But I'm not... um. Normal."

Her momma always scorned that kind of talk, but that was just about her other atypicalities, not the one that is just her.

"I always make plans to go see people and then a lot of the time I don't do it," she says, a little ashamed to admit it. But it's true. It's happened even with people she's already met, like with Peter. "I'm just worried that I'll do something wrong."

His recollection is genuinely fascinating, a glimpse into another universe different from her own. When his smile diminishes, hers grows warmer and she takes a few steps closer, wanting to express her interest.

"Very human," she comments kindly. "Your curiosity and drive for exploration seem to be a constant in most universes I have seen." When she considers this, she can very nearly understand the Doctor's particular fondness for them. "And during your travels you came across sentient ships? And their pilots?" she prods, eager to get to the part she might be able to relate to.

He's a little unnerved by the creature climbing up all over him, but (once he lifts a hand to fix his hair) he realizes that it does feel quite nice around his neck. "I didn't want to settle in without introducing myself to the host...but there doesn't seem to be a host." He smiles down at his new furry friend. "Perhaps it would be alright to find a warmer spot."

He slips the volume of poetry he'd been looking at out of the shelf and wanders closer to the fire, picking up a blanket along the way. "It seems strange that the fire wouldn't warm the room."

"Nobody's normal," he says, frowning calamitously, rudely glib but no less well meaning for it. "What's normal?" ~~That's not an egg.~~ He shrugs elaborately. It's clear that however he assessed her level of social comfort, she feels quite differently. But it still doesn't strike him as particularly reasonable. She seems like one of the most socially grounded individuals he's encountered in this place or its associated dreamings so far, actually. Introduced herself, talked about things of at least close to mutual interest, isn't Rush, that's a good start, isn't it? Maybe he shouldn't be the arbiter of social adjustment. "What are you worried about doing wrong?"

Everyone with ROMAC whom Greta has spoken with thusfar has been very careful not to get her hopes up regarding travel back home. She was reassured that people were working on the issue, but also cautioned that it would take time - probably a lot of it. This is the first time she's spoken directly with someone trying to solve the problem, and Iman's evident determination is a great comfort.

"That would be wonderful," Greta enthuses. Obviously this calls for a hug.

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Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

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