Sweeter than the First Time [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

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.]

Comments

[postictal]

He immediately loosens up when he sees it's just a dog. Dogs are nice. They're not like people, they're friendlier and less liable to judge and all in all just way less likely to get involved in things they shouldn't despite repeated warnings. He even grins a little when it leaps into the seat with him and simply curls up on his lap. Privately a little delighted by the physical contact, he offers it a tentative scratch behind the ears.

"Hello, boy," Tim says quietly, though he freezes when - is that him, or did it just talk back? Or should he say she? "Uh. Hi," he says again, much more carefully, now uncertain if he should be answering or even assuming this is a dog in the first place.

[wildmage_daine]

Those ear scritches were nice - why did he stop? Maybe she shouldn't have spoken. Daine tilts her head to look up at him. Don't worry, she repeats, her tone as reassuring as she can make it. This is a nice dream. We're safe. She wags her tail again for good measure, resting her chin on his convenient little paunch of a belly.

Maybe some polite conversation would help put him at ease. I haven't seen you before. Are you new? I'm Daine!

[postictal]

A dream? Is this like what Johnny told him about? Tim sharpens up a little at that, tensing in his chair and glancing furtively about. It doesn't feel like there's anyone in his head, and that's a feeling he knows all too well. It's like they're just both in the same space, almost.

Tim forces himself to relax and tries for another smile, though it's too weak and worried to be much believable. As long as he doesn't say much it should be fine, right? But then he didn't need to say much before, either, it was just knowing people in the first place that got almost all of them killed. Fuck.

There's about a five second window before whatever he says next becomes awkward, or suspicious, or awkwardly suspicious, and his time's up.

"Yeah," he answers cautiously. "Yeah, I'm new. I'm Tim."

[wildmage_daine]

It's nice to meet you, Tim. Honestly, everything is nice, here - she's not sure why he's so twitchy. Maybe she can figure it out by asking very carefully-put questions, like one of George's spies.

Why are you so twitchy? Is something wrong?

Nailed it!

[postictal]

"Uh..." He stares at the apparently fairly perceptive dog, feeling mildly like he should be offended but entirely unsure as to how one goes about being offended at a talking dog. Or no, not a talking dog, but yes, kind of? This is weird. And not the kind of weird Tim's used to; talking dogs don't fit neatly into headache-nosebleed-periodic-blackout-fucked-up-neurochemistry weird.

"Never had a dream like this, I guess." And it would be a hell of a lot safer if he didn't have dreams like this. Isolation is pretty fucking pivotal to everyone's lives not getting neatly screwed over, and this dream is circumventing that little objective very nicely.

[wildmage_daine]

Oh, she understands his nervousness, now. It was fair strange the first few times it happened to her, too. Daine gives him a sleepy blink of reassurance. You'll get used to it. Most folk do. It's happened often enough to me that I can almost always tell it's a dream right away. See? It'll get easier!

She considers Tim a moment, tail still wagging, then asks, Would it help if I was fluffier? I can be very fluffy.

[postictal]

Unfortunately, this isn't really something Tim wants to get used to. Or, well, maybe he wouldn't mind it. Maybe it's not half bad. But he shouldn't get used to it and if it means more people will come creeping into his awareness, the likelihood of anything ending well just sort of plummets.

He goes back to petting the sort-of-dog cautiously, but her next words prompt another confused look.

"What do you mean by that?" In Tim's experience, dogs don't usually sprout copious amounts of additional fur spontaneously?

[wildmage_daine]

I can change my shape, she explains. It's the most natural thing in the world - for her, anyway. I'm still me, of course, just shaped differently. I can't do immortals, like dragons or unicorns or anything - that would be a bad idea - but I can be lots of different animals. She cants her head to one side a little. Do you have a favorite?

[postictal]

The dog can already talk, so why stop there? It's no weirder than any of the other shit he's lived with, if just a new type of weird.

"I, uh." He frowns as he mulls it over, almost embarrassed to say it. "I dunno, actually. I never really - I guess I like birds?" He'd always wish he was a bird back when he had a room that still had a window, but that's close enough to 'favorite,' right?

[wildmage_daine]

Good choice, Daine says approvingly. It's a vague choice, too, but that doesn't matter. I like birds, too. Except for chickens. Chickens are idiots. So she won't be turning into one of those, thanks ever so. Instead, she shrinks down into crow shape, glossy black feathers replacing glossy black fur.

There we are, she says, hopping up onto the arm of the chair and giving her feathers a good rustle to settle them into place. Crows are clever. Especially the ones in the park.

[postictal]

The change is so abrupt but so fluid, paws giving way to claws and fur sliding neatly into the shape of feathers, that for a minute Tim startles, jumping slightly in his seat.

"Woah." It's so unexpected but - for a minute Tim's caught off guard, and his face breaks into a rare, honest grin. "Yeah, I, I like crows." And he feels like they get way too bad a name when they're actually pretty smart and kind of beautiful to look at. Daine's plumage might be a uniform black but the firelight casts it with a faint rainbow sheen, and Tim reaches out one finger to stroke at the smooth line of the bird's neck tentatively.

[wildmage_daine]

Daine tilts her head a little in wordless approval, fluffing out her feathers contentedly. Well, if you ever need help, just ask one of them to find me. It's not an offer she typically extends to near-strangers, but the dream's atmosphere has made her feel generous. Tim seems like a decent sort of two-legger - how bad could he be if he likes crows?

[postictal]

"Wait, you mean, like - outside? Like, not in a dream?" That clouds his expression for a minute. He should be trying to get used to this - new world, new rules, new things that are possible that shouldn't be.

Things in suits.

Or things that look like things in suits.

He shrugs fractionally and looks down at his hands. "Well I mean, I don't really go out much."

[wildmage_daine]

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.

[postictal]

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.

[wildmage_daine]

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.

[postictal]

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.

[wildmage_daine]

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.

[postictal]

"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.

[wildmage_daine]

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.

[postictal]

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.