applesaucedream | sound and fury drown my heart, every nerve is torn apart [open to multiple]

Current Music: August ???

Entry tags:

sound and fury drown my heart, every nerve is torn apart [open to multiple]

[warning: this dream deals with claustrophobia, hydrophobia/drowning, suicide ideation, mental invasion, alien abduction, and related medical squicks.]

where is the ship

Immediately Rush knows where he is, and the thought fills him with indescribable horror.

He would struggle but he can only drift without purchase, resist without means for resistance. He has no cognitive self-defense. His mind is flayed and open - they have stripped his neurological architecture bare and reassembled it with fascinated laziness, they have analyzed everything he is biologically, fundamentally, psychologically, they know his blood type and the sensation of a hammer slamming over his fingers in the steel mills of Glasgow and the disordered burst of sympathetic nervous overload that generates panic. They've shredded into his head, they've come shrieking into his silence; nothing can be kept in isolation as they eviscerate his subconscious, invade each molecule, unmake his construction, unbury his core, shear into what he cannot hide from them, intimately, with sleek, strategic tendrils of thought that are alien, malformed, wrong.

He is floating in a tank of ionized water in a spectrum of blue-silver-grays. He's kept nothing from them, save what they want to know most.

where is the ship

There is the weight of water pressing down and all around him, the dull tingle of cold against the bare skin of his neck, head, arms. The thing keeping him alive is wrapped around his face and rammed partially down his throat, a silver breathing apparatus clamped over his mouth, silencing him, muzzling him. He is floating in a tank of ionized water and wishing he could breathe the water, fill his lungs with blissful icy fluid and end the endless sequence of prolonged neural attacks. That language, their language, is high-pitched and chittering and utterly unintelligible, an irradiating aural torment that sluices into the layers of his brain tissue and strangles his dread into utter numbness, they will never allow him death, they will never allow him death, they will never allow him death.

He is floating in a tank of ionized water, freezing and alone and psychically paralyzed. One hand slams against the vitreous walls of the tank in frenzied, fruitless desperation, the distressingly impenetrable surface spread beneath his fingers. He hammers at his prison and wishes he could drown.

where is the ship

The water is ionized. The water is conductive. The water is transparent, and so is the glass. A silvered flare of bubbles flutters upward, darting between the tubes trailing out from the subcutaneous entry points beneath his clavicle. Every movement is hopelessly inhibited by the thickness of water resistance, pulling at his clothes and his hair as they fan out in slow drifts. He remembers breaking out. He remembers his prison shattering under application of blunt force and pressure, and he remembers tearing away the mess of tubing and the breathing mechanism and the telepathic entry point stapled to his head, and he remembers wriggling free, getting on a ship, getting out. He remembers this. He remembers it. He remembers Manhattan. It must have happened. It must have. So much has elapsed since then, that cannot all have possibly been manufactured. Unless he has simply never left, and they courteously let him believe otherwise. They could have distorted his perception of that. They're capable of it.

He breathes through a breathing apparatus in a tank of ionized water and his only defense is his hatred of his captors.

where is the ship

They leave him in aching silence. Time drags. It's impossible to tell its passing, until Rush can finally reconstruct his bearings, his physical position, his own name. He is floating in a tank of ionized water, and this time he has no escape. If he were allowed an open mouth, he would howl. If he could thrash at his confinement, he would slam himself into the clear walls with claustrophobic ferocity. All he can do, now, is knock an open hand feebly against the glass and wait for dissolution.

[ooc: this is a recurring nightmare for Rush, so just pick a date if you tag in for dream-y funtimes. For context: Rush has been kept on an alien ship for some time and he sure would like to get off that wild ride. The aliens that took him look like this - cw for unnaturally tall or skinny things - and he's being held in a thingy that looks like this - cw for people jars.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Am I?" Rush asks distractedly, bracing both arms against the console, finally allowing the stiff lines of tension in his shoulders and arms to fall away. He is, however much this can be said, safe here, relatively. Safe. And alive. He gives his own body a mystified look - at some point after stepping over his imaginary TARDIS's threshold, he apparently dried off and is now a quite normal body temperature. Even the uncontrollable tremors in his hands have begun to still, now that he is away.

"Interesting." He steps back and evaluates his mental handiwork, alarmed by the relative accuracy of the room's layout, then shoots a vaguely suspicious look at Daine. "I have - this has not historically been - " Rush hooks one hand over the back of one shoulder and makes a frustrated grunt in the back of his throat. Inarticulate. Inexcusable. "I've never been capable of this before." Torquing his nightmares into something even slightly more bearable, however, is a turning out to be a useful skill.

"Sometimes the rift makes it easier, I think," she says, running her hand along one of the railings. It feels just as it ought to, though given it's her hand doing the feeling, she's not sure if it's due to his memories or hers. Not that it matters, really. "I'm good at recognizing dreams - I can usually tell right away when I'm in one - but that might just be practice."

She leans back against the railing and looks up at the central rotor, half an eye on Rush. He already looks better, more at ease, and she allows herself to relax a little. If things get terrible again, she'll deal with it, but she's happy to enjoy this spell for as long as it lasts.

"I've been here a while," she adds by way of explanation.

This would be the first fucking time the Rift has done him any sort of favor, and Rush glares skyward by way of silent condemnation. What an infuriating, mercurial little fuck of an anomaly. He'd dissect its workings if it he could, but all but the most elementary understanding of what it is has masterfully evaded him.

He leans away from the console, examining its disordered spread of buttons and levers for a moment before looking wearily at Daine.

"I haven't," he says with an equivocal lift of one shoulder. "Weeks, most likely." The passage of time is somewhat beyond the scope of his interest, and thus he has had no reason to trace it. "How long is 'a while' by your standards?"

She actually has to pause and make a mental count. At first, it was easy to keep track, each day, each week one of the few she presumed it would take for Numair or the Badger ~~or her Da~~ or someone to find her. But when no one showed up except for a much-older Aly who knew nothing of Daine's disappearance, the count changed. No one was going to come find her, it was just a matter of how long she would be stuck here until someone else figured out how to get her home.

She hasn't been so eager to keep careful track of those days.

"Eight months, just about," she answers, adding a half-hearted shrug, as if that'll make it less depressing. "I've known the TARDIS for seven of them."

He takes that in with a noncommittal tilt of his head, hand sliding away from the back of his neck to loosely wrap around his opposite arm. The need to move and shift following that period of mental-physical stagnation has left him restive, and his nervous system still irritatingly on edge.

"She is," Rush says, lifting his gaze back to the central column, expression softening marginally, "truly fascinating."

He looks to the door and wonders if the space has shifted, or if he has shifted it, or if the environment is static and he's merely introduced a foreign element, but trepidation holds him away from opening the door and satisfying that faintly nagging curiosity.

He barely reacts to to her answer, neither sympathetic nor impressed, and she finds herself grateful for it. Now she won't have to pretend it's quite an achievement, or hold his hand over something that's happened to her. They can just talk about the TARDIS. That's safe enough; it's clear that Rush likes her.

"I take her flying, sometimes," she says with a wry smile, tapping the side of her head. "Up here, I mean. I'll take falcon shape and let her ride along in my mind. It's fun."

"Is that so?" He mirrors her smile, relieved at the establishment of this topic, preferable as it is to dwelling over more recent circumstances. His tone slides into something fractionally more wary as he goes on, "and she is - capable of that level of extensive telepathic bonding?"

Naturally he knows the TARDIS would have some telepathic functions, to an extent, or an awareness of who interacts with her, but he has no grasp of how far those abilities reach. And the recently stirred memories of what has been done to his mind in the past has not made him overly eager to share that neuronal space with any being capable of doing so, regardless of its relative importance.

The question confuses her a little, because it seems obvious that the answer is 'yes.' But then she remembers the aliens she dispatched, and his curiosity makes a bit more sense. Oh, dear. Maybe she shouldn't've mentioned it. The TARDIS is different, though; Daine can't imagine her getting into someone's head just to hurt them.

She doesn't have to imagine the TARDIS just sliding into someone's mind without warning or notice, though. The ship did that to her almost as soon as meeting her. She definitely shouldn't mention that.

"I invited her to try it," she says instead. "It's something I'd done with the People - animals - before, and I figured it might work much the same way if she tried it with me. But she doesn't just poke around folks' minds without asking." Usually. Probably.

Edited 2015-02-16 23:45 (UTC)

That is to be anticipated, perhaps, but it's still inanely relieving to hear it said aloud. The TARDIS would not do something so invasive beyond what might be expected upon initial entry.

"Your own abilities," he begins with trepidation. It seems they have established some level of familiarity whose range he can't fully determine - what level of friendliness does freeing one from a dream reconstruction of a past trauma typically entail? - and inquiring as to the nature of these abilities may seem forward, or unacceptable in some way, but Daine has made those powers quite apparent in her rescue of him. "I assume they all connect to that particular - they are ecologically-based?" She's able to shift form and body mass, clearly, but her later statements would imply communication with animals in addition to being capable of taking various shapes.

At this point, there's little for her to be reserved about as far as her abilities are concerned. He's already seen the part that she tends not to share with those she's just met; everything else is rather mild in comparison.

"Wild magic," she says with an encouraging nod. "That's what it's called back home. It gives me a connection with animals, so I can take their shape and talk to them. I can heal them if they're sick or injured, too." Anticipating the next question, she adds, "None of it works with humans, though, or any of the aliens I've met who look human. But it works with the animals in Manhattan, so wild magic must stretch across more realms than just my own."

Thank all the listening gods for that. She'd've gone mad by now if none of the animals on the island responded to her. Like being a ghost, or something.

Magic is a phrase that would have, some time ago ago, elicited a derisive snort and an explanation regarding methods of rationalizing what cannot be wholly conceptualized. However, a number of factors, spontaneously being launched into a non-corresponding year in a non-corresponding point in spacetime included, has somewhat forcibly expanded his mindset.

"Something of a constant," he notes, now tracing the line of his jaw thoughtfully with the knuckle of an index finger. "Physics is universally applicable regardless of placement in whichever brane, phase, dimension, what have you. Whatever properties your," it is a slight difficulty to actively discuss it and not sound exceptionally foolish, but Rush attempts it, "magic holds, perhaps it is a similar circumstance." And then, as a frowning addendum, "or possibly these properties are unique to you and, in this brane's context, you're something of a catalyst."

"I'm fair certain the animals had wild magic before I got here," she says, frowning thoughtfully into the middle distance. "But it's true that me being around changes 'em a bit. They tend to get more clever - clever the way humans are." It's not something she's especially pleased about, but it's not something she can seem to help, either. Especially in this case: it's hardly her fault she's confined to an island that falls entirely within her range.

"It's already happening to the ones who live in the park," she adds. "They're all a fair bit smarter than they ought to be." She tries for a smile. "On the bright side, if you ever need to find me, you can just ask one of the animals. They'd be able to reach me quick enough."

Rush is having this vaguely surreal conversation about magic affecting animal intelligence with a teenager capable of altering mass and shape to mimic those of various animals, but as this conversation also happens to be taking place in a mental representation of a spacetime ship in a dream, surreality is perhaps a given.

"I'll keep that in mind," he notes, and he means it. Daine has proven to be - refreshingly competent throughout this disturbingly inconsistent experience. He would not mind encountering her in the waking world. That would, likely, be preferred for both of them.

"Though on that note -" The TARDIS doors receive another concerned glance, though when the look transfers to Daine it slides into a wry, rueful twist of the mouth. "Would you possibly have a means or method for waking up? I am not terribly fond," he grimaces, trying and failing to mask a flinch when the memories of the nightmare's beginning leak back, unbidden, "of dreams."

Well, there's dying. That tends to work. But even if Rush was willing to go that route, Daine's done enough killing for one dream, and she doesn't fancy dying, either. Surely there's a less terrible way to go about getting them both awake. She thinks for a few moments, nibbling a thumbnail absently.

"I might be able to reach one of the dogs, if I concentrate," she says, "and they'd be able to wake me up, but…" But that still leaves Rush, and she's not about to just abandon him here. What if things got awful for him again? He'd be right back up a tree, and without her to talk him down.

If she knew where he was in the waking world, she could ask one of the People to wake him, but unless he's got a window open, it'd be a bust. Besides, she's not sure he'd appreciate being woken up by a bat or an owl or somesuch, and she doesn't want to risk him accidentally lashing out at one of her friends. And in the time it might take her to reach him, he could have all kinds of awful nightmares.

… Or maybe it doesn't have to be that complicated at all. Daine drops her hand, feeling like a bit of an idiot. "You have a phone, right? Would you wake up if I texted you?"

The solution, when she suggests it, is so startlingly simple that Rush has to ignore the subsequent stab of self-directed annoyance that the same thought had not occurred to him. He does not recall falling asleep, as he rarely can, nor for how long it has been since he's slept prior to now. Most likely it happened as sleep often happens - half-collapsed on the empty floor of his empty apartment, and probably in the midst of some important calculation that has since been inconveniently derailed.

"I - yes, probably." The worry drops from his darkening frown, replaced by weary irritation. "I abhor sleep. Minimal outside stimulus is usually sufficient." There's been a historic effort to recall specifics within dreams, numbers or letters or anything of that general level of fixed definition, but again the atypically realistic nature of the Rift's dreaming proves itself useful, and Rush can relay the number assigned to his phone with very little difficulty.

Daine repeats the number back once aloud (and several more times to herself, just to be sure she doesn't forget it upon waking). Then she sits down on the console room floor, legs crossed, hands in her lap.

"I've done this before," she assures Rush. "It should only take a minute to wake up, and I'll call you first thing." She knows time can get weird in dreams, and she doesn't want Rush kicking around in here for what feels like ages to him.

It takes her a few moments of quiet focus to reach Sarge and Molly. Having her eyes shut helps; it's strange being able to feel them practically on top of her, all the while knowing that if she opened her eyes, she wouldn't see them anywhere. A mental nudge wakes Molly, and Daine opens her eyes to give Rush an encouraging smile. "I'll talk to you soon."

In the waking world, a little terrier mutt clambers up onto Daine's shoulder. In the dream, she vanishes.

He nods his assent, though quite unable to mask the anxiety that tenses his shoulders despite her reassurances. She has done this before. There is no reason to believe this will not be successful.

When she disappears, Rush plants both hands on the dream-manifested console and draws up his shoulders and mentally claws for the anchoring calm her presence had allowed. Daine had, intentionally or no, been something of a grounding force, and in her disappearance Rush cannot fully swallow his terror that his subconscious stability will soon stutter and fade as a result, leaving him trapped and questioning his own questionable reality.

He remembers to breathe. He grips the TARDIS console edge and focuses on the unyielding material that is its base component.

He shuts his eyes and waits for the shrill of a phone to wake him.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

sound and fury drown my heart, every nerve is torn apart [open to multiple]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject