Ark Awaits [open to multiple]

[deadeyedchild]

He is awake.

He doesn't have a body, and he remembers dying - again - he remembers slipping out, Tim unable to keep him there in spite of his hardened insistence that he wasn't going to let it happen, he remembers all of that, but he can't account for himself now. All he knows is he's awake.

Jay clings to that awareness as hard as he can. He doesn't know where he is, if it's a where at all, if he's alive or if this is just the suspension of afterlife, but he's still conscious, he's still him. Formless and adrift in the void. No arms to reach, no hands to grasp, but he tries, tries to stretch out fingers and hold onto something, even if it's just the continued knowledge of self, of me, Jay, I am Jay Merrick, and no one is going to miss me.

Even as an abstraction he can't escape his bent toward bleak self-deprecation.

There's something pulling at him - or maybe he's the one pulling, hauling himself into a defined space, someone else's space, still abstract, but not formless. He knows this sensation. A dream. He's dreaming. Or someone else is dreaming. He's just a stowaway.

Easier to hold a shape in a dream, though, and it doesn't take long before the memory of a body fills in the gaps, and there he is again, eyes that see, senses more or less intact - looking down at his arms, his hands, his legs and feet. Hand over his face and through his hair. All here. One piece.

He looks up, focus drawn naturally to the dreamer.


[Jay is free-falling through the dreaming, and if you want, he can get scooped up into your dream! The 21st is the current IG date at the time of post, but feel free to date your entry later as that changes. Will add a closing date at some point, when I have that figured out.]

Comments

September 21st

[peacefulexplorer]

Daniel's not sure if he's dreaming or hallucinating, categorically, because in his experience neither have been strictly applicable to his newfound state of being. Probably not dreaming. Definitely not hallucinating. He's making his own way, and that dovetails rather neatly into the kind of selfsame, thoughtlessly independent, recklessly idealistic, outrageously introspective narrative he's always assumed he's filled, or perhaps even established for himself.

Do abstractions exist within other abstractions? He's certain they do in some sense. The Dreaming isn't really a space he can grasp at the best of times and it never has been; one metaphysical construct meeting another seems to be something of a recipe for imminent ontological disaster. He's always been careful about where he places himself - except, no, that's a lie, because he's never been careful at all. Floating at the edges of every existence like something eidolic and unmoored is a precarious space to occupy. But so is being able to build a room that looks exactly like the one he's never physically been in: small and octagonal and stretching upward in its seeming infiniteness, outstretched to catch the thing coming at him.

[deadeyedchild]

It takes several moments to piece together his placement. He still feels like he's floating, still can't tell which end is up - looking at his hands, then up, he thinks up, into an unfamiliar face. Gradually he feels more grounded, settled, though his feet still aren't touching the ground, and he's still not oriented right, he's - suspended, points of contact curled under his narrow shoulders and his knees.

Spatial comprehension reasserts itself and he realizes he has landed fully in the arms of a large man, like a god damn Disney princess.

So much for first impressions.

"Uhhh," he says. "Hi."

[peacefulexplorer]

What happens next is not completely apparent to him, at least not immediately, but the room stretches out in an undulating ripple and he reaches forward out of instinct and the end result is an utterly unintentional, seemingly well-planned and well-executed endeavor to catch the incoming consciousness in a flawless bridal carry.

"Hi," says Daniel, mildly taken aback and entirely pleasant.

He sets the other man down, which is much less difficult than he'd have assumed it would be, seeing as the man both weighs very little and neither of them are, strictly speaking, corporeal.

"Sorry," he says, eyebrows knitting together. "You just seemed to be - falling. I thought I could help."

[deadeyedchild]

"I - I was," says Jay, sliding easily to the floor. Standing on his own two feet again is weird, but it's better than that ridiculous introduction. "You did. Thanks."

He looks up at the guy, who looks more or less like a Disney character anyway, all tall and beefy and polite. Awkward, nervous gestures come back naturally; Jay's hand has already found the back of his neck.

Something about this room and this guy - the symmetricality of the place, the nondescript white clothes he's wearing, the way he seemed to just instinctively know to catch him - sort of gives him the willies.

"I'm, uh," he says, looking around, automatically checking for exits. "I'm Jay."

[peacefulexplorer]

"Daniel." He's not familiar with this person or the unique sort of energy with which he resonates, though he tries to regard him with polite neutrality rather than restrained curiosity. "It's okay. You're, ah, not really here in the conventional sense."

Which raises quite a few questions about the nature of the dreaming in relation to them and the not-quite-human vibe Daniel's sure he's exuding along with the probably-human vibe the other man, that is to say Jay, currently is exuding, though the particular edge to the shape of his mind raises a few questions.

"Metaphysical avenues are," he searches for the right word, "simpler when it comes to communication. At least for me?"

[deadeyedchild]

Jay stares flatly at Daniel for a few moments. "Oh," he says finally. "Uh, sure. Okay." Most of those words made zero sense to him, and maybe it's that he's still not got his head on quite right, but there is also a high probability that he's just too stupid for it.

"Are you..." He's not sure what to ask, here. "Uh. You're a rifty, right? I mean, are we dreaming?"

Human, was what he was gonna say, but he's a little too scared to ask that, in case the answer is no.

[peacefulexplorer]

"Uh, sort of." There's no simplistic standpoint to take here, so he figures it's safest to build to it in the gradual sense. "We're in the Dreaming. I'm - not sure if I'm actually capable of really dreaming anymore."

That little vestige of his humanity had been one of the first things whose absence he'd been able to take note of. Like the loss of a psychic limb.

"But - yes. I came through a few - " He halts, frustrated, unable to track the trajectory of his arrival and the passage of time since then. His expression twists briefly, pained, before he can finish, "a while ago."

[deadeyedchild]

Jay stares at him, filling slowly with nervous dread. He doesn't like where this is headed. The clothes, the room, the blank, silent neutrality of it all, it's still grating at him, and he realizes it's because it feels like someone's version of afterlife.

"What do you mean, anymore?" he asks, syllables grinding out uncertainly. "What happened to you?"

He always asks the questions, even (especially) when he doesn't want to know the answers.

[peacefulexplorer]

"I died," he says simply. There's no way to stretch the revelation into something gentle or palatable. "Though it's not that simple, really - the Rift likes to complicate things."

He looks skyward, briefly, tracing the walls that reach up endlessly. "I'm on another plane. I'm not sure if - it's really the same for you. Whatever happened." His gaze drops back to the other man, drawn and conflicted. "But you're not really - tethered, you know?"

Yeah let's just go with the 21st

[andhiswife]

It actually takes Greta a few moments to place him, which is just... inexcusable. There's a beat where she just stares at the lad, mulling him over as if trying to feel out an object in the dark, her mind spitting out vague tidbits like sad and motherless and starts with a J, doesn't it? before she belatedly puts it together.

Jack. Obviously. She'll forget her own head, next.

Blame it on the fact that she's tired, or that he's gone through a growth spurt these past few months - there's a joke to be made about beanstalks; she'll leave that to her husband - but as she spots him slouching between two stalls, it strikes her afresh how different he looks to when she first met him in the Woods. They're all growing up, she supposes. Including her own son, old enough now to run about and get into mischief and hang off her arm with a bored, "Muuuu-um! Are we done yet?"

She checks her basket one more time, because if she's having a hard time placing Jack, of all people, goodness knows whether she's managed to remember all her shopping. But everything seems to be in order, so she extricates her arm from her son's grip and gives the boy an encouraging nudge. "Yes, yes. Go fetch your brother."

"Jack!" The boy tears across the street, stumbling over a loose cobblestone as he goes, but with enough forward momentum to plow into Jack rather than fall to the ground. He wraps his arms around the older boy's leg and grins up at him. "We get to go home."

[deadeyedchild]

What - what?

Jay recognizes Greta after only a brief moment of confusion - it's the rest of the world that takes him by surprise, everything is so vibrant and loud and the smells are so real, it's overwhelming. He rocks back a bit and almost topples when the small, shrill blur collides with his leg. He barely manages to quell the instinct to recoil and shake away. Sort of a kneejerk now, to being tackled.

"What?" he blurts, looking down at the kid. Did he just call him Jack? "I..." He looks to Greta for help. "Greta?"

[andhiswife]

"I think we're done, here," Greta says, hoisting the basket up toward her shoulder so she has both hands free to straighten Jack's collar. He might be getting a little old for such treatment. Honestly, the poor lad was a little old for it when they first took him in, but she promised to look after him properly, not just do the bare minimum. And he responded so well to a little kindness. She gives his cheek a fond pat, and adds, "If you're ready."

Her boy reaches up to tug on Jack's hand. "I'll race you!" He barrels down the street a few yards, checks to see if he's being followed, then pouts when it becomes clear that he isn't. "Come on," he says, before adding, "I'm gonna win!" and haring off again.

"Don't just let him this time," Greta advises in a conspiratorial undertone, steering Jack out into the street with a hand on his shoulder. "Make him work for it."

[deadeyedchild]

Jay is frozen, pinioned where she reaches out to lavish these little maternal affections on him, what is happening, what is this. He wants to resist, push her hand away, correct his name and demand what the hell is going on here, but he keeps himself steady. He lets her guide him, watching the little boy scamper off with wide, darting eyes.

She's dreaming, and it's a real dream, a regular dream, where you remember people wrong, recast them in your head. She thinks he's her - her son.

He wants to run, not after his apparent brother, but away, he wants to claw his way out of this. This is awkward and awful and he can't play this part, he can't.

But there's nowhere else to go, he got pulled in here and he can't just leave again.

"I, um..." he says softly. Should he shatter the illusion? Should he play this part? What does he do?

Lying comes naturally, even if he was never good at it. "I'm not... feeling very well," he mumbles.

[andhiswife]

He's being unusually subdued, and Greta's brow is already furrowing in concern when he makes his excuse. "Oh." Oh, dear. She hopes he isn't coming down with anything - and not just because one of his chief household contributions is entertaining the little one, and woe betide the rest of them if Jack's not up to the task.

"Well, you can have a lie down when we get back," she says, resisting the urge to check for a fever right there on the street. That, she suspects, really would be too much as far the lad's dignity is concerned.

At least it's not a long walk back to their shop. Greta keeps half an eye on her son, who is the very picture of exaggerated dejection as he maintains his half-block lead, and half an eye on Jack. A few friends call out to her, and she does spare a smile and a wave for a woman in a green headscarf engaged in animated conversation with the smith. Then her son is dragging his feet into the shop, fully rebuilt after the Giant's rampage, with the addition of a small barn for Milky White (who, since her reanimation, doesn't show the least inclination towards dying again).

The lot next door spent a year or two in conspicuous, stubborn neglect before the Girl decided someone ought to do something with it, and that she wasn't afraid, and it has since become a stolidly normal vegetable garden. The Girl's working there, now, and Greta's son soon appears out the side door, flings himself onto her back, and proclaims, "Jack's boring today."

Best leave them to it. Greta steers Jack into the cool, sweet-smelling interior. "How are you feeling?" she asks, checking for fever or any obvious signs of ill health now that they're out of public view. "Could you eat something?"

[deadeyedchild]

He walks with her because there's nowhere else to go. He feels a slow compression on his chest, tightening with every step, the encroaching domesticity feeling like little more than a trap he's sinking into. Why is he letting this happen? Why is he letting her believe this?

How does he explain that he's dead, that she should just forget him, that he's not the son she probably left behind?

"I - I'm okay," he stammers as she fusses over him, once they're inside the strange little cottage. "I'm just really tired."

He hesitates, looking at her, eyes searching hers. Surely she'll figure this out. She has to, somehow. He can't be that much like her son. He's not a good son. He lost touch with his parents so quick after college, never answered their calls (it wasn't safe) never went home for Christmas (it wasn't safe). He doesn't deserve this now, this affection that isn't rightfully his.

"I could eat," he murmurs, because it seems simpler.

[andhiswife]

The look he gives her pulls her up short. She meets his gaze just as searchingly, a little baffled by its intensity, uncertain of what it means. She knows what he looks like when he's fibbing: he can never meet her eyes. This is different, like he's waiting for her to offer him something else, something specific that she can't guess.

She's forgetting something. What is she forgetting?

There's a faint shriek of laughter from the garden, and she shakes her head, dismissing the thought. He's hungry; that's the important thing. If he didn't want food, she'd be more inclined to worry. "Come on," she says, leading him through the shop and into the little kitchen beyond, setting her basket on the counter and pulling out a chair in passing. "Sit down, and I'll make you something."

[deadeyedchild]

For a terrifying moment he thinks she's gonna figure it out, he's going to shatter what is clearly a very nice dream, and he'll have to explain that he's dead now, for good this time. But she seems to recover, and then she's back to leading him around, lulling him along. This is better. Just let this happen. It won't last forever.

He sits where invited, pulling the chair in and sitting stiffly, uneasily. He can't stop looking around the kitchen, taking in how absurdly real it is, the smells and textures, everything perfectly rendered - the shared dreams he's experienced before are no different, but this feels different somehow, this is a private dream he's just invaded.

He refocuses his attention on Greta, his stomach twisting, questioning his conviction to keep the truth from her almost as soon as he's arrived at it. Which is crueler, to break the illusion, or to let her have this temporary peace? He's not a good judge.

[ofschrodinger]

Gotcha! The kitten hardly waits until the little dreamer fully forms before it's already pouncing on him. There's no reason to tear him apart when it already did that so perfectly such a short time ago, but it relishes the way it can dig its claws into the memories of memories of wounds here where it can be big. It can be anything in dreams, but more importantly, it can hide away from the others, hide him away where they can't see it playing with him and take him away. In the box, in the box, in the box you go, it sing-songs tunelessly to itself. Concept of body. Concept of cat. Concept of a dark little box into which it deposits a concept of Jay, slinking in on top of him and shutting the lid behind them.

[deadeyedchild]

The transition is dizzying, suddenly torn away from whatever dream was about to reel him in, plucked out of that corner of consciousness and dropped into a closed corner, where there's nowhere for him to run, nowhere to go. He can barely make out the creature sinking down over him before the lid closes, plunging him into darkness, but he doesn't need a good look to know what it is. He remembers it well enough, and from this vantage point, too. Fanfuckingtastic.

What did Daine say about these things - they are the Rift?

This one could barely keep itself from killing him when they last crossed paths, and now it's gotten its wish and kept him as a prize, or at least that's how he pieces it together, mind racing feverishly to conclusions as he scrambles back, trying to keep out of its reach, an impossible effort in this enclosure, and an impossible habit to break.

[ofschrodinger]

You're so wriggly! the kitten informs him, batting at him in the darkness, claws retracted. There will be plenty of time for claws later; for now it's more fun to let him scuttle around in the box.

Sometimes it thinks the chase may even be the best part, but then it remembers how much it loves the part that comes afterward.

[deadeyedchild]

The breath goes out of him when it hits him, knocking him across the full breadth of the box, slamming him into the opposite wall. He crumples against it, gasping - it isn't real, breath is as much as illusion as the shortness of it, but that doesn't matter, does it, not after an illusory gunshot wound tricked his entire body into giving up. He struggles to keep moving, to crawl around the oversized creature, to evade its heavily striking paws - what is he if not dogged in the face of something incomparably greater than him?

[ofschrodinger]

He's still moving! The kitten thumps around after him, pouncing and writhing in the little space with utter disregard for restraint or dignity. Its glowing eyes provide the only light, but it doesn't need even the illusion of sight to seek him out with its deceptively clumsy movements. It grabs at him, trying to grapple him to his chest for a good bite on the head.

[deadeyedchild]

He only narrowly avoids the snap of its jaws, riding momentum gained by its batting paw to dart between its legs, though this only brings him closer, trapped between fur and teeth. He spins around, raising his hands in wild, desperate panic. "Stop!" he cries. "Why are you doing this, wh - what do you want with me?!"

A probably stupid question, except he's asking the Rift, asking, essentially, why - why kill him only to trap him here? As though it has to have reason for its actions.

[ofschrodinger]

The kitten doesn't mind him asking questions if they're all going to be easy ones like that. I want to hurt you, silly! it mews, enjoying the way he slips out of reach again and again if only because it knows that there is only one way for this to end. It's so much more fun when toys fail to understand that there's no point in even trying to get away.

It hops toward him, fluffy little tail spiraling, front paws flailing like it can't decide if it's pouncing or just bouncing around for the hell of it.

[deadeyedchild]

Well YEAH he had that pretty well figured out.

"You already killed me," he half-cries, half-growls, stumbling and scrambling back to evade its paws again. "What more do you want?!"

Pointless to argue, to ask questions, and he knows that, knows this has an expiration date fast approaching, the slow pulse of dread filling his head, ringing in his ears, is too familiar for him to have any false hope.