applesaucedream | What's Stopping Us From Breathing Easy [Open to All]

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What's Stopping Us From Breathing Easy [Open to All]

Dreamers of Manhattan, you've lucked out. Rather than finding yourselves in some kind of dystopian nightmare, you'll end up in a series of formal gardens on a lovely day, the air filled with birdsong and a cloud-scattered sky arching overhead. Some of the gardens look a bit wilder than others, in an artful sort of way, but it's clear that all of the gardens are well kept and frequently tended. Aside from each other, dreamers aren't likely to run into any creature larger than a rabbit. True, there are no actual exits - every doorway or arbor leads to another garden - but that's hardly a problem. It's beautiful, it's safe... what could go wrong?

Well, that depends on the dreamer's honesty. No uncomfortable truths will drop unbidden from anyone's mouths like last time, but the dreamers will find that any time they attempt to lie or prevaricate, they'll be beset by a sneezing fit. A tiny lie by omission might only prompt that uncomfortable feeling of an impending sneeze; a larger, more significant (or more stubborn) fib will lead to a sneeze attack so crippling that the dreamer might just need to sit down for a minute.

You could try to pass it off as allergies, if you could get the words out without making everything worse. But while telling the truth is not compulsory, lying is punishable - and pretty well obscured - by sneezes.

[OOC: Usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome to participate regardless of whether they've been apped in the game or not. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion.]

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That's right! She always feels so foolish when she forgets, even for a moment. She really ought to notice straight away by this point.

We are, she confirms, dropping down to land on his shoulder. These gardens seem to go on forever, as far as I can tell. But I haven't seen anything nasty. Not so far, at least. Far be it from her to assume that means their safety is guaranteed. Mithros knows what spiteful little surprises the rift might throw in, just to offset the pleasant surroundings.

What about you? she asks, leaning out a little to peer at him. Have you been here long?

"I see it," Glados deadpans, sparing their surroundings a cursory glance. "Yes. Pleasant. Good. What are we supposed to do here?"

He's supposed to help her, isn't she? That is the primary utility of a lackey, which, Glados has already determined, is the man-thing's best role.

She leans forward slightly to peer at him, hand still on her sword. He seems to be telling the truth, but what he's telling her isn't possible. He seems more frightened thananything, and she doesn't want him to run away. She comes to a decision and sheathes the sword, knowing it will not take long to arm herself should she need to, by that or other means.

"Very," she admits. "But I don't dream. Or sleep."

The name is not familiar. Glados narrows her eyes and gives the offered hand the merest flicker of a glance. She thinks not.

"I am Glados," she says. "Are you human?"

Is she human, and if so, what kind. Humans aren't entirely useless. Some make good test subjects. Some are tenacious. Rarely are they both.

She's not sure she wants to deal with one or the other.

...Oh. Okay, then. Mako withdraws the hand, already feeling herself becoming smaller. She does not want to antagonize anyone, or at least not anyone who does not deserve it, but she can already see how she is sinking into that worn role for herself. Be respectful. Be unassuming. Defer to authority.

Not if I have anything to do with it, whispers Raleigh. Panic swells in her chest and she hastily turns to look away.

"Yes," she says quietly. She has learned that not all things that appear human necessarily are so. More hesitant, she asks, looking out over the water, "are you?"

The RIFT. Of course. She lets out a sound perilously close to a growl, and then looks faintly alarmed at herself for it. Even though she is perfectly within her rights for it. The rift made her human-shaped. And it's making her dream. And SNEEZE. This is starting to be worse than being in a potato.

Okay, no. Nothing is worse than being in a potato. Gotta put things in perspective.

"I was an artificial intelligence," she says resentfully. "I never had to sleep or... or sneeze. Durant told me this rift is semisapient? Does it have no sense of decency?"

Finally she seems to remember she is actually, ostensibly talking to someone. She refocuses on him. "Who are you?" she accuses.

"Certainly not," she says, though she knows there is no reason for the human to suspect otherwise. It pleases her how much Mako is already deferring to her, and she relaxes stance somewhat. Body language is interesting, she supposes, and Mako has it in spades.

"I am an artificial intelligence," she says, lifting her chin to denote pride. "I was the central operating core of the mainframe at Aperture Laboratories." No one she's yet encountered knows that title, so she preemptively obliges to explain: "A highly renowned-"

She sneezes, sharply, jolting a bit with the force of expulsion. Ugh, AGAIN. This keeps happening and she is not having it. Her eyes narrow again. "Highly renowned-"

This time the sneeze is louder, and no sooner is it done than she can feel another coming. She struggles to rise above it. She is not human. She is better than this! "Highly-" She sneezes again, and again. It is torturous. Why. Why this.

"ORGANIZATION," she snaps when she's finally able. "A highly re-" Oh, no, there she goes again.

This is becoming less frustrating (well, it's plateaued at a peak frustration) and more alarming. It's enough now that there is a pattern. But what is triggering it? That particular phrase?

"A prestigious-" she manages to get out before the onslaught starts again.

Oh, dear.

She fixes the woman with a harsh look and states, "I have never been-"

She can't even get the last word - dead, for the record - out before the sneezing really gets carried away, disrupting her so violently that she feels a bit weak afterward.

Theory tested. Hypothesis confirmed.

She cannot tell lies.

Well. That was an exorbitantly infuriating ordeal, not to mention humiliating. But at least she knows what's going on now. She has that.

She whips back around to face her with a sharp intake of breath. She is an artificial intelligence. That might explain the vague familiarity of her voice, the flat chime that rings so similar to that of the A.I. employed by the Jaeger Program. Could there be some kind of cross-universal alignment? Mako leans closer, rapt - and immediately shifts backward as the other woman erupts into the loudest, angriest fit of sneezing Mako has ever seen.

She tries to stifle a low giggle, and fails.

"There are a lot of flowers," she says, her eyes far too wide and innocent as she bites the inside of her cheek desperately to keep from smiling. She has a feeling the A.I. would not appreciate. "You might have allergies."

"Y-yeah," she says slowly, blinking at Greta. "I don't know. That was weird."

She feels a bit odd. Something about that did not seem normal. But she's not quite ready to analyze it yet.

"I don't think I've ever sneezed in a dream before," she hazards. "But then again there's a lot of things that happen in these dreams that... you know, wouldn't, usually." And a fair few things she wishes would happen in real life. She clears her throat. "So, uh, what do you want to do? Explore? Find a shady spot?"

It's odd to have a dream with no apparent goal - no objective to be met. Seems like it's been a while. She aims to goddamn enjoy it.

There is just no way out of this place, is there? That's great, perfect, even, and Tim grunts his frustration as he kicks grumpily at the sod, spitting up clods of earth with the toe of his sneaker. He doesn't like being surrounded by this much green. It's too much of a reminder.

He's not really on the lookout for anyone in particular, which is why it's kind of a shock when he nearly trips over someone.

"Uh," says Tim, immediately shuffling back. "Uh." He raises both hands, half-defensive and half-apologetic. "Didn't mean to interrupt?"

"Allergies," repeats Glados. Yes, exactly. An allergy to this entire situation. "Yes. That must b-"

Aaaand there she goes again.

So. It isn't simply untruth. Mistaken theories, such as Mako's, are fine - but sarcasm, intended obfuscation, is not. How wonderfully specific.

This is going to be difficult to avoid.

But potentially useful, if she determines there's anything to learn from other people. If everyone is equally afflicted, that is. She can't tell yet, with Mako. In any case, it's best not to let on what she knows.

"What sort of world do you come from?" she asks. An inelegant subject shift, but she's a robot in a hurry.

Jay relaxes only slightly when she puts the sword more or less away.

"Yeah, well I've got bad news for you," he grunts. "You're dreaming now. The rift doesn't really care if it's normal for you or not." It doesn't care about the specifics for a lot of things, he's learned firsthand.

"I'm Jay," he ventures, not particularly comfortable with engaging but not exactly in a position to back off, either.

This time Mako must bite her lower lip. She quickly looks down again, studying the ripples chasing the water's clear, green surface. Think of water. She does not know very many people here, and it would not be wise to offend any of them.

C'mon, Mako, scoffs Raleigh. Her? Really? Anyone who looks at you like that can go -

She hastily averts the direction of her thoughts.

"A very bad one," she says, quiet and earnest. "Years ahead of where I am now." Her expressions softens, her tone bittersweet as she skims the water lightly with one finger, her words echoes. "We canceled the apocalypse."

She looks back up at the other woman curiously. "I have never met an A.I. before," she confesses. "Did the Rift make you look human?"

His name is also a letter! That's quite a pleasant coincidence.

"I'm --" she pauses as a sudden itch in her nose makes her sniffle unexpectedly, but soldiers on, "--Ecks. What's the rift? Are you its messenger? Is it a messenger?"

"Mm," Greta hums in agreement, the tone hovering on the edge of disapproval. Most of the Rift's contributions to her dreams haven't been that wonderful - well, except for Angus, she supposes - but as offenses go, 'random sneezing' isn't that severe. If that's the worst this dream has to offer, she can't complain.

Especially with a setting this lovely. Now that she's no longer afraid of being caught out, she allows herself to really look around the garden with an appreciative eye, and listen to the volleys of birdsong being traded back and forth. It's a garden worthy of a Queen, and she and Iman get free rein over it. That's worth an inexplicable sneeze or two.

"Let's explore," she says with a grin, reclaiming Iman's hand. "I never imagined I'd--tschoo!" She blinks into the crook of her own elbow, then slowly lifts her head. "Um. Pardon me." That came on awfully sudden. She sniffs, then tries again. "I was just saying, I'd n--" she feels it this time, a tell-tale ache in her sinuses, and she pauses, waiting for the sensation to pass, before hazarding, "never..."

It's back. Greta falls silent, lips pressed together in consternation as the feeling fades.

She's X? Okay then. J and X. He smiles faintly, a little raggedly, and lets out a dry laugh when she asks if he's a messenger. Sort of, he supposes, in a hilarious not-at-all-funny way.

"It's... I don't really know what it is," he says warily, and for a moment it almost feels like another sneeze is coming, but thankfully, it does not. "I don't think it's a messenger. It's just this thing that scoops people up and puts them in its own world, I guess. If that makes sense?"

It doesn't. And it's probably more than a little alarming. He really does not want to alarm this spooky monotone sword-carrying Frankenstein creature.

If she's not aware, he realizes with a jolt - then she probably hasn't come through it yet. Just like he hadn't, in that first dream where he'd seen Tim, and Tim hadn't believed he was there. Shit. Maybe she'll get lucky.

"I mean it, it might not be interested in you," he says. "This could be a fluke. It's f-" He sneezes again, abrupt and a little bit painful. He frowns, still feeling the itch at the back of his throat. "I'm sure it's-" he tries again, cautiously. That lands him an even bigger sneeze.

Okay, these are too well-timed. What is happening here.

He looks up at her. "Anyway," he hazards, "I'm definitely not its messenger. I'm nobody im-"

Explosive fucking sneeze. Okay. All right. He's pretty sure he knows what's going on here and he is not happy about it. Nor is he happy about the implication, if the sneezing indicates what he thinks it does, that he's still very much on the rift's goddamn radar.

Well, all of that sounds unbelievable, and yet the lack of sneezing would indicate otherwise. If her hypothesis extends to the human, that is. She frowns coldly, an expression she is starting to enjoy making. "It did," she says. "I have never known such-" Humiliation comes out on another unpleasant sneeze - what a dreadful experience this is, this had BETTER not happen to her new body while she's awake - and she scowls viciously at the earth, incensed that she allowed herself to walk into that trap again.

"Excuse me," she says icily. "What kind of apocalypse?"

She was distantly aware of one such event occurring above ground. Didn't care to cancel it. Already she feels a slight tingling sensation, warning of another unnecessary biologic impulse, and she tamps it down furiously. Or rather she couldn't. She was trapped underground and couldn't do anything about it. Is that what you wanted to hear, rift?

Iman's delight at being pulled along on a coveted exploration mission is quickly interrupted by a little squeak of alarm at Greta's sneezing fit. This is - worrying. It keeps happening, and what's worse, it keeps happening at these specific moments. Like it's on cue.

More or less like what just happened to her, she realizes. But what ties these events together? What did their two aborted statements have in common? They were both claiming things, in fairly declarative ways. Could it be exaggeration that triggers it, or-

Or...

Oh no.

"Oh," she says, realizing abruptly that Greta has finished. Suddenly she's tense. Uneasy. This is terrible. If she's right, this is terrible. And it has the potential to get much worse. If Greta figures it out. If she asks the wrong question - if Iman says the wrong thing-

"You okay?" she says, forcing a smile. "Hah. We could just rest, if you like. That would be f- fine with-" She yanks her hand back again to catch the sneeze and groans immediately afterward.

This cannot be happening.

She has never known such what? Irritation? Inconvenience? The A.I. set in place to manage the individual Conn-Pods had not been capable of being so human. As much as she may proclaim to loathe it, the fact that she can communicate things like disdain and discomfort puts her far, far above anything Mako has ever encountered.

Mako shrugs one shoulder, subdued. "Monsters from the sea," she says simply. It is The A.I.'s choice whether or not she would like to believe it. She is not sure how unbelievable the notion may seem to anyone who has also been displaced into Manhattan. "It does not matter anymore. Manhattan made sure of that."

Eager to divert the subject, she tilts her chin in false, noncommittal dismissal. "What about you? Did you end up there too?"

"It keeps cutting us off," Greta says, more annoyed than alarmed. Except it let her get that out just fine. It's not as if she's hitting some sort of--of word limit. She had no trouble talking to Iman when she first pulled her out of the ivy. What's changed? Why is this happening?

Iman sneezes again, and Greta scowls. "I don't want to rest," she says with just a touch of petulance. If that's the Rift's plan - give them a nice setting to explore and then distract them with sneezing fits so no one gets to actually enjoy it - she won't be giving into it that easily. "I want to have a look 'round." Also, apparently, unobjectionable. She casts a suspicious look up at the sky, then drops her gaze back to Iman. "Don't you?" she asks, the question hard-edged with determination. If they both want to explore, then they're doing it, whether the Rift wants to make it easy for them or not.

The Balladeer smiles in bemusement, returning the attempted wave with an actual one. That's not the usual reaction he gets to his name! What an interesting person. Or personality core?

"What's a - oh, bless you."

He pats his pockets, just in case he's still carrying tissues from that recent cold of his. No such luck.

"It's fine - it doesn't really matter." They both keep getting cut off by the sneezing, and eventually the Balladeer just stops trying to speak altogether, standing and watching Wheatley with raised eyebrows until it's died off. "Wow. Are you feeling okay?" He doesn't look sick. More than anything, he looks worried about the broken statue. He raises his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, I'm sure you didn't - achoo!"

He muffles the sneeze in his elbow, then blinks at Wheatley in surprise. "Oh god. It's catching." He'd only meant to say that he was sure Wheatley didn't break the statue at all. It's obvious he did. It's obvious to people who aren't even HERE yet that he did. But if it would stop him fretting...

Bless him? For what? By what? Is there some dire context he's missing here? Who or what is doing the blessing, and why does he require it? He peers at the Balladeer anxiously, clapping one hand beneath his nose to keep that horrible sticky residue from leaking out. Humans, honestly.

"Ah, just, um. Hmm. Okay! We're gonna step back and - and just pretend that, umm, that this - " He indicates the pile of white-powdered rubble with an elaborately high-energy hand gesture. " - just never, um, never - acskjzb!"

Right, then. Nothing for it. He screws his eyes shut and flings himself away from the stuff in what he imagines is a heroically doomed effort, managing to land only a few inches from his starting point. The stone is catching. And he's going to get away from it! There, problem solved!

Oh yes, the AI, with the neurotoxin proclivity, he does recognise that entitled attitude from somewhere besides his own behaviour, right. An acronym? He doesn't remember, he'd mentally picked it up and put it back down so fast, like any other shiny thing with a purpose not immediately understood and so, immediately forgotten. He gives her a look that might have been pitying, from another creature; moreso, a kind of relieved disgust, a real 'there but for the grace of God' moment. For the first time it occurs to him he could have been scooped out of his current mode of existence and slopped into a human form (again), what a horrifying thought. It could have been a harmless human form, with half his, his everything, sieved out, and that's even worse. "I have yet to meet a cosmic phenomenon with any sense of decency, actually. Don't think it comes standard." Why is she being so accusatory? Are AI's so reactive usually? He's in a poor place to judge. "I am Zagreus. I've talked to you while you're awake. I'm real, not a dream." What is that odd tickling in his palate? Probably nothing.

The Balladeer watches this effort with wide eyes.

"...so, what's a personality core?" This question seems like a very relevant one. How long has he been in Manhattan? Does he know how to work his limbs?

"It's a, um, a thing." He flaps a hand vaguely without much coordination to put behind it, now desperately crawling away from the crumbled remains on bony elbows. "Important, ummm, science, ahhh, technology. Right. Just, you know, the standard sort of maintenance type of A.I., the sort that gets to spend his days tacked up to a management rail and follows orders, yes sir no sir I'll watch the subjects sir, ten thousand bloody test subjects, and did they give me any instruction for the inevitable fall of civilization? Noooo, just gave me full control of all the test subjects, good luck Wheatley, I'm sure you'll manage just fine!"

He tries for a complicated propping-upright maneuver and ends up on his back.

"Right," he says to the sky, clear and cloud-scuttered and almost as brilliantly blue as his old optic, he thinks mournfully. "Okay, then. Hmm. Didn't think this plan through, time for the old Plan B."

Plan B, he's sure, will be brilliant. And again, he sneezes.

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What's Stopping Us From Breathing Easy [Open to All]

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