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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"You're a computer," the Balladeer summarizes. A computer that apparently got stuck up on a rail and left to monitor some kind of experiments mid-apocalypse, but all he really needed to know out of that was computer and most certainly cannot use limbs. The apocalypse thing seems like it should be alarming, but Wheatley doesn't seem to have been bothered by it at all, so the Balladeer's just not going to worry about it right now!

He steps closer, hesitating before reaching a hand down. The state of Wheatley's hands does not bear thinking about, but what's he going to do? Watch him writhe around in the grass? At least he can't catch anything in a dream... "Here. Can you stand up?"

"Can I stand up?" he asks incredulously. "Of course I - "

When the sneezing fit has subsided, he looks at the Balladeer sheepishly and accepts the proffered hand with the unquestionable air of defeat.

"Just a bit new to it, is all," he says. "Not used to putting all these different pieces together." He succeeds in getting his knees beneath him and just has to lever himself upright, that's the plan, then. "Just look at all these - how do you keep track of them all?"

"Yes," she says, and in spite of her newfound trepidation the answer is still very much the truth. "Let's go and do that."

This will be fine. She just needs to avoid stumbling onto dangerous topics. Like how she feels. And what she wants to do. Like. In addition to exploring.

Oh god.

She grits her teeth, steels her resolve, and moves onward. She can do this.

Well. That's different. Glados continues to frown though the cause is becoming increasingly, frustratingly abstract. The woman continues to say nothing outwardly objectionable, continues not to assist her determination of the extent of this dream's... quirk. She is altogether... polite.

Why must she be like this.

"Yes, I did," she says, resentful but quiet. "It is quite recent. I am..." No. She cannot say she is adapting. And she does not wish to speak of her past history with strife. She must keep this very simple. "...Unhappy," she decides eventually.

"I only just got here too," says Mako. "I think I dreamed here before. Before the Rift took me."

She looks at Glados, trying for a faint, sympathetic smile. "It is not so bad, I think. But maybe I had to adjust to less than you did." She did not have a hand in programming the original A.I. for the Jaeger tech, but it never expressed any proclivity for emotion. Unhappy might be a new expression for her, and maybe under any other circumstance that would be cause for celebration. "I was always human."

Peeta gives the surrounding foliage a dark stare. If the rift has taught him anything, it's that trusting initial impressions of a place is foolish. Still, everything seems to be safe - for now - and there's no use worrying over what might be, even in dreams.

He leans his head to the side to better look at Daine on his shoulder. "Just got here."

"Kdzhoo!!"

Rashad, quite naturally, answers her question with a series of sneezes. He keeps attempting to answer the question, only to be consistently interrupted by his own rebelling (subconscious?) biology. "We are meant to -- achoo! -- the purpose -- kdjee! -- we simply -- achhoo!"

Hopelessly, he shrugs at her.

Edited 2015-08-30 21:10 (UTC)

"It doesn't make sense," she admits. As far as she knows only the gods can do that kind of thing, and it's obviously not one of the Dark Quartet -- her world is their world. It would have to be a dead god like Zeus, or an almost-god like Olidammara, but none of the ones she's heard of are named anything like 'the Rift' and she can't see why any of them other than Olidammara would bother with her. Interference is dangerous for them, that much has been made clear.

"Define its world," she requests, wondering if perhaps he is sick. He doesn't look sick aside from the sneezing. Allergies? Irrelevant. "I'm not aware of any -- achoo! -- of anything outside -- asdjoo!"

She trails off to take a moment to wipe her nose on her sleeve. "That's not normal," she notes. "I don't understand. If it doesn't serve the gods, why would it be interested in me?"

Edited 2015-08-30 21:58 (UTC)

It is too neat, isn't it? Asmodia's at least found her way out of the worst of it, but she keeps looking (and looking...and looking) for some part of this garden that doesn't look like someone decided to play dictator over a bunch of plants. This kind of planning, setting things out where they're supposed to live -- it's just gross, and while she could overlook it normally, the first few areas she saw, the ones where everything really was completely neat and tidy, kind of set her on edge.

She emerges from under an overgrown arbor to find herself at the shore of a pond. That's not what's interesting, though. What's interesting is the woman out on the pond, balancing on a stepping stone. "Oh!" says Asmodia, stopping short at the water's edge. "Uh," she says, glancing down at herself. No disguise today. Why isn't she disguised? Next she'll be going outside naked.

She's really, really lucky that she doesn't have enough subconscious control of this dream to make that errant thought a reality.

"Hi."

Greta takes Iman's arm, this time, and gives it a bracing pat as they start off. It feels less like an easy walk through a garden and more like a walk down the streets of Manhattan, united against the possibility of trouble. Even if 'trouble' only exists in the form of inexplicable sneezing fits.

After a minute of silent meandering unbroken by any such fits, though, Greta cautiously relaxes a little. "It's beautiful here," she says. It comes out easily, no tell-tale itching, and she breathes out a little more tension. Maybe it was just some... freak spell, or something. She looks over at Iman and smiles. "Does your universe have anything like this?" Honestly, she wouldn't put anything past a universe that had produced Iman, but she also sort of assumes it's all sleek and extra-new-looking, a step or two above Manhattan.

"Oh, sure," says Iman easily, relaxing now that they're just walking and looking around. This is a conversation topic she can handle. "They exist in the rift's universe too, I assume. And there's gardens in Manhattan, just nothing this extensive." She wishes they could leave Manhattan, that she could show Greta more of the world, but - that's a thought for later. "Your world must have been beautiful, too. Not so organized, I'm sure." But you know, magic and stuff. She imagines any world with magic must be beautiful. At least one that takes after - or maybe inspires? - literal storybooks.

Outside what? Now that he knows what the sneezing indicates, he realizes this has created a distinct imbalance in the conversation, one that hits a little too close after the time Tim was subjected to forced truth-sharing. But she has a sword and he has no real reason to trust her. He might as well have something over her.

"I... don't know," he says. "I don't know about any gods. The rift is like... a portal, I guess? Between worlds? So like, you and me, we come from different... places. I got pulled out of mine and dropped into a different time and place. This city. The rift doesn't let us leave."

This is disjointed but at least it's all apparently true enough to pass the sneezing test. He shrugs haplessly. "That's all I - all I can-" He catches another eye-watering sneeze in his sleeve.

Well, fine. But he's not going to just offer up more information. He looks up at her warily.

The Balladeer tugs him upright, reaching out to steady him with his free hand. "Steady, there. I guess you just get used to it after a while." He can't recall ever being younger or less physically capable than he is now, but that sounds about right. Maybe he'll bring up the subject to Greta. If there's some trick to teaching people to walk, he's sure she'd know.

He's taller than a lot of people he meets, but Wheatley's just about got him matched in the beanpole department. Not too heavy to help keep upright, then; just a lot of arm and leg to look out for. "Got it?" he asks, smiling reassuringly.

"Absolute - kchoo!"

That sneeze gets dangerously close to unbalancing him entirely and he wobbles, arms windmilling frantically. There are just so many parts of him, all made up of corners and angles and jutting elbows and he is so far off the ground. He realizes that a bit on the late side and looks down and yelps.

"Don't look down!" he begs the other man, grasping for support, his eyes wild. "It's high, it's really high, too high, don't look down because it is terrifying down there, really, it is, take my word for it." He shuts his eyes again. Not doing that again. No. No sir.

"You don't know about any gods?" Ecks actually modulates her tone that time, putting the appropriate emphasis on any to express her surprise. It's important that he knows she's surprised, and also incredulous. Everyone knows about the gods, whether they worship one or not, and if they're in the Eternal Empire he would be burned or beheaded or butchered for failing to acknowledge --

But they aren't in the Eternal Empire. She wasn't even before this. She doesn't think she's on the island anymore, either, or she might suppose he was the offspring of some hidden colony of hermits. A portal, he says, and with the voice gone she's inclined to believe him. "Oh," she says quietly, processing this. A portal to a new place and time, and maybe a place and time without gods. Certainly without the god-fragment that's plagued her mind for two days.

"Any gods?" she asks again, watching for some sign that he's hiding something from her.

The Balladeer grasps hurriedly at the other man's elbows, trying to hold his arms still and stop the flailing. "It's fine! It's okay, just calm down. Thrashing around won't help."

He's speaking in soothing tones, hoping that'll help. Wheatley's panicked yelping gets him to glance reflexively at the ground, but it's no farther away than it's ever been. He smiles, squeezing his arms reassuringly. "You're pretty tall, but you're probably not going to hurt yourself if you fall down. We're on grass. Just don't look, okay? Try and get your balance."

"Don't look," says Wheatley. "Right."

He does.

"How do you stand it?" he gasps, once he's remembered to stop wailing. "It's all so far down and - what's, um, what's the term, that designation you lot use - green. Obviously I understand the concept, green, obviously, one a scale of one to ten on the obvious scale that would be at least a nine, maybe a nine-point-five if you really push it along, but it's just - we didn't have that, down in the Relaxation Center! Not even a little! Not unless you count the neurotoxin but, well, no one counted the neurotoxin. 'Cept the humans. But everyone else said it was all gone!"

He's found that he's rather forgotten what he was so terrified of in the first place, less preoccupied about broken statues or losing his balance and more about the exceptional green-ness of every particle of his surroundings.

"This is amazing," he says. "Grass! Leaves. Look at that!"

-- "CRUUNCH!"

Dirt flies as she comes bursting back up out of the earth, swaying in slightly drunken surprise. She drags one foot out of the churned-up earth to plant it on firm ground, looks around, and stops before she can use the leverage to haul out the second foot. "Oh, it's you," she says to one of the women before her. Then, after only a flicker of thought, "I see how it is. Well, we all die eventually. Come over here and help me out. Come on, come on, come on!"

Greta chuckles at the apt 'not so organized,' but before she can launch into any kind of description, there's a rumble from below her feet. She freezes, her first irrational impulse to look to the sky for giants, but that's not the culprit. The pristine path before them cracks, dirt flies, and suddenly she's there, bursting out of the earth like a--well, like a beanstalk.

Why is she here? Why is she here?

The Witch looks at her with the usual disdain, and then--then there's talk of dying, and Greta's grip on Iman's arm tightens to a probably painful degree.

"Wh--" she starts, at a complete loss. She certainly makes no move to help. "I..."

"Whoa!" Iman staggers back in surprise and draws in a sharp gasp at Greta's hardening grasp. She looks over at her friend, sees the horror and shock in her eyes, and straightens up immediately.

"Greta?" she asks in a low voice. She covers her hand with her own, trying to draw her eyes. Greta obviously knows her, but she doesn't want to ask who it is directly, doesn't want to risk causing a sneezing fit if Greta doesn't want to answer right. She steps out as much as Greta's hold will allow, trying to move subtly in between her and this new woman, but she can't pull her arm free. "Greta, it's gonna be-" She feels the telltale tickle at the back of her throat and shuts her mouth sharply, eyes widening, her blood running ice fucking cold. No. No.

Who is this woman? What is she going to do? What has she done? Iman turns on her with a flash of preemptive anger and tries harder to pull away, to storm over and confront this situation head on like she always does, but Greta won't let her go.

Edited 2015-08-31 03:50 (UTC)

"Or don't help!" the Witch throws up her hands in disgust and goes back to getting her own feet out of the loam, thank you very much. "You never did -- hachoo!"

She gives a surprised sniff, then shakes her head and concentrates on throwing her weight into freeing that second foot. It's the work of a moment, and then she's standing atop her own little dirt pile like a queen on a hill. Or like a raven on a grave mound. "Who's your friend?" she asks Greta, tilting her chin as though to look over the woman currently trying to put herself between them. "I don't remember seeing you in the woods. Let me guess: for you, it went a little something like splat!"

The Balladeer cringes at the wailing.

He's not cringing quite so hard that he missed the mention of neurotoxin, but then it's gone and Wheatley is off and rambling about the grass. Well. Well then. He's not going to pursue that right now, but he's not going to forget about it either.

For now, he smiles and resolves to push through. "I know! It's really pretty out here!" It makes sense. A computer in a lab somewhere wouldn't see a lot of plants. "You don't get as much of this back in Manhattan, outside of the Park. Wow, you probably haven't seen much at all, have you?" Wait, was that rude? "Don't worry, I didn't get out much either before I got here."

She barely processes Iman's inquiring tone or aborted reassurance, her words unable to compete with the far more alarming action of trying to get closer to the Witch. That mustn't happen, and she keeps a vise-like hold on her friend's arm.

"We're dreaming." The words fly out of her like arrows, or a protective spell. This isn't real. They're just dreaming. The Witch can't harm them.

But that doesn't stop her from scowling when the Witch turns her attention to Iman, sizing her up, another person Greta cares about in the cross-hairs. "And she is none of your concern," she says--growls, really, and some distant part of her is embarrassed by her own ferocity. She pulls Iman back, or pushes herself forward, placing herself between her friend and the Witch.

She knows she's being foolish - exceptionally so. Even if the Witch can't harm them, she might have answers, might be able to tell her how the others are faring, and Greta won't get them by challenging her. But even the hint of a threat to Iman is more than she can abide. "Haven't you done enough damage?" she asks bitterly.

Evidently not, if she's here at all.

"Nothing but the boring old maintenance rail," says Wheatley, still utterly enamored with the bright points of color dotting the bushes all about. What's the word for those, hmm? He swears he knew it once. Probably got lost in the old transfer out of the mainframe. Lots of odd bits got jostled about when he was sucked into space. He is not envisioning that now, not at all (he ignores the horrible itch in his nose and behind his eyes at the thought), just thinking the whole thing over and remembering why it is he can't remember the little tidbits, like what those colorful leafy things are called.

"Big, crumbling facility," he says absently, now turning slowly in the spot in continuous revolution, awed. "Left me in charge of the whole thing, can't expect one little personality core's able to do much about the miles and miles of technology just wasting away? All those test subjects. Worst job imaginable, let me tell you, none of those humans could hold a conversation, cryosleep'll more or less do that to you, suppose they can't really be blamed for it, but still. No one to chat with but that pushy nanobot work crew, and they're not much for conversation either. Nasty pieces of work. Size discrimination, s'what it is. Big round metal ball, oooh, he's just much too big to acknowledge properly, let's just steer ourselves right on by! Watch out for big, clumsy Wheatley! Better not even make eye contact, mates!"

He lifts his hand until it's even with his large, round glasses and wiggles his fingers in a disparaging gesture that just seems appropriate. "Horrible. Awful. I said to everyone else, I told them, I said, we ought to form a bloody union. But, ah, they were all asleep. So that idea didn't really, um, didn't really take off. Sorry, where was I?"

Iman regards the blue-haired woman with slightly incredulous alarm. What kind of questions are these? What is all this even about? Apt questions she knows she's in no position to ask. And then it's Greta who places herself in front, her voice hitting a quality Iman's never heard. Her breath catches as she looks up at the woman, stunned by the vehemence, the bitterness. Greta is - protecting her.

She reaches out slowly to rest a hand on her back. Neither of them is standing alone here. They're together.

"This is a shared dream," she interjects, forcing herself to stay subdued and fact-based. She doesn't want to complicate matters. "We're all dreaming, and all in the same dream. We aren't de-"

A sneeze bursts out of her, muffled quickly on the back of her wrist.

She stares in irritation at the ground, then at this intruding woman. Well, if she's dead, it stands to reason she'd assume the same of everyone else. Like this was some sort of afterlife. "Well, we're-"

She sneezes again.

What?

What?

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

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