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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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.

"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.

"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.

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.

-- "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!"

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.

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?

Useless woman. Here she went to all this trouble to get away from useless, bickering people, and what does she get? An afterlife full of useless, bickering people. "Is this the punishment, Mother?" she asks the sky, lifting her hands only to let them flop in a gesture of utter disgust for everything. "We're dead, woman. I just left your husband and the others bickering in the woods, and like as not you'll see them soon enough. They wanted someone to blame, too."

Rolling her eyes, she takes a moment to look around the garden surrounding them. "Could be worse," she decides. "Could be better. You never did answer my question."

Iman is sneezing again. Greta spares her a glance, bewildered and irritated on her behalf, but her gaze is drawn inexorably back to the Witch. Something twists inside her at the mention of her husband - The Witch saw them, she was just with them, and the injustice of it all could make her weep. No tears come. She feels frozen, rigid and chilled by the--the blatant, terrible lie, and the horrible implications behind the Witch's words.

She wants to beg for more information. She needs to know everything. She wishes for a less pitiless source. It could have been anyone; why did it have to be her?

"I'm not dead," she insists, trembling beneath Iman's hand. What cruel nonsense. "I'm in a different universe, I'm not--I'm not dead." She makes a sound that might have aspired to be a derisive laugh, but comes out closer to a cough, or a sob. She fell, yes, but she landed safely, she was fine, just tragically far from home.

Iman bites down on her lower lip, forcing herself to remain silent even in the face of Greta's distress. She moves her hand from the woman's back to her opposite shoulder, looping the arm around her as if prepared to hold her back, or hold her, period.

Greta is having no trouble insisting that she isn't dead - but what are the rules, exactly, for this dream's absurd premise? Do people have to be aware they are speaking an untruth, or able to reasonably doubt? Or is it a technicality - that she isn't dead, currently, but perhaps - before she was taken-

Why is she even thinking along these lines?

"Who are you?" she asks the woman finally, her voice low and dangerous, if only to cover the unease she feels bubbling up beneath the surface.

Feigning a smile, she gestures grandly and bobs in the most sarcastic curtsy this world has ever seen. "I'm the Witch," she says. "And I think I know when I'm dead -- or when I see a dead body. Like I said, we all die, even if some of us are a little slow on the uptake afterward."

It's almost funny how the other two women keep huddling up against each other, each trying to stop the other from coming near as though physical distance has ever been a factor. She's getting more than a little tired of the denials, too. She has better things to do, surely.

"She lived next door," Greta adds sourly, scowling at the woman. "She's the one who cursed my husband just for living under the same roof as someone who'd wronged her."

She's still shaking, a constant shudder she can't be bothered to classify. It might be fear. It might just as easily be rage. Iman's arm around her shoulders is a very distant comfort, and she leans against her friend instinctively.

"What happened?" she demands of the Witch. "Did you defeat the Giant? Did... my family, Jack, the Girl, are they...?" she can't bring herself to finish the question, to voice her deepest fears. What did they do without her?

"What can I say, I have a temper." As if children have ever brought anyone anything but heartache anyway. She flaps a hand dismissively. "We all went looking for Jack, of course, and I found him -- after he found you. The way he was crying over your body, anyone would have thought you were his own mother. No matter, I take him to find the Giant, but what do I find instead? Your husband and the rest of your little crew, and they don't want to do the sensible thing and hand him over. It was just bicker, bicker, bicker, and I --"

She smiles grimly. "Well, never mind. Let's just say it's not my problem anymore. Like I said, you'll probably see them soon enough. There's a Giant stomping around the kingdom, if you hadn't heard."

No. No. That can't be--she only fell, she didn't... she didn't...

Greta curls in on herself with a broken cry, as if the Witch had driven a blade into her. She can't bear it--not the thought of Jack weeping over her after the way she used him, not the thought of them all being left alone to face the Giant, not the fact that the Witch can't even tell her anything more, something helpful, something that doesn't confirm the worries she's been burying since she arrived.

"That's not... that can't be--" she starts, before a sneeze cuts her off, and she lets out a bark of frustration. Why is this happening now? "I--I'm not--" another sneeze, and she slumps against Iman, her breath coming fast and shallow.

"Greta - Greta!" Iman cries, clutching her desperately, burying a hand in her hair. Oh god, oh god. What can she do? How can she fix this?

She - she can't.

"Greta," she says again, uselessly, unable to keep her own tears at bay, even though she should be strong right now, this isn't about her. "It - I-"

She feels the threat of a sneeze before she can get any further, and she breaks off into agonized silence. She can't make this better. She can't promise everything will be fine. She can't do anything.

She wraps her arms tighter around Greta and turns a furious look on the Witch. "Leave her alone," she growls. "Get out of here."

"And here come the waterworks. You'd think someone had died, the way you're going on." The Witch lets out a little chuckle at her own joke. "Oh, wait."

She's less amused at being told to move along by some upstart who hasn't even the common manners to provide her name, but she's fast becoming less and less interested in seeing this play out. She's dead. Doesn't that entitle her to some kind of holiday from all this complaining? No one asks her what she's lost today, no, it's just complain, complain, complain about their own problems.

"Oh, and what are you going to do?" she asks with a roll of her eyes. "Alright, you can have your -- whatever she is to you. I'm dead, what do I want with her?"

There's a whole garden to explore, after all. With a sniff, she turns on her heel to go.

Greta's on the ground, now, though she doesn't remember how she got there. The brutal nature of the Witch's exposition doesn't surprise her - she never did care about anyone but herself, never showed the slightest inclination towards sympathy. It's just like the first time, when she'd blasted their door in and casually informed them of the Curse upon their house.

But there's no magical solution this time. No list of ingredients she can gather that will fix this. The Witch needs nothing from her, and will give nothing. She's just being left here, broken and hopeless and alone.

No, not alone. Iman is still here. Suddenly consumed by the not entirely unreasonable fear that Iman will go after the woman, attempt to exact some kind of revenge, Greta clings to her friend desperately. "Please," she gasps out between sobs, unable to articulate any more than that.

Iman sinks down with her, her eyes still fixed on the Witch for a moment, wanting more than anything to go after her, give her what-for, rain hellfire down on her awful smug head for doing this to Greta. She knows she can't, for a multitude of reasons, the most important one being Greta needs her here.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, keeping her arms tight around her, holding her as close as she can. "Greta, I'm so sorry." She keeps wanting to say it's okay but she can't, and it isn't. She keeps stroking her hair, murmuring the only truth she has to offer over and over again: "I'm here. I'm here."

She can't bear this, she can't, she can't. She remembers the fall, remembers the horrible length of it, but she landed in the Park, she lived. She lived, and she met someone who promised to get her home, and now all that someone can do is hold her close and apologize, and it's not enough.

She remembers the fall, the sickening sense of vertigo, remembers it so well that it ceases to be a memory. It's here, heavy and immediate and pulling her over some unseen edge.

"Iman...!" she gasps out, just once.

And then she wakes.

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

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