Universal Remote [Open to All]

[applesaucemod]

Here's an interesting scene: the dreamers of Manhattan are on a pirate ship. Or perhaps they're standing in a busy ER, wearing scrubs and holding a scalpel they may or may not know how to use. Or perhaps they've found themselves in the middle of a world cup championship game, or an old-fashioned highway robbery, or an interstellar dogfight, or a dramatic, 'unscripted' showdown between arguably attractive people they've never seen before in their lives.

Whatever the situation, rest assured: it probably won't last long.

Maybe the Rift is bored. That might explain why the dream keeps changing, as if someone were idly flicking through the channels and switching up the genre. The poor dreamers are just along for the ride, the only constant amidst a shifting array of scenery, clothing, and overall mood. Perhaps, if things are sufficiently interesting, the dream might settle a little to see how things play out. But given the Rift's definition of 'interesting,' that might not be a good thing for whoever is providing the entertainment.

[OOC: the usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome, regardless of whether they're in the game or not. Dreamers can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Dreamers' clothes may change to reflect whatever scene they're in, but their memories and personalities will remain intact... though the overall mood of the setting might influence their mood, as well. Feel free to throw NPCs into whatever scene you find yourself in, with bonus points added if said characters treat the dreamers as if they're established parts of the 'canon.']

Comments

[andhiswife]

"... And this is where we add the blueberries," Greta explains as she upends the little bowl of fruit into the batter. Narrating her baking is a new habit, intended more to teach Lilly new words than to actually teach her how to make anything. Half the time, the child gets bored or distracted midway through the process and stops paying any particular attention. But Greta figures some part of her is still listening, so it can't hurt to keep talking.

"Then we give this a stir, and..." Greta glances over to see if Lilly's actively listening, and stills mid-stir when she realizes the child isn't even there. Neither is the rest of her living room, for that matter. She lifts her head, squinting against the lights - and where did they come from? - and into the large, dark space beyond, which is... oh, goodness, it's filled with people. And they're all just staring at her!

The spoon clacks against the rim of the mixing bowl as Greta gapes out at the crowd: dozens, if not hundreds, of people sitting in neat rows and watching her attentively. A few of the ones in the frontmost rows are beginning to look confused. And there are three or four great, boxy contraptions aimed her way, each operated by a bored-looking individual - the only people not staring at her.

What on earth is happening to her? Where's her apartment? Where's Lilly?

"Um." Greta takes a step back from the counter, hands raised in supplication and general defense. "I, um."

"Make the muffins!" shouts a male voice from the crowd. She's not sure if it's intended to be a jeer or actual encouragement, but she suspects the former and narrows her eyes accordingly. She might not know what's going on, but she's certain she didn't volunteer to bake in front of this lot.

"No," she says, feeling absurd, hands moving to smooth her skirt and finding a pair of jeans, instead. What is she wearing? She spares an incredulous glance for her clothing, then raises her chin, her cheeks prickling with embarrassment. "I don't want to."

There are general murmurs of discontent from the crowd, and she takes another step backwards, fetching up against the fridge. This is bad. Whatever it is, it is undoubtedly very bad.

[singthesong]

That's about when the Balladeer sidesteps onto stage, grinning wide. Cameras are new, but this is his element.

"And then we pour it into the pan!" He picks up the bowl full of batter and starts pouring some into each section of the muffin pan. His voice and manner are confident, though not because he really knows what's going on. He only just found himself here, standing offstage and watching an increasingly distressed Greta. But he's used to performing for crowds; why not take over? "There we go, just like that. Doesn't that look good? These are gonna be delicious. Then put it in the oven for - " He darts a glance at Greta " - twenty minutes! Now, when we get back, we're going to sample the finished ones!"

He smiles again, drying his hands on a nearby dishcloth simply to keep them busy. The eyes on him don't make him nervous, but what he wouldn't give for an instrument! He looks first at one camera, then at another. How is he supposed to know if they actually DID cut to commercial?

[andhiswife]

And now the Balladeer is here. She's not sure if she ought to be pleased by the familiar face, grateful for the assistance, or mortified that he's witnessed this. He even seems to understand what's going on, which only serves to make her feel more foolish. She tears her eyes away from the Balladeer to look back where he came from, but all there is to see is more darkness - and someone with a clipboard making emphatic but indecipherable gestures at her.

Greta gives her head a little shake of incomprehension, then steps up to the Balladeer and takes his arm. "I don't know what's happening," she says in a nervous undertone, "and I--I don't know where Lilly's got to." And she really wishes that would stop happening. Aziraphale's going to think her incompetent and take the child back for her own safety at the rate things are going. "And--"

And then everything changes.

The audience is gone. She's in a dress again, though not the sort she's used to, and the Balladeer's outfit has changed as well. A short distance away, there's a table with five men huddled around it. One of them, she realizes with a little jolt, looks familiar.

A slurred, female voice is earnestly saying, "... so he's, like--at first he and his confederate buddies are like, let's kidnap the president." One of the men - the familiar-looking one - mouths the words along with the woman, though Greta can't actually see the speaker anywhere. "But then they were like, no," the mystery woman continues, and the man lifts his hand, as if struck with a brilliant idea, "let's kill the president."

[singthesong]

"I'm not too sure either." The Balladeer leans over to speak in an undertone, eyes still on the crowd. They're not doing anything yet. It must have worked! "But I think - "

And then things change.

He stumbles over his words, touching a hand to the thick wool of his new clothes in surprise. The style is familiar enough to him, but he's never dressed like this before. It doesn't suit him. " - um. I think it's a dream." This new place is vaguely familiar, but he can't place it; it smells of smoke and liquor, but that could be anywhere. Wait, what's going on over there?

The Balladeer narrows his eyes at the five men, eyes darting quickly to the ceiling as the woman's voice speaks their words for them. Then he grins - not the bright performer's smile of before, but something tinged with a lot more gleeful schadenfreude. "Oh my god."

[andhiswife]

A dream, of course. Greta relaxes a little. Not that it being a dream is any guarantee that it won't be completely terrible, of course, but at least it isn't real. Lilly's probably fine.

The Balladeer, meanwhile, seems delighted by this turn of events - so much so that after a moment, Greta manages to place the vaguely familiar looking one. It's Booth. Not the one she met in his dreams, but a sort of... mocking, play-acted version of the man.

"It got, like, so bad," the narrator continues with what Greta can only imagine is wide-eyed engagement, "that--I mean, like, all of Booth's 'blah blah I hate the president' talk got so bad that even, even his own brother--" the scene shifts again, and now it's just the mock Booth some some other man, presumably his brother, nose to nose in exaggerated disagreement, "--was like, you need... to cool it. Just. Stop. With your anti-Lincoln... sen. Semmi... no. Sentiments. Or you can't even be here." Booth's brother walks away in an overblown huff, leaving Booth seething.

"Is..." Greta hazards, brow furrowed, "is she drunk? The person telling the story, I mean." Then, looking up at the Balladeer, "Has this happened to you before?"

[singthesong]

"She's wonderful," the Balladeer whispers. He's grinning fit to burst, enraptured by the scenes playing out in front of them, so much so that he doesn't react to the tavern whisking away. Oh, and there's Edwin! He knows about Edwin, but he's never actually seen him before. "You know, his brother was also a much better actor than him, that never helped. Everyone liked him more."

Shaking his head, he finally tears his gaze away, looking down at Greta as Edwin storms off. "I've never seen this happen before, but I wish I had. Could've used the help."

(If he ever goes back home, he's going to spend a cycle or two of songs getting utterly smashed. See how they like that.)

[andhiswife]

Well, Greta's still confused, but the Balladeer's enjoyment is catching. It helps that no one is paying any particular attention to the two of them, either. Far better than the previous scene.

"Sooooo a couple things happen," the voice continues. "First, Lincoln... no. First, Robert E. Lee surrenders, which is... not great for the confederacy. Cause he was like a big deal. And then Lincoln gives this speech about how he is, like, determined to free the slaves, and Booth just, just loses it. He's like, I am gonna kill that guy ASAP."

Just how much are they going to see? Greta starts to feel a bit nervous. Actually witnessing an assassination sounds unpleasant, and a mockery of one might be worse.

"So Lincoln's at the Ford's Theater--"

And then everything changes again.

Greta tsks down at her dress, which has gone uncomfortably slinky. Why does this keep happening? She lifts her head, taking in the softly-lit interior room. "Now what?" she mutters.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer looks completely unconcerned about the impending violence. Ford's is actually a familiar environment, and he steps past the fake Lincoln and company to peer excitedly over the railing. "We've got some lines left! Ah - " He turns, raking his gaze over Greta and the rest of the box speculatively before gesturing to one side. "Just stand there. That should - "

Then the world shifts again.

He immediately notices the cool air against his bare torso, and looks down to find that he's wearing a white cotton shirt, flowy and unbuttoned. "Oh. Okay, nevermind." Let's just get that closed then. Why does he feel like his hair is coated in gel? "This one seems a lot more unstable than usual, doesn't it?"

That's when the door slams open, and a dark-haired woman storms in. She looks open-mouthed between the two of them - Greta in her slinky dress, the Balladeer with his shirt only half-buttoned - and then stalks forward to slap the Balladeer across the face.

[andhiswife]

She politely averts her gaze as the Balladeer buttons up his overlarge blouse, which she rather envies. Greta could do with a bit more yardage when it comes to what she's stuck wearing.

"They usually are a bit more... steady," she agrees, looking about the bedroom, her gaze lingering on the bedsheets. Maybe she could repurpose one. Would that be too silly? It's not as if she hasn't seen women in Manhattan wearing more revealing clothes than this; she's just never been one of them, and the Balladeer knows full well that she'd never wear something like this by choice.

Before she can make any decisions one way or the other, a woman steps in, gapes at the two of them as if she's caught them doing something far more outrageous than 'stand about in bewilderment,' and then slaps the Balladeer furiously.

"Wh-!" Greta starts, appalled. It's a struggle to move in this preposterous dress, nor does it help that she's wearing high heels, and she stumbles a little as she attempts to make her way forward. "What was that for?!"

And then the woman rounds on her, looking equal parts heartbroken and downright murderous. Greta pulls up short, wobbling, and then hastily steps out of her shoes before she ends up twisting an ankle. "We..." she glances at the Balladeer for inspiration, then flaps a hand in exasperation. "Oh, for goodness sake. We don't even know you!"

[singthesong]

The Balladeer's head snaps to the side, and he's stunned into momentary silence. Okay, it's not the first time he's been hit, but generally he knows why!

He lifts a hand to his stinging cheek, which is already turning red, and then raises both in a familiar placating gesture. Things don't need to get any more heated than they are. Besides, Greta will never escape in those shoes; that outfit can't be comfortable. "I think there's been a misunderstanding," he ventures, trying to interpose himself between the two. "I'm - "

"Misunderstanding?" the stranger hisses furiously, rounding on him again. "We haven't been married two days, and already I find you with her again? How..." She sniffles, rubbing at her eyes. The Balladeer takes the moment to glance at his hand. Okay, yes, that is a wedding ring. "How could you do this to me?"

And she bursts into angry tears.

The Balladeer turns wide eyes on Greta. "I'm...sorry?" he says, managing to sound very baffled and not even a little sorry. "I, uh..."

"ARMANDO!" The door slams open again, revealing a man who looks like a more tanned, chiseled, and shirtless version of the Balladeer. Also, he's much more angry. "My long-lost twin brother, trying to ruin my marriage!"




...the Balladeer's sudden burst of incredulous laughter doesn't sound especially villainous, but it probably doesn't help either.

[andhiswife]

Some wordless noise of general objection escapes her as she begins to fully appreciate just what they're being accused of. Greta starts to puff up indignantly, ready to insist that she would never, and how very dare, before her brain helpfully reminds her that yes, she would. She did. And furthermore, the Balladeer knows.

It's still a ridiculous accusation, but Greta's having a hard time not looking guilty. That probably isn't helping their cause.

It's almost a welcome distraction when the Balladeer's twin kicks his way into the room. Less welcome is his state of undress, and Greta buries her face in her hands, mortified. "Can't this one just end?" she pleads to no one in particular.

She doesn't see the man draw a rapier, but she hears the weapon leaving its sheath and hastily drops her hands. Oh, no. He's armed, now.

"I'll make you pay for this, brother!" the man shouts as he advances. "You should have stayed dead!" Greta seizes the Balladeer's arm and pulls him back, almost tripping over her own shoes in the process.

[singthesong]

The Balladeer allows himself to be pulled, Greta's presence quickly snapping him out of his amusement. Where did that sword even come from?

"Right! Hello, brother." He's keeping his hands where they are, showing that he's unarmed. But a sheath hanging from his belt smacks against his legs as he moves, something that he's very certain he doesn't remember wearing a second ago. Not that he's going to draw it now. He won't stoop to that - not to mention, he doesn't know how to use it. "This lovely lady knows now that you're a great and faithful husband, so maybe we can just forget this and move on? For old time's sake!"

As he talks, his eyes are darting around the room. There's a large window, but he can see the ocean in the distance; it's too high to get out. Without looking back at Greta, he tries to start circling both of them back around towards the door, still backing away from his apparent twin. He's still coming after them. Apparently it's harder to talk down people whose biographies you don't have memorized already! He's already listening for anything useful, but this guy's song is complicated.

"You know," he says, smiling widely. His face feels different. Does he...does he have a goatee now? "it's not as if I said I was you. And nothing even happened! She just jumped to conclusions! You two could do with a lot more trust and communication in your relationship."

That may have been too much honesty. The man gives a shout of anger and lunges forward with his sword.

[andhiswife]

The Balladeer is certainly good at bluffing; she'll give him that. It might help that the poor man is used to dealing with murderers. Nor does it escape her notice that he's edging both of them toward the door, and she does her best to keep up without tripping. She'll just leave the talking to him, and as soon as they're close enough to the door, they can make a run for it. Or he can, at least. She might not be able to manage anything beyond a panicked waddle.

Wait... what's happened to his face?

Greta's looking up at the Balladeer's new goatee in astonishment - she's sure that wasn't there a moment ago - when the man lunges. She doesn't even think; she just gives the Balladeer a hefty shove to the side. With a little more freedom of movement, she would have been able to rebound out of harm's way. As it is, with the dress so tight around her knees, she can only totter awkwardly... right into the oncoming sword-thrust.

Pain radiates from her side, and Greta curls in on herself with a gasp. Oh, no. Oh, no. This is so stupid.

She falls, her back colliding with a thinly-cushioned gurney. She's moving at a cracking pace all of a sudden, bright lights flashing past, and for a few dizzying moments she thinks she's flying upward. It's too bright and too loud and too fast, and it takes her too long to realize those are ceiling tiles scrolling along in front of her, that she's on her back on some sort of wheeled cot. Several grim-faced strangers are pushing the thing along and barking incomprehensible jargon at one another, though she's at least able to pick out 'stab wound.'

Someone has their hand pressed over the hole in her side, and it hurts, and Greta makes a creditable attempt to struggle upright (helped by the fact that she's belatedly wearing jeans again, and can actually move). "Balladeer?!" She can't see him. Where is he?

Hands push her shoulders back down, and one of the strangers - a woman - says, "Just stay calm, sweetie. We're gonna take care of you."

[absentconstellation]

"Don't forget to breathe."

This was probably meant to be encouraging. Coming from a purple eyed black cat who sparkles with the slightest hint of the night sky, it might not be exactly what she needs right now. He appears quite naturally on the counter next to her work as though he has always been there. The crowd doesn't seem to have noticed him.

[andhiswife]

And now there's a talking cat. Greta does a respectable double-take. It doesn't look like the other talking cats she's seen - those horrific, enormous ones with the glowing eyes - but how many different kinds of talking cat can there be? Perhaps the Rift is just trying on a slightly different sort of shape.

Wait, does this mean she's dreaming? She must be. That would explain everything. Some of the panicked tension leaves her shoulders, but not all of it. This may be a dream, but there's still a talking Rift-cat to contend with.

Did it just come here to gloat?

"What do you want?" she asks it, eyeing it warily as the audience grows even more restive. She ignores them - they probably aren't even real - though she does flap a hand in their general direction. "I suppose this is your doing."

[absentconstellation]

The Cat keeps those purple eyes on Greta, his tail flicking slightly back and forth, never touching the food items on the counter.

"It is hardly my concern what mortals dream. I am only a visitor in this place."

[andhiswife]

Greta isn't sure whether she ought to be reassured or unnerved. It's a small relief to have someone else confirm that this is a dream, even if that someone else is some sort of mysterious talking cat. But if this is some piece of the Rift she's talking to... what should she say? The temptation to give it a piece of her mind is strong, but the last thing she ought to be doing is angering it.

If it's the Rift. Would the Rift call itself a visitor?

"Who are you, then?" she asks, planting her hands on her hips. Her determined posture takes a bit of a blow as the scene around them shifts, and she twists around to take in their new surroundings. It's an apartment - bigger than the one she lives in now, but not so different otherwise. The cat is still sitting on a counter, though this one is devoid of baking supplies. It's all very tidy, she realizes - not so much as to not look lived-in, but more as if whoever lives here is expecting company.

There's a knock on the apartment door. Greta glances between it and the cat, then sighs. "I'll just get that, shall I?" she says in a dry undertone, making a point of not turning her back on the cat as she edges over to the door.

She doesn't recognize the man standing out in the hall, nor is she thrilled to see that he, too, comes with a collection of cameramen. He seems to recognize her, though. "Hey," he says affably. "Now that you've had two weeks to make those changes I recommended, I wanted to stop by and see how things were going." His gaze slides past her to the cat on the counter, and he smiles. "Hey, buddy."

[absentconstellation]

The Cat chooses not to answer her, but rather begins cleaning behind his ears by first licking his paw, then rubbing it over his head and cleaning it again.

He stops when the door opens and a stranger comes in. He supposes perhaps he's meant to know this two-legger by the rules of this dream, but the Dream King's rules are always flexible. He simply meows in response.

[andhiswife]

Greta's hand tightens on the door, and she gives serious consideration to the idea of just shutting it in the man's face. It's just a dream. It doesn't matter if she plays along or not. Then again, the man is looking at the cat with recognition, too. Maybe she could get answers from him, if he's just another product of the Rift's broad and rather twisted imagination.

"I see," she lies, stepping back to admit the whole crew and trying not to wince.

The man makes his way over to the counter, though not without pointing out a few ostensible changes she's supposedly made to the apartment. She acknowledges his approval of a new 'cat tree' with a strained smile, and watches closely as he approaches the cat in question.

"How're you doing?" the man all but coos as he extends a hand in the cat's direction, stopping short of actually touching it. "You seem happy."

"Yes," Greta agrees flatly, "he's very pleased with himself."

[absentconstellation]

He stares at the man, eyes wide with attention. If this is one of Gainel's creatures, it doesn't smell like it. He leans forward to sniff the hand, then calmly bites it.

"Tell your master if he is so eager to speak with me that he may do so in person."

[andhiswife]

To his credit, the man doesn't react as strongly to being bitten as Greta would have. There's a grimace and a retreat, but he doesn't seem especially shocked or upset - at least not until the cat opens its mouth and speaks.

"... Uh," he says, glancing back at his cameramen. "Did... did you get that?"

And then the scene shifts again, leaving the men behind. They're in a house this time, their surroundings a bit more cheerfully cluttered. Some distant part of her notes that she's still wearing jeans, which ought to be embarrassing, but she's a little too preoccupied with the cat to worry overmuch about how she looks.

"What did you mean by 'his master'?" she asks, brow furrowed. She probably shouldn't be talking to it, but what's the alternative? Awkward silence? "This is a dream. The man probably wasn't even real." And even if he was, she doubts he had one. He didn't seem like any sort of apprentice to her.

[absentconstellation]

The Cat naturally seeks out the warmest, most comfortable spot in the room and climbs up on the arm rest next to it to curl up. His tail is waving wider now, raised in the air in a sign of friendship. Now he's pleased with himself.

"He was not real in the sense that you and I are real. If he is one of the Dream King's creations then perhaps he can explain how it is that I have come to reside in the dream of a mortal woman."

[andhiswife]

"Dream King?" she repeats. She's never heard of such a thing. Manhattan's lack of royalty was part of her whole orientation, and she'd like to think she would have heard if any Dream Kings had come through the Rift since then. Greta frowns at the cat, then cautiously lowers herself onto the opposite side of the couch. This is all completely mad; she might as well sit.

"I'm not sure what you mean," she says, smoothing her palms over her jeans, wincing just a little at the reminder that she's not wearing a dress. "There's no Dream King in Manhattan, and I don't think there's one here, either. Just the Rift." She watches the cat sidelong, wondering if it's really new to all this, or if the Rift is just toying with her. It doesn't seem like the Rift, but then again, her experience with those cats is rather limited.

[absentconstellation]

A mortal who doesn't know who the Dream King is. Now this is interesting, even more so than the anachronistic setting. And if it isn't Gainel, then who has the power to draw one such as himself into a dream world?

"Gainel, god of dreams, is also called the Dream King. Tell me more about this Rift." He wants to know everything he can learn.

[andhiswife]

Well, either the cat truly doesn't know what the Rift is, or the Rift itself is just... what, fishing for compliments? It ought to know better. Greta twists her hands together in her lap and gives the cat a considering look. It's aloof, and perhaps a bit smug, but it's far less possessive than the Rift-cats she's met. Maybe it really is just a coincidentally talkative cat with uncanny violet eyes.

All the same, she treads with a bit of caution when it comes to her description. "I've been told it's a sort of tear - like a hole in the bottom of your pocket - but between universes. People like me come through, and we've all been arriving in this city called New York," she continues haltingly, avoiding the easy slip of referring to it as falling and landing. Considering what happened to her right before her arrival (and what happened to Lilly, for that matter), it's just a bit too raw.

"I don't suppose you've heard of it?" she asks, feeling absurd. All this polite conversation with a cat.