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

tw: car accidents and blood

[peacefulexplorer]

He's driving.

That's the first thing he discovers.

The next is the fact that someone is perched on the passenger seat and grinding the nozzel of a gun into his temple.

"Keep drivin'," pants the nameless, angry, very much armed man, one of his eyes screwed shut and half of his face red, blood painted slick and dark. "You get us outta the woods, you got that? You're drivin', that makes you an accomplice. Their blood's on your hands."

"Um," says Daniel, now more than vaguely concerned over his sense of personal dissonance and confusion over what's happening.

"Left," says the other man.

"What?"

"Left!"

Daniel's head snaps to the road a fraction of a second too late. Horns blare, headlights blur into lateral streaks across his vision, and the unmistakable jarring crunch of one car impacting another launches him directly into the windshield - no, through the windshield, which doesn't hurt nearly as much as he'd expect it to.

Daniel shuts his eyes against the pinwheeling glass, his stomach in knots. When he straightens, the scene of the crash is splayed out under a glare of red and blue. The door to the nearest police car opens with a soft clunk, heralding the arrival of a mustachioed cop, who promptly claps Daniel on the shoulder.

"Good work, detective," he says solemnly.

"Um," says Daniel, completely at a loss.

[fucking_ebay]

Why is he in handcuffs? And why the hell is he wearing a dirty wifebeater? Peter squints through the barred window of a police car at a scene awash in flashing lights, eyes roving over the wrecked car and the dark shape inside it on the passenger side. Nearby are several standing figures, but it takes a few flashes of the light before a particular befuddled face solidifies in his memory. "Hey!" he yaps, rattling his handcuffs as he surges forward to thump his shoulder on the door. He can't hear what they're saying through the door, but he shouts loud enough to probably carry. "You! The hell is this?!"

[peacefulexplorer]

Why is he at a crime scene. And why isn't he, at the very least, bleeding? Didn't he just crash through a windshield?

The cop's saying something about undercover missions and a string of robberies and, honestly, it's all coming out as a bit of a garble. Daniel stammers a hasty excuse and gets an insistence to just wait for the ambulance, sir, but ducks around the back of one of the cars the minute the other man turns his back.

He takes a moment to close his eyes and breathe and try to get his heartrate down from its terrified patter, but the thud of someone inside the police car apparently ramming themselves against the door promptly makes him jump.

He shoots a furtive look over his shoulder. Everyone seems preoccupied with retrieving the armed man from the crashed car. He tries the door, but it's locked. Well, of course.

Detective, the cop said. That's a strange thought. But he slips his hand into his pocket and, sure enough, is rewarded with the bright clink of keys.

He puts the first one he sees into the door, and it opens with a soft clunk. Huh.

"Wh - um, do I, uh, do I know you?" he says weakly.

[fucking_ebay]

Thank God, Daniel actually comes over to help. It's been fuck knows how long since Peter last saw the man and he doesn't recall the two of them parting on especially good terms, but he's at least a familiar face among the small mob of police who have apparently, for reasons that are beyond Peter at the moment, arrested Peter. For a moment he entertains the possibility that he's on his way to the drunk tank and that's why his memory up to this minute is a blur, but it doesn't take a genius to realize that he doesn't feel drunk.

"Don't start that shit," he says when the door opens, immediately flinging a leg through the open door before Daniel can change his mind and shut him in again. He struggles to climb out of the car with his arms pinioned behind him, squirming like some kind of upright human worm with the effort to gain his feet and keep his balance. "Of course you fucking know me, it's Peter. And I don't know about you, but I'm getting the hell out of here."

In his handcuffs. In the woods? Fuck, he didn't think this through.

"Hey!" shouts one of the cops, spotting Peter's head over the roof of the car.

[peacefulexplorer]

Completely unprepared for the other man to more or less barge out of the vehicle the minute the door was opened, Daniel startles backwards and nearly trips over himself doing so.

"I'm sorry," he mutters, holding up both hands in concern and defeat as the perpetrator? suspect? wobbles boldly to his feet. "I don't remember you, uh - I've been having some - some memory problem lately, and - "

And what, he never gets to say. A thrill of alarm shoots through him when one of the cops barks out a sharp reprimand, and Daniel's blood turns to ice.

"Right," he says tersely, seizing the other man - Peter, was it? - by the upper arm and turning to get as far away from the crime scene as possible. "Storytime later. Let's go."

[fucking_ebay]

What, was he supposed to stay quietly where someone put him? Fuck the police, he's not spending the night in the drunk tank when he's not even drunk. He stares blankly (and maybe a little disgustedly) at the mumbled excuses about memory, what is Daniel even talking about --

"Fuck!" he hisses, stumbling after Daniel and struggling to keep his balance and his footing at their sudden rate of movement.

"Stop right there!" shouts a voice behind them, possibly the cop who was commending Daniel before Daniel went and absconded with a suspect. Peter has no idea where they're going to go and he half expects to get shot in the back for going on running. What he doesn't expect is for the sound and feel of leaves crunching under their feet to transform into the thump of floorboards, or the sudden glare of lights in their eyes as they emerge from the darkness onto a wide stage in front of an enormous audience. Three bored-looking judges sit behind a long desk out in the audience, giant X's above each of them.

"Alright, tell us your name and what you're going to do for us tonight," says the one woman among them.

[peacefulexplorer]

The breath rasps in Daniel's throat as he lurches forward clumsily with Peter in tow. Desperately, hopefully - maybe too hopefully - he gropes for his side where, if he were a detective, he'd be able to find a gun, or some other sidearm, and the motion is starkly, alarmingly familiar but his fingertips brush nothing but the worn fabric of his jeans.

And then, suddenly, they're somewhere else.

Somewhere - completely different, actually.

Audience. Judges. Is this one of those dreams people keep mentioning? That - that might explain it. Oh god, but that would really explain it.

Daniel feels himself blanch as he takes a step back, struck with the horrible awareness that they're - is this - this can't be some kind of - talent exhibition, can it?

"Uhm," he says, his voice breaking audibly as he tries to clear his throat. "I'm - I'm Daniel. I think. And this is, uh - this is - Peter, was it?" He turns to the other man, eyebrows lifting in...horrified, petrified expectation.

[fucking_ebay]

"Peter Vincent," confirms Peter automatically, no less alarmed at the change in scenery but maybe taking the new scenario a little better than Daniel. His eyes dart around the stage, over the -- fuck, is that his iron maiden set up in the middle? It looks bloody stupid without a set around it, just a big, dumb torture device in the middle of a pristine, sanitized game show. He finds his hands free, and a moment later finds that his clothes have changed as well. Gone is the wifebeater, and in its place is a lot of tight leather. He knows without checking that he's made up, but he checks with a bejeweled hand anyway and confirms that there's no goatee.

"...And what are you going to do for us?" asks one of the male judges, significantly less patient than the woman, who pipes in, "Come on, out in the middle, we're not going to bite!"

"Sharon Osbourne?" asks Peter suddenly, finally catching on only for the audience to burst out laughing at his confused face.

[peacefulexplorer]

"What's, um," Daniel mutters anxiously in Peter's direction, dread now creeping into his pooling alarm, "what's going on?"

Whatever the huge object in the center of the stage is, Daniel's pretty sure he doesn't want to figure out what it does or how it works. It looks awfully - spiked, and a bit too reminiscent of some kind of medieval torture device. Something pings sharply in the back of his skull, but he's too distracted to pursue what. Getting his memories back suddenly seems very peripheral compared to - all of this.

"Who's Sharon Osbourne?" he hisses frantically. "What do they want us to do?"

He eyes the device warily. Peter's running a hand over his cheek, and a minute later Daniel realizes with a shock that his attire has simply and abruptly changed. He glances down at himself and notes that, to his utter confusion, his wardrobe appears to have been replaced with something more suited to a member of a biker gang, maybe. Whoever he was before he was mnemonically scrubbed, he's pretty sure he wasn't particularly suited to leather.

[fucking_ebay]

"Who's Sharon Osbourne?!" Peter hisses back in utter disbelief. Memory problems he can accept, fine, don't remember Peter's name, whatever, but does amnesia usually extend to pop culture illiteracy? "For fuck's sake, it's America's Got Talent, or Britain's Got Talent, or Papua New Guinea's Got Talent or whatever. They want us to --"

BZZZZZZZZZZZZ!! goes a very obnoxious buzzer as one of the judges loses patience and presses a button on the desk before him, lighting up one of the giant X's. "Piers!" protests Osbourne, swatting him. "They're not doing anything!" retorts Piers. "It's America's Got Talent, not America's Got Confused Bikers."

"Excuse me and my -- associate," says Peter, projecting for the audience. "Technical difficulties." And then he grabs Daniel and turns to hustle him back off the stage to the sound of a second buzzer going off.

[peacefulexplorer]

"I don't know what that means." Though the shrill of a buzzer gives him a pretty good idea. The expansive audience has started shifting restlessly in their seats, and a couple brave hecklers start booing from behind cupped hands.

Daniel lets Peter more or less shove him off the stage, his face a picture of bewilderment. "I just got my name back. Common knowledge is gonna take a while!"

The sound of a third buzzer coincides perfectly with Daniel's foot hooking over something that sends him sprawling face-first into - leaves?

Leaves.

He scrambles back to his feet, kicking up sprays of leaf mulch with every shuffle of his feet. The stage has been replaced by thick, gnarled roots of some absurdly tall trees, leaves thick and dark enough to blot out the stars.

" - this is our evidence," a low voice is drawling from somewhere beyond Daniel's periphery, with all the appropriate husk of some kind of melodramatic speech. "Our Ghost Adventures."

[fucking_ebay]

Peter gives Daniel another firm push, wanting off the stage as quickly as humanly possible. He's surprised when Daniel topples forward onto his face (he didn't think he pushed him that hard), and more suprised still when the resulting thump is muffled by what sounds like a bed of leaves. "Fuck," comments Peter, whirling to look back at the stage -- which is, of course, gone. The curtains of the wings have been replaced by gnarled tree trunks, the hubbub of the angry crowd by crickets and...a voice?

"The fuck is this?" asks Peter. "Ghost Adventures? What kind of horseshit is that? Where the hell are we?!"

[peacefulexplorer]

"You think I know?" says Daniel, now sounding more exasperated than anything. Clearly he's missing a solid chunk of knowledge regarding contemporary media and he's outlined that as succinctly as he can, but that little information tidbit doesn't seem to be sticking.

"Whatever we're dealing with here," the voice continues, "I think it's possible that there's more than one presence in the area."

The snap of twigs interrupts the faint cadence of crickets, and Daniel turns.

"Okay," he says evenly, "well, whatever it is, it looks like they need a camera crew."

He points. There's a group of - three, four guys? Moving steadily through the woods, armed with instruments and technical equipment Daniel can't really put a name to. What's more, they seem to be at all perturbed by the sight of two random figures standing right in the middle of the shot. In fact, their eyes glide right past, as if they can't even see them.

Unless that makes them the 'presence in the area'.

Daniel swallows. Oh boy.

[fucking_ebay]

"Were there cameras at the first thing?" asks Peter suddenly, a pattern clicking into place in his mind. "The -- police thing, crime scene, were there cameras?"

He doesn't remember cameras, but even if there weren't it's still two to one on these weird little scenes involving someone shoving a camera in their general direction. It's a very general direction this time, since the crew is just sort of sweeping the equipment around like they're not looking at anything in particular. The shots they're getting have to be incredible shite.

"Who are you?" calls Peter. "Hey! Over here! You with the second-rate camera, I'm talking to you!"

[peacefulexplorer]

They cycle on with their overwrought narration, oblivious to the two horribly confused men standing directly in front of them.

"Peter," he says slowly, nervously, "I don't think they can see us."

He steps forward, reaching out tentatively, and immediately leaps back in alarm when one of the cameramen passes right through his arm.

"Yeah, okay!" He scrambles away, rubbing his own frantically as though testing its solidity. It feels solid. It feels there. "That's weird," he babbles with a frantic desperation verging on hysterical. "That's really weird!"

The cameraman he just tried to touch stiffens, his eyes going wide.

"You guys feel that?" he calls to the rest of the group.

[fucking_ebay]

"Oh, Jesus," breathes Peter, cold dread settling in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't want to be dead. He doesn't want to be a bloody ghost. If they'd come straight from the car crash maybe this would mean they died and are what, haunting the woods now? But then what the hell was America's Got Talent, some kind of hallucination while the oxygen left their brains?

"Fuck," he says, inching closer, willing it not to be true. He reaches out a shaking hand, hesitates, then goes to tap it against the man's arm. It swipes right through and Peter lets out a yelp and scrambles back to join Daniel.

The cameraman jolts and takes a step back of his own. "There it is again!"

[peacefulexplorer]

Oh, great. So they're the ghosts? What does that mean? How is Daniel still breathing? If they're ghosts, why does he still have glasses?

The cameraman turns to his fellows, now sounding absurdly excited by the prospect of having had two brushes with the undead.

"▒▒▒▒ guys, you hear that?"

Daniel blinks and squints at him.

"Did he just, um," he says slowly, not daring to believe it. "Did he just beep?"

[fucking_ebay]

"...He did," confirms Peter, starting to feel just a little hysterical. "He fucking beeped. I'm not fucking beeping, why is he fucking beeping?"

You have to be a fucking idiot to get excited about an encounter with the supernatural, that much Peter has known for a long, long time. It's little comfort that he is the supernatural in this situation, and he hangs back by Daniel's side, no intention of going back up to the cameraman and giving him another brush with the undead.

"I can't be dead," he protests. "I don't even believe in goddamn ghosts."

[peacefulexplorer]

"Well, clearly something's happening here," says Daniel, trying not to let Peter's panic tint his own mounting terror. It feels an awful lot like this is all part of some larger joke, maybe a concept he should be familiar with, but he's only just got a grasp on the finer point of the English language and hasn't really expanded his focus past that.

"We could be - I dunno, I don't know, phase-shifted or - or something?"

Phase-shifted. Where did that come from and what does it say about who he was before all this? Why was that his go-to phrase? That's not even a thing.

...Is it?

"We're getting EMF readings off the charts," enthuses one of the other crewmembers, staring a beeping device in the palm of his hand. "Something's definitely here."

[all_the_gifts]

It takes some time for Melanie to get her bearings. The world is in motion, and she is restrained. For a moment she feels comforted by this, as if everything following the attack on the base was a weird dream, and things are back to normal. But that little fantasy is gone in an instant; she's not bound to her chair - or to anything but her own self. Her wrists are pressed together by a tight coil of rope, and her ankles have been given similar treatment. It's dark, and she's in some sort of compartment - large enough that she can move around a little, but too small for her to stretch out.

There are voices. They're muffled, but she doesn't think she recognizes either of them. Melanie frowns. Who are they? Where are they taking her?

She didn't ask to be bound, and for all that she knows it's safer this way, she finds herself resenting it. Whoever they are, they've taken her from where she wants to be. Maybe she shouldn't care about their safety.

She can still move her fingers, and whoever tied her wasn't smart enough to put her hands behind her back. It's not hard for her to reach the rope around her ankles and pick at the knot until it loosens. Once her legs are free, she lifts her wrists to her mouth and starts to work on those ropes with her teeth, her feet braced against the walls of her prison.

The knot is close to giving way when there's a sharp jolt and the sound of shattering glass and crumpling metal. Melanie fetches up against one wall, head spinning for several moments after everything comes to a halt. Then she scoots away from the wall with a few soft grunts of effort and tries kicking at the roof. There's a faint line of sky visible, and she kicks again - loud enough for those outside to hear the telltale thuds from the trunk of the car.

[peacefulexplorer]

The cop says something else, something about having 'finally caught the bastard that did it' but Daniel seizes the opportunity when the other man's attention turns away from him to shuffle back, inching discreetly away until he backs right into the trunk of one of the smoking cars.

Thunk.

Daniel springs away from the vehicle in alarm as the trunk vibrates with an impact - an impact from inside? Any sense of confusion or doubt snaps into fervent motion as he scrabbles for the trunk's catch and tears it open. It doesn't matter if he's a detective or not - for all he knows, he could be. But if someone's in there, someone has to help.

"Oh, god," he says, eyes widening. Who keeps a little girl in a car trunk. "God - are you okay?"

[all_the_gifts]

Melanie stiffens when the roof is abruptly torn away, expecting to see a stranger and readying herself to bolt. But it's Daniel, and she relaxes immediately. "Yes," she says, sitting up. "What happened?" Maybe he remembers why someone stuffed her into what she now realizes is the boot of a car.

She eyes the milling police officers uneasily, then lifts her wrists back up to finish undoing the knot with her teeth. That done, she slips out of the boot, stepping carefully to avoid the broken glass. Do the police know they're rifties? They should probably get out of here before they find out - especially before they find anything out about her.

[peacefulexplorer]

"That's a good question," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck as he shoots a nervous look over one shoulder. The cop doesn't seem to have noticed the 'detective' has slipped away yet. "I have no idea, um. Are you - did someone put you in there?"

He stares at her, aghast. There's some context that's flying right over his head, such as why he's catching a glimmer of familiarity in her eyes - and he remembers, with a twinge of despair, that it's completely possible he knows her. Or, more specifically, knew her.

He looks at her helplessly, shoulders dropping. He hates having to cover this every time he meets someone new, but no sooner has he opened his mouth then a bright flash blinds him for a moment and his hands fly to his face.

He gapes at the source of light, blinking furiously to clear his vision of the brilliant-colored spots winking in and out.

It's a camera. No, cameras, plural.

Oh, good. Apparently the news has arrived on scene.

[all_the_gifts]

"I don't--" Melanie begins, but before she can say 'remember,' she's interrupted by the flash of cameras. Dread grips her; it's one thing for her to be spotted - Aziraphale will keep her safe - and another for Daniel to be seen with her. ROMAC might be gone, but there are people out there who remember what she is, and know how dangerous she can be. They might still be looking for her, and Daniel isn't as well-hidden as she is.

"Let's go," she says, taking his hand and tugging him away from the cameras. She doesn't recognize the neighborhood. Their building could be across the island or a mere block away. It doesn't matter; she can pray for help, just as soon as they're far enough from all the bustle. She definitely doesn't want her angel showing up on camera with her, too. What if Lucifer's watching?

There's a narrow, dark alleyway that looks suitably deserted, and Melanie pulls Daniel toward it with a hushed, "This way." But once she steps through, everything changes. The alleyway is gone, replaced by a bright, broad avenue. Everything looks clean and tidy, almost impossibly so. This neighborhood feels as far removed from Manhattan as Manhattan does from her universe's ruins of London. Melanie stills, taking it all in with wide eyes. She won't even have to worry about watching her step, here. Even the road is spotless.

"Oh!" Melanie turns to look up at Daniel. "We're dreaming, aren't we?" That would explain everything (and be an enormous relief).

A muffled, indignant, "Hey!" draws her attention to a nearby trashcan, and Melanie blinks as the lid lifts, revealing a large, shaggy, green head. A pair of bulbous eyes glares at both of them, and the creature opens its unnaturally wide mouth and snaps, "Can you keep it down out here? I'm trying to take a nap."

[peacefulexplorer]

Whoever she is, she's strong, tugging him along without nearly as much effort as it should take for someone her size. Daniel stumbles after her and doesn't look back. He's not eager to see his face plastered on any news report, especially once someone figures out that he's really not a detective, not the least bit qualified to be. They cut a sharp turn into an alley, away from the blaring sirens and red-and-blue lights, and the next thing he knows, they're somewhere else entirely. The contrast between the shadowed slash of alleyway and the unnaturally bright colors of the new, much neater road is overwhelming, and Daniel has to blink furiously for his vision to adjust.

He searches out a cartoonishly large street sign. He reads slowly, his brow crimping into a puzzled frown.

SESAME STREET
"I really hope it's a dream," he mutters, and lurches in alarm when something green and hairy emerges from an aluminum trashcan to - to scold them.

"Uh," stammers Daniel. "Sorry, um. We're, uh - we're new."