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

[lottawork]

"Fuck off," snarls Rush, divesting himself of blue gloves and white coat and depositing them in a disordered cairn of insufferable spotlessness upon the floor.

"Doctor," says the woman opposite him, arms folded, sharp blue eyes disconcertingly similar to those of Chloe Armstrong's, which is not a requisite or particularly useful association, and so he dismisses it on principle. "We need your expertise. The virus is spreading. Already, over fifty percent of Earth's population is - "

"Shite," says Rush, one side of his mouth curving downward in crisp distaste. "Pure shite. That is not biology. That's not even basic statistical analysis. You can take your lack of a control group and lack of fundamental, requisite safety protocols, and fuck off."

He pivots neatly on one heel and opens the door that will remove him from the vicinity of this unbearably, hopelessly inaccurate facsimile of a laboratory, presumably designed by some creativity-deficient architect who has only heard of laboratories by rough description, and comes face-to-immediate-face with a slavering, snapping, decaying gray thing of vaguely humanoid construction.

"No," Rush tells it firmly, and closes the door and braces his forehead against it and closes his eyes and this is, by his estimation, a dream or some otherwise manufactured event, and he could be wrong about that estimation but he doubts it.

He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and sighs.

"Doctor," says the woman again, her tone barely shy of petulant in its insistence.

He ignores her.

He will not be participating in some poorly-defined, poorly-conceived, poorly-executed display of pseudoscientific pursuits. He will be waking up. Very shortly, he will be waking up. He is certain. He will not accept any other outcome.

[singthesong]

Another door wooshes open, and the Balladeer enters. He looks harried, and no wonder - there's small colorful animals of all sorts crowding around his feet, clinging to his arms and legs, and even in a few cases riding upon his shoulders. They must not be very heavy, but he's still having a lot of difficulty moving.

The change in atmosphere is immediately obvious, and as he looks up his faintly desperate eyes immediately lock on to Rush. Unfortunately, so do all the animals.

"Look!" a bright yellow bear cries. "New friends to cheer up!"

http://31.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m806evMGlX1qef4fuo1_250.gif

[lottawork]

Rush twists to face the intrusion, then immediately performs a flawless about-face, frustration ceding to something approaching panicked horror.

No.

No.

He tears the door open. The subject of whatever nonsensical epidemic his ill-prepared colleague recently attempted to expound in his general direction howls as though it had never been interrupted. Rush slams an elbow into its lower jaw, which dislodges with a sickening crack as its owner slides laterally to the floor.

He does not have a mind to dispense any superfluous commentary at the present time.

He has nothing to say.

Between a contingent of anthropomorphized multicolored ursine and a poorly-defined virulent illness capable of reanimating the dead, he finds the variety of shriveled corpses preferable.

HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAAAA

[singthesong]

Behind him, there's a pitter-patter of little paws on concrete.

"Wait for usssss~!" they call merrily, not so far away. "We want to sing a song with you!"




(Meanwhile, the Balladeer prudently uses the distraction to slip away. Sorry, Rush.)