applesaucedream | The House was Awake with Shadows and Monsters [Open to All]

Current Music: October 22nd/23rd, 2013

The House was Awake with Shadows and Monsters [Open to All]

photo gothic halloween party_zpshzlnzwra.jpg

This might not be the first time a given dreamer has found themselves at a fancy party in a large mansion, and dressed in something they wouldn't typically wear. If the architecture is more gothic than usual, well, that could just be a coincidence… but it's probably no coincidence that the dreamers are all wearing Halloween costumes that they decidedly did not pick themselves. 'Tis the season! They might look fancy, they might look slapdash; either way, it shouldn't be too difficult for the dreamers to figure out who - or what - they're supposed to be.

The evening's festivities are centered around a grand ballroom. Music is emanating from somewhere or other, and numerous chandeliers are aglow with warm candlelight. Tables line the perimeter, and they're piled with seasonal snacks and bowls of punch. If dancing isn't your thing, there's a whole mansion and extensive grounds to explore.

Those who venture forth will notice that the farther they wander from the party, the less friendly things seem. Tidy rooms with fires in the hearths will give way to dark, dusty corridors and neglected spaces. Manicured lawns grow into tangled hedges. As the music fades out of earshot, the house's settling groans and the hiss of the wind through the ivy will be impossible to ignore.

(It was just the house, wasn't it? Sure it was. It was probably your own footsteps that made that floorboard creak, too. And that rustle on the other side of the hedge was just a rabbit.)

All things considered, it might be more comfortable to just stay in the ballroom, where it's warm and cheerful and there are plenty of snacks. A note about the snacks, though: the dreamers will find that the more punch they consume, the more their own identities seem to fade away in favor of a persona more in line with their costumes. A dreamer dressed as a tiger might find themselves inclined to hide behind a curtain and pounce on passersby. A dreamer dressed as a mummy might adopt a stiff-legged gait and dole out a curse or two. A dreamer dressed as a robot might start speaking binary.

At least no one will actually turn into anything. That would just be embarrassing.

The good news is that eating any of the available food will counteract the punch's effects, so it's possible to have a fine time and still keep ahold of yourself. But what's the fun in that?

[ooc: the usual dream party rules apply. All are welcome, whether they've been apped to the game or not. Characters can remember or forget the events of the dream at the players' discretion. Any punch-drinking dreamers will take on the personality characteristics - and potentially the magical/supernatural capabilities - of whatever or whoever they're dressed as, though their physical appearance will remain the same.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Greta purses her lips in playful recrimination at the compliment, because honestly, but Rush's mild explanation and outstretched hand are enough to snuff out her good humor. She might be persuaded to believe that he's feeling exceptionally charitable towards her for some reason, but inviting her to take his hand is too far beyond the call of duty. If he had no choice, if things were desperate... he might allow it then, begrudgingly and with ill grace. But not--never like this.

The faint memory of another person who looked like Rush but wasn't rises to the surface, and Greta takes an uncertain step backwards. "I--who are you?" she asks, far too bluntly. She can feel her cheeks coloring, because whoever he is, he doesn't deserve her snapping at him. But the question is out, now, and she's too unnerved to apologize.

Her familiarity fades into unease in an abrupt transition that leaves him confused. Nicholas lets the hand drop and steps back, his expression arranging itself into one of wary neutrality.

"Dr. Nicholas Rush," he says in as calm and introductory a tone as he has available to him. "I don't think we've met."

The vague prickle in the corners of his memory would indicate otherwise. He disregards the encroaching abnormalities. Straining to access those distant areas would be, some dark instinct insists quietly, antithetical to his present state.

Wait, what? Greta's shoulders drop, and she stares at him in open bewilderment. So he is Rush, but he doesn't think they've met? "Wh--" she starts, at a loss, before pausing and making a visible effort to collect herself. There must be some sort of explanation. She just needs to root it out.

"I'm sorry," she says first, because now he's looking at her as if she's the one who's gone mad. "We have met, but... perhaps you don't remember?" she hazards. She could joke that she doesn't normally dress anything like this, but it's not as if she's unrecognizable, so that can't be it. "I'm Greta," she adds, in case that jostles something loose.

There is something about her that is truly, achingly familiar. The accent is a shade too redolent of Gloria's, though her startled anxiety runs counter to that association.

"Haven't the faintest," he admits dryly. "Possibly you've read something. I'm a mathematician."

He looks back to the open doorway, to the varied assemblage. Upon secondary inspection, he finds that he recognizes next to no one within.

"If you don't mind, I happen to be looking for someone," he says with a faint impatient twist to his tone. "If you're not planning to enter, I'd rather not waste my time."

This is bizarre. Not just that, it's almost... well, it hurts a little, the tandem realizations that it truly is Rush being so nice to her, but that he hasn't any idea who she is. Not that she's seen him be all that nice to anyone else - except Iman, when things were as bad as they could be. He's brusque with everyone, almost always.

It's still hard not to take it personally, seeing him dredge up such nice manners for her now that she's a stranger to him.

But it isn't personal. Something's wrong with him; he's lost his memories or something. He's not himself, or not the Rush she knows, and she doesn't want him just wandering off. Someone should keep an eye on him.

"Who were you looking for?" she asks, taking a few steps forward. "I--I might be able to help."

He starts walking at a pace halfway between a stride and a saunter, apparently entirely at ease.

"My wife," he says simply. "Short, blonde hair. Possibly wearing a mask of some kind." It would not be beyond her. Presumably this is some sort of function relating to those involved in the mathematical intelligentsia. It's dubious he would attend a social gathering for any other reason.

He scrutinizes the scatter of people in the central room but a swift appraising look pinpoints no one matching Gloria's description. He disregards the tingle of unease chasing his spine, the sensation of wrongness that seems like it should be synonymous with her very name.

He shakes the feeling aside. He can think of no reason to worry.

Greta's steps falter, and it's all she can do not to stare, not to gape. He's married? She was stunned that he'd consented to share his space with a dog; she never would have imagined he had a wife.

When did he lose her? Was it before the Rift took him, or...?

It's none of her business. No matter how much she might ache with sympathy, no matter how free he is with this information, she's certain that her Rush wouldn't want her to know any of this. Does Iman even know? Greta swallows, head ducked as she schools her expression into something neutral. What else can she do but play along? She isn't about to tell him the woman probably isn't here. She can't calmly explain that the Rush she knows has no wife, that he's so prickly and guarded that he'd never voluntarily make mention of her, and that he'd probably be furious at having this aspect of his life laid bare. Would this Rush even believe her? What good would it do, even if he did?

Against her better judgment, unable to help herself, she finds herself asking, "What's her name?"

The stumble in her step and her subsequent alarm does not go unmissed. He keeps her in his periphery without facing her directly. Something contained within that answer startled or otherwise unsettled her, though the specifics remain somewhat beyond him.

He keeps his tone neutral, as if such obvious things were entirely beyond the scope of his notice. "Gloria."

He waves an equivocal hand in the direction of the tables stretched out throughout the room.

"Our gracious host has something against alcohol, it seems," Nicholas says wryly. He thinks he might have intended to drink himself into a state in which he could be beyond the state of caring, but the assertion seems far too vague to have been a recent idea.

It's a beautiful name, and she wishes she didn't know it. Why did she ask? Maybe Rush will forget this, too, but she knows better than to trust to luck. If he does remember, he'll resent her for prying, for taking advantage of how forthcoming he is right now, and how easy he's made it for her. She hums in acknowledgment of his bland commentary about the punch, but she knows she can't just keep up a light conversation with him. This is wrong.

She has to tell him something. Not about his wife - she won't touch that subject again if she can avoid it - but if there's the smallest chance he'll remember this, she has to put an end to it.

"Rush," she begins, forcing herself to turn and face him directly, "this might sound mad, but you ought to know..." she hesitates; he ought to know a whole slew of things, so many it's hard to know where to begin. "I think, perhaps, you've forgotten some things." She watches him carefully, hoping for recognition, expecting scorn. "I think you've forgotten... quite a lot, actually. Like me, for example; we've known each other for months. We're in Manhattan. We're both friends with Iman Asadi. Does any of that sound familiar?"

Edited 2015-10-31 04:52 (UTC)

The weight to Greta's words is one he can ill afford to ignore. Left without a vast quantity of options at his disposal, Nicholas turns neatly to face her. He eyes her with an admixture of wariness and confusion, uncertain as to what she would stand to gain by making that sort of oddly specific claim. Greta's tone is one of absolute certainty - regardless of whether it is an outright fabrication, it is one to which she, for her part, wholly subscribes.

"I've no idea what you're saying," he says flatly. "I've never lived in Manhattan. Thank fucking god for that."

That dense metropolis, when opposed to the glittering sweep of familiar university buildings and jagged rocks set against the coast, resembles something of his personal idea of hell. And again, there is no denying the things that stir in his head at the thought.

He wonders, with a faint tremor of apprehension, if there may be some credence to her words.

He doesn't seem to believe her, but the profanity is oddly comforting, perhaps because it's more in line with Rush as she thinks of him. She wouldn't go so far as to call it encouraging, but at least he hasn't stormed off (yet). At least he's listening.

"But you have," she insists, eyes roving the middle distance as she tries to dredge up other details he might remember. "We both spent some time in ROMAC's cells," she offers. It's a miserable enough memory that she feels bad for potentially reminding him, but it also seems hard to forget. "Iman got you out, and then you both got me out. And, er..." her mouth is getting dry. At least the punch ought to be safe; she dishes herself a glass while she thinks. "Iman's prosthetic arm broke, but you've been fixing it."

Is any of this getting through? Greta takes a sip of punch, which seems to help a little, strengthening her resolve. She's doing the right thing, even if he doesn't believe her.

"That's quite the extensive narrative," he says with the arching of a brow. It sounds even, possibly, rehearsed, far too complicated to have simply been invented in the moment. The referencing of exterior groups and people with whom he has little familiarity would certainly corroborate that little theory.

"Not jogging the memory, I'm afraid." He skims a finger along the ridge of one of the tables, and in the same fluid movement retrieves one of the d'oeuvres artfully arranged atop a needlessly expensive silver plate and studies it with vague interest before he simply goes through with eating it to be done with it.

"Well, we've been in Manhattan for some time," Greta says, peering at him sidelong as she takes another sip of punch. She knew he might not believe her, but the implication that she's making all of this up still rankles.

Belatedly, it occurs to her that she's missed the most obvious clue of all, and she straightens. "The Rift brought us there. You could say it brought us here, too. This is a dream," she says, waving a hand at their surroundings. "It often creates odd dreams and then hauls us all in. This must be another one."

See? He'd better; that was her trump card. She watches him over the rim of her glass, waiting for his reaction.

"Rift," he repeats, drawing out the word with a fair amount of intrigue. He nearly shakes his head and disregards it.

A soft prickle hums along the contours of his mind.

There was a Rift, and there was a city. There was an organization. The memory is poorly organized, dimmed and faded, and yet something would indicate a sense of acute familiarity.

"Is this real?" He looks at his hand. He flexes fingers. The musculoskeletal contractions are perfectly timed, perfectly responsive. Nothing would indicate that this is in any way fabricated or false.

For the first time, Nicholas's even composure slips.

She sees the slip, and her sympathy and sorrow is glossed with an acute sense of satisfaction. Now he's taking her seriously, as well he should. She takes a victorious little sip of punch, then inclines her head. "As real as any dream, which is quite real enough."

Her gaze drifts back to the party, and she loses herself for a few moments as she watches the people mingling and dancing. It seems to be going well, doesn't it? That's good. They ought to enjoy themselves.

... What is she thinking of? Greta gives her head a little shake, then looks back to Rush. "Do you remember, now?"

The indescribable fog curls away from the edges of recent memory. There was a program, a problem which he could not solve and there was something about Gloria in which she became distant or he became distant, one of the two, a moment suspended between the strains of a violin and honey blonde hair coming away in patches, darkened to the brown of a synthetic wig and the times he grasped her hand and the times he didn't because he never did because he was never present because he had a problem to solve to the detriment of all else, the problem of a prosthetic arm or of chevrons or of something he cannot recall.

Rush pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger to ward off his impending headache.

"When," he says slowly, speaking having become a great difficulty between the spikes of pain to his temples, "when did this happen?"

"Months ago." She doesn't know the exact date - not for Rush, anyway. "I'm not sure when it took you, but you were in Manhattan before I arrived, and that was back in August. It's October now."

His pain is obvious, and Greta averts her eyes from it, using more punch as an excuse. She doesn't like being the bearer of bad news, but she doesn't like lying by omission, either, or letting his confusion go unchecked or unremarked upon.

He seemed so happy, though. Is that really how he used to be?

Another sip of punch. She keeps her eyes on the crowd with the vague intention of giving him some space. It's nice to watch them all enjoying themselves, though, and a faint, proprietary smile creeps across her features.

October. October. The years run by in a streamlined burst of memory, and he turns away from her because he has to because he cannot speak to her right now, not at this precise moment in the wake of what he was running counter to what he is. How much did he tell her. How much does she know.

There is a tautness in his throat and an uneven breath in his lungs and he cannot tolerate the music in conjunction with the hum of other voices and he shuts his eyes and opens his eyes and shoots Greta a glare that may possibly be straining the limits of what is socially and or situationally acceptable.

"Just what are you smiling at," he snaps.

His tone surprises her, and she turns her head sharply to glare right back at him. The details have faded somewhere deep into the background, but she has the sense that she's done this fellow a favor, and it goes without saying that she doesn't deserve his scolding.

Her spine straightens, and she the look she gives him is downright frosty. "I'd advise you not to take that tone with me," she warns.

"Or what," he says, dismissive, in no mood. Her abrupt shift in emotional disposition is of little consequence. He had forgotten. How had he forgotten. He has always striven to forget until the moments in which it no longer serves him to do so.

He steps back and braces a hand against the table surface, unable to suppress the unmitigated increase in pressure and pain in his head running congruous to the swirl of cognitive dissonance.

"Or I'll have you thrown out," she replies sharply, her patience dwindling. He ought to count himself lucky that she hasn't done so already. He ought to appreciate that she could do much worse. She watches him reel back against the table without a trace of her former sympathy, and finds herself wondering, uncharitably, if he's drunk or something. That's the trouble with inviting common people to your palace; they can get up to all sorts of mischief.

Rush snorts and is rewarded by another bright stab of pain to his frontal lobe.

"Yes," he says icily. "Good fucking luck carrying that one out."

Alarmingly, his brain fails to supply him with anything appropriately scathing. The dual-pronged event splitting his head open must be, he notes dryly, interfering with that rather vital part of his everyday functioning.

"Fuck off," he finishes inelegantly, and turns away to grind the heel of his palm into one of his eye sockets.

Oh, that does it. The Queen stiffens, affronted. "You can leave my party at once," she says, "or I'll find you an escort, but you will not speak to me in such a manner again."

Ugh. Peasants. She sets down her glass and sweeps off into the crowd, looking for one of her guards.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

The House was Awake with Shadows and Monsters [Open to All]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject