applesaucedream | May the odds be ever in your favor

Current Music: June 9, 2013

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May the odds be ever in your favor

In the dream there is a jungle. In the jungle, there is an impossible inland sea, briny like the ocean but surrounded by land on all sides. Around the sea there is a beach, and in the sea there is an island. On the island, there is a a cornucopia, a great curled golden horn with an opening that yawns twenty feet high. Around the cornucopia, land bridges stretch like spokes of a wheel from the island to the beach.

Inside the cornucopia, there are weapons. Everywhere, hidden well enough to escape the attention of all but the most carefully observant, there are cameras. Above is a false sky, an electric dome that stretches over the round expanse of jungle and disguises itself as the illusion of more jungle where it touches the ground. To touch it is to be electrocuted.

Those who hike off into the jungle may not ever reach the edge of the dome and learn how thoroughly they are trapped. An invisible, almost always intangible line extends from each of the island's spokes to the edge of the dome, a barrier between dangers for which there is no warning. Viewed from above, this round jungle begins to resemble a clock with its face divided into twelve wedges that all converge on the cornucopia. Unfortunately for the dreamers, this clock keeps time.

At the stroke of twelve, lightning strikes in the segment toward which the tail of the cornucopia points. At the strike of one, catastrophe moves clockwise and the next segment rains blood. Disaster strikes at the beginning of each hour, moving slowly but inexorably all the way around the jungle until it comes back to the beginning and starts again. Some segments represent near-inevitable death for anyone caught in them at the wrong moment, while others simply torture their captives or twist their perceptions. The beach and the island might seem to represent safety and reprieve, but some threats, like the wall of saltwater that comes crashing through the jungle at ten o'clock, reach even that haven. And though the world outside the jungle may be watching, that world is beyond the dreamers' reach. No one may pass beyond the dome except by awakening from the dream and leaving this place entirely in favor of the waking world.

Welcome to the Quarter Quell.

[Mod note: Same drill as always. All players and characters are welcome, current members or no. Characters will remember or forget any and all dream events at players' discretion. Death in the dream does not result in real death. Post your tags under the header for the section of the clock in which your thread takes place (if the thread takes place in multiple sections, put it under the header for the section in which it begins). Threads can take place at any time; note what time your thread begins when starting a new one so other players know whether the section will be active. Multiple threads per header are allowed. Dream time passes more quickly than real time (and is kind of timey wimey anyway), so feel free to subject your characters to as many or few hours as you wish.]

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Lost in his own thoughts, Peeta misses the change in Daine's expression as she tests the bow. He doesn't miss the flush when she turns back to catch him watching her, though. For a moment, she looks about as unhappy as he feels.

At her proclamation, he gives the machete in his hand a look caught somewhere between angry and sad. "It never is," he murmurs.

Turning his attention back to Daine, he nods at a collection of small knives to her left. "You should probably grab a knife, too." Even more than being a secondary weapon - which he hopes won't be needed here - they're useful for basic tasks, like cutting up food. Better to have one than not.

She'd meant more that her longbow is different, but after Peeta's response, she decides not to elaborate. Talk of her own weapons experience isn't going to make him feel any better, even if they are both safer now that she has a bow in her hands.

At his suggestion, she picks out a knife small enough to tuck into her belt. Most of the ones on display are wickedly large, but she'd rather have something practical than something that looks as if its primary function is just to scare folk.

She joins Peeta outside the cornucopia and nods back at the shoreline. "You said it was a big clock, right?" He's given her a rough overview of the arena before, but she wasn't about to press for details at the time. Now, though, she'd best hear them.

Peeta nods. "The jungle is split into sectors - the spokes of land that connect the island to the beach divide them. Each sector has a different trap."

Pointing to each in turn, he names the ones he knows: tidal wave, insects, lightning, blood rain, poisonous fog, monkeys, jabberjays, and some kind of animal. "I don't know what's in the others. The beach is safe for most of the areas, except the tidal wave. Each sector is active for an hour, starting with the lightning section."

Doing a quick count, he adds, "The monkeys are from three to four."

"So the birds will start up at four," Daine says slowly, wanting to make sure she understands what's going on, "and then at five, there's no telling." Lovely. She wonders if they ought to head into the five o'clock section now to see if they can figure out what's going to happen there before it actually does. Probably safest to stay on the beach, though.

She pulls out one of the arrows and examines it, turning it between her fingers and frowning. Much like the bow, the shape is more or less right - it's the materials that throw her. It's not even fletched with proper feathers, just with some sort of plastic - or it is metal? For a moment, she's reminded of stormwings, and she jerks her fingers back in sudden fear of being cut open by the not-feathers' edges.

"Back to the beach?" she asks as she carefully puts the arrow away.

Peeta's mixed feelings continue as he watches Daine inspect an arrow. He turns back to stare across the water, sorting through memories of his time in the arena and dreading what - and possibly who - might lay in wait for them. He knows from experience that the island is no refuge, so he nods at Daine's suggestion and leads the way back onto the sand.

As they restart their circuit, he glances over at her. "I'm sorry for pulling you into this."

As if he did it on purpose. Daine furrows her brow at him. "It's not your fault. It's just…" she sighs, shifting her gaze to the sand stretching out before them. "The rift does this sort of thing all the time. There's no controlling it."

Even as she says it, though, she knows how little comfort it will be. Accident or no, she's still privy to something personal that he'd rather she didn't see. She drifts closer to him and briefly rests a hand on his shoulder. "I've had folk drop in on my nightmares, too. It's not much fun, but it can only last so long before we wake up."

Peeta isn't comforted. If anything, he's even more upset. He dreams about the Games often enough, and if the rift draws people into dreams all the time - the odds of this happening again are high.

"Don't suppose you can wake yourself up, huh?" he asks Daine with a wry smile.

A short, but loud, rustle in the trees off to their left draws Peeta's attention, and he pauses for a moment to study the treeline.

"Haven't mastered that one, yet," Daine says, wrinkling her nose. This would all be so much easier if she could will herself awake. Back home, she usually did wake up shortly after realizing she was dreaming - when she realized it at all. She's getting better at recognizing dreams, now, but a fat lot of good it does her in terms of getting her to wake up.

Daine pauses when Peeta does. "It's all right," she says. "It's a tamarin - a normal one. They're primates, but very small." And this one is more scared of them than they are of it; they probably wouldn't have heard it at all if it wasn't in such a hurry to get away.

Peeta finds it hard to believe that any animal in the arena is completely normal, but he defers to Daine's abilities. With a nod of understanding, he sets off down the beach again.

She's a little tempted to call the creature back and show him it's harmless - it might be nice to have a moment of calm in a dream like this - but Peeta continues down the beach. Perhaps it's just as well. The arena was designed to be a danger to two-leggers, so the tamarin's probably safer in the trees than it would be with them.

They walk in silence for a while, Daine keeping an ear out for any danger, especially any to do with the People. Her footsteps slow as her focus shifts to one particular part of the jungle: the four o'clock section. They're well past it, now, but she can still feel the birds in the area. There seem to suddenly be a lot more than there were before. Daine stops, then slowly turns back to face the way they came, her brow furrowed. The birds don't quite feel right, either. She knows better than to go charging back toward them, but they don't feel as violent as the monkeys. There are just a lot of them, and they're all stirred up.

She tentatively reaches for them with her magic. What troubles you? she calls.

When Daine pauses, Peeta does as well, following her gaze back to the jungle behind them. He recognizes the look on her face as a slightly more wary version of the one she was wearing when she went in after the monkeys.

"Daine," he says in warning, his body tensing in preparation for whatever might happen.

"I'm not going anywhere," she says absently, most of her focus still on the birds. There are too many of them. It's as if more are just materializing out of nowhere, all in that one little wedge of jungle. And they hate it; she can feel their anxiety buzzing in her mind.

Maybe she can draw them out, encourage them to disperse. They don't feel aggressive, just upset (and why wouldn't they be?), and she figures the only threat they pose is in their sheer numbers. If she can just get them to spread out a little…

She shifts her focus to a smaller number of the birds, a little flock of ten that seem to be sticking together. Here! she calls, trying to draw them away from that section of jungle. They veer obediently, and for a moment she's certain she'll be able to manage this.

She didn't know there was a barrier. As the birds strike it, agony flares in Daine's mind, and she lurches a little as if she's been shoved. "They're trapped!"

Peeta reaches out and places a steadying hand on Daine's shoulder. "If they are trapped, you won't be able to help them," he tells her. "When an area of the jungle becomes active, an invisible barrier rises around it to keep whatever - whoever - is there inside."

"But…" she winces as more birds strike the barrier. There are so many of them now that it's impossible for them all to avoid it, even if she tried to steer them away (at which point they might very well end up crashing into each other).

Please, calm down! If she could get some of them to stop zipping around and just land for a few minutes, maybe that would give the rest of them enough space to avoid the barrier.

Daine! It's not Cloud. It can't be Cloud. But the bird's voice sounds just like her, and Daine stiffens. Daine, I can't find you!

"No." Daine sits down hard on the sand, letting the bow drop so she can cradle her head in her hands.

You left us, a bird accuses in Brokefang's voice. The Pack needed you, and you left.

She squeezes her eyes shut. Why are you saying these things?

This is all your fault. Spots. You should have listened to me. Cloud, again. You abandoned her. Kitten's ma. Daine clamps her hands over her ears, but it doesn't make any difference. The voices are in her mind.

At first, Peeta's confused. Even for someone so close to animals, Daine's reaction seems extreme. He doubts whatever animals she senses are in danger from one another; the Gamekeepers wouldn't waste animals that way. When she covers her ears, though, Peeta understands.

"Don't listen to them, Daine," he says, dropping to his knees in the sand beside her. He places his hands on her shoulders. "Whatever you're hearing, it isn't real." He can't hear anything himself, but he knows what's happening - Daine hears the jabberjays.

Peeta's words barely register; the cacophony in her mind is far too loud. And she knows it's not real. "It's true, though," she says, giving Peeta a haunted look. "They're right."

You left us, chorus the achingly familiar voices from home. Zek. Rider ponies. Her stomach drops as some of the birds start to mimic the voices of her two-legger friends, Onua and their majesties, Alanna and George. Numair. You left us you left us you left us.

If Daine can hear the jabberjays from outside their part of the jungle, there is nowhere they can go in the arena where she will be safe from their words. Helpless once again, Peeta does the only thing he can. Wrapping his arms around Daine, he tries to drown out whatever she might be hearing with his own voice.

"You're fine," he tells her, "they aren't real. This is just a dream. Nothing they say is true. No one is here but you and me." On and on he goes, and endless stream of chatter. He can only hope it is helps.

She could stop it - she should stop it. She knows how to cut the People out of her mind entirely. But as awful as their words are, she clings to their voices. Goddess, what she wouldn't give to have Cloud properly scolding her for going off through the trees and getting swallowed up by the rift…

But before too long, Peeta's voice starts to cut through the jumble. He's right. It's not real. Gritting her teeth, she throws up her mental shields. The jays' voices are cut off, and hundreds of pinpricks of copper fire are abruptly doused. Now, she's as unaware of the People in the arena as any other two-legger would be.

She pulls in a shuddering breath, then drops her hands from her head. "I… I'm okay," she says. "I turned it off."

At Daine's voice, Peeta goes silent. He pulls back, but doesn't let go of her entirely. He can still see the ghosts of what she was hearing in her eyes and his own chest aches in sympathy.

"Daine?" He bites down the instinct to ask if she's okay; of course she isn't. Instead, her names hangs as its own inquiry.

"I'm okay," she says again, with a bit more conviction. Peeta has enough to worry about here without fussing over her. She lifts a hand and gives his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. "I can put up shields if I need to, up here," she adds, tapping her temple for emphasis. "I can't hear them anymore."

She doesn't like to think about what's still happening out there while she turns a deaf ear, but this isn't the first time she's been forced to block out the People's suffering, and it probably won't be the last.

Peeta can tell she's still upset, despite her assurances. "It'll only last an hour," he says. He isn't sure if he means that she won't be able to hear the jays anymore, or that she'll be able to listen again. He suspects she'd invite both.

Sitting back on his haunches, he glances at the jungle nearest them. For now, at least, it will be safe. "We can rest for a while, if you'd like," he offers.

Daine nods gratefully at the suggestion. It's not hard for her to keep the shields up. She's done it plenty of times before. But given how many of the dangers here seem to involve the People, she'd rather stay put until she can listen properly again.

"Probably a good idea," she says, retrieving the bow and brushing the sand off of it. "And I'd best try this out, now that we've got a few minutes." New weapons usually take some getting used to, and she'd rather figure out this one's quirks when they're not in immediate danger.

Getting to her feet, she pulls out an arrow and looks for an appropriate target that isn't too far off. About twenty yards down the beach, there's a palm tree that's ventured far enough from the jungle cover to stand out. That'll do it. Daine retrieves an arrow and sets it to the bow, then slowly draws back the string. It still feels too easy, but what matters most is that it works. She aims carefully - if she misses, better to have it hit the sand then disappear into the greenery - then looses.

The arrow, strange as it is, still flies well enough. It strikes a glancing blow on the trunk of the palm tree, then buries itself in the sand another five yards down the beach. Daine frowns thoughtfully. "My longbow would be better," she says, "but at least it works." She pulls out another arrow and tries again, this time hitting the trunk squarely.

It's strange, watching Daine shoot. She doesn't look like Katniss - she holds the bow differently, holds herself differently - but there's something in the motion of a bow being drawn that always reminds him of Katniss. He can see both of them at the same time, in eye and mind: notching the arrow, drawing the string, letting it fly. That they're in the arena doesn't help; it's nothing but memories for him here.

He sits to the side, back to the water, as Daine practices, and tries not to think too much about anything.

It takes her some time to feel as if she's truly got the measure of the strange bow and arrows. She winds up with about half her quiver's contents buried in the palm tree by the end of it, and then she strides down the beach to collect the one that went astray and pry the others out of the trunk. One's buried deep enough that she ends up needing to use her knife to help pry it loose.

"You were right about needing the knife," she calls back to Peeta, sounding about as cheerful as she has been since she got here. There's just something reassuring about having a working bow in her hands again, despite the gravity of the situation. And the distraction is helping her deal with the eerie silence in her mind. She's made it a rule in the past to turn her magic off while hunting, so shooting with her shields up is strangely restful, like rereading a book you practically know by heart.

Peeta hasn't found the same peace in their rest that Daine has. The longer they go without meeting anyone - or anything - else, the more he's certain something is going to happen. As Daine frees her arrows from the tree, Peeta stands and dust himself off.

"It should probably be getting close to the end of the hour," he calls. "We should get moving again soon." They need to find water, and food. Or maybe they don't need to; it's just a dream, after all.

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