this is the way of it [OPEN]

[firstroar]

Date & Time: 1/18 -> end of Jan
Location: near and around a bed
Characters: Soldier Blue, tbd
Summary: a psychic dying tends to dreamhop or suck nearby people into his own dreams.
Warnings: dying, references to such, any bad memories lying about in any given headspace


The way of it was unprecedented in his world: If any Mu before him had lived a life to its full extent, it was done so hidden away from notice. All others suffered and inevitably died far, far too young. Too many children.

Soldier Blue found his eyes wouldn't open, his body barely stir, disobeying every command just the way it had at the start of his fifteen-year sleep. He'd been so much more resigned to that, back then. Secure as he could be in the faith he had in his successor, his comrades. Here, though? Here, he wasn't so sure.

Throughout the days that passed, he found the strength to exert, push his mind away from the prison of his body, if only for a moment. But he'd lose himself in doing that, lose the purpose, drift and find himself straying into dreams or the passing presence of more focused, willful minds, some more familiar than others. It all twisted into pasts distant and near, making for disorienting journeys that often ended in the darkness that he constantly tried to shake himself from, harder and harder each time.

He chased the specks of light he perceived in the place of those thoughts and dreams, feeling weight bearing down upon his body the further he reached. Warmth on his cheek, the gentle breathy voice of his goddess...or some other? Everything blended together so seamlessly that the tears reality caused were frightening.

His reach shrank and lights grew distant like stars, became stars, a canopy of a hundred-years old vigil in an entirely different world.

Ataraxion? Exsilium? He couldn't say, not without someone to tell him the right of it. Whether they were ghosts or truly present, though...

Comments

Any time that's not his mission time

[hornedomen]

His dreams had been peaceful lately. Sometimes it made him sad, but it was nothing like the nightmares from before. It was strange how the mood changed when the content itself did not. Tonight, Ico dreamed.

Once again, he was at the castle. Stone coffins lined the walls and the spirit of each sacrificed child circled around one figure. He knew who it was before he even arrived. Twisted shapes of shadows looked at Yorda. Their glowing blue eyes never left her. Ico walked between them, gently laying his hand on their arms as he passed.

Yorda looked nothing as how he remembered her. She was a shadow, too. Although she had no eyes like them, he could feel when she looked at him.

"I'll end this," he said. "I promise. I'll make it stop."

She did not speak. She did not have to. Her hand gently touched his right horn, light as a feather. He could not feel any warmth nor cold from her touch, it was just a presence he knew. Even without words, he could feel a sense of sadness from her. He closed his eyes.

It won't happen again, he thought. Ozuma would be the last to walk through these halls with a severed horn. He would not wear that same sign of defeat.

probably around the middle of the month vague vague

[vaccination]

Surprisingly, when Ellie dreams there is a lack of bloaters, clickers, and runners. In fact, there's very little that could be considered scary--it's almost always Boston, and while the crumbling buildings and dirty streets devoid of people could be uneasy for some, it's not for her. It's home. Twenty year old cars that would never move again. Ration notices posted about, mixed in with wanted signs for the Fireflies. It's all she ever knew before Joel and Tess smuggled her out.

Tonight, she's sitting in her old room. Old magazine clippings cover the portion under the bunk bed that's hers, and it's warm enough to wear shorts and a sleeveless top.

She always expects Rylie to come greet her, but she never does.

any given night

[occlusion]

Everything was in black. He couldn't see anything through the darkness, and usually this didn't bother him. Audible whispers, but not discernible, punctuated the silence and faded out. He couldn't tell what was said or who was saying it. He took a step forward tentatively--why did it feel like he was only moving backwards?

It was as though he were in a void.

Suddenly a light. White, like a spotlight, snapped on behind him. He could see the faint outline of his shadow reach to infinity before him, but he turned around to face the light instead.

A trembling, crumpled human figure--a woman?--in a brilliantly patterned and ornate kimono. No long sleeves of a furisode--a married woman. He knew this particular kimono just from memory. It was her favorite one, it was the one that had been passed down through the generations.... He found himself kneeling behind her slowly, a hand reaching out tentatively to her back. The time to bridge the gap seemed an eternity. Why could he hear a clock ticking off seconds?

But once he could feel the silk, softened by the ages, the kimono collapsed to the ground. The person who had been wearing it vanished. Shaky sobs, disembodied, echoed through the void, dissipating into silence gradually. He froze, staring at that heap of silk on the floor before frantically pulling it up to him, standing up the moment he could to keep it off the floor. The smell of it was familiar, that old sakura perfume that he had picked for her--but he didn't remember it having an edge of metal to the scent.

--Why did he feel something wet?

He opened the kimono up, as though to inspect. There on the collar, as though around the neck, blood stained the silk and seemed to slowly trickle down in rivulets. Drip. Drip. Drip. It pooled around his feet. Drip. The blood kept rolling down. Drip. And it was then that he realized that some of that blood covered his own hands. That kimono suddenly filled out, an inhabitant materialized into it--his hands were now on those shoulders, on his shoulders. The blood was pouring from his neck, his eyes, his wrists. He could see the pain in those purple eyes that stared up to him.

"You did this to me, Tatsumi."

--------------------

Thankfully, Tatsumi abruptly awoke.

Probably around the middle of the month ish?

[deathofempathy]

Knowing Hisoka and his past, it's little wonder that a majority of his dreams are not exactly pleasant ones. More often nightmares, flashbacks of things he might not prefer to dwell on upon waking. But this was the reason he frequently curls up with his partner, Tsuzuki. He tends to sleep a bit better with that comfort at least. Most nights. But not tonight.

There is an uneasiness, a terror and fear clutching at his chest at the sight. It's Tsuzuki, or, it looks like him. Mostly. But it's clear to Hisoka that this is not his partner. Something is definitely wrong. That expression, the words he uses, his answers to certain questions just don't add up. Nor does the emotions playing out through Hisoka's empathy. Which can only mean one thing. He's possessed. And Hisoka is determined to free him.

It's a trick, but an effective one. Hijiri looks similar enough to Hisoka that this could work. The wig is itchy but easily enough ignored while attempting to fool 'Tsuzuki'. Which he does, well enough that the demon possessing him contorts his partner's expression to something horrifying, something so unlike Tsuzuki that Hisoka's suspicions are practically confirmed at that moment even without the identifying mark to prove this. Hisoka is relieved at the confirmation, but only briefly. For a moment, before the cool steel knife pierces his stomach, his green eyes widening as he slumps down to the ground. Blood pools from the wound, staining the carpet as 'Tsuzuki' turns and leaves, not seeming to care about the young boy's fate. There's a creak and a click as the door closes, leaving him to supposedly bleed out.

idk towards the end of the month

[oldsoldiersneverdie]

He'd lost Hope again. Somewhere in the ruins or the sand dunes, they'd gotten separated, and he knew if he didn't find her, she'd be lost for good - to time, or to Bishop, or maybe both. He wished, desperately, that he still had his powers, that he could reach out and touch her mind. Instead, he risked calling out to her - he hadn't seen anyone else in the collapsed wrecks of buildings. "Hope! Where are you?"

[khajidont]

Once, Jaime had been underneath the impression that seeing bad things made an impact on your dreaming life forever. It wasn't that that wasn't true - he dreamed of things he couldn't have possibly imagined a year ago - but it was that it wasn't nearly so consistent. Sometimes, he dreamed of stupid, ordinary things, like not being able to find his classroom, or Brenda driving them down one of those long, vast highways that seemed to be without an end. Other times, he dreamed of war, of sickness, of the tiny orange speck upon a blanket of blue, but he rarely woke up with his eyes slamming open, a hoarse shout on his lips like they did in the movies. He usually just lay there, and listened to himself breathe.

It was a matter of course.

Tonight, though, he was dreaming of neither. He was in El Paso, or something that did a very good job of looking like it, except everything was just a little strange. The familiar streets were different, but in ways he could hardly put his finger on, restaurants with foreign names, stores and homes he knew ought to be there replaced with something else. He circled the streets, sloughing off his winter clothing as he did so, leaving a messy trail on the ground behind him. It wasn't as if the litter would be bothering anyone; there wasn't a soul present, not a single car on the horizon, nothing so much as the fog of someone's breath upon the window.

But finally, finally, he made his way home. The door was unlocked, but flinging it open, Jaime found it as empty of human life as everywhere else, though at least their goldfish bowl was still present.

"Hello?" Jaime called out, taking a couple steps forward. "Mom? Dad? Milagro? Where is everyone?"

[inafadingcrown]

Elvish dreams are not quite the same as those of mortals; they are memories, more than anything else. And in her sleep, Galadriel now wanders through some of her oldest memories.

There's a city on a hill, its white walls shining in some undefinable light. It's not the sun; there is no sun. But all the same, the entire scene is awash in that warm glowing light. The streets bustle with activity; hundreds of elves going about their daily business, speaking in an ancient tongue.

Galadriel does not mingle with them. Not now, at least. Instead, she sits in a large courtyard near the center of the city, resting underneath a tall tree, just watching people come and go.

whenever the gotg get back from space things

[gamora]

Gamora hasn't dreamed about this particular part of her life in years - the cold grey walls of Sanctuary II and everything else that marked her as belonging to someone - a tool to be used, though she never knew better then. Recalling the twist and turns of the spaceship doesn't take a moment, one turn to the right and three floors above is Thanos' lab. Seven floors down and across the center connecting floors is the training room.

She doesn't pick either of those options, however, instead letting her feet take her back to her own quarters. Gamora's not certain what she'll find there - she's far from sentimental.

What she absolutely doesn't expect is to find Blue there, and a frown forms across Gamora's face at the intrusion.

"Blue."

It's as much of a hello as he's going to get.

[highfrequency]

Raiden's dreams were never ones of story-book quality. They awoke him in the night, causing him to strike out and cry violently. There was a time they had made him afraid of the night.

For years he'd been trying to quiet them, but they always came back when he least expected it. Tonight was such a night.

He was stalking down a stream like a predator, using the nearby jungle foliage to move unseen. The water was crimson and full of bodies-Men, women, children, soldiers and civilians.

Raiden paid no attention to them. Part of him did not look because they were nothing more than fallen prey, another part did not look because it could not face the horror of that stream and the reality in it.