Nightmare Moshpit

[ofthedream.livejournal.com]

WHO: Everyone trapped in the Nightmares
WHERE: Nightmare Moshpit
WHEN: Starting Friday, 10am, continuing until the Dreamers are freed from the nightmares
WARNINGS: HIDEOUSNESS, everyone's personal nightmares, will probably have blood, gore, trauma, insanity, etc. Go nuts, people!
SUMMARY: Ysera has plunged half the City into an interconnected nightmare labyrinth. Everyone caught up in the nightmares will experience their own personal nightmare - whatever horrible nightmare they may have (this is totally up to individual players, go nuts). Those with strong willpower and focus, who realize that they're dreaming, can break free from their own personal nightmare and wander the interconnected nightmares of other dreamers.

The dreams are connected subtly. You could open a door that should lead to a room, wanting out and focusing on getting out of the dream, and find yourself entering a location in someone else's nightmare. You could turn a corner in a spooky woods and find yourself in an open field or a cave or deserted building in someone else's nightmare.

Items can be taken from one dream zone into another. You will start out with whatever clothing/items/etc you subconsciously associate as a part of yourself - or with whatever items/clothing your nightmare calls for. If your nightmare is being tortured, you're in chains. If it's being naked in public, you're naked; etc.

If you realize you're dreaming and have strong focus, willpower, and imagination, you can attempt to manipulate your dreamself and your surroundings - changing them to suit yourself. This will not be easy nor perfectly accomplished right off the bat, try to be realistic about it. It'll take practice and perfect focus at first to manage it, plus a good imagination. Losing focus could cause your changes to revert. Someone with a stronger will - especially in their own dreamscape - can revert or alter changes you have already made, or parts of their own dream.

This all means that if your character can manage the focus, willpower, and imagination to keep it up, they can regain any powers Lachesis took away when they arrived in the City. They can also add extra powers such as flight, breathing underwater, walking on water, etc. Bear in mind, if they lose focus, these manipulations will revert. These changes exist only in the dreamscapes. They do not carry over back to the waking world.

You might run into an evil nightmare version of yourself in your own dream, or in someone else's, if they have nightmares of an evil you.

Death in the nightmare is NOT permanent. Dying or being mutilated in the nightmare will not permanently harm your body in the real world. The worst that could happen to your real self is mental trauma and seizures.
FORMAT: CHAOS

Comments

COMPLETELY OPEN--come play! There are many, MANY places this nightmare can go from here.

[pacifisted.livejournal.com]

Strains of hooting, whistling, discordant circus music belching forth from an ancient and rusty calliope he couldn't see accompanied the swirls of blinding lights that were slowly coming into view; he could hear laughter beneath the smothering sound, and felt himself try to smile. His face was frozen, he realized, touching trembling fingers to his cheeks--expressionless, blank, cold.

His eyes flicked helplessly back and forth, watching as the lights dimmed and then striped into red and white, thick and flowing, like fabric, or water (or blood, he heard himself think) unrolling and draping down over empty space. At the door of the great tent, men and women and children of all ages crowded, pushing to get in, waving tickets and chanting. A man with brown hair and refined features stood dressed in a blue military uniform at the barker's booth just to their left, crying out to the press of humanity before him.

"See the wonders of the modern world, ladies and gentlemen, step right up. Witness the two-headed girl, get a peek at the dog-faced boy, fifty cents, only fifty cents, military discount, military discount..."

As if to compliment the words of the barker, posters exploded over the walls of the tent; he found himself at once fascinated and frightened of the girl in question--on the painted picture of one head, she was portrayed in angelic style, the sweet face pleading kindness and friendship, but the other was cruel and hideous, warped, split almost in half with wild laughter, a strange pendant hanging from her neck on a thick gold chain twisted into a noose.

A great wind blew, and the tent rolled from its base, twirling in the wind like feathers, revealing a carousel of dead men--they stood posed in horrible, contorted ways, all of them screaming, some of them cowering, others arched back, the rest melted down around their poles like candle wax. The music grew louder, and a curtain drew up, revealing a brightly-colored man/machine standing at a crank that came out of the bottom of the grisly merry-go-round, slowly turning it.

He could see himself in the center of the machine, unblinking.

The noble look of the barker faded in his vision as he broke away from the scene, the wheeps and phwoots of the circus music following mockingly after, the man's fine jaw and elegant nose melting away, snakeskin scales in brilliant white peering out at Trowa in their place. He couldn't scream; it was impossible to breathe, he was surrounded, his fingers scrabbling uselessly for purchase at his false porcelain skin--

Put your hands down, a voice called. Beasts only bare their fangs at their enemies.

A thin, featureless boy, more ghost than flesh, stretched for him through the starry expanse within the tent, and he remembered a desert; sand, as far as the eye could see, but there was an oasis in the middle, wasn't there? He was there, beneath the concrete tree overhead, and there was warm sun beating down on him.

[pacifisted.livejournal.com]

I was the first one to come out and surrender. Put your hands down.

He tried, straining to comply, but his hands were so heavy, like iron weights had been tied to his wrists; it was impossible to do anything but keep them up in the air.

"I can't," he mumbled through the not-face, tired from the effort. "I need them."

A deeper voice sounded from behind his back.

It hurts like hell. What's your name?

His mind burned as he searched it, but he couldn't seem to recall. The question was repeated, twice more, before he turned to see who was asking it of him.

"I have no name," he responded, his shoulders sinking with the weight of the admission. "But if you must call me something, it's--"

"I have no name," he responded, his painted smile turning up to the sky. "But if you must call me something, it's--"

Before he could finish talking out of either side of his mouth, the fine white china of his mask spread over his head, suffocating and crushing him, stars exploding into life inside the dark space, lungs burning. By the time he had clawed it away from his eyes at last, a strange metal lockbox had materialized at his feet.

Hello My Name Is
RUMBLE

Trowa ran green, armor-plated fingertips over the small white label, staring at his 'name' through the jagged holes he'd made, trying to ignore the touch of the sharp splinters littering the edges as they pricked his skin. Hair-thin rivulets of motor oil dribbled and oozed down his cheeks like slow-sliding serpents, gathering at his chin and dripping onto the surface of the box.

The puddle grew in size faster than he could wipe it away again, covering the metal cube, soaking it, seeping in through the cracks only to fill it up from the inside. The lockbox vomited old, clotted, red sludge through the seams, spewing it through the keyhole, bubbling at the edges; he watched in silent terror as it mixed and swirled across the floor with the streams of mud-colored, shining liquid, until he could no longer tell the difference between the two. In desperation, begging it to stop, he picked it up and began to beat it against the ground, every impact striking into existence a fountain of sparks as he tried to batter it into submission, unable to bear the sight of it.

It burst, then, flying out of his grip and spilling a familiar blue-haired head with sightless red eyes into his lap as he raised it into the air in preparation for another crashing blow; he leapt to his feet, scrambling to stay upright in the growing pool of blood. Reduced to crawling, Trowa fought to gain distance from the object--but gaining traction was impossible.

He fell, unable to support himself, his hands and knees slipping in the slick blackness, and was pulled down below the surface to a dimly-lit clearing of heavy carpet that contained only a cot with a pillow and a wooden crate.

Aren't you giving that former Gundam pilot too much freedom?



Trowa curled up on the sad excuse for a bed, resting his head on one of the pillows--face sticking to the cheap cotton--and wrapped his arms around the crate in a protective gesture, holding it tight.

First entry promised to Matsuka, open after that

[shiromadoushi]

He'd been in the middle of turning when it hit, mouth half open to ask Matsuka a question when suddenly the world fell into darkness.

Footsteps echoing on cold pavement, puffs of breath hovering in the air as the cold sapped away the life from it.

He could feel it. Couldn't look, it would be closer if he looked, he knew that. Had to keep running.

That laugh, that laugh! His own twisted so many times over, echoed back so that it filled his ears and made the ground around him turn to sticky darkness that clawed at his legs.

No no, he couldn't, he wouldn't not again he wasn't going to--

Footsteps. Not his own. Faster.

Breath coming so fast now, freezing as it left his mouth to choke him further.

Couldn't see. It was all the darkness that came to steal everything again, clawing at him, ripping him to shreds, the bandages already stained with so much blood as the droplets splattered on the non existent pavement behind him, the coppery smell on his hands so strong.

His arm. His arm! His own scream in the air as he felt something tear into it, feasting on the flesh in such a quick motion it was as it it had never even been.

The bandages were everywhere now, flying around like a cyclone of crimson stained white blood and death blood and--

Another scream. Not his. Who's?

Screeching of metal as another gash appeared, burning, burning. Flames. Nothing but flames as the darkness rose higher and higher.

Amane-- Amane was screaming. He could hear her, he could hear--


Something had his ankle.

Falling. Falling into the Darkness that was waiting to feast on him, to drag him back to where it had once claimed him before. Desperately he struggled, clawing at the putty of nothing that smothered smothered smothered as it tore into him, sinking in sinking in---

A hand. Grabbing his wrist and pulling. Bright blue so strong, so cold. Couldn't breath in the blue that was all--

It stopped. It all stopped as the face came into focus.


The Ri--



No.


No it wasn't--

His own smile, the barest hint of a curve to bleed into a smirk. Cold blue. Not the Ring. The Ring's eyes were different he remembered them being different. So blue, like ice, like water like cold cold

The fingers tightened around his wrist, so painful as they squeezed, but his cries were eaten by the Darkness that lapped at the edges of him. Dissolving as they ate away so slowly away at every part of him, slowly as he was held, locked into those eyes that were reaching into him, he could feel it, oh god he could feel it, the blood dripping slower and slower as each drop crystallized and shattered before being sucked into the darkness.


"Help me...."


His voice was weak, rasping as he pleaded up at the figure so familiar as it held him over the abyss.

Not the Ring. If it wasn't the Ring--

A hand-- his hand-- the bracers with the dice logo as it came down to hover before his face, palm glowing with the coldness the ice that was freezing his breath.


No--


This time he was sure the screaming was his own voice as he felt the magic reach out to envelope him, racing towards his heart, everything freezing in its wake.


he couldn't BREATHE!

[loveyourenemy.livejournal.com]

"Bakura!"

It was without even a moment's pause for thought that Matsuka had flung himself after his friend, for once abandoning his usual hesitance over intruding into other people's minds. Something was wrong, and Bakura needed his help. But finding him within the dreamscape of his mind was another matter.

Surrounded by the green glow of his power, he floated through a vast spacescape. Not his own - it was too crowded with stations and spacecraft and planets to be anything stretch of space that Matsuka knew. Still, behind him against the stars hung the image of catastrophe, a gas giant with a hole blasted cleanly through its core, and behind it, unseen, Meggido floated like a giant tombstone in the midst of space.

If he turned around, he would see it. So he didn't turn. Instead he focused on Bakura's voice, pushing determinedly through the layaers of his mind in search of it.

Bakura! Can you hear me? It's Matsuka!

WIDE OPEN

[satisfiedsigner]

He felt like he'd been running forever. Where was he supposed to go? They were all trapped here and always had been and Yuusei knew that as well as any of them. What was even the point in running? They should have stayed and fought instead of running like cowards.

His friends had never been cowards. He couldn't believe they were trying to take that way out now. he couldn't believe he'd followed them. but he couldn't let them get hurt either...

Then he was on the ground and the side of his leg was on fire. Fuck. It had to be raining tonight.

He carefully got to his feet and looked around. A dead end. If he hadn't slipped, he would have run right into a wall.

"We're supposed to run fron Satellite to where?" he muttered. If they could get to the B.A.D.s, maybe they'd have a chance. Security wouldn't go out there. They'd have to go on foot or not at all, and they wouldn't risk getting ambushed while on foot. The BADs would be safe for a while...if they could get there.

"Or perhaps the City."

Kiryu's blood turned to ice and he spun around so quickly he fell back onto his butt. NonononoNONO--

And that was as far as his thought process got before his body turned limp and fell over, his head exploding with pain as it hit the ground with a solid thunk. The pain spread quickly to the rest of his body, like fire creeping through his veins, burning him up from within, a million little fire ants crawling all over biting everywhere--He tried to open his mouth to scream but he couldn't move; his whole body was beyond his control, trapping him in here with the pain...

And over it all, that single, piercing note, that note he could hardly bare to hear even in a song for a month afterward.

The mark on his arm flared up, scorching everthing down to the bone, and Cavil yelped in surprise. Kiryu scrambled to his feet while Cavil was distracted and couldn't keep him trapped, coughing and wobbling on his feet as he frantically looked around for a way out. The fire he'd managed to call up around Cavil wouldn't stop him for long. He knew that all too well.

There! A door appeared in one of the walls, the edges flickering with purplish-blue flames. Kiryu staggered over and almost smashed through the door in his haste to open it and get inside.

The door clicked shut behind him and disappeared.

Re: WIDE OPEN

[satisfiedsigner]

And he found himself staring at bars. He was seconds away from falling back against the wall and sliding to the ground at the site of them. Why here? Why did he have to be here...?

Somehow he was able to stay on his feet and shuffle his way over to the bars. It wasn't Solitary, at least; it was that other cell, the one that had seen more than its share of his blood. The one where he'd did...the one where he would die. He could feel it already, the oppresive atmosphere that signaled the presence of his God. The God who would be disappointed if he just asked to be taken back right now...

Someone was in the cell across from him. Someone laying across the floor as if asleep. That was different; Security didn't like keep others in the same area he was in. They probably thought he would try to encourage an uprising. Not too far of the mark.

And whoever was in the other cell was familiar. He leaned against the bars, trying to get as close as he could. The dark hair...blue uniform...

"Saitou..." he breathed. Then, louder, "Saitou! Saitou, wake up!"

"You're out of luck."

Kiryu flinched and hissed as Cavil walked into the space between their cells. Cavil had that damn violin tuner in his hand, making that damn note, and a very satisfied expression on his face. Both turned his blood to ice again.

"You..." he hissed, clenching the cell bars in his fists. "What are you doing here?! Didn't think you liked dying so much."

Cavil just smiled and Kiryu fell to the ground in a wave of agony. This time, a scream managed to escape. He could still move, he was just in too much pain to support himself.

"I'm sure you'll be disappointed, but I won't be the one dying tonight. You on the other hand, are going to suffer before I put you out of your misery. Just like your friend there."

Kiryu sturggled to lift his head to look at Saitou again. Even with Cavil around, and he own screaming, Saitou hadn't moved.

But if Cavil had already gotten to him, maybe he was just unconscious. Please, please, just let him be unconscious. Not this...not again--

Another wave of molten fire and piercing needles everywhere. the scream ripped from his throat and his fists clentched the bars so tightly he was sure they would bruise. Still no movement.

"SAITOU!" Fuckfuckfuckwhydidithavetohurtsomuch-- "Saitou! WAKE UP! Help me, please!"

he dreams in text adventures, yep // open

[ennoble.livejournal.com]

You arrive at what appears to be a Japanese shrine, close by a river and surrounded by trees.

Do you:
>Go near the shrine
>Go near the river

[diesarock]

>Head toward the shrine

Dreaming in text adventures is a nifty thing.

[just-yuugi.livejournal.com]

Yuugi is still shivering from his own nightmare when he arrives in this new place. The sound of Anzu's screams still echo in his ears, making his palms sweat and his eyes sting.

It's just a dream. Remember what Jounouchi-kun said before.

It isn't like Honda or any of Yuugi's friends to die, thank you very much. They have to be all right.

And he has to wake up sometime.

For now, he's going to wander >towards the river and try to ignore how uneasy he feels in this place.

Closed. I mean, unless you want to get blown up by missiles or burned to death.

[diesarock]

xepi stop topping me 8(

[diesarock]

She didn't remember anything between the bright fire and the dark ice, but it was in a small room where she woke next. One light only reached its eight corners, and the low ceiling held that spark of white level with her face. Her eyes watered from the brightness, and that wetness only made it more difficult to see. She raised her hand to shield her eyes — but no, that wasn't right. Her hand rose, but its journey halted after only an inch climbed, tight restraints cutting into her wrist. Her other hand was the same; her ankles as well; leaning forward strained the bandages over her mouth, rigged to the back of the throne. She could not move, and she could not scream; her hands dropped to steel armrests, fingers curling. Even with her blurred vision, she saw the man before her and knew him, who had always been standing before her. Sweat beaded on her forehead and rolled with wretched slowness down her face, measuring the distance between her wet eyes and dry mouth. She remembered this room, and this man, and the only thing unrestrained was the drumming of her heart against her chest, of her pulse clogging in her throat and skull. Her heels kicked at the floor, shoes scratching against concrete; the light bounced off the metal he carried, round and open enough to swallow her alive.

"With this," he said, smiling and stoic, "I'll practically own you." But no matter how she thrashed she could not fight him, could not escape, and all her screams and spells were caught up in fabric and left there to die. The ring was snug around her finger, tight and wet with blood and sugar-stick coffee; her limbs were heavy, her thoughts clouded over, indistinct. She was his to command, and she would not fight him, patient and complacent as he slipped the bandage from around her mouth down, against her throat. The sound of his name made only as far as her lips before it was swallowed up, his mouth on hers and the bandage stretched tight against her larynx. The high laughter of the court pounded in her mind as she drowned, ice flooding from her lungs and suffocating her on her own screams.

The room and the man and the light and restraints and ice all burned away in fire and in the boiling screams. Her hands unbound fell to controls as familiar as footsteps, and the gears ached to turn, the heavy steady weight of metal groaned beneath her, marching through the field of effigies, all contorted poses, still dancing in their military best, the skin and fabric of their faces seared, a-bubble and a-blister, charring black and seizing up in death as she passed. They all looked the same to her; ash and grime falling to dust and clinging to the legs of her armor as she marched. The west would not save itself. Fire belched from her armor's maw, a red crackling smog sweeping through the torn streets. Cars barricaded the way, and screams colored the sky red. Always screaming, the living bombs had been unleashed on their helpless enemies, fire and thunder descending in rainstorm torrents. There were screams, she knew, but she couldn't hear them. How many dozens of people were dying this time, by her hand? She didn't have mind to count. Before her stood a man in blue, pale hair tied back and face blistering away to bone. His clothes were fine, but not his; he was not a fine man. Burn everything, he said, and she saw no reason to refuse him, incinerating the vision to purple and black.

OPEN; enjoy some labs on fire.

[soldieringblue]

Outside of it all, Blue is where he'd fallen, missing the bed nearby by just footsteps. Save for twitching fingers and knitted eyebrows, he is unmoving. Touch would be dangerous; many doors to the mind open with touch, and without his focus to keep himself hidden...

Inside, the canopy of the sky is pitch black and laced with a thousand far-away stars, and air rushes by in a violent gust, taking the sky with it. One who passes through this vacuum could look up and find that the ceiling there is far too close. The walls glint into view, stark and dimly lit from a single convex window that bends the world outside into odd distortions. The tree at the far end of the hall is bent and twisted, naked and snarled as a silhouette before an orange glow.

STOP!

The ones who pass into this dream, boxed in cells lit coldly inside and glowing hotly outside, are barraged by an endless chorus of crying voices – young, anguished voices of children and those just coming of age. Blue himself is not present at first arrival, his voice just a part of the swell of sound accompanied by the rhythmic drumming of fists slamming the walls.

Tall, white shapes bend across the window in a steady flow, ignorant of the chaotic noise and the growing heat.

[loveyourenemy.livejournal.com]

Inside one of the cells, still wearing the uniform of the enemy, Matsuka recoils from the chaos of the many voices crying out, curling in on himself as though he can make himself smaller and shrink away from the walls that enclose him.

"...disposed of, probably," Keith's voice echoes, and he wonders if this is what that means, if he's been found out - the last Mu - but it can't be, because he's not alone here. His voice is just one among the many, small and confused.

This place is - where?

OPEN

[livesarock]

A fourth apocalypse.

Darkstar's enormous wings move slowly, but every downward push sends a force of power that flattens all to the ground and crumbles the stony landscape around it. It fills the whole world with a chaotic sound, all the while a bulging, black mass steadily oozes into reality, blotting out the heavens and clawing the atmosphere into twisted colors. The only things that seem to manage to stay up and unbroken seem to be a long line of iron staffs, all chiming in a steady rhythm in a seemingly oblivious manner against the chaos surrounding.

'Darkness beyond blackest pitch, deeper than the deepest night...'

"LINA! STOP!"

Zelgadis' fingers have nothing to dig into or grasp, burning as he's dragged away from the flux of power on the horizon. Another loud BOOM presses his body back down as a tangle of vines and tendrils creep up his legs and draw him away. It feels so fast, but he barely moves; the green and blue of the sky still visible is glowing.

If nobody stops her, Lina's going to cast it – her trump. There's no way it could go right a third time; the first time was beginner's luck and the second time...Zelgadis knows there's no way it could go right. Everything will die.

"LINAAAAAAUGH!" He's somehow turned around and looking upward on the stormy sky, tinted red by the glow in Rezo's open eyes.

"Oh, Zelgadis," he sighs, his tone as condescending and gentle as always. "I'm simply giving you what you wanted."

The Hellmaster giggles from someplace unknown. "I know, I know! I'll just kill everyone until you do it!"

Zelgadis chokes on words, hands clawing at his throat. His body was on fire again, pressed back into the ground with the earth creeping over him and pushing into his skin. He screams over Rezo's musical sigh.

'Lord of Darkness, shining like gold upon the Sea of Chaos...

*barrels in, never knocks*

[diesarock]

Every inch and every foot of the in-between dreams was soaked through with the same magic that bound her here, stopping her warps and dispels as though her throat were stoppered and her power depleted. It makes it difficult for Terra to focus on much else, save for the concentrations of magic that signal another person's nightmare. It takes power to hold them together, but it's more active around human minds. As far as Terra can tell, anyway.

But even with her senses clouded in the labyrinths between, it's like goosebumps when she gets close enough to this dream. There are only so many users of magic in this world, after all, and only so many that Terra's met. And none of them come close to the number of times she's lingered around that magic, the number of times she's faced him in battle or any number of other unexpected encounters.

It's the first person she recognizes, and for a moment Terra freezes in fear. Does she have any right to intrude into his nightmares? But they are nightmares... and each one she's seen thus far have been so awful... but even if he hadn't trampled into her head, he helped her escape. She can't know what sort of nightmare he has, but if she can help him in return, then maybe...

The Armor has a better strength for finding her the entrances, but once she's inside, she almost wishes she hadn't come this way. She doesn't understand what it is that's happening, but the hair on the back of her neck stands on end and goosebumps prickle her arms as she marches forward.

"Zelgadis!"

OPEN.

[iknowyourfear.livejournal.com]

His eyes struggled in the intense overhead light. One arm lifted, affording him some meager shadow to hide behind until the burning brightness eased and his pupils had shrunk to small pinpoints. It smelled stale and sterile, too clean -- like someone had scrubbed every inch of the place in bleach, trying to hide whatever had been there before. An extermination of something shameful, maybe.

The shapes around him came into focus. A room? No -- a cell. Bars on the windows. A slight upgrade from what he imagined prison would be like. White and clean and orderly. Disturbingly lifeless. Nothing but a thin mattress, a desk, and cold walls.

That's when he heard it.

The gentle, muffled sobbing.

Somewhere inside, somewhere near.

He listened. Tension in his shoulders as he strained to make out where the noise was coming from. Under the bed? No. It was coming from -- the closet. There. He hesitated. Not afraid, but wary, unsure of what he expected to find inside. His fingers curled in the handle, pausing -- filling his ears with the sounds of misery coming from inside -- before he finally jerked the sliding door open.



His heart stopped in his chest. He would have died, maybe, if dying was something he could have done.

He knows what to call the thing he sees, curled up and rotting in that closet. Shaking corpse shoulders and a tight straitjacket, skin pulled so thin over jutting bones it looks that every might just tear and break. He can't breathe, can't think for a moment. He can taste his own fear in the back of his throat, vivid and real and so unlike the dull hammering of another person's terrors throbbing in his mind uninvited.

He knows what to call the thing he sees.

"Mom?"




He stumbles out of the room, sucking in air, staggering out into a hallway as white and sterile as everything else. He recognizes this place now. They let him come once, to see her -- but the sight of him sent her into fits. She kept screaming, screaming, screaming. They had to drag her away from her own flesh and blood because she couldn't bear to look at him.

This was the asylum they locked her away in. After he'd ruined her.

This wasn't real.

He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes hard. Counted to three. He knew what this place felt like, he'd seen it before. In the minds of others. When he was laying in his bed at night, his brain infiltrated by the nightmares of the residents next door. He knew it, he just had to convince his body of it before his heart throbbed out of his chest.

He could feel his power pulsing in his veins. Like a hungry dog, waiting to be unleashed. He could feel people around him, afraid, connected on some thread he couldn't see. A part of him belonged in his place. The part that wasn't shaking from the most dark, disturbing image of his own mother his own mind had conjured up.

He sank down against the wall and tried to convince himself of what he knew.

*CRASHES INTO THE TRAUMA WARD

[diesarock]

It was, strangely, one of the most stable dreams she had come across. It was easier to traverse on foot, shoes clicking and echoing down empty hallways. It wasn't like any building she was used to, and the short hairs of her neck prickled and stood on end.

Or, the place was mostly empty. Turning one corner, Terra spotted the first person she'd come across in this particular realm; it was something of a relief.

"Hello?"

OPEN; join the Battle of Hogwarts

[equalled.livejournal.com]

Welcome to Hogwarts, School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Normally the safest place you could imagine, but not now. Perhaps when you first enter this dream it may seem so, a beautiful castle intact and well, but blink once and the illusion is broken. The first sign is the Dark Mark (http://images3.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20080810145426/harrypotter/images/9/97/Dark_Mark.JPG) floating above the castle. Look down and it's utter chaos. Hogwarts is under heavy siege and it's losing. It's a bloody battlefield and danger lurks wherever you go. Parts of the castle are on fire.

Outside the Forbidden Forest is teeming with terrible Dark creatures of all sorts. The Grounds are full of huge spiders climbing the castle's walls and breaking in, and giants who will trample anyone in their way, be they friend or foe. Among them are Death Eaters who leave destruction in their wake. There are people fighting them - mostly students, by the looks of them - their spells flashing brightly in the dark night, but quite a few have already fallen, like Hogwarts' very own Gamekeeper and the small, dying giant beside him. Get inside the castle and you'll find the hallways littered with bodies of students, members of the Order of the Phoenix and teachers alike, and the floor slick with blood. If you make your way through, some of the bodies may suddenly move and grab to strangle you. Only light and fire will fend them off. There aren't as many Death Eaters here and those that are there are engaged in combat with some survivors. There is also a werewolf with a taste for the flesh of children lurking around somewhere. The biggest group of Death Eaters can be found in the Great Hall where a pale, snake-like figure occupies the Headmaster's chair, a large snake coiled at his feet, clearly looking victorious. Recklessly entering would mean certain death or unbearable torture.

Speaking of the Headmaster, the Headmaster's office lies in ruins. The gargoyle usually guarding the entrance is smashed, leaving the way open. Inside all the portraits have been torn apart and mystical trinkets lie broken all over the floor. So where is the actual Headmaster? His body can be found outside at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower. There's a phoenix circling the body, singing a mournful song that pierces the very soul.

If you manage to go deeper into the castle, towards the dungeons, it will go eerily quiet. Signs of battle can't be found here and it almost seems safe. Only enter classrooms and you will find Dementors (http://blogs.gonzaga.edu/careercenter/files/2009/06/bloghogwarts-dementor.jpg) there, sucking happiness out of the air and waiting to steal souls. In one room a tall stone pointed archway that looks ancient and is hung with a veil can be found. If you have ever lost loved ones, their voices will be heard from behind the Veil — beckoning. If you are especially unfortunate, you might walk into the Basilisk (http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20090407194347/harrypotter/images/thumb/e/ec/Slytherin%27s_Basilisk.jpg/250px-Slytherin%27s_Basilisk.jpg) that's slithering through the corridors. It's advisable not to look into its eyes or at its reflection, doing so will kill you or petrify you respectively.

Wherever you go, you might stumble across a small, skinny, bespectacled eleven-year-old boy dragging a silver sword with him.

[trueltning_fury]

Geddoe had shrugged himself out his nightmare almost instantly. He was used to them - the endless plain scorched free of any trace of life, the choking dust hanging in the air, it was all so typical that he didn't even flinch. He had wrestled his consciousness out of that dream on and off for nearly eighty years, so doing it again was not hard at all.

What was strange, though, was that once he began walking and the wasteland melted away behind him, he didn't come awake. Instead, he found himself in the halls of a ruined castle. This is strange, he thought as he walked, rubble crunching under the thick soles of his boots. He tried to identify it, but it didn't look like a castle he had ever been in. It wasn't Budehuc. It wasn't Brass Castle. It looked nothing like the Blight castle lands in Highland or the capitol residence in Gregminster. He had never been south, but he doubted it was the royal palace at Falena, either. But there was clearly a war going on, something Geddoe recognized all too well.

He heard the noise of someone else coming from a side corridor, and paused, placing his hand on the sword at his hip. "Who's there?" he called out sternly.

OPEN. But Eleanor won't be leaving her dream till Terra shows up. Also kinda crazy long.

[notyourutopian]

Pauper’s Drop. It was Rapture’s dirty little secret, a massive slum running beneath the Atlantic Express rail storage station filled with the workers, the builders, the ‘little people’ who had raised Rapture from the sea bed and then been forgotten when they had nothing more to offer. Poorly built, barely maintained, water had been leaking into the Drop long before the rest of the city had started to fall apart. The pumps never really kept up, everything was always a little damp, a little drippy, just a smidge too cold to ever let you really relax.

Eleanor hit the ground hard, falling to her knees with the wind knocked out of her as if she’d leapt off a roof. She dropped forward, catching herself on her hands, and blinked as water splashed up to obscure her vision for a moment, draining down the front of her helmet. What? She was…she was kneeling in nearly a foot of water, the ground beneath her cracked and broken from years of neglect. Rapture?

She pushed herself to her feet slowly and turned to look around. The massive, ramshackle frame of the Sinclair Deluxe stood before her, water draining slowly from dozens of shattered windows and broken stairwells. She’d remembered this place vividly…though she hadn’t been here in years. Since before she’d been taken by Fontaine, turned into a little sister…

The hotel hadn’t changed much, in truth. There was more water, more pumps must have failed over the years, but otherwise. She twisted around, the light from her helmet tracing over the shattered sides of the building until she spotted Grace’s room, way up near the top. Her second home, she’d lived there nearly a year. It was as close as she’d ever came to a normal life.

But how had she gotten here? The last thing she remembered, she’d been going for a walk in Central Park, she hadn’t been wearing her suit, and then…and then…

“Eleanor Lamb you bad chil’, you got no right comin’ back here,” the voice was female, the rich alto of a long-practiced blues singer, and it seemed to come from everywhere around her. It echoed so loudly it knocked all thoughts away except the here and now.

“Aunt Gracie?”

“Aunt Gracie? You don’t get to call me that no more, girl. Not after you run away from me. Don’t you think I remember?” As the voice of Grace talked, Eleanor ran through the water, peering in the ground floor windows, hunting for her. The former singer wasn’t talking through the radio, she wasn’t talking through the hotel speaker, it was like…she was everywhere.

“I didn’t run away! They took me!” She stopped moving, trying to shout, hearing the distortion in her voice as it pushed through the speaker in her helmet. “Stanley Poole, he stole me and put me that horrible orphanage! And then Doctor Alexander, he…he…I wanted to come back!”

[notyourutopian]

“It don’t matter none now. I see what you become, chil’; a monster, just like that Big Daddy that used to ‘protect’ you. Well, you know what we do with monsters in the Drop. Get rid of it, Family. I don’t wanna ever see her again.” The voice was suddenly gone.

“Aunt Gracie! Please! I’m not a monster! I’m not…” Unconsciously she pressed her gloved hand into her stomach, feeling where she knew the Sea Slug she could never touch but was always there lurked beneath her skin. “I was going to come ba-“

A fist the size of a cinderblock suddenly slammed into the side of her helmet, the force strong enough to lift her off the ground and fly across the courtyard to slam into one of the waterfall-covered walls. She slumped down, seeing stars, and barely noticed the water that was suddenly pouring over her.

A roar from a few feet away revealed the source of the fist…a brute splicer, more gorilla than man, dressed in a soiled too-small blue suit. He roared twice, slamming his hands into the ground, and the force snapped Eleanor out of her daze. Behind him splicers were rushing into the courtyard from the hotel, holding bats and knives and guns.

The Brute charged. Eleanor lashed out, instincts taking over, and didn’t stop until she felt the barely-there resistance as the syringe on her arm plunged into the soft tissue beneath the mans jaw and punched up through bone and flesh into his brain. He stopped, jolting up like a puppet with its strings cut mid-jump and then started to tumble forward on top of her.

Eleanor managed to catch him with her powers, bracing a knee against the ground and grunting through the pressure as she pushed him into the air and hurled him towards the other splicers, stumbling several steps before she caught herself. The brute crashed into several of the approaching splicers, crushing them against the floors and wall, but the others continued towards her.

“I’m not a monster..” Eleanor let out a scream, feeling her helmet amplify it into the terrifying Big Sister screech that everyone in Rapture feared. Her attackers stumbled backwards, covering their ears or cowering in fright, and Eleanor twisted around and took off, lashing out at the doors of the hotel and sending them spinning off their hinges as she leapt through them and away from the mob.

“Where you gonna run, chil’? There ain’t nowhere safe for you in the Drop, and your momma is comin’ now. Sofia Lamb is gonna put you back in your place, monster. Ain’t nothin’ you can do ‘bout it now.” Grace’s voice filled the air again, so loud Eleanor was sure it should have shook the walls around her, driving away any thoughts of why this was going on, of how it could be happening.

I’m not a monster. I’m NOT.

OPEN since he's not going anywhere

[hackeralastair]

Alastair didn't remember falling asleep, but the nightmares started off normal enough. He knew these, he knew what to do - he ran away. He ran from the tanks, he ran from the helicopters armed with air-to-surface missiles, he ran from the refugee camp. When he heard his former master's snide cackle echoing through the entire world, he ran from that, too.

The surge of green light came up and around him before he could stop running, trapping him. A mystic circle inscribed on the ground, becoming alive, swallowing him up. He tried to run from it, but couldn't. His limbs froze, his chest ached, his mind went fuzzy. In the next instant the green light clapped out, extinguished by the darkness itself. Alastair could see nothing, but a part of him knew what it was. Ever since Blue had opened his repressed memories, he knew.

The sense of being trapped came from actually being trapped. His arms and legs were encased in a substance that felt like nothing, it had no texture, no sensation, it was neither slimy nor rough, neither cold nor warm. Yet, it held him completely immobilized. Tendrils of it began wrapping around his thighs, his torso, then his chest. Alastair was terrified, but it was the sort of fear that paralyzed, literally. He didn't struggle because he knew it was futile. He didn't try to run because he knew he couldn't. This was his fate, this was all he was good for. He was food. Everything he did in life or tried to do, every grasp at living, it was all pointless because he was only going to be absorbed and used as fuel. He had failed everyone. His friends, his family, they were all gone. They were going to be food as well. They were plastered into the wall of purplish-black ooze just like him, only their faces and maybe a hand or a foot sticking out - unconscious, lifeless, about to be absorbed.

Alastair gave in to the nightmare. His head drooped, and his eyes fluttered half-closed. The pharaoh didn't know him, so he wouldn't know to come and save him. Everyone else who could save him was trapped with him. The Leviathan was going to be raised and unleashed on the world, all because they failed. Tears shone on his long eyelashes, but he couldn't find the will to speak or cry out, to beg for help, to ask for forgiveness. The ropes of darkness laced around him and slowly dragged him into the Leviathan, and he couldn't stop it. But the real torture was not knowing how long it would take to be completely engulfed and absorbed by the mystical beast. For the days on end that the nightmare lasted, he hung in limbo, given over to his fear and waiting to die but never truly dying.

[shiromadoushi]

"Oniichan!"

His voice seemed so small as he struggled forward. Alastair was somewhere near by, he knew it, he could feel it, even through the Darkness that impeded his motion.

"Oniichan, where are you!

OPEN last edit i swear, frickin' disappearing titles

[bluffing-ruffle.livejournal.com]

It would have been nice to say that his nightmare was a wild, lengthy flight through repressed subconscious memories made into entire worlds filled with hidden meanings and subtle tortures.

Perhaps if there had been an element of whimsy instead--such as an elderly women with three red barrettes in her hair with the mouth of a lamprey--he would have been able to break free of it on his own, and with ease.

But Miles Edgeworth was a direct, blunt sort of man most times.

And so were the things that haunted him.

He lay there inside of the elevator, nothing but a weak shadow of a man curled into himself in the back right corner, half-hidden from view by the bodies of the dead that had overflowed and spilled out of the doors to carpet the shining, tiled floor--a salt-and-pepper haired man in a grey suit, a wolf, the girl with green hair, a black dog, a young lady with a whip in her hand, and a half-dozen others--while the rocky bowl of earth that was his surrounding shook itself apart with violent tremors, crumbling, the edges rapidly falling away.

The faces of every man, woman, and child he'd damned to death in his own world stared down at him from above, watching as his adoptive mentor recited from a never-ending list of charges consisting solely of their names, banging an ornate gavel and bellowing GUILTY at each one.

He had run through it four times, by then. The ground would continue to sink and disappear in ever-shrinking rings, until at last the center pillar fell as well, pouring him and everyone he loved into the pit below, dropping them into nothingness.

And just as it toppled at last, Edgeworth feeling the icy wind as it whipped through his hair and clothes during his descent and chilled his skin beyond even the natural cold he'd become accustomed to in the City, he found himself wondering if he would hit the bottom this time before the hard jolt that signaled he'd started over once again.

When his consciousness--such as it was--returned, and he found himself pressed back into the elevator with a complement of rotting, stinking corpses jammed in, waiting for the readout to ping and allow for the doors to open so that they could tumble out into a crumpled heap and bear continued witness to his sins, he started to cry in silence as well.

It's not that he isn't strong enough to leave.

It's that he doesn't feel he has the right to.

mind if I drop by?

[trueltning_fury]

As he passed from one dream world to the next, Geddoe stayed alert, looking for the originators of these dreams. Some of them were truly horrific, but to a man such as him who had seen far too much war and death, the sight of gruesome murdered bodies was actually commonplace.

The shaking beneath his boots, though. He didn't like that. Lightning was weak against Earth. But as long as it wasn't a mage casting a spell, he could keep his feet just fine. The chime in the darkness and the sudden spill of light illuminating the pile of bodies was a clue to where the next poor victim might be. He shouldered into the doorway, a black shadow with a stern face and the creak of leather. Was that...that was Lupin's partner, wasn't it?

Late, but open

[out_of_time]

In the real world, Jack Bauer has fallen asleep at his desk, which is unheard of in the police force: Jack sleeping, to say nothing of sleeping at work. He twitches, he moans. A tear falls down his face and stains the unfinished paperwork his head is resting on.

In the Dreamscape, there is a room. Plain, sleek, modern, high-tech, dominated by a small desk crowded with computers and documents. There’s a missing panel on one of the walls, a trail of blood leaking out from somewhere. It’s dark in the room, the lights are out. Without looking at the clock, one can feel that it is midnight.

Jack is sitting against a pillar in this room next to the desk, shaking and shuddering. He looks at least ten years younger in this place, but at the same time older and more tired than he's ever been in the City. A woman is cradled in his arms. She is not moving or breathing. Her arms hang limply by her sides. An ugly red splotch stains the front of her white shirt. Even though she will never hear him, he is telling her “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry,” over and over again, as though he will never, ever leave this room. In a way, he never will.

Jack Bauer is crying like a child.

[prodigitalson.livejournal.com]

From darkness into darkness: it's almost a comfortable transition. Keith rarely remembers his dreams--he's trained himself not to--so when he feels the outside pressure of something on his sleeping mind, it simply becomes a matter of forcing himself to wake up.

Into another man's dream.

There's emotion in the air. He can feel it without having any special ability. It's as dangerous as always to him. He zeroes in on the source, studies Jack Bauer expressionlessly.

For some reason, he thinks of Seki Ray Shiroe, and of pulling the trigger. But he says, "Jack Bauer. Did you fulfill your duty?" It seems like the most important question to ask.

OPEN

[allthecards]

Kaiba woke up at the desk in his office. At least that’s where he assumed he was, that’s where he had been not two seconds ago. Everything was hazy, it was hard to think. He couldn’t even focus on having fallen asleep at his desk, it didn’t seem important anyway. The room started to come into focus. It was completely silent inside, the only noise was coming from outside the windows. It was too feint to make out. What was it? Laughter? Screams? It was impossible to tell.

He didn’t know why, but he knew he had to follow them. The windows were dark, but a yellow light was shining from underneath the door. Walking through the door didn’t bring him to the reception area of his office as it should have. It was a completely different building. Sterile, dead. Open doors showed bunk bends lined up along every wall. The sound wasn’t coming from here, it was back in the room he’d just left.

Kaiba went to open the door again, but stopped. The light in between the seams were so bright. It changed from red to glowing white. It was hard to look at. He brought his arm up to shield his eyes, when he was roughly turned around.

“What are you doing, boy?”

A now ten year old Seto stumbled with the force of the blow that accompanied those words.

”Sleeping before work is done? Have you spent too much time playing with your stupid games that you forgot your first lesson?”

“Ah!” Seto cried out at the second blow unable to keep quite. He could feel blood dripping down from the gash that had been left. That wasn’t a switch, what was…

Seto looked up at his step father. Of course he hadn’t been the one to strike, he would leave it to his tutors and goons. But where he expected to see men in suits he saw monsters. Not just any monsters…his monsters. His faithful Battle Ox was staring at him, as blood dripped from his ax.

Seto didn’t wait for the next insult and strike he knew was coming. He took off down the hallway of the orphanage. The sounds from before were coming from every door now. More distinct. They were laughter and screams. He ran faster recognizing the pained roar.

The orphanage disappeared and he slid to a stop just before falling over a black cliff. He didn’t know how he knew there was a pit there, everything was black but he knew to stop. There were no discerning features here. He knew this place, it was the darkness where he’d pieced together his heart. But it wasn’t him at the bottom of the pit.

The Blue Eyes White Dragon was crammed at the bottom of the tiny circle. Strapped down and in pain. The very symbols of power caged. The darkness moved around the dragon, as the jeering grew. Whatever was causing the screams were too blended into the black to make out.

Footsteps behind him, who knows what below. Between the two, he knew which he preferred and jumped.

[hackeralastair]

Alastair was still towing Bakura as they ran out of his nightmare, having absolutely no idea that they had actually blundered into someone else's. The corridors leading away from the temple scene were all black, and unlike somewhere in reality, their footsteps did not echo nor did they give any indication how big the space was, what it was made of, anything like that. Eventually, though, he saw a speck of light in the darkness and made for it, not knowing what else to do.

It wasn't until they were much closer that Alastair realized he knew that person - and that dragon. Oh, wonderful, now his subconscious was making him dream about Kaiba. Awesome. "What the hell now?" he complained out loud, his voice much clearer in the darkness than he expected.

OPENnnish only misty and shiva can 'save' him but feel free to just walk through, try to save, etc

[iron-fister.livejournal.com]

[iron-fister.livejournal.com]

Behind him, a wolf pack's howls mix with the rumbling roars of dragons. In front, the faint buzz of crowds of people walking and talking. New York City. Danny would recognize the sounds anywhere, just as he would recognize the roars and howls of the animals somewhere behind him. He walks towards where he thinks the New York noise is coming from, cautious and slow.

Earlier, when he had woken up, he found himself on the ground. Or what he thought was the ground. He hadn't been able to tell. The world was pure white, with no recognizable forms of walls, floors or ceilings around. Just white. Blinding white light. He had sat up, blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Everything was silent then. It wasn't until he had stood up and started walking that the noises started.

They were getting closer now, the sound of the wolves. They got closer with every step he took towards New York. He couldn't see where either noise was coming from. No matter how much he looked back he just saw blankness, and whenever he looked forward he saw the same. Still, he kept walking, calm as he could in this situation, until the sound of the wolves was deafening. Right in his ears.

He whipped around and saw nothing. He stared at the nothingness, facing it down for a few long minutes before slowly turning back.

He faced forward and a gust of sound hit him in the face, a heavy wind blowing in his face, pushing him back, as screams, shouts, screeches and wails flew past him. He closed his eyes, fell to his knees, hands on his ears until the sound stopped and everything was silent again. Looking up, he found the world had changed.

There was identifiable ground now-a sort of grey mud that grabbed at his feet and refused to let go. The white, blinding light had dimmed into a dusk. Danny stood still and looked around, tense and on edge.

OPEN, but he's not going anywhere useful

[notlikeanyone]

The scene starts out the way it always does, a dream he's had so many times but none the less real for that.

His mother's arms are warm around him, holding him high so that he can see the circus as she carries him, his father smiling next to them. He stares around, and the colours are so bright, clowns with painted faces and outlandish costumes; it's noisy and full of shouts and laughter, and smells he's never experienced before - so crowded and overwhelming and new, he gets scared, starts crying and struggling in his mother's arms. Their faces creasing with worry, his parents light up as they see another young boy, a bit older than Tim and with a smile that seems to light up the whole place and draw them in. They hand Tim to him and he hugs the younger boy, and everything falls away, the noise and chaos replaced by a warm feeling of safety.

Everything warped around them, and it feels like he's flying, being lifted up and dangled from the boy's - from Dick's hands, swinging through the air. Everything is dark around them, one yellow spotlight casting a stark beam of light, and he can see the trapeze Dick is swinging on, disappearing into a roof obscured by the blinding point of light. His stomach freezes - they're going to fall, he knows they are, and there's nothing below them but darkness, endless black waiting to swallow them up. He looks down and it's like the shadows are moving, deep in the pit, waiting for them to fall as he knows they must. He looks back up again and it's not Dick holding him any more, it's Batman, the cowl flaring around him like inky black smoke, face a pale rictus grin. He feels himself trying to yell, to scream a warning, but no sound comes out - not out of him. A shot rings out, and Batman's head explodes in a bloody mess, red splashing hotly across Tim's face as he slips from the now limp hands, desperately crying out as he falls, watching Bruce's body burn in the spotlight and disappear as he's swallowed up by the darkness.

Grasping darkness.

Grasping hands, cold and sharp, tugging at his hair and clothes and skin as he falls, trying to pull him in, trying to claim a piece of hm. So many hands, slick gauntlets that feel familiar and curving claws that don't, and he twists and curls in on himself as he falls, trying to avoid them. Whatever's at the bottom of the darkness, it has to be better than being taken by the hands, it has to - if there's a bottom at all.

[notlikeanyone]

It feels like forever, and no time at all, before he's hitting the bottom - grass. Cold, slightly wet, the dew from just before morning clinging to the blades and damp against his skin. He opens his eyes and wishes he hadn't; there's no mistaking where he is. The graveyard. Crumbling tombstones all around him, engraved with familiar names partly covered by creeping ivy. His parents, Dana, Darla, Young El, even Jason and Steph and Kon and Bart, though he knows - he knows they came back, that the graves have to be empty.

And Bruce.

Bruce - that's wrong, and it feels like he's been punched in the gut. With a low shout, he stumbles forward and starts clawing at the earth, digging into the grave with his hands until his fingers ache, caked with mud and scratched by tiny stones and roots he unearths. Finally, he exposes the lid of the coffin, rotten wood, and hears a steady thump... thump... from inside. He's alive. He was right, Bruce is alive - buried alive - he pounds on the coffin lid and digs his fingers in, ignoring the gashes he opens, staining the coffin with red blossoms as it splinters away, pulling it open. Bruce is inside, and he smiles up at Tim.

"I knew you'd find me, son..."

The smile falls away into a frown as Bruce reaches up to touch Tim's face. There's a second of contact, warm and rough and enough to make his heart leap - and then Bruce's hand is dissolving, crumbling into dust. His whole arm - his body - turning to ash.

"Too late."

His face crumbles away and Tim is left staring at a pile of ash, on top of a crumpled Batsuit. He scrabbles at the bottom of the empty coffin in disbelief, then has to jump back with a cry as it bursts into flames, burning away to nothing. He can hear Darkseid's laughter echoing as cool mist curls around him, and for a second he sees Secret's face before it, too, melts away, back into the mist.

He pulls himself together and climbs out of the grave, collapsing onto the grass.

OPEN fffff I'm sorry guys I wrote a novel

[batmantled.livejournal.com]

Dick is eight years old.

He is eight, waiting on the platform under miles of tent, and they’ve stopped the music at last.

This is where the nightmare begins.

When the music stops it’s time to climb down the rungs, time to go and see them up close, and when he moves he barely feels the chafe of the wood on his hands he’s so raw.

He lets them go six above the ground and he stumbles when he drops and sees Mom first, with her head twisted at that same angle it always is. For a second he feels that old, gut deep urge to throw up. Instead he swallows and lets his legs buckle until he’s on the ground in between them. He touches Dad’s hair once, and it still has sparkles in it.

By the time he gets here he’s almost relieved, because this part – the really bad part - is almost over already. Bruce is here, watching right there in the audience, and in a minute he’ll take his hand and lead him out of the ring. He’ll wait with him by the side of the big top until the police come, and he won’t say anything while he shakes and shakes and can’t even cry.

So he waits and he closes his eyes, and he touches Dad’s hair and feels the sparkles one more time because that’s the part he wants to remember. And maybe if he does one of these days he’ll forget the way the blood pools out in between them on the hard-packed dirt, mixed with old popcorn and ciggerette butts; mingling together so it soaks into his costume where he’s kneeling. Getting on his hands where he’s touching Dad, near that crack where his skull is coming open. It makes him shake and he squeezes his eyes shut and starts rocking a little back and forth.

But Bruce is coming. And any second now he’ll be here.

"Dick," Bruce says, and the hand that touches his shoulder is like cold water in the desert. It’s been so long. He’s waited so long. He reaches out for Bruce and this time the arms come up and fold him in, like he’s always wished they would. And that makes him shake again and he holds on and he can’t breathe because Bruce doesn’t let him this close anymore. Not ever. I’m sorry, he wants to say. I gave up, I’m so sorry.

And the arms tighten a little more, tighten enough that it starts to hurt, enough that he has to pull away and when he opens his eyes it’s not Bruce who’s holding him.

Slade touches his cheek, strokes his face through the dampness like it’s his.

He lets go and stumbles back until he hits the wall that’s behind him. He’s stunned and dizzy and angry - angry with himself for making such a mistake. Angry with Slade, furious with Slade for stealing this moment. For taking the memory and twisting it, like this.

So he twists and tries to punch, tries to turn fast enough and give Slade that blow he deserves but his fist is eight years old and a hand – a hand – reaches out and closes over it. And when he turns to look he sees-

-he sees Nightwing.

Only it’s Slade’s Nightwing all in black, smiling and smiling while he squeezes; tightens and squeezes harder, too hard, harder than Nightwing’s hand should ever be, hard enough that he has to scream when he feels the bones breaking. And when the hand lets go he falls.

When he opens his eyes he sees that figure in black, that familiar body moving towards that door. And with a sick, sick jolt he knows why Bruce isn’t here. Why he couldn’t make it to the circus this time.

Oh there is more

[batmantled.livejournal.com]

He shakes his hand and starts running, running past Slade who doesn’t move – who just stands there and lets him get past.

He runs but the air feels thick around him, so thick it’s hard to breathe. It’s hard to move. And he hears Bruce’s voice calling Robin, ragged and sharp. Calling Robin, needing Robin.

He can do this. He will do this. The other Dick is far ahead, moving with that singular, rigid focus and the sight makes him sick.

"Please..." he says out loud, but he’s not sure who it is he’s begging. "Please, please please-"

And just like that, like it hears him and knows, the air evaporates and he pushes through. He reaches the door and it opens finally, and-

-And he’s back in the center ring.

The audience roars so he raises his arm and waves. He needs to try a smile. Needs to force it, if he has to.

He lets it sit there while he searches the crowd, because Bruce is here somewhere. He’s here, and this time he won’t give up. He’ll never, never stop looking.

So he turns a little and then he sees him finally, pinned to the wall where the knife throwers practice.

Pinned with a spear through his gut.

No.

"Bruce," he whispers. Bruce’s face is ashen under the cowl. He slides his hand up and feels for that dead pulse. Beat.

His hands feel numb when he rips out the spear, feels muscle tear and something softer, deeper inside. No pulse. Not breathing.

No. Not like this.

Bruce’s body sags on him and crumples, so he lets it fall and stretches him out on the ground; starts compressions and breathes for him. One, two, three.

He’s bleeding out so fast. So fast and that’s not even fair. If there’s no pulse he shouldn’t be bleeding. He wants to scream.

"Please," he says out loud. One, two, three compressions. Breathe. Not giving up. Never giving up.

Not this time.

OPEN;

[natureinblood]

[OOC: Warning for triggering content.]

He has never been a victim in life. Not even when faced with the disgust and fear that wizards regularly threw his way once they learned of his condition, or the pitying sympathies from friends. He has survived, accepted, and borne the weight of it since he lived through that first full moon.

But in his nightmares, it's...

Easy.

No, not there.

The voice echoes through the trees, child-like and frightened between ragged breaths. For an instant, he can see something moving between the trees as he walks, feet bare and bleeding as they crush the leaves beneath them, though he's been trying desperately to keep his steps quiet. His own breathing matches the distant gasping cries of the child and he pushes forward desperately.

Stop.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the massive form stalking quickly behind him. He walks faster, trying to get to the child first and the trees close in, branches reaching out like claws to tear and shred at his clothes and skin. Arms wrap around him from behind, a hand tearing the fabric of his clothes, too strong even for him to break their hold, hot breath stinking of blood across his neck and the teeth ripping at his shoulder are all too human.

No, don't.

He screams.

And everything falls away and he's alone, blood pouring from the wound on his shoulder, soaking the leaf covered ground as he only just stops himself from falling face first into it. Shivering, he waits for the predatory laugh, but there's nothing, just a child sobbing.

Stumbling to his feet, he sees the small house and even smaller child, his arm mangled and bloody as he bleeds and there are bodies. So many bodies at the child's feet and he recognizes messy black hair on one, the bright green eyes of another, the ragged shell of an innocent man, and the grey hair and eyes of another with his hands at his own throat. All of them dead, staring with unforgiving eyes and he looks at the child, shaking him.

Why did you let this happen?

Shaking himself.

Fenrir isn't alone this time, licking blood from his lips as he prowls closer, a rodent-faced man close at his heels, looking more dangerous than he ever did in life. It's a version of him that Remus doesn't know, where fear of death is not what turned him, and power crackles under his skin where he lived beneath Remus's very feet. Memories and dreams he shouldn't be having and his child self begins to cry again.

Above them, the full moon rises.

And Remus loses his mind.

Bones crack and break and the scream that's painfully from him dissolves into a snarl. Fenrir gives a wicked snarl, grabbing the child - who won't stop screaming and begging - before he disappears. And with a triumphant smirk, Peter is gone, leaving him alone, tearing at the bodies and himself in lieu of other prey.

[shiromadoushi]

Kaiba had just been with him. He wasn't sure where the other had gone, but he was sure that he had just--

A howl and he freezes. What was--

No, this was wrong. Something had changed again, where--

The moon was so bright...

Sirius is having a familiar nightmare. [OPEN]

[purmoncul.livejournal.com]

He's trapped in a bedroom that he knows it's his, but nothing in it looks familiar. The clothes in the closet aren't his, black velvet so soft and rich it looks like it's coated in oil, pale shirts starched so crisp it hurts to touch them. Embroidered constellations and serpentine snatches of green. The floor is made of old coins, which crunch dusty and brittle under his feet, and they send red dust up into the air. He knows better than to look in the mirror, though he can see it sucking the air out of the room, leaving nothing but the taste of dust and dark magic and blood behind. It coats his tongue and he begins choking, clawing at his throat.

The collar around his neck (a joke gift James gave him last Christmas, a point of pride, a rebellion and a comfort) rots and bursts off into a squirming mass of maggots that crawl over his body, into his hands, carpeting the floor. They make it impossible to stand, to find purchase, but he lurches anyway, desperate to escape the airless room. There are worse things, he knows, much worse things beyond the door, but the window, the window's there, leaking dim light into the room like a path of hope. Though the roiling floor sucks at him, he claws and fights his way up to.

There's nothing visible through the thick and dirty glass, but he can hear voices, a multitude of them, the sound of the Great Hall at dinner. He can smell clean air on the other side, a forest wet with night and freedom, a stag, a rat and a wolf. Everything he ever wanted is beyond that window, and sirius suddenly starts screaming, beating at the window with his fists while maggots crawl up his torso. The window is a false promise, however - no one beyond it can hear him, or if they do they don't care. There is a price he knows he has to pay, and though he knows it will kill him (it always, always does), he finally punches through the glass. It's almos comforting, feeling the glass dig into his skin - he'll die, he'll escape, he'll wake up once more in his own bed.

Only this time, that doesn't happen. He does not wake up, he just hangs there, caught on the jagged glass by his own flesh as hot blood courses down over his face. The maggots are gone, replaced by coiling cords of his own blood that suddenly rise as snakes. There are snakes in his blood and they strike at him, piercing his flesh, and he is too tired now to fight them off or try to crawl further out. All he can do is hold on with that one hand through the window, one hand in the light, and sob.

HI.

[rabhas]

Heine supposes he's lucky. He knows his own nightmares inside and out; it's nothing to jerk himself awake, pull away from the images stained red with blood and his own screams. But when he blinks his eyes open, he's not awake. He's somewhere else, and Heine doesn't recognize this particular place.

And he recognizes the boy crying. It's the boy from the Network, the one that talked and talked, a rush of cheerful words and laughter that had left Heine caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement. Heine steps closer to the glass, pressing his hand to the Sirius's face, studying him quietly.

"Stop crying." Heine tells him, voice pitched loudly enough to penetrate the glass.

closed ; daredevil

[lukefuckingcage.livejournal.com]

Luke's standing in the middle of an empty street in an old neighborhood. He recognizes the street signs and buildings down to the last brick. The scent is the same mixture of garbage and pollution in the air. The droning of the cars passing by and the kids playing on the street surrounds him, but when Luke takes one step onto the sidewalk and looks around again, he doesn't see anyone. It's Harlem, it's home, but it's completely devoid of life. There's cars parked and the sky is beating down against the black top, but there's nothing that suggests people were here. It's like everyone cleared out and didn't look back.

He furrows his brows and doesn't make a sound as he turns back to the building in front of him. He recognizes it as his apartment. It's modest and was renovated just a few years prior to moving in with Jessica and the baby. The window on the third floor is open and Luke thinks he hears crying. His heart hammers in his chest and in just a few steps, he's in the apartment and running up the stairs as fast as his legs can carry him.

The door to his apartment is unlocked. He opens it and calls out excitedly, "Jessica? Baby?"

He looks around, but the apartment is filled with the same eery lifelessness as outside. Luke's face falls as he cautiously searches the place. There's dishes still in the sink and there's noises coming from the TV despite it being shut off. He makes his way into Danielle's room and freezes.

There's cracks in the wall and broken plasters all over the floor. Splatters of blood cover the wall paper and the crib. The white blankets are stained. The blood itself has since dried (how long?) and turned a murky, disgusting brown. The stench is foul and so strong, Luke almost gags. He doesn't want to step any further inside, but he does and he sees flashes of Jessica and Danielle and a struggle that turned into a losing fight and--are these memories? Hallucinations? His paranoid brain working into over drive? He can't tell as they come so strongly that he collapses to his knees and covers his mouth with his hand and squeezes his eyes shut. His free hand curls into a fist and pounds into the floor, cracking the hardwood even more.

this is a novel, i'm sorry

[guardiandevil]

There's roughly fifty blocks between Hell's Kitchen and Harlem without getting into the heart of either, and Matt Murdock just sprinted the entire way. It felt like he'd been running for hours, and by the time he collapsed on the front stoop of the building, he was certain he'd drop dead if he tried to run again. He could walk still, maybe, if he had to, if he had to get away from the sounds and the smells that were waiting for him back on the West Side, but doing anything more than sitting and gasping for oxygen was almost certainly out of the question. Not after what he'd heard, not after what he'd seen.

That's how he knew it was a dream. In his dreams he could still see. He could see the people he'd killed, the people he let die. He saw Karen, he could see her blue eyes as clear as crystals, he could see the way her blonde hair framed her heart shaped face, he could see the look in those clear blue eyes as the life faded from them and the warm red blood oozed from the hole in her chest.

Nude corpses of women he'd loved, stacked high, in the dozens. Women who were dead; Karen Page, Heather Glenn, Glorianna O'Breen, Elektra Natchios… and women who were still alive and breathing, suffocating beneath the bodies. Natasha was beneath them, Milla too. And Gemma. All of them stuck in the pile of death beside the people he'd failed to save.

He tried to move the bodies, tried to dig the survivors out, but every time he touched a lifeless body and moved it, it would split into two, and it was only a matter of minutes before he was swimming in the bodies of the dead.

Seconds later, his world went black again and he plunged back into the familiar. No more visions of beautiful women, broken and bleeding and all encompassing. Just blackness and pressure. He had to push out, he had to free himself.

Freeing himself required the breaking of bones. He could hear the sick sound of bones snapping, of tendons tearing apart in their lifeless bodies, the hollow, curdling screams of the living ones being crushed beneath. He would drown here with them if he could. He would gladly die for them. But he was selfish, he was flawed. He couldn't save them from this fate. They were doomed to their destiny in this black, bloody pit while he was free to move and breathe and find his footing so he could run.

And he ran. He ran as far as he could as fast as he could, letting the voices and the pain sting at his ears and fade into the distance. The smell didn't fade though. He could still smell death on his skin and clothes, along with Karen's Charlie perfume and Natasha's imported European soaps. He'd try to block it out later, he'd bleach his skin and burn his clothes if he had to. He just had to keep moving, he had to--

He knew this place. This was Luke's block. This was Luke's building. Before he could stop to think, he heard his voice breaking the silence of the empty street, calling out to his friend.

"Luke! Luke!" He coughed, spitting out blood from his mouth, blood he knew for a fact was not his own. "Luke! Where are you, man?"