Someone Kick Me Out of My Mind [L Lawliet, Open]

[hearthebell]

Who: Lazarus Sauveterre (L Lawliet) and YOU
What: Dreamwalking!
When: Following the events of Fated Leviathan, where most of the people he's on good terms with perished. He's playing the odds and trying to find a way, in dreams, it all could have turned out better, or at least with a lower death count.
Where: His body is technically in Cassandra, but for roughly the first week in March, your dreams are fair game. Either that or choose one of my starters, no harm no foul. I worked hard on them!
Content Warnings: Drug use to induce sleep, intentional evasion from detection while on sleep drugs. Various probable types of dream-violence and disturbing scenarios, including tiger attacks, environmental exposure, and nuclear detonation and fallout. If new prompts bring new content I'll update this.



[It was astonishing. It was visceral, and horrific, and then it was over. The carnage and receding waves were quiet enough, but there was a roaring in the ears of the survivors, or maybe it just sounded that way to the man who was perfect at his job in every way and still failed to keep those he tried to protect from death.

He leaves his things, taking only the clothes on his back and his anxiously bobbing orca whale omen with him when he starts off at a brisk pace toward Trench from the ruined aftermath of the beach's battle. He wants distance from it, and his steps take him to Cassandra, where he takes care to ensure that he's able to sneak into the Pale Sanctuary and conceal himself to swallow a fistful of herbs, and fall, and slumber and brace and dream in the way that he can take hold of the power he couldn't, there on the beach when the fighters were falling.

The tents are in their rows, the waves rear toward the sand. The players are arranged like chess pieces before him, and he can nudge Paul one way, Chara another, playing with Palamedes or Kaworu. They are just pieces, just pawns, but the arrangement could make all the difference, in the end.

The waves crash; the pawns die. L scrabbles in the sands of the dream, forgiving and elastic, rearranging them and bringing everyone back.]

Again!

[And there they are, back, affable and fierce in different measures. Yuri has made cake; Gideon is training by the waves.

More die, this time, including those that L saw alive and well when he left. Among them, a certain orange-haired and cheerful volleyball player is lying motionless and pale on the blood-stained sand.]

Again!

[This time, he moves his position. This time, many of the same die, and he does, as well, a casualty to shrapnel piercing through the tent.]

Again...

[And so it goes, for a hundred, a thousand iterations. L is tireless and determined, but some resource is waning, and his omen tugs at him, concerned for his sanity.]

No, Lycka, I...!

[She knows better, as she tends to in cases like these. Her jaws pull him by his jacket from his own dream into another, and this is where his fixations end, and something else entirely begins.

Who are you? What are your dreams like? If this Paleblooded, lost soul has chanced into your unconscious visions, what might he find, as his body languishes in Cassandra and his omen picks up the pieces of his fragmented mind?]

1. The Wild Jungle

[The air around you is heavy and humid. Unseen in the dense bush, the circle of life is rapid and repellent. Thrums and screeches announce the arrival of swift death, in various measures that one might or might not notice. A jaguar's kill, the soft extinguishment of a beetle, and they all weave themselves into the teeming tapestry that surrounds you in this quintessential rainforest.

You might be standing to fight, or running away. It doesn't matter, because a thin man with shaggy, dark hair who looks wide-eyed and younger than he should is beside you, closer than either of you want. He hands you a blunderbuss, an old weapon with a flared muzzle.]

The infrasound is what does it; the tiger is the voice darker than night.

[And, in fact, a growl chills and freezes you, splitting your chest asunder with a sound so low that your ears don't register it, but the atoms of your body react with cold, foreboding dread.]

2. The Stormy Desert

[A crack of thunder splits the sky above you before you've managed to recognize your dream's locale. You might hope for rain; so do the scorpions and long-tailed mice, the snakes in their dens and the cacti in their proud and stoic stature.

It won't rain. You can wish, and cry, and curse, but only the thunder will growl and thrash. The lightning may strike, so watch your head; stay low to the sand and find shelter if you can.

If you do, along the side of a cliff facing the west where the sun set rosy before the clouds rolled in, there is a young man with sunburned cheeks. His eyes are red, as though he's been staring at the sun, or it's been raining somewhere private and inward.]

I've been collecting scorpion venom. What for, I don't remember. But I have so much. What's the point of finding a cure when everyone is already dead?

3.The Grimy City

[The crowds are mostly faceless; when they aren't, they're grotesque, likely to sport the visages of rats or roaches rather than anything remotely humanlike. They actively shove you and trip you, doing their best to jostle you toward the entrance of a subway, and no matter how strong you are the impulse is incredibly difficult to resist.

You walk (or tumble) down the subway stairs. The tollbooth is manned by a young man with unruly dark hair, who seems determined to hear his headphones in spite of your desire to gather the attention of the one human-seeming creature in this dream.]

What? No, I can't hear you. Speak louder, please, I'm losing you!

4.The Nuclear Wasteland

[A brilliant flash lights the daytime sky; you might be blinded, or perhaps you had the good fortune to blink at the time. A roiling cloud rises in the sky, top-heavy and triumphant, blossoming into boiling and dusty vapor that will fall back to earth and condemn everything still living.

Perhaps you're staggering. Perhaps you're already feeling the fallout on your hair and shoulders. Perhaps you are sitting, forlorn and accepting, as the sirens blare and the screams fade. Regardless, someone has seized you bodily by your upper arms, hauling you into a shelter, spinning the vault's circular lock and wrapping you in a desperate embrace.]

I'm so glad. I thought you were lost... I thought I was the only one left.

[And he holds you, and holds you, with those frail and thin arms that clutch with the strength that only a dying or very guilty man might possess.]

V. Wildcard

[What did you dream about? If L is there, let me know and prompt this option to the moon and stars!]

Comments

v. wolf dreaming

[dohaeris]

[when she was very small she had paddled around with her brothers in the pool by the heart tree. here there are strong currents, but truth be told she relishes the challenge, as she hasn't had much of a chance to run since she went south with her sister and the girl. it is hard to smell the fish or see them, but she can hear them moving like wind beneath the sea. and so she darts forward, seizes something thick and squirming between her jaws, pressing down only hard enough to still it lest the waves carry away the rest of her meal.

soon she is surfacing into a sort of cave made partly of wood, and pads forth to enjoy her catch. there simply aren't enough creatures to hunt on land, they all belong to someone and it's more trouble than its worth to kill any. the girl gives her what little meat she finds, but that too is scarce on the ground. the fish are plentiful, if slippery, and it would be so nice if her brothers and sister could join her hunt beneath the waves. she has not been able to hear them since the ocean first took her. it is a different land, a different sea. a pale raven watches her, but he is of the girl. she senses someone else is watching, but she cannot smell or hear them? she lifts her head, but she cannot see them either. there is no particular sense of danger, except from the waves. she neatly licks the blood off her snout and considers another fish.]

[hearthebell]

[L is a novice to a dream like this. His omen forges ahead, alpha predator and matriarch that she is, but the slender human man trails behind, his fingertips careful and his body bent and slow.

Nothing like him would survive long in the true fierce wild. His omen is probably his only saving grace, arching and wary as she stakes out the territory in the partly wooden cave. The orca swims in the darkened water with the pacing strokes of a true guardian, and the whole time, L crouches tentatively on the bank, watching with his knees pulled toward his chest to the point where his small chin can rest atop them.

Like the pale raven, he watches, but he is afraid of wolves, in the way of most humans who are not the girl. Lycka fears little, alpha predator that she is, and darts after fish of her own in the dark waters.]

[dohaeris]

[slowly the presence resolves itself into a man who is not there, and a creature that she has never seen but knows to respect, like a man or a wolf of the sea (she is not there either). she barks, not loudly, a friendly greeting, and pads out from under the cave (dock) into the shallows. her tail does not wag, one of the few marks distinguishing her at this young age from a dog, but it swishes, interested and curious. she sniffs for crabs, and other creatures of the shallows. it would be well if she did not have to swim out so far for fish. soon she will need more and more fish to make a meal.

the raven turns his head to look at the man.]

You won't fit in the wolf with her.

[a young man's voice with a hint of laughter. his accent might sound like it came from, ok, sheffield, to one who was familiar with such places.]

v!

[asas]

[ a flutter is the first sound to rattle a somewhat empty dreamscape, remnants of jungles and wastelands— then came the caw!.



should lycka be drawn to the inviting crow (because she is, in fact, calling for someone, anyone, she needs help, her boy needs it—), the bird immediately guides them through rushing fragments that smell of sea salt, sunscreen and freshly cracked coconut. skin burns as if underneath an aggressively bright sun, and in a moment more darkness turns to light, blinding light— perhaps too much of it. it’s already early morning and bordering 90 degrees on the stretching beaches of flamengo, with a clear sight of sugar loaf mountain and only a select few setting up their umbrellas, towels and nets. it’s véspera de carnaval, these should be busier than normal, preparing for such a grand party— but these very streets leading into town, while decorated, seem like an eerie ghost town.

it was a safe haven for those who disliked crowds and have never walked the wide open earth of Rio de Janeiro without having to worry about them— it was a bit of an anxiety enducing nightmare for the red headed athlete this dream belonged to. they’d have to find him, of course, and from a banner of colorful, triangle flags between two lamp posts, picanha croaks and tilts her head quizzically down at a most welcomed visitor, in a way that said so? where to?

one more look and Lazarus would see that he has a fair many choices, all of them where he could see shōyō in an array of situations. alone, on the beach next to a point board that marks his side’s defeat and a harsh day that felt like nothing worked; the town, off his bike and with an ifood delivery bag on his back, completely lost; and at a fresh produce street market, having equal difficulty with communication.

in all of them, there is worrying a thing so rare on shōyō’s face (or lack thereof): no smile. concerned brows, silence and loneliness. these were all the hardest parts of being away from home— moments of no improvement, no communication, no socialization— and that leaves a shōyō that’s barely recognizable. someone who’s confidence was retained and brightness dimmed down, but a real shōyō nonetheless. it hadn’t been the first time he’s felt these things. ]

[hearthebell]

[Sometimes, there is more than L can feasibly reckon with in a mind that is so very greedy. Other times, it's eerily silent, blank, betting for anyone to paint a new plan onto a limp and languishing canvas.

He's not sure which of those is happening, now. His hands are clenched, clutching at thin air and anxiety, as it happens, and then he hears a familiar sound that he cleaves to.

Lycka's better than he is, in almost every way. She's the best of him, and her aim is true as she guides him toward the harsh sound. Safety is coming, they know, a beautiful place, a place to relax and feel peaceful. Perhaps L feels some shape, for how desperately he strains toward the coconuts and sunscreen, the beauty of a world he never saw as accessible or his own.

Rio, and that can only mean one person, can't it? L is both elated at his good fortune to catch Shōyō asleep (when this is the only way he can catch anyone, and afraid of what it means. Is Shōyō OK? If he's able to sleep, is it actually good and wholesome sleep?

The safe haven holds and shelters, for now. His breath shudders as he exhales.]

Shōyō!

[His voice is probably higher than it usually is when he calls across the beach, less cool and controlled. His gait is wobbly and unsteady beneath him as he starts toward the young man with the bicycle and a delivery untenable.]

Is it...

[He's cautious, trying to decide whether this is his own mind's figment of Shōyō or the real thing, across minds. He knows what he'd prefer, and he knows what would be safer for his pride; he also knows that they aren't the same.

He just goes ahead and pulls the visage into a tight embrace with his face buried against his shoulder, all the same.]

[asas]

[ oh crap i don’t know where i am, what street is this? which street do i take to get there, i think i missed the turn somewhere back. the food is getting cold. they’ll be so pissed. my bag’s open, i didn’t leave my bag open— where’s my wallet? someone stole it—

all his anxious thinking at the (crowded) intersection comes to a swift halt by the time a thin frame has found his way to his front. shōyō hadn’t seen it coming, so deeply troubled in all corners of his dreamscape that by the time the pressure squeezes his shoulders, he throws his eyes open and hovers his hands up in surprise. recognition came moments later, starting by the smell of hair and something subtly sweet.

his arms settle behind Lazarus and his back, and from it came a gradual squeeze, tightening into a bear’s vice. to have found someone in a time of need, certainly he wouldn’t want to let go or go limp so soon? he breathes out an airy laugh that feels ironic, or perhaps pleasantly disbelieving. it’s the first good thing he’s felt all night, because when he was awake— his joy was artificial and distorted. his deepest core knew that it wasn’t genuine, somehow: ]

—At least you found me.

[ this was. he says that with relief. hopefully, his delivery bag wasn’t in the way, and neither was the bike resting in a tilt against his hip. ]

1

[kyley_b]

[Kyle takes the weapon; he's never used a blunderbuss, obviously, but he's used a rifle. He looks around nervously, feeling the hair on his body stand up at the growl.]

Good, I hate Peru. Nevermind the cats, dude, watch out for the guinea pigs.

[He says this like it makes sense.]

[hearthebell]

[The look L gets from Kyle is a quizzical one, but ultimately trusting as he hands off the weapon.]

The... guinea pigs?

[He doesn't know what that means, and it shows around his round eyes, the edges where they tense. There's still something earnest at the core, though, wanting to believe and understand.]

I'm glad you're here. If you know how to use it... protect us from everything, alright?

[kyley_b]

Yeah, dude. They're HUGE here.

[Kyle offers L a reassuring smile. He hefts the gun.]

I promise I will protect you, dude. Stay close to me, we're gonna get outta here.

[He creeps forward, eyes darting from side to side.]

v.

[the_obedient_servant]

[* You called for help.

* But nobody came.

* You find yourself in a garden. Flower beds surround you, elaborate designs etched into them that only one of the Underground would recognize. There's only one plant in this garden, however. Golden flowers spring up from the soil everywhere you look. Buttercups, the dream tells you, not to be confused with cups of butter.

* There's nothing to do here but walk through the flowers. Eventually, the flower beds change. They're houses, roads, footpaths, schools, shops, all of them are covered from every inch in these bright yellow flowers, but it's real. It's all real. As real as anything could be in a world fabricated by man.

* It's hard to know what came first, really, were the buildings built to help the flowers grow? Or did the flowers create the buildings? What is this place? You think you pass familiar faces - the few that either of them would recognize, and when they look at you, they see a stranger. Paul, Lysithea, Illarion, Beatrice, Kaworu, Asriel, familiar empty eyes that watch you like a hawke or perhaps glimmer with a hint of red or blue.

* They all go about their day, living lives that can't be touched anymore, by anyone. Not you, not the human. And the fallen human can be found in the middle of this town of flowers, sitting upon a throne of flowers, the vines binding them to the extravagant chair of a king, digging into their skin, tying around their throat.

* They watch you as you approach, in the same way a weary god would watch an asteroid come crashing down on their creation. Apathy.

Chara speaks up when L is finally close enough to hear them, their voice both impossibly old and unmistakably young.]

Did you know corpses make excellent fertilizer?

[hearthebell]

[L has never been one for flowerbeds, the sun on his face, the outdoors in general, really. His is a world of tile and steel, maybe a potted fern that never grows or changes because it's as fake and unfeeling as the air-conditioned lobby it sits in, collecting dust until someone remembers the silk and plastic that is convenient because it never needs.

He recognizes, at least, what a buttercup looks like. Common enough, distinctive enough even for a man who has spent his whole life ignoring wreaths and bouquets.

Maybe he's allergic. Fortunately, in the dream, it doesn't seem to matter, and the clusters of yellow around his shins are a simple and pleasant enough journey. So much so that lacking an obvious direction is not an immediately troubling problem, until something does change unexpectedly. Buildings, and people, some he's known and others he just has a concept of, but it's tangible enough. Maybe even conscious, if that's what they should be, but no one who should recognize him seems to.

He struggles to parse whether he finds that troubling or an immense relief. He walks hand-in-hand with misfortune, after all; back in his own world, for someone to meet him at all meant that they were in danger... or that they were the danger, of course.

Approaching the child king, bound and restricted upon their throne, L's brow furrows.]

Yes; I do know that.

[Every possible way that a body could decompose would be known to him, of course. Necessary, really.]

Are you a corpse?

[Because Chara's flowers are growing nicely, however stifling they might be.]

[the_obedient_servant]

Is a corpse still a corpse after it's brought back to life? Is a ghost still a ghost if it's the only one left living?

For a garden this grand, I think we all have to be corpses. You and me, and all the people who could have been our friends if we were capable of such an asinine concept.

[There's an empty smile etched on their face. Like a doll. A toy that's been discarded and left to gather dust.

The flowers seem to grow, blooming at Lazarus' feet. It's an invitation. Be a part of the garden. It's something peaceful, to be condemned to non-existence, a new kind of innocence where flowers can grow and no thought can corrupt you.

A new garden of Eden, forged on the ruins of the fruits of the original. Here lies humanity. They simply couldn't be trusted.]

ii. the stormy desert

[terriblepurpose]

[Black spreads across a patch of pale sand like spilled night, blossoming radial silver-shining hyphae the size of human palms, open and thirsting at the sky. Lightning flashes in a super-cell curtain across the horizon, sight annihilating brilliance, and there is a figure in the center of that sand with eyes that have caught and kept the shockwave illumination.

He stands there a while, under the roiling clouds, as dream-sand rises to weave itself into a stilsuit, to drip like molten glass from his hands into a pair of shifting blades - short swords, then crysknives, then twin pale things barbed and jagged and only half-real. They sheath along his thighs before he sets out across the desert, feet tracing aimless patterns on his aimless path.

(He should have made himself sleep better. Drowned himself deeper. Not slept at all. But exhaustion pinned him under its hand (slim and cautious on his shoulder) and sent him here, to spiceless Arrakis sand under a barren Caladan sky.

What does he think he deserves?)

The sky does not strike him down. The sand does not swallow him up. Inevitably, a body in motion transits from one point to another, and Paul finds himself at the cliffs, in front of another body. They have dark hair, darker eyes. Slender, sharp bones. (He should know him. He should know-)

And he speaks, and Paul does.]

Lazarus?

[In this dream, his voice should be his own. It writhes in a hundred threads from his throat instead as he falls to his knees in the sand in front of him, his covered fingers plunging into cool sand as he stares, abject and lost, at a face that still will not resolve itself for him, known and unknown, here and not here.]

[hearthebell]

[Dreams can be ambiguous, at first. Anyone approaching could, truly, be anyone, shaped like a human, a silhouette against sand or sky.

It's only when they speak, and something stands out, that a fog lifts from the dazed dreamer's eyes, and he is looking at someone whole and solid and distinct, but a ghost, all the same.

Uncanny though it is, he's torn between two primary instincts. To apologize, because he wasn't there, or to cling, because he is now, isn't he?

Things move quickly here, and change more quickly. The rumble and roar of welling deep devourers follows him; the growl, the thunder, the roar of train on tracks, the detonation ripping atoms into pieces. It's the same low, terrible sound, no matter where he is, underscoring every motion, thought and word. If he doesn't cling, could he stand to lose again, when he's bled so very hollow and dry?

Rain; please, rain. It won't; prayers are like that.

He nods, eyes wide, comprehending if glassy and strained at the edges. What he took to hold him under and keep him sleeping (hours ago, days?) ensures that this is the sharpest and realest thing to him, now.]

Paul...!

[He drops a fraction of a second after Paul does, alert and at a hairtrigger's response when all of his energy and alertness are pulled taut as a bowstring.]

You're right; if I don't look like myself, you're... still right.

[How does he look? Red, probably. Like he felt, that day when the Emperor corrected his mistake with the kind and subtle condescension of a patient teacher correcting a dull child's dull error. Sunburned, or at least burning, from the inside out, in annoyingly excellent health.]

Where are you?

[Ambiguous, perhaps intentionally so. Where Paul thinks he is matters almost as much as where he actually is, because lucid dreaming in intermittent snatches, while paleblooded and recently dead and probably corrupted, can't be a good thing.]

[terriblepurpose]

I'm here.

[That's not right. He shakes his head like he's trying to rid it of clinging webs, narrowing his eyes at the still-ambiguous features in front of him.]

I came back. [Closer.] I'm with the captain.

[A shivering resonance breaks apart that last word into a fractured distortion, as if not only formed of other voices but other names. He pulls his fingertips from strangely sticking sand and reaches out, tentatively, to brush against Lazarus' shoulders. They both exist, whole and clean, but this is a dream, and Paul knows their deceptions and pitfalls nearly as well as Lazarus does.]

It's all right.

[Quieter, the lapping echoes of the chorus harmonizing. He doesn't know how to explain, yet; he knows Lazarus will be concerned. It would have been simpler to lie.

He owes Lazarus more than that. He owes a man who became God more than that.]

Where are you?

wildcard

[peripheries]

[Everything is dark but there's the sensation of floating and water moving around your. You can feel the pressure on your skin, the motion moving your hair, and the broken image of light shining from above a surface that is both so close and so far out of reach.

This dream is strange, half formed, like it's created by a mind that only is just learning how to dream. A foal learning to walk.

Indeed, there's someone there, curled up in fetal position at the bottom of this malformed sea. Kaworu sleeps, apparently, even in his dreams.]

[hearthebell]

[For someone who was never much of a swimmer, never really cared for the beach or sailing or any associated activities, water has a way of finding him and making him feel at ease. He's always liked the rain, after all. His omen is an orca whale... and now, for the first time in a harried while, he's fully submerged and floating, and his breath is kind to him. The dream is lucid, so he doesn't forget that he doesn't have gills, spasming and panicking the way one does when they're in a position to suddenly and distressingly remember.

Or, maybe, he considers as he explores further, the dream itself simply forgot to make the water unbreathable. There are things about it, elements out of place or lost or just partly-built, but there's at least one of them he knows in passing.

Someone who died. He kicks his legs, his damp clothing moving around him though his shoes are absent, and his omen Lycka follows close behind. She keens, a high-pitched sound that cuts through the water like a blade; will it wake him? Should they wake him?]

[peripheries]

[Thankfully, Lazarus doesn't have to make that decision for himself. The stir of the water, the presence of another, wakes Kaworu from his dreamed sleep. His eyes, flutter open, blinking in the light from a unformed surface. It reflects off his pale hair and breaks into particles under the water. He keeps himself still curled in that fetal position even as he moves slightly.]

Where...? What is this?

4.The Nuclear Wasteland

[unphase]

[she's seen grainy, old Terran footage of such a thing. By her time, such things were firmly confined to the dustbin of history. It turned out through four World Wars, no one was foolish enough to use them again.

So the flash comes as a surprise. An entirely unwelcome one. She knows she should be looking for survivors, she should be trying to save people, but the force of what she just withstood was completely overwhelming. So she sits on the concrete stairs up to a house which was no longer there and tried to not cry.

so when L pulls her up, leads her to a shelter, and hugs her, it's all a complete shock. but not really an unpleasant one. she's always liked being hugged, so she clings to him in turn]

No. No, I'm not lost. I'm here and...I thought I was the only one not--not ashes.

[she's bereft at the idea of so many lives lost, so when he does hug her, her shoulders hitch in a repressed sob]

[hearthebell]

[L has not always liked hugs, or sought them out, or given them, but there's maybe a part of him that he amputated a long time ago that finds them, at least, a source of connection and centered ability to deal with what comes next.

And this is, well. It's a very terrible dream, but almost any objective scale.

Once they're sealed and safe, he lets go, softly and quietly as though realizing some trespass, hugging his thin limbs closer like a shocked spider.]

If you're not lost, I wonder why you are here.

[Why would you be?]

Did something like this happen where you're from?

[He misses having something to hold onto, but recognizes that she is not a prop for that. Touch, like food, is pernicious; one can get used to going without it for a very long time, but then they get a little touch, a little taste, and they remember what it's really like to have a metric for starving, solitary and desperately so.]

(CW: genocide, death)

[unphase]

[she's always been a tactile person, but the other place made her shy away from it in an odd way, always unsure of its reception. she remembers another time that happened, after her mother "persuaded" her to charm and flirt information out of people.

she was always worried about its reception, even though like a flower needs the sun, she needs touch.

and she dreams dreams of Terra's past, perhaps because she's still worried about whether or not Daxam can control its worst elements.

she looks down at her feet after he lets go, afraid that she had done something wrong]

I--not where I'm from. My foremothers made sure of it.

But Terra didn't and Daxam's trying, but how can you counter someone with all of the powers of Superman, only theirs are used maliciously. Heat vision isn't just hot. And the Daxamites have already committed genocide, tried that with Terra only. We stopped them.

[though at the cost of her own life. foolish for letting her head get clouded. lucky she found an alternative.

and if she knew the direction of his thoughts, she'd agree. she's a glutton for touch, for being held, for praise. something had to fill the hole her upbringing left in her]

4, fallout: new trench

[unsheathedfromreality]

[For a moment, a split second, it's a slender and alien girl (fangs-feathers-talons) that L's rescued and pulled into his bunker. She stares at him with wide red eyes, a fluttering suggestion of moth wings and curling appendages behind her.

Then he's clutching an Omen to his chest, a familiar chimera who fists her six little feet into his rumpled shirt and warbles reassurance to him. He's squashing her, but she's made of smoke and flexible as a cat and this is all right, it's all right, he's not alone.]

[hearthebell]

[He scarcely sees who he's taken hold of, scarcely registers that she already looks otherworldly. L's started to lose himself in snatches and waves as his dreamwalking takes him further from his home dream, further from the grounded mind he knows, and the thrumming undercurrent of all of this, the rumble and the roar, is the sound of fear itself.

The detonation at their backs, along with what seems to be wings, he tucks her into the closest thing they have to safety and shelter, breathless, releaseing and getting a decently collected look at her for the first time. With a start, he realizes who she is, and who she belongs to.

Best not to squash her, though she's strong enough to be here, apparently, even after her Sleeper's plunging descent into what he could only assume was a second death.]

If you're here, then where is Moonsight?

4.

[necrolord]

[ The man clings back just as fiercely.

He is wire-taut all through the curve of his neck and shoulders, a coiled spring of tension. His fingers clench white-knuckled in Lazarus's shirt, nails biting through, a barely-there tremble in the heel of his hand. Then Lazarus says I thought I was the only one, and he flinches back like a man jolting awake.

He draws away to look at the man he's holding. The expression on his face is a horrible dawning of confusion. It is not a look Lazarus has ever seen on him: this is some cracked-open vulnerability, some naked fear that renders him uncommonly young, uncommonly human. His eyes are–

He looks at Lazarus. He looks at the bunker door, all heavy metal and concrete. He presses a hand to his mouth, exhales a shudder of a breath, and murmurs: ]

This isn't...

[ He inhales carefully, and closes his eyes. When he opens them, they're oil-black from edge to edge. They always were. ]

[hearthebell]

[It's strange for L to be so close to someone else, unprecedented and alien. The clinging is some phantom impulse, stunned so soundly by the apocalyptic flash that he has grasped, and reached, and held.

He's found, too. It would seem so; the arms that hold him back are sinewy and strong for their mass, the nails biting and real. His body, somewhere, has indentations from the tense ferocity of his nails.

The self-possessed black-eyed man, appearing fearful and driftless, is almost as jarring as the detonation itself. L's own eyes are wide and piercing as he processes the new information (he can be fearful and driftless?), and withdraws, giving Tisketkenchak-Folgraboto his space. He reaches for his own opposite elbows, hunching his shoulders, breathing shallow and talking low.]

What do you think it is?

[It's a rookie mistake to give away too much information at once. He won't make it with someone who could yet prove to be not only formidable, but fatal.]