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deercountry2022-03-02 10:45 pm
hearthebell) wrote in deercountry2022-03-02 10:45 pm
Entry tags:
Someone Kick Me Out of My Mind [L Lawliet, Open]
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!]
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!]
no subject
That’s not going to change anything.
[ it’s strained, tight. he feels the hotness begin to build beneath his eyelids. he feels anger and loneliness and irritation and— god damn does he feel a sad longing. his words escalate in volume, in emphasis: ]
They’re still dead, or squids, you’re still gone, and I’m—
[ he sucks in a breath, but a quiet gust blows his hair back toward the empty intersection he had found himself in: alone.
but that’s too selfish to say right now, isn’t it? his next and last word comes soft spoken and cracked: ]
—Here.
no subject
Hey... I said that I'm around, in Trench, and that's... it's true.
[The last bit is a sort of peace offering, perhaps, presented wide-eyed and apologetically.]
I thought no one would even notice. I didn't think it would take this long, to reach the realization I did, and... sorry, for that.
[Sorry that he's doing the paleblooded equivalent of sleeping in a club, for far too long, hurting his body and his mind and the happiness that Shōyō wants for him. That, too, but he can't think of a good way to phrase it.
He doesn't want to raise alarm. He wants Shōyō to feel, at least a little bit, less alone.]
We're both "here." I'll stay until you wake up, if that's OK, and there's room on your bike's handlebars.
[After he wakes up is an uncertain thing, if only because L's not sure when he can make it back to his own home dream and manage the same. For now, he offers an attempt at the sort of easy smile Shōyō wears so often.]
no subject
if anything, shōyō mounts his bike’s seat and adjusts the steer, watches lazarus expectantly and moves his eyes from him to the empty front handlebar seat. ]
C’mon.
no subject
Shōyō, as gentle and affable as he is, occasionally misses being really seen by L, the way he sees other brooding geniuses like Light or Paul. It's his own shortcoming, he realizes; there is no shortage of things to see, just because they're different from what he knows. They deserve notice and recognition; they deserve soothing when they feel pain.
Whining is the least of what digs into L now, as he regards the redhead with a sort of respectful dismay. Maybe he hopes that he'll stay quiet, or that he'll finally break the tension with some lighthearted word of encouragement or jest.
In the end, it's just one word, and still a relief.]
Right... OK.
[He nods, gripping the handlebars and hopping up to perch precariously on them. He's absurdly light, more and more so as the waking world wastes his continuously sleeping body, but his limbs are long and gangly. He needs to tuck them close to avoid getting in the way of the spokes or the pedals.]
no subject
I missed you, y'know.
[ he supposes that lazarus didn't know, but there was a reason for speaking up: to make it known. if people didn't think their presence mattered, surely, they needed to hear it. once, twice, many times even. ]
no subject
He didn't know; it was something he just assumed, believed, and sank into like sawdust after an autopsy. No one could miss him, because he never got close enough to anyone for them to miss him; that was true, that was actually gospel in the Book of L.
Why does he feel like such shit, then?]
I've missed you, too. It's been--
[He doesn't want him to worry, of course, think about the straits he's in that have rendered him unrousable in the waking world. He has to make it back on his own, connect his soul again and plug back in, and with everything so scattered, it'll take more time, leaving him pale and prone even longer.
Until now he's been good at not thinking about what he left behind. Now, he's backed by one of the reasons he never should have turned away and fallen asleep.]
I'll be back soon, OK? I'm trying. I'm really trying.
no subject
it’s important that he was trying, but— the other unfinished thought also felt important to acknowledge. ]
It’s been hard?
[ it’s not unnatural for shōyō to talk about his feelings, or allow others to do the same. ]
no subject
Yeah... it has. I misjudged many important things.
[He feels every bump in the boardwalk, every little motion that could throw him and bruise his waking world body as well as his dream self.]
If I can wake up soon, I'll come to the Earworm and get you.
[He won't wake up soon, as much as he wants to.]
no subject
down the boardwalk is a man honking a horn and pushing a cooler wagon— lazarus might not know what that may entail, but shoyo does; he gently presses the handle of the bike's breaks to come to a slowing stop.
wasn't he supposed to be delivering food? not anymore. the dreamscape commands it. even his delivery bag is gone from his back. ]
What if I come get you instead?
no subject
This is actually really nice; he could stay here a lot longer, he thinks, hopping down from the handlebars and hoping there's ice cream in that cooler.]
Tell you what... whoever wakes up first goes to get the one who doesn't, OK?
[That will mean telling Shōyō where he is, and L wants to spend just a little while longer before he has to explain that whole situation.]
I haven't made it to the dream currency exchange. Do you have any reias on you?
no subject
So, two turtles!
[ he remembers which is which more from the animal the bill has printed, and not the actual number. with the bicycle at a tilted stop, shōyō goes for his regular old backpack—
and freezes when he remembers that his wallet was stolen.
maybe he should just keep sifting through his zippers and show so much of his shocking realization . . . . ]
I— just gotta find some change . . .
[ awkwardly, he bows his head and rummages faster. please let him find some change, the first time he’s about to pay for anything in which looks kind of like a date—! ]
no subject
He's probably piloted a helicopter more times in his life than he's handled cash.]
Oh... don't worry about it. It's really OK...
[He sounds disappointed, but he's already taking action as the Paleblood in the situation. There's a kind of very simple and lovely logic to the knowledge that boardwalks are traveled by lots of people, and people drop things, and sure enough, caught in the corner of the walk and one of its posts is a 20-turtle note. He plucks it up, holding it between his thumb and forefinger.]
Look, we can both buy five now.
no subject
I owe you again, don’t I . . . [ it was his time, his moment . . . and it’s in the dirt. either way, they couldn’t let their ice cream wait too much, so— ] Which ones do you want?
[ peeking in, there should be coconut, passion fruit, corn, lemon, mango and strawberry flavors. ]
no subject
The sweet ones.
[Always the sweet ones. Reliably, he will never, ever pick differently.]
Two passionfruit, one mango, and two strawberry, for me.
[That's his five. He looks expectantly at Shōyō to see how he'll use his half of the note.]
no subject
No Açaí, huh . . . [ the miracle fruit for all health freaks, but since that’s not on the menu— he settles with a choice that took him what seemed like two important ages to decide: ] —Five passion fruit.
[ those vitamins are his! he holds five fingers up and gives the order: cinco maracujá pra mim, dois pra ele, dois de morango também, e uma de manga. one by one and then in couples, shōyō holds their wrapped popsicles to him. ]
no subject
[He jokes, as they pay and accept the popsicles. Five each might have been a little excessive, but what else are they going to do with dream money?]
There are some advantages to being Paleblooded. As dangerous as dreamwalking can be... there are things it's possible to control that I never could in the waking world.
[He unwraps his first passionfruit, knowing there's a 100% chance that they'll be experiencing the same flavor. He's having a little bit of difficulty, though, on account of his mouth and lips being excessively, concerningly dry.
He holds it out to let it melt a little more in the Sun, a slight knit in his brow.]
no subject
shoyo listens, but due to his dreaming state— he hears it, understands it, but doesn't compute with it. what kind of stuff wouldn't he be able to do? what dangers? what's more concerning is lazarus waiting on his popsicle to drip into juice. shoyo makes sure to keep his foot planted so his bike doesn't fall and take them both to the ground, but . . . maybe it's uncomfortable. he leans over then, just over lazarus' shoulder. ]
. . . Do your teeth hurt?
no subject
[He shrugs. He probably needs beaucoup dental work. He tries not to think about it.]
It's just dry... sort of tacky on my tongue. He's kept them cold, which is a good thing, but... it hurts to put it in dry. Everyone knows that.
no subject
Oh, oh, uh-huh— [ quick!! say something natural! ] You can always, like . . . bite the tip? Then it all melts in your mouth.
[ —he can’t unsee, now that he sees. ]
no subject
[A pause.]
Sensitive teeth, like I said.
[He sucks softly on the end of the popsicle, impatient for it to melt faster.]
no subject
shōyō, of course, has to break it. ]
What if you do it with your lips instead?
no subject
Like this?
[His pulls his lips back over his teeth, creating a comical and frozen expression that is difficult and unnatural to maintain. Speaking with it in place is even more so.]
Old men must eat popsicles this way, sans dentures.
no subject
it probably looks ridiculous. shōyō even loses part of a piece that breaks and falls on his shorts, the rest of the juice dribbling down his chin. despite his attempt to evade and spread his legs away from the piece, throw his head forward, it still finds its way there.
well, he just laughs at that, too. ]
It was a bad idea!
no subject
[It didn't start as a bad idea! It just became one!]
This actually almost tastes real. Objectively, getting these was 100% a good idea.
no subject
[ dream shōyō has certainly forgotten he’s dreaming to begin with! he could taste the acid tang on his tongue and down his throat. the sun’s heat quickly melting their many, many popsicles. ]
Almost.
[ something clicks in shōyō, wolfing down the last piece of only one of the five as he brings himself to spring to his feet. ]
—I gotta go.
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think this one is at a good spot! 👌