dreams of

[gabriel_grey]

Floating.  Dreadful loathing,  
always the same, the thick warmth, the fine chains
green tendrils and sharp pistol-shot
                                             running through the field where they died, trying to find peace and having 
run out of time.  The laughter peals, the blood soaks into the dirt, staining the grass, so much potential wasted

Comments

[objective_ali]

There's a fumbling at the web-strings. So few, now.

You okay?

[gabriel_grey]

There are fragments of the dream that cling even as he's waking up. An automatic weapon heavy in his hand, the sight of a winged young woman riddled with bullet wounds in a field, the sound of thick, liquid breathing, struggling.

I... aye, I'm ... sorry, did I wake you...?

[objective_ali]

Yeah, but it's okay....

Jesus, that's one helluva nightmare. A pause. This isn't somebody, like, throwing images at you, giving you nightmares or something, is it?

Bear with him. The station's 20 years in the future.

[gabriel_grey]

N-no. No, it's... something that happened recently. Something he should likely tell Alistair about, considering what he found out, but...

I should have warned you. These dreams are continuous. I should have asked Rassilon how to shield the mind during sleep.