[27: dream]
[OOC: Multi-part dream! If you're going to step in, please specify if you're in scary Rapture dreamtime or the happier one~]
[One]
[If you step into this dream, your ears will pop with the change in pressure. It's cold in this city, deep under the sea, stained with slime and rust and blood, echoing with screams and sounds of violence, flashing with sparks struck along walls and floor by bloodthirsty mutants--and there's a good chance that you'll run into one of them if you come here, too.
And there's Jack. He lacks the tumors that the others have, that sag at the corner of his mouth, all those other ravages of ADAM addiction. He looks like an ordinary young man in a cream-colored sweater torn and soaked and crusted in blood and other things, unmentionable things. And yet he's not as foreign as he first appears. He moves as if he belongs here, fluid and predatory, sinking in and out of the shadows like he knows them, fighting and killing the same way he draws breath; it's a bloody nostalgia.
He has a goal. He's making his way toward something, a machine. In reality it stood in a walled facility, but here it is a monolith, alone, a simple circle of blades set into a tiled slab. His steps slow as he approaches it, and his breathing becomes heavy and harsh, drowning out even the screams of the splicers. And then he bends to it as if in worship and presses the button.
His cry of agony becomes a meaningless gurgle, and then a low, inhuman, echoing moan.
He stands, bleeding freely--in reality, the machine also did some minor repairs, it wouldn't do for the Protectors to become useless with blood-loss, but not here--and shuffles away from the monolith.]
[Two]
[He steps back into the dreamworld and it changes. The sea sinks away into a long, green field, and at the top of the hill is a small white house, a little worn-down, with black shutters. The landscape wavers, the outside disappears; it's a view from the living room now. Jack is for some reason barefoot, toes sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. His eyes have a strange golden glow, and his throat is still torn open, glistening with things rearranged, the front of his sweater soaked in his blood; he doesn't seem to notice any pain, and when he calls out, his voice is normal.]
Hello?
[For a moment, nothing. Then a small footstep, and another. And then, round faces poking out from around the furniture, there are abruptly five little girls, beaming and crying, "Daddy!" and flinging themselves at him. For a moment his face goes slack with shock, and then he kneels to gather them into his arms, laughing through his tears, and he just holds them for a long, long time.]
[One]
[If you step into this dream, your ears will pop with the change in pressure. It's cold in this city, deep under the sea, stained with slime and rust and blood, echoing with screams and sounds of violence, flashing with sparks struck along walls and floor by bloodthirsty mutants--and there's a good chance that you'll run into one of them if you come here, too.
And there's Jack. He lacks the tumors that the others have, that sag at the corner of his mouth, all those other ravages of ADAM addiction. He looks like an ordinary young man in a cream-colored sweater torn and soaked and crusted in blood and other things, unmentionable things. And yet he's not as foreign as he first appears. He moves as if he belongs here, fluid and predatory, sinking in and out of the shadows like he knows them, fighting and killing the same way he draws breath; it's a bloody nostalgia.
He has a goal. He's making his way toward something, a machine. In reality it stood in a walled facility, but here it is a monolith, alone, a simple circle of blades set into a tiled slab. His steps slow as he approaches it, and his breathing becomes heavy and harsh, drowning out even the screams of the splicers. And then he bends to it as if in worship and presses the button.
His cry of agony becomes a meaningless gurgle, and then a low, inhuman, echoing moan.
He stands, bleeding freely--in reality, the machine also did some minor repairs, it wouldn't do for the Protectors to become useless with blood-loss, but not here--and shuffles away from the monolith.]
[Two]
[He steps back into the dreamworld and it changes. The sea sinks away into a long, green field, and at the top of the hill is a small white house, a little worn-down, with black shutters. The landscape wavers, the outside disappears; it's a view from the living room now. Jack is for some reason barefoot, toes sinking into the deep pile of the carpet. His eyes have a strange golden glow, and his throat is still torn open, glistening with things rearranged, the front of his sweater soaked in his blood; he doesn't seem to notice any pain, and when he calls out, his voice is normal.]
Hello?
[For a moment, nothing. Then a small footstep, and another. And then, round faces poking out from around the furniture, there are abruptly five little girls, beaming and crying, "Daddy!" and flinging themselves at him. For a moment his face goes slack with shock, and then he kneels to gather them into his arms, laughing through his tears, and he just holds them for a long, long time.]