"Please have a seat."
Aug. 5th, 2012 09:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
renferretDagny dreamwalks Ex.
The initial attempts all fail for one specific reason: Ex isn't asleep when Dagny tries to reach her dreams. It's three in the morning before she finally manages to catch the cub napping.
In the beginning, the dream does not seem defined by events, but sensations. It's the kind of insane, indescribable brain vomit that happens while sleeping with a high fever, or on a large amount of pain killers. There are colors: blue, black, red, piss yellow. Something about them gives off the sense of panic, as if paint swatches were something to be feared. There are whispers that mean nothing, and rise and fall in volume without ever managing a single word. The smell of disinfectant and bleach. The feel of cold concrete and feathers. Now and then there's also a buzzing, or a rattling, or a distant pounding, as if someone were banging on an invisible wall, very far away.
At first, the jumble seems to perplex the visitor. Within the dream, there will come a single point of dim light. Formless. A wisp. Light blue, making no sound, movement like that of a moth. In fact, it begins to BE a moth. Fuzzy and blurred. It begins to flitter around the colors, turning them to gray in its wake. The sounds are something else, and the moth seems to go to explore them, moving toward the perceived 'wall' that the pounding might be coming from, if it exists. A small voice, child like and full of apprehension, asks, "Is anyone there?"
For all that the moth tries to get closer to the distant noises, they grow no closer, no more defined, though the voices, on occasion, seem to whisper directly into her ear. The whispers are meaningless, barely sounds in their own right, even when heard that close. The pounding fades, only to be replaced by a steady 'tap tap tap tap'. It's not loud, and doesn't sound like anything so large as a knocking fist. As grey spreads through the colors, and the moth defines herself more, defines /movement/, the gray spreads even further than her will, giving way to formless shadows, and then ill defined gray buildings, and then, surprisingly, rain. Rain falling from a sky that is either invisible, or so dark as to neither cast nor reflect any light at all. The rain seems at once perfectly ordinary, and then black and oily, in equal measure. To her inquiry, there is no answer at all.
Though the moth's edges do not become fully clear or pronounced, it is enough that Ex will be aware that there most certainly is a MOTH in her dream. And for the time being, it's winging its way in the dream, avoiding the rain drops, especially as they become not-rain. "Please come out!" The moth says, quietly, and again in that child's voice. "It's scary out here!"
Something wobbles bonelessly up from one of the oily black rain puddles, oily black itself, and a little taller than the average human. It has legs and arms, all far too long, but they dangle uselessly, and it sort of glides rather than walks, crossing in front of her path, even if it doesn't turn toward her. The thing is soundless, faceless, and stops right in her way, if 'her way' can even be determined in this bizarre dream morass.
The moth pauses, pulling up short of the long-limbed thing. It flits from side to side, it's light-formed body blinking in and out of visibility for a moment. "Is that you?" It asks, flitting here and there, blinking up by the thing's 'head' and then behind it.
It has no face at all. Its head is merely an oily black lump, misshapen, and--as the moth flits around it--apparently prone to melting off of its shoulders, as it does just that, sliding down one too-long, dangling, boneless arm and then hanging by an oily thread attached to one finger and the side of a hand. "Please have a seat." The voice is pleasant, perfectly ordinary, if a little detached, and appears to be coming from the melting lump of a faceless head.
"But I have no butt!" The moth protests, flickering again, this way and that, peering at the lumpy blob dribbling downward. "I cannot sit. What is your name? Do you like cake or pie?" The moth blinks upward again to peer into the space where the 'head' lump had been. "Oh dear." It says. "That can't be good. Who are you?"
The oily head slowly drips down, and down, until it reaches the floor--and it's a floor now, not a street. White. Spotless until the head continues to melt further, like a stick of margarine left out in the sun. On the same side that the head melted down, one of the shoulders starts to slide down after it. "Please have a seat," repeats the pleasant voice. The white floor connects to white walls, and a ceiling. There's a door in one wall that looks quite heavy and reinforced. Vents at the top of two others. The fourth wall contains a single pane of very thick, darkened glass. A single chair sits in the middle of the room, facing the glass, with a speaker above it, and a camera with a red blinking light. It's by far the most defined thing the dream has offered so far.
"Oh." The moth 'says', and flits around the chair to study it. The rest of the defined space is absorbed, presumably, and the moth kind of hovers in the chair, turning this way and that.
It looks like a perfectly ordinary chair, if uncomfortable. One of those single piece plastic bucket seats, with metal legs. As she 'sits' in it, it suddenly changes. She gets a glimpse of a heavy metal chair with thick leather restraints, and then the moment passes, and the chair is benign and plastic again. "Please state your name and date of birth for the record," says the melting figure. Its shoulder has slid down to its wrist now, and the chest is looking rather saggy. The red light on the camera goes blink, blink, blink. There's that tapping noise again. A pen or a pencil against a hard surface, perhaps.
"My name is Ex. I was born December first, nineteen ninety nine." The moth says, flickering about, turning in the chair to try and change the view again. "Why am I here?" The moth asks, slowly shifting in shape and color. It's no longer a moth. Instead, it's a fuzzy approximation of Ex herself, in a white hospital gown.
"Subject is uncooperative," the melting lump notes. "Let's try again. Please state your name and date of birth."
The 'subject' repeats its previous statement, this time standing - or moving to stand. "What's your name and date of birth?"
"Sit down," says the voice. It's no less pleasant, but the 'please' is noticeably missing. Both shoulders have melted to the floor now, and half the torso.
"I'd rather stand." Again, the same sing-song, child voice. And this time the blurry figure begins to skip around the chair, arms flapping like wings.
The oily figure's torso flops onto the floor and oozes into the remains of its head and and fallen shoulder. "Subject remains uncooperative," it says. There's a sharp buzz. The lights go out. Pain springs to life behind her eyes, down her chest-- And the dream ends and Ex wakes up with a start.
The figure remains for a moment, sharply defined as the dream rips apart. It will be the last thing to fade, and the face smiles before disappearing completely.
The initial attempts all fail for one specific reason: Ex isn't asleep when Dagny tries to reach her dreams. It's three in the morning before she finally manages to catch the cub napping.
In the beginning, the dream does not seem defined by events, but sensations. It's the kind of insane, indescribable brain vomit that happens while sleeping with a high fever, or on a large amount of pain killers. There are colors: blue, black, red, piss yellow. Something about them gives off the sense of panic, as if paint swatches were something to be feared. There are whispers that mean nothing, and rise and fall in volume without ever managing a single word. The smell of disinfectant and bleach. The feel of cold concrete and feathers. Now and then there's also a buzzing, or a rattling, or a distant pounding, as if someone were banging on an invisible wall, very far away.
At first, the jumble seems to perplex the visitor. Within the dream, there will come a single point of dim light. Formless. A wisp. Light blue, making no sound, movement like that of a moth. In fact, it begins to BE a moth. Fuzzy and blurred. It begins to flitter around the colors, turning them to gray in its wake. The sounds are something else, and the moth seems to go to explore them, moving toward the perceived 'wall' that the pounding might be coming from, if it exists. A small voice, child like and full of apprehension, asks, "Is anyone there?"
For all that the moth tries to get closer to the distant noises, they grow no closer, no more defined, though the voices, on occasion, seem to whisper directly into her ear. The whispers are meaningless, barely sounds in their own right, even when heard that close. The pounding fades, only to be replaced by a steady 'tap tap tap tap'. It's not loud, and doesn't sound like anything so large as a knocking fist. As grey spreads through the colors, and the moth defines herself more, defines /movement/, the gray spreads even further than her will, giving way to formless shadows, and then ill defined gray buildings, and then, surprisingly, rain. Rain falling from a sky that is either invisible, or so dark as to neither cast nor reflect any light at all. The rain seems at once perfectly ordinary, and then black and oily, in equal measure. To her inquiry, there is no answer at all.
Though the moth's edges do not become fully clear or pronounced, it is enough that Ex will be aware that there most certainly is a MOTH in her dream. And for the time being, it's winging its way in the dream, avoiding the rain drops, especially as they become not-rain. "Please come out!" The moth says, quietly, and again in that child's voice. "It's scary out here!"
Something wobbles bonelessly up from one of the oily black rain puddles, oily black itself, and a little taller than the average human. It has legs and arms, all far too long, but they dangle uselessly, and it sort of glides rather than walks, crossing in front of her path, even if it doesn't turn toward her. The thing is soundless, faceless, and stops right in her way, if 'her way' can even be determined in this bizarre dream morass.
The moth pauses, pulling up short of the long-limbed thing. It flits from side to side, it's light-formed body blinking in and out of visibility for a moment. "Is that you?" It asks, flitting here and there, blinking up by the thing's 'head' and then behind it.
It has no face at all. Its head is merely an oily black lump, misshapen, and--as the moth flits around it--apparently prone to melting off of its shoulders, as it does just that, sliding down one too-long, dangling, boneless arm and then hanging by an oily thread attached to one finger and the side of a hand. "Please have a seat." The voice is pleasant, perfectly ordinary, if a little detached, and appears to be coming from the melting lump of a faceless head.
"But I have no butt!" The moth protests, flickering again, this way and that, peering at the lumpy blob dribbling downward. "I cannot sit. What is your name? Do you like cake or pie?" The moth blinks upward again to peer into the space where the 'head' lump had been. "Oh dear." It says. "That can't be good. Who are you?"
The oily head slowly drips down, and down, until it reaches the floor--and it's a floor now, not a street. White. Spotless until the head continues to melt further, like a stick of margarine left out in the sun. On the same side that the head melted down, one of the shoulders starts to slide down after it. "Please have a seat," repeats the pleasant voice. The white floor connects to white walls, and a ceiling. There's a door in one wall that looks quite heavy and reinforced. Vents at the top of two others. The fourth wall contains a single pane of very thick, darkened glass. A single chair sits in the middle of the room, facing the glass, with a speaker above it, and a camera with a red blinking light. It's by far the most defined thing the dream has offered so far.
"Oh." The moth 'says', and flits around the chair to study it. The rest of the defined space is absorbed, presumably, and the moth kind of hovers in the chair, turning this way and that.
It looks like a perfectly ordinary chair, if uncomfortable. One of those single piece plastic bucket seats, with metal legs. As she 'sits' in it, it suddenly changes. She gets a glimpse of a heavy metal chair with thick leather restraints, and then the moment passes, and the chair is benign and plastic again. "Please state your name and date of birth for the record," says the melting figure. Its shoulder has slid down to its wrist now, and the chest is looking rather saggy. The red light on the camera goes blink, blink, blink. There's that tapping noise again. A pen or a pencil against a hard surface, perhaps.
"My name is Ex. I was born December first, nineteen ninety nine." The moth says, flickering about, turning in the chair to try and change the view again. "Why am I here?" The moth asks, slowly shifting in shape and color. It's no longer a moth. Instead, it's a fuzzy approximation of Ex herself, in a white hospital gown.
"Subject is uncooperative," the melting lump notes. "Let's try again. Please state your name and date of birth."
The 'subject' repeats its previous statement, this time standing - or moving to stand. "What's your name and date of birth?"
"Sit down," says the voice. It's no less pleasant, but the 'please' is noticeably missing. Both shoulders have melted to the floor now, and half the torso.
"I'd rather stand." Again, the same sing-song, child voice. And this time the blurry figure begins to skip around the chair, arms flapping like wings.
The oily figure's torso flops onto the floor and oozes into the remains of its head and and fallen shoulder. "Subject remains uncooperative," it says. There's a sharp buzz. The lights go out. Pain springs to life behind her eyes, down her chest-- And the dream ends and Ex wakes up with a start.
The figure remains for a moment, sharply defined as the dream rips apart. It will be the last thing to fade, and the face smiles before disappearing completely.
