lifeaftr | Exploration Event: Neverwere

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Exploration Event: Neverwere

EXPLORATION EVENT: NEVERWERE

Who: Everyone!
What: Your wildest dreams come true!
When: May 15th to May 18th
Where: Ziziphus, those still on Ensō...and Mu
Warnings: Mark as needed!

Then Know That My Life Was Just a Killer Dream
You can find most of the information you need in the OOC info post! In the meantime, feel free to use this log as a catch-all for your dream worlds, as well as detailing your efforts to free one another. Whether they're on Ziziphus or Ensō at the time of the dreams' capture, your character is free to access as many dreams as you like, as the interlocking mental landscape allows for that sort of crossing over apropos of nothing. And time, of course, is very fluid in dreams - many days, months, and years can transpire in a matter of mere minutes.

Will you fight your way free from Ziziphus's vines or Mu's thrall, or are you content to die in your sleep?

Remember to let us know if your character dies during this event!

Event Timeline

[ ♆ ] May 15th: The vines make their move, ensnaring characters in ideal fantasy worlds
[ ♆ ] May 17th: The Storyteller will make contact with those they can, as well as issue information and a potential solution
[ ♆ ] May 18th: Those that have not freed themselves from the vines or from Mu will suffer a death

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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[In this dream, Timothy Wright does not live alone. It was chance (or perhaps just friends who can land paying gigs for truly unremarkable garage bands) that had Tim straying a little further from home, for once; a gig opening for some relatively niche band that would play relatively anywhere.

A last-minute decision to hike up the local mountain (haunted, the locals said- and how could Jay resist sticking his nose into something like that?) ensured that their meeting was... eventful, to say the least.

Four years and one hell of an adoption process later, Chara was doing- better. Gone was the knife under their pillow, even if they still had one stashed away in their bedside table. Hoarding was infrequent and strictly non-perishable in nature. They'd even caught up to their preferred year level in school... though whether that matched their actual age or not was anyone's guess. If they were doing it all online anyway, Chara had reasoned, it hardly mattered.

Also the garden is fantastic now sorry Tim I don't make the rules.

They're chilling on the couch when he comes in, almost gangly form covered by black tights and yet another of Tim's checkered shirts. They may very well be close to several growth spurts, but for the moment, this kid (his kid) is barely a few inches taller than when he found them on the mountain, stretching out and letting their head drape over the edge of the couch cushion to return his grin with an upsidedown one of their own.]

Your mother called. [They say, in lieu of a greeting.] She said to call her back about July 4th.

[In this universe, Timothy Wright, you get your shit together. Not purely because you have a reserve of energy that doesn’t exist in reality, but because you were lucky enough to catch someone a split second before they made the fatal decision to take two steps forward and go plummeting off the edge.]

[In this universe, a child ends up being your responsibility instead of the mere appearance of one.]

Did she? [He sets a worn looking banjo atop an amp parked near the door and leans against the wall, his expression simultaneously dry and undeniably fond in a way that has far too often undermined what should be straightforwardly deadpan delivery.] And was there anything in the voicemail greeting that may have given her a small heart attack?

[Their expression immediately shifts into wide-eyed innocence. The sort of look he may recognize from some of its more classic uses, such as that time Chara attempted to hide a slice of mud cake beneath their bed, promptly forgetting about it for three months. Or the time they poisoned the neighbor's front lawn for mowing it at a beyond stupid hour of the morning, Tim. They were practically begging for this.]

Of course not. [At first. Their calm greeting and advice that they and Tim cannot answer the phone right now being interrupted by a, if you ask them, historically accurate pterodactyl screech was hardly anything to lose sleep over.] That said, when I wrote down her message I may have accidentally erased the voicemail, my apologies.

[No, really. They're truly sorry.

They didn't know she could swear like that and they pressed it accidentally when laughing.]

[Given the fact that he's certain the neighbors already have a bitterly low opinion of him as it is - he's at least ninety percent sure that all of them independently came to the conclusion that he was an escaped mental patient of some kind or another and are simply waiting for the opportunity to prove it - he can hardly fault Chara for taking the matter into their own hands. And given that he's certain that his neighbors' opinion of him can't sink any lower, he was hardly about to do anything about it. Besides laugh, maybe, coupled with the calm (if slightly smug) pronouncement that you can't exactly prove it, now, can you?]

[You know, he thinks he's better off not knowing the specifics. But he's willing to take a small guess.]

Well, the neighbors already think I'm crazy, so I don't think hearing that helped any.

[And doesn't he just sound so torn up about it?]

[To be fair to Tim, Chara has hardly endeared themself either. The few times they've felt like going for a walk, they've heard people talking. Muttering of "demon child" that are hardly as quiet as they could be, meant to be overhead.

Amazing, how quickly people go inside after Chara stops and stares at them, smile stretching slowly across their face. Humanity will never change.

But Tim is... good.]

Would it help if I registered their homes for quality, entertaining mail lists?

[Because they've already done that.

Five times.]

Mm, Lawn Care Daily. They're sure to love that one.

[Realistically, he knows he should...scold them, probably. Or at least imply that that's not the right kind of habit to be partaking in, hijacking people's finances to get petty revenge. That's the sort of thing a quality, responsible adult would do.]

[He never had a model for parenting, unless you count doctors in lab coats, which he doesn't. Tim instead settles for snorting, shaking his head, but...he doesn't exactly admonish them, either.]

[You gotta take the wins when you can get them.]

So, besides tormenting the nosy neighbors - how was your day?

Consider it done. [Thanks d-Tim, they'll remember that the next time they're bored enough to harass the neighbors.

Yep. Nothing in error with that train of thought, no sir. Nonchalantly curling up, Chara nudges the couch cushion next to them with their foot- take a seat, mister Wright.]

I'll have you know I didn't terrorize anyone, today. All was at peace in the world. The asters were beginning to choke out my roses- I spent the majority of today separating them.

[An amazing, hard-earned feat he's not going to have the foggiest about, they're sure.]

[Take a seat he does, sprawling with an easy familiarity that's simultaneously ordinary and bizarrely clumsy, as though he's unused to the landscape of domesticity. It passes easily. He folds one arm behind his head and glances at them sidelong.]

You're gonna have to show me what that means someday. [Lawn Care Daily. There's a reason he doesn't need to invest.]

You know, payday's tomorrow. Anything in particular the garden's missing?

[And with the same, awkwardly comfortable ease, they rest their legs across his lap. He's like a heated footrest that pays the bills- 4.5 out of 5 on amazon review; sometimes makes them do the dishes which is, clearly, unreasonable punishment.]

We'll see. [If there was an equivalent of two left feet for gardening, Tim had it. An anti-green thumb, destroyer of tomato plants.] In the meantime, I do believe they require... takeout. Thai food?

And two tickets to the movies, so that they may watch through us vicariously.

[Said with the gravest of tones.]

Otherwise, I fear the petunias won't survive the week.

[What do you want from him. He's a construction worker, not a gardener. And that's come to be terribly obvious over time.]

Didn't realize the petunias had genre preferences, but you're the expert. [And exceptionally lucky that his shifts are relatively light this week. Weird that he has this much free time and this much disposable income to boot, but...he's just gotten good at managing it all, surely.]

[That makes sense, right?]

Have the petunias seen the movie listings recently?

Precisely why you're not the gardener in this household. [Chara retorts, waving a hand at him. Flowers, they'll have you know, are extremely capricious- they also like Thai.]

Mm... there's a new Disney movie out; Wreck-it Ralph?

[Hope you enjoy new releases from 2012 Tim because that's the last year Chara was around for them.]

[Tim is pretty sure he's never seen a Disney movie in his life, but at least has acquired a reasonable knowledge of them via osmosis. Is that...that has to be correct. He's just had no reason to actually see said movies, growing up.]

[Why wouldn't he have, though?]

Well, lucky you - I don't feel much like cooking tonight. [He never feels like cooking, which is why he rocks to his feet and ambles toward the kitchen, fishing around for a take-out menu.]

This Ralph presumably wrecks things?

Amazing. Such coincidences, combining into a blessing. This must be the Lord's work, praise be. [The last is- bluntly sarcastic, almost shocking. They don't talk about their life on-- before Tim. Do they? He's aware of it, of course. Intimately. It's not their life anymore. Perhaps they have progressed to the point of making light of it.

And yet, a large portion of them is suddenly-]
Terrified, as if they've called it all back down upon them.
...One would think so, yes. [Stupid. They sit up, reaching for the glass of water they'd left on the coffee table.

Their hands are shaking.]

[That's the thing about Tuscaloosa; you can't really escape it. It's not just in the church parking lots and plastered on billboards. It's in the junk mail, it's in the headlines, it's on nearly every street corner in some way or another. God is watching. One misstep, and you'll be punished. Your filthy little soul is too stained and too ugly to be rescued, so you'd better hope that He's feeling merciful when he purges you in one blast of unholy, purifying fire - ]

[There's a moment where he has to decide - where he freezes with uncertainty as to the best route to take.]

Eh. The Lord can suck it.

[And look at that.]

[What's that someone once said?]

[God is very slow today. You're still standing.]

[Since when has God done any good for anyone?]

What's he know, anyway?

[A brittle laugh- still tense, but also surprised. He doesn't often disregard things so flippantly, as if it isn't worth his time. Their time. It's quite possible he didn't even mean it as such; that Chara is reading far too deeply into nine words. That Tim's just trying to change the topic before he's stuck dealing with another one of Chara's many moods.

But they don't think so. Tim is-- a liar?-- to anyone but them. Whatever their meaning, Chara finds... reassurance, there, sliding off the couch and wandering over to the kitchen doorway with glass in hand, simply- watching.

That's reassuring, too.]

Don't forget the satay chicken skewers, this time.

[Menus. There's one of them in his cupboards, some half-crumpled takeout paper he stuffed into the detritus of address books and old envelopes full of things he never looks at. (They're all blank, when he shuffles through them and discards them, one by one, but the words don't leap out at him and he is nothing if not as adept at lying to himself as he is to anyone else, and so he forgets why the cupboard full of empty pages unsettles him so the moment it crosses his mind.)]

[He can't remember the name of the place, and he can't remember the number either - and for some reason, squinting at the black strip of digits at the top of the takeout menu doesn't make them any clearer.]

[He'll ride it out with muscle memory.]

What else are you thinking?

Hm... perhaps- [They shuffle over, peering about his arm and squinting at the colorful (but ultimately useless) slip of paper in his hands. That's troublesome; they would have hoped Tim had sampled more of this than the few scraps they'd stolen from the kitchen one night after-

...]

The usual. I can't be bothered to experiment, tonight.

[They shrug lazily.]

The... [The usual sticks in his brain the way nothing else has, an empty gap that's simultaneously foreign and achingly familiar.]

[This shouldn't be hard to remember. ~~Remembering is what he's always been bad at.~~ If he closes his eyes, lets it come to him, lets it just...it's there, isn't it? It's got to be. It'll come to him, it will, it'll - ]

[But it doesn't.]

What's the usual, again?

[Their smile comes all too easily.]

Wow, work was that difficult, was it? [A slightly sarcastic question as they hold their hand out.] Give it. If you wanted me to call, all you had to do was ask, Timothy.

[He's not supposed to be like this, not anymore. He's not supposed to be losing memories, bleeding out from his ears like headaches. He's...]

[He was never like that. What is he thinking?]

Right. Yeah. I. [He passes them the phone, because it's easier than thinking about the migraine and the sugary scent of rot in his nostrils.] Sorry, I guess it's been a long day.

Whatever. [A shrug. Chara presses a series of numbers at random, holding the phone to their ear and waving Tim towards the lounge.] Go. Sit.

[They've got this.]

...right. Yeah.

[The headache behind his temples is building to unsettling levels of unbearable. He makes for the bathroom instead, retrieving a bottle of painkillers, and for some reason - should he be taking these? Can he be trusted to...]

[The hell is he thinking?]

[He sets them down again. Picks them up. Stares.]

[Sets them down.]

[Something about the weight of a bottle of pills in his hands is familiar and dangerous in a way he can't place, and if he places it, he - he'll have to do something about the icy trickle of dread uncoiling in his guts, so he shoves the bottle in his pocket because it just feels right and paces to the living room instead and sits, massaging at his skull.]

[What the fuck is wrong with him?]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Exploration Event: Neverwere

what, me? late? psh

Jesus fucking Christ slaughter me why don’t you

you're welcome! <3

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