thoughtformed | (no subject)

Ta-da! You are dead.

You now exist in the limbo between life and death that Nathan hangs out in every so often.

The limbo is whatever your personal beliefs dictate. For Nathan, it's emptiness. But if you're there and you've got some thoughts or theories about the afterlife, it might start taking on a different shape.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," he sighs, throwing his hands up. "C'mon, I wasn't ready to reveal the secret mysteries of the universe yet!"

"Oh please," Lydia mutters, tossing some hair over her shoulder. Limbo is nothingness for her too. When you start hearing death echos, your whole imagine of a bright a shiny afterlife get shot to hell.

"Like you have some kind of monopoly on purgatory," she sneers.

Annnnnd limbo just got a whole lot hotter. Nathan straightens up and grins, arms outspread. "Never said I did, love! But frankly I always figured you were too prissy for the general gloom and gore of the recently deceased. This is a pleasant surprise."

"Why, because I don't brag about being having super powers to everything within hearing range?" Eyebrows up, expectations down. Lydia walks around the nothing, tracing a little circle around them and tracking the size of the nothingness. It's pretty much endless, but you get disoriented if you think of it that way. Measurements in yards.

"So you don't die and you have front row seats to the deadzone." Not a question, just an observation.

Welcome to the Wertham Community Centre! It's very large, very grey, and very empty. Which is fortunate, because between you and Nathan is a dead body. There's blood all over the body, blood all over the ground, blood all over the orange jumpsuit you now happen to be wearing.

"Shit," he hisses, both hands fisted in his hair. "Shit! No no no, not again— what the fuck did you do?"

Red everywhere, man. In every vivid or drying shade of it. Fucking beautiful.

Gamzee stares at his own hands, weaving very slightly on his feet. He can't remember what he was doing. Which ain't that unusual, if he's gonna up and level with a brother. The body on the ground could be anyone at all.

"Well," he begins, his attitude much too serene. "When you, uh, when you up and cull a motherfucker, bro, they get dead, you know?"

No, not fucking beautiful, fucking terrible.

Nathan's halfway through his own private monologue of a freakout when he looks up. "Gamzee?" Then down at the body. Then back at Gamzee. "Well, I can't say this is exactly a surprise. Always pegged you for a nutter. But what the fuck did this probation worker ever do to you?!"

A blissful, gentle smile glides across Gamzee's face, oiled along by the bloody paint. What a perfect question, man. Way easier than the first one. He is so ready to thrash a motherfucker's ideas upside the skull stem with some truth. Obvious answers are his motherfucking forté.

"Bro, like. A motherfucker up and gets born, he's gotta die, you get me?"

It's like up and asking, what is a bag for? It's for holding shit, man. This is what life is for. Gamzee gestures, broadly, at the body on the ground, grin widening. There's a laugh stuck in the back of his throat when he speaks.

"Motherfucker all went and happened to be here."

For as much grief as Victor gives the ASBO shitheads (gave? Has his opinion on them changed? Nathan has never cared enough to ask) for being, you know, murderers and all that — nothing they did was ever even half as fucked up as this right here. Nobody ever smiled after killing somebody, okay. Well. Simon kind of did after the fact. But certainly, none of them laughed!

And on top of that, that answer's nowhere near as obvious as Gamzee seems to think. Nathan's face is a perfect mask of growing horror and his voice pitches half an octave, closing in on the finish line to hysteria. "Just cos everyone has to die doesn't mean to get to MURDER THEM whenever the fuck you want!" he shrieks. It's not manly to shriek. Not at all. But that is definitely what he's doing.

Congratulations, you have been bestowed with the powers of flight! You are high above New Moore, practically up in the clouds. Who knows? Maybe the barrier doesn't exist in this dream. Maybe you could fly right out of here, all around the world, even back to your own world if you want. The possibilities are limitless when you're with the heir of breath.

John zooms in front of you and stops short, grinning like a maniac. "You're getting the hang of it," he enthuses — and then shoots a gust of air in your face because he is also a tremendous asshole.

As a teenage boy with hormones aplenty and an approximate metric fuckton of confusion about where he stands in relation to "pants stuff" (that's the scientific term, thank you very much) it's only natural to have weird dreams. It's not like they mean anything — what is this, Rose's Freudian Funfest? No, okay, dreams just happen. They are the random rumblings of overloaded subconsciouses and most of the time they don't make any sense at all.

All that said, John is now about to kiss you.

He is also maybe wearing a ridiculous magician outfit, you might be similarly dressed as his sexy sidekick, and if you're aware of your immediate surroundings it's possible that you're backstage at an ornate old-timey theatre. But mostly the kissing thing, that's about to happen. Do you stop it or let it go? And how long is it going to take for him to look you in the eye again after everyone is awake and all is said and done?

"John." A pause, frantic: "John," with an added tone of what the fuck.

The real question is how long is it going to take for this particular you to look John in the eye again, because this kiss isn't happening courtesy of the gray palm shoved into John's face, pushing him back as Karkat leans back, brows furrowed and mouth half-open in horror.

Some people were in very important dreams where they were doing very important things, such as not eating sand and possibly transitioning through dreams where they walk through rooms filled with the dead bodies of their friends while potentially being pursued and probably murdered by another one of their friends. They can't be hanging around wearing...whatever this is. It doesn't need further exploration.

"Just what the hell is going on here."

It better be human Liv Tyler in the original version of this dream or something because what the fuck.

This is so obviously a dream.

Rose loves John. He is her best friend and co-guardian of her adopted salamander familiar/child, and an utter doofus. She loves John, but she does not love John so much that she would be caught dead in this sidekick getup without the occurrence of several specific circumstances, none of which she remembers happening. Thus, dream.

Not her usual kind of dreams either, which are obviously not just random images from an overloaded subconscious, but full of the future and bright sunlight and murmuring gods. John coming at her with comically puckered lips is somehow still weirder.

She should make a quip about not even being cold in the grave, etc etc, the joke is John kisses dead girls, and indeed she starts to, except...there's something on John's shoulder. Something grey, and a little slimy, and...

"John." She slaps a hand over his lips just before they can make contact. "Stop kissing for a second."

You find yourself laid out on a cold concrete floor. It's dark and dismal and could probably be called a bunker, except bunkers are usually equipped at least with some food rations. This place is empty but for your fellow dreamer, a ratty blanket, a small crate, an empty cup of Americone Dream and what appears to be a discarded photograph. Hope you don't mind being underground, because the only opening is far above you. It would be a nice view of the stars if those thick prison bars weren't in the way. Is that a lock on top? That is a lock on top. You're trapped.

What it is is a glorified prison pit. Also, Jesse Pinkman's former home. Good times.

Fortunately, Jesse does not currently look like he got his face fed through a wood chipper (unless that's what you're into). He's standing with his back to you, staring up through the bars at the night sky, vaguely trying to measure the distance from where he stands to the top of the cage with his hands. Help a brother break out of Nazi hell — or don't, the choice is yours and yours alone!

Edited 2014-03-01 05:58 (UTC)

"Uh." Dave pushes himself into a sitting position and first follows Jesse's line of sight to the opening above them, then comes back down to Jesse, and finally glances around at the bunker. "Huh. Okay. Well, this is a new one for me, man. How about you?"

He gets up as he talks and slides his shades down his nose for a second, because he wants to see if the walls have tallies carved into them like any prison worth its grime should. That's when he notices the photograph, but he doesn't move to pick it up yet. Seems rude, when Jesse hasn't even answered him yet.

Jesse totally does not jump a little at the voice. "Aww shit," he breathes, because it sounds like— yep. A quick glance over his shoulder confirms it totally is Dave. Fuck. The only thing that makes this situation worse is a kid being stuck in it. "Shit, you shouldn't be here," but he's mostly saying that to himself, like if he berates himself hard enough he can change his own dream.

If only it were that easy.

Jesse turns to face him, laces both hands behind his neck and pulls his head down. "Uh, no. Not new." No tallies on the walls, nothing to tally with. But if there were, there'd be about six months' worth. He straightens up again but keeps pulling his hands down the sides of his neck, a constant anxious tick. "It's— whatever. Jesus, dude, you really gotta get out of here. Like, can't you think yourself out of it? Please."

Oh, fuck, man. Poor Jesse. Dave does his best not to look concerned and glances away, like that would afford Jesse any privacy when Dave's stuck there in his dream. "Nah, bro. I dream in circles, so I'd just end up here again. I mean, maybe if you hit me with a ball of yarn? You don't have a ball of yarn." Jesse doesn't have jack shit, really. Dave closes his mouth on the 'Sorry' that almost gets away from him, downgrades it to "My bad.

"Maybe I could help you out while I'm here, though," he offers, stooping to pick up the photo. It just looks so forlorn there on the floor, you know? Plus if this were a video game it'd just be screaming, 'TOUCH ME FOR CUT-SCENE.' "If that's cool. I can probably reach those bars up there."

An addict is an addict is an addict is an addict.

You've managed to make your way out of a party that's quickly gotten out of control. It's a pretty big house, and the upstairs is mostly safe from debauchery. Below you there's too many bodies for one room, it's smoky and hazy, bass booms and people shout to each other over terrible dubstep and you're pretty sure you saw two dudes bust out lightsabers to battle each other — but up here, shut into a nondescript bedroom, you can at least hear yourself think and get your bearings.

Except Jesse stumbles in, looking behind him and laughing and half-shouting something about ordering more pizza to his friends below.

"Whoa, shit— hey, sorry, I didn't mean to like, interrupt or whatever." He's pleasantly stoned and smiles easily, because being clean for over a year doesn't mean he misses the feeling any less. Still, ever the gracious host, he asks: "Yo, you okay? You need anything?"

Obviously people don't hide from awesome parties for no good reason. Come on, spill the beans, he looks so earnest to help you.

Some gangly teenager wearing a pair of horns, face smeared with greasepaint, hair a mess. Not too weird, right? But his eyes are bloodshot and bad-case-of-jaundice, get-a-new-liver yellow, which is semi to very fucked up. His hands keep twitching in this grabbing motion, in the empty air of his lap.

"I... " Gamzee tries, talking like it takes considerable effort to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Squints at the light of the doorway. Flexes his jaw and it pops. "Fuck, bro, I don't fucking know, you know?"

Oh god, this kid looks like he's in a bad way. Jesse doesn't remember inviting a juggalo, but, well— it's not like he remembers much of the past few days anyway, this party's kinda been going on for a while, plus he tends to attract a strange crowd. So, whatever, you know? Different strokes for different folks or something.

Everything about this situation should be frightening — unsettling at the very least — but there's so much strangeness assaulting his senses all at once and he's so high, all he can do is react calmly. Like this is entirely normal.

"It's cool, man, hey. Sometimes you just gotta get away from the noise. Right? But like, don't puke in here. If you're gonna puke go outside."

Just another junkie chilling in his guest room, except this one has face paint and wicked bad hair. No big deal.

"Bro, I ain't gonna puke," Gamzee promises, and then makes a foreboding wet coughing noise that rattles his entire body. Which isn't much, actually. He isn't very bulky. "Shit," he wheezes when the fit passes. "... Shit. Yeah, I'm good."

The paint covering his face is tacky with sweat and traces of green jello. Whatever he took, it isn't helping him any. His hands continue to tremble and spasm into almost-fists; his shoulders droop forward a little further with each breath. "Head hurts like a bitch," he comments, without inflection. "That's ... that's kinda new."

It's weird how he doesn't blink.

Roxy opens an eye and lifts her head from the mattress. She told herself she'd lie here right until the bass drops, just a couple more songs and then she'd be awake and ready to resume the party. Except she's tired and the red bull/vodka combo tasted like garbage so she stuck to her gin and now she's paying for it with the sleepys.

"Nah, just-" she tries to shake back a yawn, forcing herself up on her elbows. "Waiting for the second wind to hit." She gestures for Jesse to have a seat with her, craning her neck to try and spot where her solo cup ran off to.

The small part of Jesse that's aware he's dreaming knows exactly how bad this is. Roxy shouldn't see him when he's been using, and she shouldn't be drinking, and she shouldn't even be here, not in this environment— even if it is just a dream. The fact that it's not real doesn't mean it's not totally fucked up.

But that part of him is on mute. And it's not like it matters anyway, right?

So his grin widens when he realizes who it is and he makes his way to the bed, pushing the door closed behind him. She obviously wanted to get away from the noise, so let's keep it that way. "You don't gotta get up if you don't wanna," he drawls, plopping sideways on the end of the bed and propping his head up with one hand. "Like, if you just wanna kick back up here, that's totally chill, yo. Party of two."

It's not the first time Roxy dreamt about getting fucked up, and considering recent events, it won't be the last. she felt guilty the first few times, but she rationalized sleep boozin is still better than awake drinking. A little suspect of a subconscious that puts here here though.

"But it's a party," she murmurs, eyes half open but smile twice as wide. "When do parties only have two people?" Little mock gasp, "Wait! Which two peoples?" The way she says it, it's more like a riddle than a question, and it's funny enough to elicit a bit of the giggles from the teenage girl all liquored up on this bed.

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OPTION I

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OPTION II

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option one.

option two.

NOW SOMETHING ELSE TO IGNORE.

Re: option two.

Option 1

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Option 2

whoops

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FUCK YOU IN THE FACE THIS IS WORSE THAN OPTION 1

I KNOW I'M SORRY

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