foolishwren | 70. [DREAM/DREAM/DREAM/DREAM]

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70. [DREAM/DREAM/DREAM/DREAM]

_{[So while the rest of Johto alternately panics, cries, or rushes around trying to capture as many of the soulstealing insects as possible, there are dozens of souls floating around in that dream limbo, drifting in and out of each other's slumbering thoughts and visions. Whether it's nightmarish flashbacks or just those dreams where you're at school taking a really hard test, and then Dracula shows up, and then everybody's naked ... anything is possible when it comes to what people see in their sleep.]

[But what appears in the darkness in this particular spot in the spaceless, shifting mass of dreaming souls... is a door.]

[It's old, and covered with boards and bolts, rusted near-through in some places. The lock is broken-- mangled and half-melted and wrenched out of the keyhole. The only thing on it that doesn't look ancient is a scrap of torn notebook-paper that's taped up on it at roughly eye-level. It reads only a single phrase:]}

Fear of blood tends to create fear for the flesh.

_{[More importantly, though... the door is ajar. Through the gap come the scents of rust and metal-- and something organic, fleshy-- and a low, deep hum of industrial machinery. It's not a door that anyone in their right mind would want to go through. ... But for anyone who may have stumbled this far into the dreams of their fellow lost souls, either in flight from some other nightmare or just pure, wandering curiosity... there's just no other place to go but through the door.]}

_{[Go on. Open it. After all.... it's only a dream.]}

[ooc: SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, GUYS. Thanks for being patient! If you commented on that planning post, there's something spooky planned for your character to do here so please feel free to tag or not tag as it pleases you!]

~*~

[ooc: This is the IC post for what was announced over here! Even if you didn't comment there, feel free to participate! I'm still happy to whip up Silent Hill scenarios for folks!]

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[L's soul is something between a monster and a child, looking like a creature that doesn't quite know what he is. All he knows is that he's free of his chains, and that there's suddenly a door, and anything is better than being in this dark prison of a room for even a moment longer. His glossy black insect-eyes scan over the note without really comprehending it, and he's scrambling through the door to get away from his own nightmare...

...and into someone else's, apparently. And what a nightmare it is. Everything seems to be cast in red light, and the whirring and humming of machinery makes him nervous. Even though he looks like he could fit into a world like this, he feels uneasy, like he needs to find a place to hide rather than continuing to stand out here in the open where any enterprising metaphorical hawk could swoop right down and snatch the wayward little creature.]

Edited 2011-06-20 20:02 (UTC)

_{[Regardless of anything else that happens to L beyond the ancient and moldering barrier of that door... at the very least, he will be in good company. Not much that crawls or creeps through the Otherworld knows what it is.]

[The door opens surprisingly easily, even for the spindly little thing-- maybe it's because he's not quite human-- or maybe it's just the wind helping him out. On the other side, buildings. Dark buildings-- uninhabited, it seems-- save for one, whose windows are lit in the face of the darkening scarlet sky. And it is darkening quickly. The smoky sun is already disappearing behind the mostly-obscured horizon. He's right to be hunting for a hiding spot, because little things-- even little monsters-- aren't safe on the streets of the other Silent Hill.]

[The door on the lit building-- which is the only one that even seems to have any definition, as though the others are cardboard cutouts, immaterial-- hangs open loosely. A little invitingly... but in the way that an abandoned carcass might look inviting to scavengers after already being gutted by a bigger carnivore.]

[All the same... it's the only feasible shelter in sight.]}

[Every moment he spends out in the open is a moment his natural paranoia is amplified; the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and his mantis wings vibrate and flutter nervously as if sensing something on the oddly stagnant breeze that his human mind can't quite identify.

The sky darkens to a deeper shade of alarming crimson, and he knows down to his marrow that he does not want to be out in this.

The door jumps out at him; the stark outline is impossible to miss, especially when it's surrounded by entrances that just don't look real. He hurries toward it, heart pounding, slipping inside while drawing as little attention to himself as is possible.]

Edited 2011-06-23 04:03 (UTC)

_{[As he scampers in through the doorway, the sight he will encounter is that of an everyday modest family household... the lights are bright and warm. There's a television on in the living room-- the volume is low but it's playing a slightly fizzly tape recording of 101 Dalmatians. There's a few dolls scattered about on the floor, as well as an open sketchbook, brimming with colorful crayon drawings. A bowl of popcorn lies upturned on the floor, its contents scattered.]

[It looks for all the world like a completely normal evening in a completely normal home, right down to the spilled snack-- a fairly understandable consequence of evening cartoon-watching in a house with a rambunctious child.]

[... But it's not a normal evening.]

[A man is standing at the foot of the stairs and looking up them, his back to L's odd little soul. He's wearing an overcoat, and his features from behind, although not noticeably absent, seem... fuzzy. Like a vague memory. His voice, when he speaks, is strangely stiff... but full of anger.]}

Give her to me.

[Though it seems normal, it's a bit strange to L, mostly because this isn't the type of setting he's accustomed to. It's nice, though; he sits down for a moment to partake in the spilled snack crackers, watching the television for all of about 30 seconds before growing bored with it. It's the scene where the dogs are all rolling in soot to disguise their white coats. Though he relates well to the concept of disguising oneself in any number of ways to pass as something one isn't, he finds himself disdainfully analyzing the film as it plays; he's always had problems with these types of stories, losing patience with them quickly. Labradors have heavier muzzles and thicker bodies than dalmatians, and so changing the color shouldn't be enough to create a convincing illusion. Even Cruella's bumbling henchmen have to notice that there certainly are a lot of those black puppies around. Even if they're not the expected color and pattern, the quantity should be a dead giveaway. It's a smuggling operation, plain and simple and so painfully obviously, and who would want to make coats out of dog fur anyway? He doesn't think that anyone's around, so he prepares to break his nervous silence with a frustrated scream, but his voice catches and withers in his throat when he hears a someone speaking.

While he's been indulging in dropped snacks and being driven quietly crazy by 101 Dalmatians, there has been a man standing just through a doorway over his shoulder at the foot of a stairway. He stiffens, setting the snacks aside as carefully as he can, creeping closer to find out who the strange man is talking to in such an angry tone. More than that, he's curious to know who he's talking about. Always cautious, L presses himself against the living room wall, peering through the doorway while exposing as little of himself as possible.]

Edited 2011-06-24 19:38 (UTC)

_{[The man is staring straight upwards to the top of the stairs, where another man crouches, hunched-- this one's face, unlike the figure with the deep voice, is perfectly clear. Sharp-boned but with strong, gentle features, the brown-haired man has one arm around a much smaller figure-- black-haired and pressed against him, shaking like a leaf. It's pressed tightly against him and hiding its face against his chest, while he presses a supporting hand to the back of its head, encouraging it not to look at the dark figure down below.]

[As for brown-haired man himself, his face is starkly pale and though he looks determined, everything about his posture is frightened... tense and quivering, like a rabbit holding stock-still in the face of an enemy, but with every muscle coiled to bolt.]

[His second arm is outstretched, pointing down at the speaker... and in his shaking hand is a gun. When he speaks, his voice is shaky and rattled... but unlike the cold fury that the dark figure's voice holds and despite the quiver in his words, it has a core of iron determination. The commanding tone is hidden by the fear... but it's there.]}

Stay away from us.

[It is certainly more interesting than what is going on behind him on the television. Even if Jasper and Horace are figuring out the canines' ruse by observing the effects of wet snow on soot, they are virtually assured a safe escape. It's clear and obvious that the protagonists are not going to be harmed, but where the two figures on the staircase are concerned... well. It's not so clear. And their villain seems somewhat more competent and intimidating.

Although... it would appear that the brown-haired man has the advantage, not only in higher ground, but he is armed. The small figure is clearly a child, and it's fairly obvious from the dolls and snacks and the nature of the tape playing on the television (Pongo is currently leaping to get into the truck. A false sense of suspense is built on the manufactured uncertainty that every single puppy might not make it) that a child lives here. Therefore... there is a high likelihood that this particular child lives in this house with the brown-haired man.

L realizes that he's holding his breath. Will the man fire the gun? Can he? Has he killed before, would he kill even to protect his home and his child?]

Edited 2011-06-24 20:21 (UTC)

_{[Will he fire? The man at the bottom of the stairs doesn't seem to think so, because he starts to climb them, spitting out his words.]}

Heathen. You stole Alessa from us. Stole salvation and hid with our property like the sniveling coward you are. You will pay for what you took.

_{[The man at the top grits his teeth, brow furrowing in anger.]}

Her name is Cheryl!

She was never yours to name.

[Though L has spent his relatively short lifetime piecing together the aftermaths of murders, he rather hopes that the man does pull the trigger. It has nothing to do with whether or not one human killing another can be justified, and everything to do with the confidence and malice in the man advancing on the two people. His failure to hesitate, even just a bit, before he refers to the girl (Alessa?) as "property." He can't see justice in the ascending man's purposes, or hear it in his words.

Somehow, a man protecting a child from being "property" just seems so much more... noble. Human. The kind of thing that fascinates L from a distance but intimidates him up close. It is so far from what he understands, but the difference between the men's motivation is still amply clear.

What can he do? To draw attention to himself might be deadly, but at the same time, it might provide a distraction, might make things clearer if one side kills the other and can explain the situation to him. He would prefer for it to be the man at the top of the staircase, of course...

The film's climax is approaching. Winding roads and a perilous vehicle chase. Even if it's nowhere near the suspense level of the situation on the stairway, it's loud, at least there's that. Characters are shouting, the loud period automobiles are sputtering as they ram each other, and the musical score simply demands attention. He notices the remote control near his elbow sitting on the arm of the couch, and turns the volume all the way up.]

_{[The TV's speakers blast the sound of Cruella's screeching tires-- the volume's turned up so high that a horrendous crackle enters the noise purely because the television just can't handle that kind of sound. It's painfully loud, and jarring as hell.]

[And yet, neither the man now climbing the stairs nor the one pointing the gun with a shaking hand seem to notice... the scene in front of L continues to play out, as though it's running on a tape, just like the dog-starring cartoon on the television. The men aren't there... not really. They're wraiths... memories.]

[... But one person notices.]

[The little girl, previously hiding against her protector on the second floor, lifts her head to stare in shock and bewilderment. Her eyes-- huge, brown, and tear-filled, lock directly onto L's blank, black sockets. She says nothing, but the look in her eyes isn't one of fear (although obviously the situation unfolding between her father and the intruder is upsetting to her)-- but fascination.]

[Who are you? What are you doing?]

[The man with the gun moved back as the one on the stairs advanced, tugging the child with him.]}

I-I ... I don't want to have to hurt you. You can turn around and walk out of this house, right now.

_{[The stranger does not even flinch.]}

You won't fire. You don't have the stomach for it.

Edited 2011-06-27 03:05 (UTC)

[It's bewildering and odd, but they don't seem to notice the television's volume rising to a level that L finds himself regretting, it's so loud. They're oblivious to the television, and he realizes that it's likely that they are therefore oblivious to him. He emerges slowly from the living room, getting a closer look at the scene, no longer hiding...

And then he sees the girl's eyes. Staring straight into his, seeing him, acknowledging him. Ah, so he and his effects on the house were noticeable to at least one other individual. A child, like him, who currently seems to be in a strange and perilous situation.

He watches the little girl as she's tugged back by her protector, shaking his head slowly. Is there anything I can do to help you? Or has this been written in stone?]

_{[The little girl stares back, but then, slowly, shakes her head as well. No... what happened here was unalterable... besides, it had all worked out for the best, hadn't it...?]

[The drama unfolding on the stairs had taken on a mute quality while the girl participated in the silent exchange with the strange little intruder into her memory-- the mens' mouths were moving, the protector's hand was shaking even harder, like a leaf-- and then there's a flash.]

[The back of the advancing man's head promptly bursts, and his body goes toppling silently down the stair like a ragdoll, finally landing at the bottom, scarlet pooling on the floor underneath his skull.]}

[If there's one thing that absolutely drives L up the wall, whether his soul is inside his body or out of it, it's being unable to control his surroundings. This is maddening, the knowledge that no matter what he does, he can't influence the course of action... and now there's no sound, either, and even the sound of the television fades into static behind him.

It happens so quickly and silently that L barely has time to flinch as the bullet is fired despite the advancing man's accusation that the other man "didn't have the stomach" to shoot. It would appear that he had been fatally wrong, and had paid for it with his life.

Blood creeps towards L's bare toes, and he takes a few halting steps backwards. He is clumsy, and he doesn't want to slip and fall in this mess.]

_{[He had indeed paid, and paid hard.]

[What happens next happens so quickly it's over in almost an instant-- and unfortunately, makes avoiding the spreading puddle impossible.]

[In bright ribbons of red, the blood streaks outwards and crawls up the walls, almost alive-- and the house crumbles away as the walls run red, like time-lapse footage of a wilting plant.]

[The girl is gone. The man at the top of the stairs is gone. And soon, the normal, presumably happy house that L stepped into is gone, too. There's just that harsh red sky, and a moldering ruin around him.]}

[His heart jumps into his throat as he watches the red expand outward in lurid streaks, under his feet and behind him, putting cobwebs and veins in the walls until there are no walls. And no people, no animated dalmatians, nothing except the red and the rubble.

His wings buzz and vibrate again, more urgently this time. The scene was a reprieve, apparently, and little more; he's still got survival to worry about, and there is still that terrible feeling of being prone, vulnerable and a hell of a target for anything looking for prey in this stark world.

Shelter. He wants it, dearly, but is uncertain whether or not he can find it. He toys with the idea that maybe that girl is somewhere, that maybe she isn't gone like the house is gone, but he can't claim to be seriously holding out hope for that outcome.]

_{[This time, at least, the other buildings seem more than substantial... before him is a veritable urban jungle of alleys and and streets and lonely streetlamps whose light does not seem to extend beyond pale pinpricks in the otherwise dark, smoky red dusk.]

[Lying scattered all around now are flyers-- some torn and some half-soaked in puddles. He will find them no matter where he goes ... and all have one of two of the same faces printed upon them-- the man with the gun, and a somewhat familiar teenage face. Missing persons ads... there's contact information, but instead of info about the people themselves, there are only a few words, respectively, written about each of them. HERETIC and HOLY ONE.]}

[He shuffles off in no particular direction, though it seems as promising as can be expected in such a bizarre world. There is an even row of streetlights, and though they're eerie, at the very least they are in a straight line. L loves the linear and the logical, and they appear to be the only thing in his eyeline that speaks of sense and familiarity. So he follows them, and jumps when one of them flickers as he passes under it.

It's impossible to keep his bare feet clean. Ash and dirt cling to his soles and get scuffed up over the top of them, turning the pale skin sooty grey in a matter of minutes. It reminds him of the movie. So he shuffles over to a puddle, with the intention of washing them, but his toes brush up against a piece of soggy paper. He peers closer at it, and in his peripheral vision, he notices more posters, just like the one at his feet.]

Holy one...?

_{[The face above that heading is serene-looking, and that is perhaps what makes it look SO alien-- because even though the freckles, scruffy hair, and baggy shadows under the eyes should strike L as familiar, the soft, benevolent, divine expression is not one that seems fitting for the face of Heather Mason.]}

[It's very strange to him; he crouches to get a better look, since the serrated appendages he has in place of forearms aren't exactly ideal for picking up bits of paper and examining them. Somewhere, a human, adult body with long, deft fingers is fast asleep, but the soul itself is so horribly awkward, so horribly different and clumsy...

Well. Someone drew Heather wrong, that's just all there is to it. He squints, trying to see past the misplaced benevolence and serenity to a face he knows he knows. He's so intensely focused on the poster that he forgets his wariness for a moment, foolishly dropping his guard.]

_{[Oh boy, L...]

[Sure enough, because the only things more deeply ironic than life itself are the dreams of those living it, it's that moment that a potential crisis chooses to strike.]

[Around a nearby corner, the gentle sounds of something padding through some of the scattered puddles float through the air, followed by a much less gentle growl.]

[A few meters away, over by some trash cans, a dark canine form stands, backlit in the mist by an unseen streetlight. The eyes in its too-far-apart sockets blaze-- straight at the hunching little figure.]}

[Oh hell. Oh hell. That gets his attention again right quickly, that's for sure. He scrambles to his feet, black eyes wide, a harsh gust of wind catching his now furiously vibrating wings.

It's not a cartoon dalmatian, that's for fucking sure.

Nothing seems like a better idea at the moment than to run as fast as his twiggy legs can carry him, and that's exactly what he does. He chooses a direction that takes him down a somewhat dubious-looking alley, rather than the more open and comforting route along the straight line of street lamps. His reasoning? He's smaller, but not faster, and out in the open that thing would be on him in an instant.]

_{[It's most certainly not a cartoon dalmatian.]

[With a mouth that opened further to the sides than it did up and down, the dog let out a surprisingly deep, menacing bark. When the strange little spirit flees, whatever primal instincts are left in the thing's rotting brain can only compel it to give chase.]

[Which it does-- down the narrow, misty alleys and wet streets. L's strategy is sound, but all the same, alleys are tricky things... especially since you never know when one is going to come to an abrupt stop against a brick wall.]

[Which is what L will run into eventually.]}

[His heart is pounding in his thin chest, pebbles and the occasional bit of broken glass prick at his bare feet, and those wings, while they seem to sense and react to danger, don't seem to want to carry him through the air. That's part of the dismaying catch he's noticed more and more as he's been here; the things about him that make him inhuman, the wings, the waxy, mantis-like forearms, the eerie, black eyes... none of them benefit him. None of them help him survive. If anything, they just make him more helpless and prone.

He didn't think he'd ever wish for it again, but... perhaps he did belong in a dark room.

His path twists and turns, he leaves false trails, and he does everything possible to throw off his pursuer. Even when he's terrified, L is resourceful and clever... but that wall is too tall for him to scale. His breath catches and he turns to face the hell-hound, his toes curling against the pavement and bits of ash.

He wonders what it'll be like to die like this. How much pain there will be, if he'll bleed much or not at all, if it'll be quick or drawn-out.]

Monsters must die...

[He numbly parrots words he's heard before, but they don't sound right, they don't seem right, like this... his eyes widen as his back flattens against the brick wall. Nowhere else to go.]

I'm not like you...

_{[The dog comes skidding around the corner, paws already bloodied from being worn down to the bone over the course of their owner's short and cursed existence, but it doesn't seem to notice or care. Slick ropes of white froth spatter out of its split mouth and onto the pavement as it lays eyes on L and begins to growl once more, stepping forward. Several feet of filthy, moldering bandages trail behind it. The flesh on its body is almost greenish, pocked with open, oozing sores.]

[It's not even that the strange little insect thing looks particularly tasty.]

[It's just that it moved. And that alone filled the split-headed dog with a hot, raging desire to rip it to pieces and roll in the remains.]

[Floppy jowls peeling back over rotting purple gums and yellowed teeth, the dog LUNGES.]}

[It looks dead. Rotting, decomposing, diseased... and though that should give it the appearance of being infirm, it increases the fear factor substantially. This isn't a rational predator with a logical reason for pursuing him, it's a possessed corpse that wants to destroy him just for existing.

And then it's moving, it's lurching forward. L squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that it's quick, hoping that whatever happens, he doesn't have enough time to wish for death.]

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