Once Upon A Dream - 4th wall

[etcircenses]

The Tributes will not be warned for when their injections will occur. For those who are known to be compliant and willing to work with the capitol, they may be taken aside and told they are getting a shot or whatever else may convince them. Others may be injected within their sleep (and have been drugged earlier to keep them that way).

If you are not a tribute, your injection comes on your decision, having cashed in your ticket at Hypnogogia for a good rest and stay.

Everyone is ushered to bed at once and everyone will be quick to discover why.

The first effect is a sort of paralysis - not the terrifying inability to move, but a signal to the brain that says why move? Moving is so much effort. It's quickly followed by drowsiness, and then a chill that radiates from the needle into the body, and finally, unconsciousness.

This shared dreaming carries on whenever you sleep for seven total days, with the Expos running during their waking hours. Those with Vistors will meet them within the dream.

Day 1: It starts as a typical day in the tower. You may very well not realise it to be a dream. The only difference is that there are others here, ones who won't be around when you wake. They've been instructed to wait for you. You can show them the whole of the Capitol in this time, if you wish.

Day 2: On this day, the world is... yours. Some of the world will bleed into the mini worlds of others, so long as you have the wish in mind to visit them. Some details about the worlds may be off but it will initially seem as though you've finally returned home.

Day 3: A paradise. Any paradise. Whatever your characters would personally deem as a paradise. Like with day 2, the dream worlds will bleed into one another.

Day 4: On day four, it starts off somewhere inspired by a District. It's been tailored to suit the Capitol of course but

̨̙̟͒̒̔ͬ̄̌̓̓s̋͒ͩ̈́ͯ́̾ͭ͑͘҉̮͈̪̲̼̜̟͡ó͔͔͖̼̂̓̌̓m̰̹ͩ͑̽̆̽̚͟͞e͙̰̬̻̋ͣ͑ͭ̄̌̀ṭ̡͈͔̺̀͂̈́ͯ̎͛̓́́ḣ̍̉͌҉̮̖͔͉̜͉̘͓į̶̥̼͙͒̏́̈n̼̬̼͖͖̳͊͐̈g̷̱͈̦̀ͣ͒̒̅͛ͯ̐̿ ̵̡̻̳̯ͫ̓̃ͭͨg̵͚͚͖̏̒̏ͨ̐̏ͦ͞͡ȏ͚̳͓̱̩̞͚͙ͮ̊̄̐̂͊e͇͇̦̳̦ͥ̽͌̆͂̇͆ͤͅs͙͙̠̝͍̹͔͓͛̽̾͑͂͆ ̠͖̘̥̤̑ͧ͘w̛̰̰̗͕̻̯̰͕̃͌͘r͖̰͚̋o̵̭̺̺̘͈͕͆̐̇̌ͣ͆͗͟n̷̫ͦ̆ͯ̀g̛̥͖͎̺͙͈ͮ̓͐̄̇.

The dream world seems to distort. From the setting, to those in it, for five seconds everything is warped and wrong, caught in an echo chamber. Then it goes dark and silent. From the dark, the nightmares crawl out. The nightmares may have things taken from memory, but most of it is a new and horrible scene where making sense isn't mandatory.

Capitolites are quickly awoken and refunded. They are given a (poor-tasting) drink that will offer them totally dreamless sleep. But they don't have to drink it if they do not wish...

[OOC: This is the day that D13 players will finally be able to participate and on every day following. You are allowed to post for this early.]

Day 5: The Capitol tries again to take back control of the dream, starting out with a fun and cute arena with super-soakers, glitter bombs, and weapons made from foam. It's happy and colorful. But it doesn't last long.

Soon enough, the dream warps again into a nightmare. The arena loses its harmlessness, becoming one that's very much a threat. This may be an arena from memory or something totally new.

Day 6: The Capitol hasn't given up fighting District thirteen's interference but they've taken to a new tactic. In attempt to drive them out, or at least pin some of the blame on thirteen, the sixth round of sleep is set in a bad memory. It can be any memory at all; something in the arena, something offworld, even things around the capitol or area around so long as it could've been caught on camera. Essentially, unless it's a blind spot, it's fair game.

Individuals who are free of or manage to fight through this torment are free to help the dreaming characters as they will-- or make things worse.

Day 7: War. Terrible war. This is what will be heard on the final day. It will echo out over the dream world. And that dream world will reflect the very terrible war spoken of. Is that your friend over there, looking shell-shocked? Is that your family laying there motionless? Who is that in the fray crying out? Could it be the one you love most?

This dream will leave very few survivors and will not last long. Those that do, will hear this: "Know the cost of selfish acts. Consider what you stand for."

[OOC: With this you may consider the fourth wall live! All tributes and any guests, Capitolites, and D13ers who are signed up may tag in here. Alternately, you may make your own logs! If you are tagging in here, you MUST warn with headers for any relevant topics that may upset players.]

Comments

Day 2/3 - OPEN

[sizeofyourbaggage]

It's probably no surprise to anyone that's heard Sam talk about his wings that his paradise is flying.

The setting changes, because it's honestly not as important as Sam's wings. On day two it's much more realistic: a copy of Sam's house back in Washington DC where he can be found cooking in the kitchen, wings retracted into the metal pack on his back; an almost mirror-image of the new Avengers facility, pulling complicated flight maneuvers on the training grounds; out in the wilderness where he alternates between running on the ground and flying in the air. It's his dream, he might as well enjoy it and get the practice in while he can.

On day three, his wings have taken root. They're still the silver of metal, but they look like real feathers, and they'd be just as soft if touched. People drift in and out of his dream this time, because no paradise would be complete without his family and friends, and he isn't surprised by any of them. It's a dream, he knows it.

And yet there are still guns in his hands, targets lined up as he hovers in the air, wings flapping silent and shimmery. That's a part of his paradise as well, but he pays no mind to what that might say about him, too content with the way his wings react with a thought, too eager to greet anyone who might show up.

It's the Capitol's doing, and Sam knows that, too. It's enough for him to be careful about what he says to any of these people, but it's not enough to take away his enjoyment.

[tookthewheel]

"Nice wings."

Bucky waits until Sam comes down to him so that he doesn't have to yell. It's a dream, it's not real and he can't trust it, no matter how picturesque things seem this night.

There's something soothing though in watching Sam fly, seeing the sheer unbridled joy on his face when he's in the air. Bucky finds a small beat of jealousy in him, wondering what it's like to be able to feel that emotion so purely.

He doesn't miss the guns still in Sam's hands.

Riley | MCU (canon OC) | OTA

[falcondowned]

Day 1

It's not the first time he's found himself with no idea where the hell he is or how he got there but it is the first time he couldn't at least pretend he knew. He can't remember waking up, falling asleep or... anything after that.

"This is a nice hotel. View, fine art, dejected room service. This has gotta be like, what, eight thousand bucks? eight hundred thousand? Good thing I'm loaded. Totally."

Where the fuck is he? He's never seen this city in his life.

"I don't know if anyone's listening. Nice hotel, you guys got camera's right? You gotta be. You'd miss out on the sweet sultry sound of my voice. I bet you're listening in right now. Well hey, I'll cut a deal for you. You come out and chat with me, and totally free of charge, you'll get to chat with me."

Where's Sam? Why can't he get that stupid dream out of his head. His skin can stop prickling like that any time now. He keeps searching down the hall.

"Make it really interesting, bring down some aloe vera for me and I'll even pay for dinner. Somewhere nice. Classy. Like Burger King."

Day 2 or 3 (please specify when you tag)

The clouds above are light and sparse, no promise of rain to ruin the day. He soars utterly free, wings taking him higher than even he normally goes, pushing the limits of the pack, but for once, there's not a little bit of strain.

There's no one and nothing to stop him as he goes on to spin through the air, dive in free fall and feel the wind rush past loud in his ears, before saving himself.

For no one and nothing, except maybe if were to spot person he sees standing on the building far below. Or perhaps someone at his side...

Day 7

He spirals quick past the shots through the air, dodging this way and that with teeth grit. His wings have been worked hard already, but with no break in the near future, it's far from his mind. His eyes scan the ground for others in need, dipping low and fast to try and reach them.

Finding each time that's he's too late and going back to search even more frantically than before. He feels in his mind as desire starts to try and shift from saving everyone he can to just saving someone, and he fights not to let it get to that point.

His thoughts drift too to Sam, where he is and if he's alright, and that's something he can't fight. Not even as another projectile rockets toward, forcing him to dive fast.

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Of course there's someone at his side. There's always someone at his side, that's just the way things are.

Or were. Sam still remembers what really happened to Riley, still remembers those six years without him, and knowing he was never going to get him back.

But this is a dream, and Sam's been gearing himself up enough for the likelihood that he was going to see Riley again. He's done the battle between hoping for it, to get to see him again, and dreading it, knowing it's going to be that much harder to go back afterwards. Neither side won, but it means he's not surprised when he straightens out from a roll and finds himself right next to Riley, like he'd never left.

He swallows past the surge of conflicting emotions he thought he was ready for - he isn't - and calls out.

"You call that a spin?"

Sam Wilson | OTA (cw: blood/gore/violence/death/reference to suicidal thoughts)

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Day Four Option A
This mission has gone to absolute shit, and Sam knows it. The last he’d heard from anyone on his team, they were either surrounded or about to be, and Sam knows their first move wasn’t going to be to try to retreat.

There’s no retreating in this, they’d all known that going in.

Right now, Sam’s cut off from all of them. He’s pretty sure the enemy hasn’t located his position yet, but he also knows it’s only a matter of time. He’s crouched low, wings tucked inside his metal pack, trying to make himself as inconspicuous as possible as he stays hidden behind a fallen log, a stone’s throw from a guard station crawling with enemy soldiers.

He taps one finger against his comm unit, desperately hoping that maybe this time, it will actually crackle to life. That the reason that it isn’t is because of a fail in the system, and not because there’s no one left to answer him. He’s refusing to acknowledge which one of them is more likely at the moment.

“If anyone can hear me, I could really use an update.”

Or a miracle.


Day Four Option B
Someone’s gone over. Sam can’t remember who, but they’re falling and they’re important and Sam needs to catch them. It’s what he does, it’s what he’s best at, and this time he’s not going to fail. He can’t fail.

The Winter Soldier’s there, but Sam doesn’t want to engage, he just wants him to get the hell away from him so he can do what he needs to do. He fires off a couple of rounds to keep him at bay, flips around to head off - but he turned his back too soon. There’s a thunk against his back and then he’s pulled down, and he can feel the wrenching as one of his wings is ripped free. It hurts, as bad as it would if his wing was attached - because it is attached, because maybe they look like metal but they’re feather and bone, and it twists and breaks as his ruined wing falls to the surface of the helicarrier. Sam rolls, bouncing back up to fight, his remaining wing hanging uselessly.

’Sorry Steve,’ he thinks, but he isn’t sure why. It doesn’t matter anyway, because this is the goddamn Winter Soldier, and Sam is good, but he’s not that good. He’s barely back up when there’s a boot planted against his chest and he’s kicked overboard as easily as the person he’d been trying to rescue.

Sam forces himself not to panic, ejecting his remaining wing from his pack so it doesn’t throw off his balance. He knows how to do this, it’s not the first time that he’s free fallen, he just has to wait for the right time and deploy the parachute -

He doesn’t have a parachute. Why would he have a parachute, his wings have always been enough, even when one’s broken he can coast down, he’d never planned for one of them getting ripped off. Sam’s falling and he doesn’t have back up, because he’s supposed to be the back up.

He failed again.


Day Four Option C
His wings are gone. There’s a mess of blood and feathers on his back, broken stubs of exposed bone where they used to be. Every little movement jars them, and he can’t even breathe too heavily without using the muscles in his back, without the little jolts of pain that remind him of what he lost.

He gave them up, or they were stolen from him, he can’t remember. He doesn’t know what’s worse.

All he knows is that they’re gone, and he’s alone. There’s nothing in sight for miles, and he -

He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to go, what he’s supposed to do. There’s no point to any of this, why the hell is any of it supposed to matter? Why isn’t he just giving up?

He thinks he had an answer to that once, but he can’t remember it now.


Day Six
It’s a dream. It’s a dream, it’s a dream, it’s a dream. Maybe if he keeps repeating that over and over, he’ll wake the hell up, and he won’t have to go through this again.

Because he knows what’s coming. He knows, and he tries to yell, to warn Riley of what’s coming, to change course and drag Riley off with him, abort the whole damn mission, but he can’t. He can’t move, can’t speak, can’t do anything but keep flying exactly the way he had that night.

The worst part is that he can’t even blame the Capitol for this - it’s not the first time he’s had this dream and known it was a dream, and still couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He can blame them for how real it feels, though, in a way it never has in his dreams. He can feel the desert wind, the way his goggles press against his face, smell the scent of moisture from the cloud layer, hear Riley’s voice in his ear, hear his own breathing. Which would be hyperventilating by now if he could control it, if he could do anything but keep up the steady inhale and exhale as he escorted his best friend to his death.

The sound of the RPG coming flips a switch, and Sam no longer remembers it’s only a dream. He reacts immediately, rolling over and spiraling down and back up, weaving around to try to throw it off. Except it’s not aiming for him, and Sam realizes that just in time to flare his wings and turn back around. To see that Riley hadn’t banked fast enough, hadn’t started to spiral and zig-zag in enough time to avoid it.

But Sam had. Sam’d maneuvered to get it off his tail without even thinking about it, and if he hadn’t been too far to do a single damn thing before, he is now. He’s just close enough to feel the heat of impact, and thanks to his goggles, to see everything. If Riley’d had time to close his metal wings around himself, maybe that would have offered some protection - but he doesn’t, and the flight uniforms they wear are built for speed and combating against bullets, not a fucking RPG. It takes half a second for Riley’s face to be so ripped up and melted that it’s unrecognizable, and no more time than that for the rest of him to be engulfed in flames.

He drops, wings trailing uselessly because there’s nothing for them to be attached to anymore. Someone is screaming, and dimly Sam’s aware that it has to be him, because Riley is in pieces he can’t scream, but Sam could swear it’s someone calling his name.

Day Six (cw: blood/gore/violence/death/burning)

[falcondowned]

Something's off. Something's wrong. He knows this flight. He remembers saying everything he says, flying where he flies. He remembers the mission, Sam in his ear, everything.

But he doesn't stop. The thought doesn't even register to try and turn around, run from fate. He's only dimly aware of what's coming, only enough for the dullest of fear in him. But he doesn't understand what it actually is.

He wishes he had time to feel relief it isn't going for Sam but he doesn't. There's no time to dodge, no time to shield himself, no time to think about who he's going to lose and losing and what could come after. There's no time to think on whether it is or isn't worth it.

His whole existence is fire, condensed into a single second and drawn out within it. He feels himself ripped apart, scream muted in the flame so Sam screams for him. This could be Hell-- he wouldn't be able to think well enough to question it.

But then he does. He moves arms he doesn't have, uses a voice that's lost to him, screams with it until he can hear something both loud and distant at the same time. "SAM!"

His wings ache. Everything hurts. It burns, it burns. He reaches around Sam, around his wings with arms charred and bloody and full of holes, but he hangs on tight.

Urdnot Bakara | Day 1

[surrenderedhername]

The future the Krogan had not known they'd had stopped suddenly to catch its breath. Yesterday the Shaman had witnessed a cure settle across Tuchanka the way hope did after the worst was over - like a blanket of light that broke through stone. She knew for some the emotion would not be easy to grasp, for hope had betrayed Urdnot Bakara before. She knew how it was to soothe an ache at the end of a long suffering with the thought that she may have joy, only for her faith to be fatally dashed. The Krogan had demonstrated that despair could fester on even the thickest and noblest of hides.

Now hope was filling in the scars of the Kelphic Valley and atoning for two thousand years of wear. She'd faced a united Krogan people there, instructing them on how to seize the tool of their good fortune...

And then she'd been instructed to wait here.

Rage is not in the nature of a Krogan female, but to be taken away before her duties were complete does prepare her to rail against the indignity. It's the name of the woman she's been asked to wait for that placates her, settles her into a seat in District 5's lobby. Every wasted moment grates. Deserved as it was, she could not be expected to toast to the anticipated triumph of another species (or so she assumed) whilst Tuchanka laid in disrepair. And yet...

If it were for a friend, for the woman the Krogan would carve into their history as a hero, she would wait with grace and respect.

Aang | Days 1 - 2 | OTA

[actually112]

Day 2

The world shifts occasionally. Sometimes it's tropical. Sometimes it's frozen. Sometimes it's temperate. Aang's world has many facets, and it's humming with color and life (and really, really weird fauna.)

Now, it's an arctic tundra. A long, long way's away, one can see massive polar bear dogs lumbering through the snow, but Aang is sitting on a hill and he only has eyes for the many clusters of weird four-flippered otter-penguin hybrids.

He glances towards the person who is now next to him, eyes twinkling. "Wanna go penguin sledding with me?"

Day 3

There is a beautiful, grand mountain that rises high above the clouds. You might have gotten there by riding on an ostrich-horse or even a flying bison. At the peak of the mountain is a breathtaking temple that looks like the wind itself has carved it out of the living rock.

Men and boys of all ages are running around everywhere. All the men have arrows tattooed on their bodies, and while every single person around the temple has a shaved head, the men have impressive beards. Children jump off the treacherous edges of the mountain just to fly away, holding onto orange gliders that they use to ride wind currents. Bat/lemur hybrids fly around while the grown men variously meditate or do chores with the children.

Unlike in Aang's real world, you can see all three other nations from the top of the mountain if the clouds below clear. Fire Nation, a peaceful people fishing on beaches and wearing red in one direction. Earth Kingdom, hard-working farmers tilling the soil in another. The Water Tribes, wandering through snow and hunting, in another. Spirits, peaceful and colorful and goofy, fly around in the air and crawl on the ground and play with humans. There is balance, and there is joy.

Aang, for his part, is chilling on a giant air bison, taking a nap in its fur while it gives a great yawn.

Day 3

[tookthewheel]

"This is your world?"

Bucky's not sure how he got here, walking out of one dream and into another. He thinks he should be more bothered by standing on the mountain heights than he is, except this one is about as far from the ravine where he fell as you can get. It's beautiful and warm, alive, not cold and desolate.

He'd wandered the temple, passing by men and young boys with familiar tattoos and coloured clothing, looking until he came across the kid he was looking for. All the while he'd failed to resist goggling at the strange creatures he saw everywhere he looked.

Aang's sleeping and Bucky's not sure he's heard, he feels a bit wary of approaching the giant beast the kid is sleeping on despite the overwhelming feeling and peace and warmth that floods Aang's dream.

[arrogantalloy]

Day 2

In his dream, Tony blinks then pauses. Looking around his workshop, focusing on DUM-E for a moment, whose grips flex and rotate at him. Something doesn't feel right.

He stands up and looks around the room again before pointing at DUM-E.

"You should be cleaning. I'll bring out the cap again." He knows there should be other robots but he can't place where they should be, but he shrugs. Pepper should be in the tower today so he heads out to the kitchen of Avenger tower.

"Pepper?" He calls out as walks down a corridor. The tower doesn't have a corridor like this, but as he walks through the door on the other side it opens out into his kitchen so he pays it no mind.

Day 6

Tony's on his way to one of the bars. He knows this memory, it was while he still didn't know where Steve was. After he was at his peak of avoiding eating and sleeping. He just needs to get so drunk he can't remember how to stand, he stares at the sign above the entrance. His will power to not go back down that route the only thing delaying him right now.

Day 7

This dream wouldn't be considered too much of a surprising dream for him. He's been here before, a lot. At least with growing frequency since Loki thought he could ruin Earth starting with his tower.

The horrified look on his face as those he's met since being dragged here, along with his own friends, screaming, fighting, looking haunted. Dying.

He hears a scream the pulls him to turn around, knowing that voice deep in him but can't even bring the name to his lips. Everything feels so much more intense than they ever have before. The fact he can never make it to anyone doesn't help.

"Know the cost of selfish acts. Consider what you stand for."

Day 6

[betheshield]

"Anthony Stark."

A familiar woman with an imperious, authoritative air is suddenly standing in front of the door, blocking his path with her deceptively small frame. Her eyes feel like pieces of flint and her chin is turned upwards, as if she's looking down at a little boy instead of a grown man.

"Care to explain what you're doing here?"

Jet Day 4/5/6 CW: Insanity, thoughts of suicide, graphic descriptions

[fallenstar]

Day 4 -Closed to copesetic ((Series!Appearance))
They were told this was coming, they signed up to be subjected to their fears just to prove they could overcome them and considering the reputation that had preceded him as a liability for his temper, Jet had practically been the first one to sign up. He wouldn't let himself be seen like that, he had to prove he was strong and just as worth being around as anyone else. What they didn't tell them was when the mission would happen, so when he went to bed with Albert at his back like always, he thought nothing of it.

He woke up with a jolt and shook his head, red hair spilling everywhere across his shoulders. Stiffly, he uncurled from his folded up position against the wall and stretched too-heavy legs out in front of him. That was when he realized something was wrong. He stared at the black boots against the green material of his pants for a long time as if he couldn't comprehend what he was looking at. Calmly, he reached up to his neck and pulled the bright red fabric of his scarf around to see as though that might have the answers instead. A second passed, then another, then his brain snapped to attention on what he was staring at and jolted him into standing.

He was wearing the old uniform, the really old one, the one from over sixty years ago. The Black Ghost uniform.

His hands scrambled to his hair and felt it's length and pulled a strand around to see it's flaming red color instead of the blond he'd been expecting and without looking, he already knew his eyes were back to being brown from blue. He was back to the way he'd looked originally, before the fall. But how? And why was he here on Ghost Island?? He should be with Joe and the others in Gilmore's beach house. Jet's eyes darted to the door with no windows and then the slit of a window behind him that informed him it was night time and then to the vent on the wall next to him.

The Vent. These assholes wouldn't be stupid enough to put them next to each other again, would they? God, he could only hope so. "Al! Albert, are you over there? Tell me you are and...this is gonna sound crazy as hell, but tell me if you look thirty years younger to boot, okay?" What was this, some kind of time lapse crap? Who the hell even knew, first he needed to ensure his husband was on the other side of that wall.

Day 5-Open ((Normal!Appearance))
This was easier. They had their mission: break into the dreams of others and act as living propaganda for 13. It shouldn't be hard beyond figuring out how to break into other's dreams but that might only take a thought, this was a dream, after all. The rest of it would work itself out.

Those where his thoughts as he went to sleep, those were his thoughts as he was just waking up in that dreamscape, dark now that it lacked the nightmare to fill it. That is, until he realized nothing was coming to fill that darkness. There was nothing, only darkness and silence and he felt his heart rate spike. It wasn't the voidroom, though, he could reach out and feel some kind of tree or bush or something plant-like near his hand and when he shifted, there was definitely gravel under his feet. Which meant...

His heart leapt into his throat and choked the air out of his system. He was blind again, just like in the mall arena, he was blind and helpless and useless and he didn't even know where he was or who was with him or- "A-Al...Albert? A-Are you there?" His voice quivered with terror and his frantic thoughts scrambled to remember his husband's words after they'd woken up from that arena, how he'd told Jet he thought the younger man could survive being blind as long as he gave himself a chance to do it. He just had to remember that, remember to be strong. He could do that.

A low growl in the distance kept his heart in his throat and sent his stomach twisting in on itself. The growl was followed by a gurgle and crunch of teeth ripping through flesh and all Jet could think of was what that felt like, what had happened the last time he'd heard that sound. Kevin with his gray skin, ripped around the jaw as too many teeth tore through it and his jaw, his body twisted and malformed into something broken and wrong and dangerous. He could hear the snap of those bony arms as Jet fought him and broke them, but then he could hear the snap and crunch of his own bones breaking and the searing pain as Kevin's jaws came around Jet's middle and heard the monster's teeth squelch into guts and fragile innards that burst all too easily under the serrated force. He could remember the taste of his own blood bubbling up in his throat and mouth and the sound of his own agonized screams and Jet gasps, hands coming to cover his ears like that would block out the remembered sounds. Hot breath flows down the back of Jet's neck and in his blinded and panicked state, he can just imagine that twisted thing bring right behind him and about ready to snack on his skin once more and terror jolts him into action. He runs. He runs as hard and fast as he can, but all the while he can hear it crashing after him, chasing him down until his lungs give out and leave him vulnerable for the attack.

Day 6-Open ((Normal!Appearance))
This was the third day of this shit and he still wasn't used to it. They went to sleep, mission in mind, but when he woke up, it was to find himself standing on the cliff side outside the doors of Valhalla. A strong gust of wind blew golden hair into his eyes and he pushed it out of his face as he looked down the path. There, nearly fifty feet from him was Albert and the mission flew from his mind, instantly replaced with the memory of relief and barely formed or faded grief. He wasn't dead, he'd been brought back to life and found his way back to them and now he was safe and out of Jaden's grasp.

A huge grin split his face and he dashed down the path, intending to fling himself into Albert's arms and crush his partner in as tight a grip as he could manage. Hell, maybe they'd even fall over with the force of it, but he didn't care if it meant the older cyborg was alive and there with him. "Al! Thank god!" Twenty feet. Ten. Albert's right arm came up and Jet froze in his steps. Three feet from his partner and he stood at eye-level with five barrels of a gun. That gunhand had never once been pointed at him before and it sent cold fear and staggering confusion through him.

"A-Al...what? What are you...doing?" He was still smiling, still happy to see his lover back from the dead, but there was a quiver to it, a nervousness and fear that was foreign to him. He'd never felt it when looking at Albert before. Distantly, the part of him that recognized the memory for what it was, realized there'd be no Pyunma to intervene this time, no one would come to pull Jet back just before the bullets were fired at him, no one would put themselves between Jet and the death he refused to see coming.

Day 4

[copesetic]

He'd never told the voice in the vent his name and so the sudden blurt of it from Jet on the other side of the wall is jarring, as much as anything startles him anymore. The world these days is just one long bland stretch of Hell as he waits for the inevitable end. Their testing is getting more difficult, they come back in need of more repairs after every sojourn into the field. The only spot of brightness for 004 to look forward to is that maybe he finally won't come back at all.

"No." He looks the same age as he did when he was captured. And always will. He won't age, only rust.

Even Jet's question isn't much of a change, not after he'd been spinning this ridiculously concocted story for the better part of a year. It'd kept them going, honestly, but 004 has to question 002's sanity in the asking.

"Why?"

[OTA] Albert Heinrich - Day 4/6 - (cw: needles/body control)

[silberfuchs]

Day 4
This time when they shoot him full of the drugs that will make him dream, Albert's ready for it. Or he thinks he's ready. It's still an improvement, he tells himself. It's a bit better to know when and how instead of being stuck with a shot and sent off without any warning. The needle goes into his upper thigh, one of the only places on his extremities left with honest flesh, and soon after Albert drifts into sleep.

He wakes up in much the same place. At first, it seems as if the drugs didn't take. He feels as if he's simply woken up again from a dreamless sleep, blinking blearily at the uniform pinholes in the ceiling tiles. Everything's a bit distorted around the edges, slightly fisheyed, but it's something he's used to with his cybernetics being what they are.

Cybernetics that he shouldn't have, his brain catches up with him. The Capitol had outfitted him with purely harmless prosthetics, nothing like the heads up display that winks to life around his vision. Targeting computer, statistics, ballistic calculations for his micro missiles. It's all present and recognizable, yet different in how the visuals are displayed. His original HUD was in blues and reds, this instead is gold and the emblem of the Capitol rotates slowly in the bottom right corner of his view.

/STAND UP

He doesn't think to obey, he simply does, rising from the hospital bed with outward impassiveness as he begins to panic in whatever piece of his own mind they haven't overpowered and twisted for their use. This isn't Black Ghost's search for a more perfect weapon, this is the Capitol's success in a useful tool, technology they would not have had otherwise, stolen from both Clara's world and his own. It makes him sick, or it would if he could feel a damned thing other than panic.

/MOVE TO THE NEXT ROOM

Albert actively fights the command this time but it's fruitless. His body won't obey his own commands, instead moving at the behest of whoever is sending the messages that scroll along the bottom of his vision. He walks across the room stiffly, a tin soldier marching to an unheard drum, and pulls open the door despite virtually screaming at himself in his mind not to.

The next room looks much like the training room in the tower but cleared of all weapons and stations. The observation alcove remains, an assortment of men in white coats with shadowed faces stand there but Albert can't even turn his head to see. Instead he's compelled to keep facing forward even when he comes to attention in the center of the space. At the end of the hall, against the barren concrete wall, is a figure. The person is tied there, bag over their head to hide their identity, but Albert doesn't have to see who they are to know what they are.

His target.

/TAKE AIM

Albert's right arm raises, his fingers poised at just the right level to hit his target in the heart. A clean death, a ruthless murder he doesn't want to commit, that he tries desperately to assert his will over himself in an ailing attempt to prevent. He won't be a killer for someone else's cause again.

He won't be made a monster again.

But his arm does not lower...


Day 5/6
Still rattled by his own nightmare experience, Albert nonetheless takes to his mission. It's one he agrees with, striking while there's an opportunity to do so and seeking out allies and information in the Capitol without putting life and limb on the line. Exhausted as he is, it's necessary.

And it keeps him from thinking over his nightmares made nearly real.

On each subsequent day, Albert makes his way through the dreamscape to find those he calls friends or perhaps even others he's not entirely close with but instead stumbles across in his journey. He seeks to check on their well being, to reassure those who need it that help is coming, but also to drive that help to fruition. To that end he needs information. Anything and everything relevant from Peacekeeper movements to Avox facilities, from the smallest tidbit about a Capitolite politician who's loyalties may be in question to President Snow himself, Albert seeks every scrap of knowledge he can drum up over these two days.

Perhaps he shows up in your dream. Will he be a smiling, gentle figure? A friend or brother here to reassure that everything will be alright? Or will he play the soldier and spy, working through dreams and memories in order to learn what he needs to know and further the Rebellion?

You tell him.

Day 4

[metalicarus]

The figure at the other end of the room had been struggling against his ties in an attempt to escape and wreak havoc however he could. When he heard someone coming into the room, however, he went still and squinted through the thin fabric over his head. It was there to hide his face, but it wasn't so thick he couldn't see through it. When he saw who it was, he almost wished he couldn't. There was something in the way Albert was moving, the way he took aim without hesitation...it wasn't right.

"Albert?"

There was a sickening feeling in his gut that said Albert wasn't himself right now and a treacherous part of him made him tense up and wait for the sound of gun fire.

Aang | Day 4-7 | OTA | CW: Graphic Violence

[actually112]

Day 4

Aang's nightmare is failure and being alone.

The earth is scorched to nothing. Anything that might have lived on it is dead and will never grow again. It is littered with bodies killed in the most gruesome ways--burned alive, impaled with spikes of stone rising under their feet, exsanguinated and mutilated from someone ripping the blood out of their veins all at once... The people killed by waterbenders are the most horrifying, because their eyeballs have been frozen, crushed, or removed entirely, or they have been cut to pieces by plants frozen into weapons. Their flesh looks like it's moving from the maggots already growing beneath it.

In the middle of the deathly silent wreckage, a barefoot little airbender is following a tall, imposing old man with dark red robes and a gold flame-shaped comb in his hair.

"Please, please, don't leave me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"No, Aang." The man turns around to level Aang with an impressive glare. The man's image shifts in a blink. She's a woman, over seven feet tall and covered in makeup. He's a man, dressed in blue with beaded hair. She's a woman, eyes like steel and arrow tattoos all over her body. He's the man with the gold comb in his hair again. "You have failed as an Avatar. Stay in your solitude and remember: this was your doing."

The man disperses like smoke. Aang grasps at the place he was for a minute. Then he paces, making a desperate, whining noise in the back of his throat before he finds a giant dead flying bison, killed by a spear made of stone thrust through its head. He whimpers before crawling under one of the bison's six legs and huddling against its cooling belly, all alone in an entire world of death.

"Just you and me, buddy." His voice cracks and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Day 5

He tries to enjoy the supersoakers, but he doesn't trust the dream after it already went so badly.

He was right not to. The arena turns into an arena designed for the spirit world. It's a tangled, strange world that makes little to no sense, with bamboo jungles making way to great canyons and caves full of mysterious (and not always friendly) spirits.

Aang is perched on the edge of a great basin filled with fog. There's a deep sense of forboding about it, but he keeps trying to squint and see down into it, as if he might find something in there.

Day 6

[Since Aang has about 10,000+ years' worth of memories, many of which are bad, I'm ready to just give everyone an individual prompt if they'd like it. Options include, but are not limited to: being bloodbended, killing 100,000+ people, taking on entire armies, watching his children die, seeing his whole race is dead, being abandoned by his ex-bestie on a volcano to die, being told he's the Avatar, fighting his brainwashed ally, realizing he just released the spirit of darkness on the world, so on and so forth.]

Day 7

Aang handles himself well in war. When there's a goal, he's graceful and calm. He dances around obstacles, and his bending clears his opponents away in painful and non-lethal manners. Sure, some of them may never walk again, but as long as they're alive, it doesn't matter. Sometimes, his opponents kill each other by accident due to a trick of his. That's not his fault either.

Blood is sprayed on him, but he just keeps moving, and the droplets come off his skin to form tiny daggers in the air to drive themselves into the next target. At times, there's a flicker, and he's someone else--a seven-something foot tall woman, moving gracefully with her fans, or a man with beaded hair and a spear of bone--and those people are ready to kill, but when it's Aang, there is never death. Just fighting.

Re: Aang | Day 4-7 | OTA | CW: Graphic Violence

[raavashing]

[Quoting for ease of reading/reference]

In the middle of the deathly silent wreckage, a barefoot little airbender is following a tall, imposing old man with dark red robes and a gold flame-shaped comb in his hair.

"Please, please, don't leave me, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"No, Aang." The man turns around to level Aang with an impressive glare. The man's image shifts in a blink. She's a woman, over seven feet tall and covered in makeup. He's a man, dressed in blue with beaded hair. She's a woman, eyes like steel and arrow tattoos all over her body. He's the man with the gold comb in his hair again. "You have failed as an Avatar. Stay in your solitude and remember: this was your doing."

The man disperses like smoke. Aang grasps at the place he was for a minute. Then he paces, making a desperate, whining noise in the back of his throat before he finds a giant dead flying bison, killed by a spear made of stone thrust through its head. He whimpers before crawling under one of the bison's six legs and huddling against its cooling belly, all alone in an entire world of death.

"Just you and me, buddy." His voice cracks and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Just you and me," a soft voice echos Aang's as the leg is lifted so the owner of it could be seen. He was crouched down, dressed in threadbare clothes best suited for a mild winter, and smiling sympathetically. "A pair of failures."

Despite the heaviness of the emotions the scene gave, the man winked playfully, "We deserve each other."

day 2/jul 27th; closed to Signless; killing giant sea monsters, language, hatesnogging probably

[biiowiired]

It wasn't his idea.

It wasn't his idea to drive a ship with him and his friends across the fucking ocean. And it certainly wasn't his idea to stop the ship in deep waters to fight off a sea monster ten times the size of their shitty boat. Psii finished blasting it out of the water, his screech drowned by the unholy roar of the beast. He made sure the splash was far enough away not to rock their boat too much, but the spray of water and blood left him soaked to the bone.

"We're getting out of here!" he fumed, wiping it from his eyes. "Blood will attract more of them, we gotta go fatht!" The entire ship crackled with red and blue, and they were zipping again through the bloody waters, as fast as he dared. He was too afraid to linger and grab some fishmeat for their stores. He'd never eat fish again after this.

"God, you're thuch a bulge! Thith wath your idea!"

It occurred to him, at the moment, that Disciple and Dolorosa weren't up on deck helping him. Why? That broke a veil in his mind, spoiled the illusion. He remembered being in Panem without them, missing them, and of course Signless being a big fat bulge. "The Pacifist" they mockingly called him, and he was a Victor/Mentor, and they both owned tribbles, and they fought in the arenas, and human alcohol tasted strange.... It was all there, but this was the past....

Fuck this dream, and fuck the ocean.

[69problems]

Signless gripped the railing at the side of the boat with both hands, staring grimly at the other troll. They spent a lot of their time zipping across the water like this, usually when the Psiioniic was in the middle of a tantrum about how stupid it was to be out on the ocean in the first place. He never argued, because he had no real defense. It was stupid to be out here in this shitty little boat.

Still, he missed this. He missed this as much as he missed the rest of Alternia, and there's something almost homey in the scent of the sea salt and, yes, even the tang of sea monster blood.

"We came out of it alive, didn't we?" he said.

Meulin Leijon | OTA | (CW: violence/blood/police brutality)

[furgood]

Day 3

Water laps at her feet as she sits in the sand. Her head is on her knees as she watches Taria and a few friends from home out playing in the surf. They're too far away to hear distinct voices but she listens to their shouts and their laughter. She hears them and so she knows this isn't reality. Reality is probably overrated anyways. The sun is warm and the palm trees cast just enough shade over her to make this perfection. In the vague way dreams are, she knows there's a house back behind these palms with all the food and drink and comforts she could desire, where her parents are sitting and enjoying the peace.

But she stays here on the beach, hands digging in the sand, the voices close yet nearly out of reach. She has a pile of perfect shells by the base of the palm tree and she adds one by one.

Later or perhaps right away, there is dancing and a bonfire. Behind her, people eat fish and fruit and talk, though it's a low murmur beneath the sound of the music. Her voice rises in song and her sister and her spin and spin, until she's dizzy and reaching for the nearest hand. She meets their eyes and laughs, lifting their hands and encouraging them to dance with her.

Day 6 (cw: violence, police brutality, blood)

[OOC: Feel free to interrupt at any point in the memory]

Meulin is screaming almost the moment she starts dreaming. She's younger again, thirteen which is the youngest she's been so far, and everything hurts. Pain shoots through her arm, her back, her head hits the wall. She tries to curl up to make a smaller target but it doesn't help.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, what did I do?"

A boot collides with her face, stomping--and she screams again, only it changes. It's duller, it abruptly fades, it's gone and she can't tell if she's screaming anymore. Her left arm is cradled against her, pain shooting with every movement and she can barely breath. Her whole body trembles and her eyes flick up as white boots soundlessly leave her view.

In the silence, she tries to breath shallowly. She should be figuring out why it's so quiet, what's broken, who can help. She can't move. She stays there trembling and silent.

Day 6

[mourningnoonandnight]

There is precious little about this scenario that the Dolorosa recognizes, but the girl's cries - the language is not right, but there's something about the voice itself, coupled with the fear and pain in the voice - the girl's cries give just enough of a familiar foothold for the troll to be drawn into the dream scenario. And she arrives on the scene already in full crisis mode as she moves to place herself between the girl and her attackers - skin shining with clear white light, black lips drawn back from fangs which, if not unusually long by troll standards, are still enough for a convincing threat display. She's unarmed, as yet, her lipstick tube in easy reach but still concealed; at this close of quarters, a chainsaw is an awfully clumsy and bulky weapon. If she needs to she can have it out in an instant - the dualstate makeup is helpful like that - but if six and a half feet of glowing, hissing rainbow drinker is enough to drive off the white-uniformed aggressors, so much the better.

She's not had the presence of mind yet to really process that the girl is not her Leijon, to note the lack of horns or the strange coloration of Meulin's skin and blood.

Katara | Day 1

[watermaster]

Things had been dire. Aang had gone missing, and no amount of searching was producing the Avatar. Eventually, they had to try to continue on with their plan without him, because they'd all come too far to give up.

Waking up in a strange place and being told to sit and wait wasn't exactly on the list of things Katara needed to worry about today. But then they'd mentioned Aang, and that hope that maybe she'd find him and everything would be okay kept her from trying to fight her way out.

She isn't sitting quietly, however. They put her in a nice little room with chairs and objects she couldn't even begin to understand, but she doesn't sit. She paces the floor, her arms wrapped around herself as she looks around, not able to sit still, trying to think through everything that's supposed to be happening.

It's too quiet, and it's freaking her out.

[actually112]

Aang wakes up like any other day. He shaves his head, gets dressed, and leaves his room to go downstairs. Except someone new is in the D4 common area. Someone who he...

"Katara?"

He freezes in place, staring at her with wide eyes. He can't breathe for a moment. Is it her? Is his mind playing tricks now?

Clint | Day 3

[cognitived]

DAY 3

p.1

In the beginning, it is impressions. Laughter; soft crooning music; a woman smiling, her mouth as red as her hair. At the very core, it is happy, curling and sweet, like a sip of hot chocolate on a rainy day.

And then suddenly, there is noise, and there is sight.

The air is crisp and fresh with the scent of wheat and cut grass, cloudless and robin's egg blue like a mid-summer day. There's a farmhouse, cream colored, with green window panes. A familiar farmhouse, a beloved home. Clint doesn't hesitate, striding forward with an easy grin and a soft C'mon. If the distance between field and door is shorter than usual, well, that's not so strange. It's been a long time since he's been home.

"Honey, I'm home!" He sing-songs, setting his bow and quiver by the door, as per Laura's rule. Childish shrieks of joy and the patter of feet fill the house, tiny bodies careening into him.

p.2

The chickens are hungry, Laura says. It's all he needs to hear, and with a role of his eyes and a kiss pressed to her cheek, Clint strides out armed with feed as if gearing for war. The flock is a motley crew, but they cluck and peck and mob around his legs as Clint scatters feed. Once done, he simply stands there in their midst, flannel sleeves rolled up to his elbows, perfectly happy to just bask in the sun and the slow tick of life on the farm.

It's easy, filled with a contentedness that he so rarely feels.

People come and go, Lila and Cooper racing by with a one-eyed dog, Laura laughing at the beginnings of a farmer's tan, Natasha perching on the fence as she turns her face up towards the sun. He doesn't pay it any mind. They belong here, it would be more unusual if they were missing.

[tookthewheel]

If there's ever a location for Bucky to feel out of place it's this one.

He grew up in the city, never seeing a lick of greenery past the occasional visit to one of New York's sprawling parks, or the graveyards, and nothing like a farm. He's not sure he ever actually properly left the city until his draft notice came in, first for basic training and then for the war torn fields of Europe. Mostly what he remembers about that is a lot of mud.

This is different. The Farmhouse is full and alive, with animals and people. There's no damage to its exterior, it's... he reaches up to touch the edge of the American flag handing from the porch; idyllic, that's the word.

Bucky turns his head when Clint appears, "Hey."

Clint Barton | Days 4, 6, 7; cw: loss of body control and self, death, violence

[cognitived]

DAY 4; cw: loss of control, violence

p.1

It starts suddenly, between one blink and the next. He's standing, gun in hand -- wrong. wrong. -- aiming up at a figure that looms greater than life. When suddenly it's gone, thick coils of green magic wrapping around wrists, yanking him up up up into the air where fevered blue eyes and an impossible smile meets his vision. He knows, he knows, he knows--

Clint yelps, struggling, arms straining at the sockets. But he can't do anything, helpless as he twists in midair, fear cold in the dark of his mind.

You have heart, Agent Barton. You have heart. You have heart.

Everything swims blue and black, shimmering, gleaming, nothing and everything. It is cold, and he is crackling with ice, crawling up from the center of his chest where a scepter once rested. Cold, over his shoulders, down his abdomen, up his throat, covering the yield of his mouth even as he slams his jaw into the curve of bicep. He's desperate to shatter the ice before it covers him completely. Before it seeps between teeth and freezes him from the inside out, blue and cold and aching. Frozen blood and flesh moving at the bid of his puppeteer.

p.2

He can't fight it forever. Something screams at him -- wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeup -- but Agent Barton simply blinks, his eyes electric blue and burning. There is a blankness, calculating, and cold, the void hidden behind his iris. He is a weapon, perfect and whole and loyal to his Master's bidding.

Only. He's perfectly aware of what he's doing, what is body is forced to do. There is something snarling and desperate and panicked locked behind the iced over form of an assassin, but his muzzle of ice prevents any word from leaving his lips. He has none left in the first place, so it is of little consequence. Instead, he is action, he is death and destruction and mercy only in the form of quick kills.

Aim, they whisper. Shoot, they beckon. Slaughter, they laugh.

And he goes as bid, desperately fighting the unending crack of gunfire and draw of bow. Blood splatters across his face, freezes against his skin, stains him redredred despite the deepening blue. If he had control, if he could, he'd be heaving with his breath, hyperventilating beneath the sheets of ice.

Instead, he draws again, nocks, looses.

DAY 6; cw: violence, death

p.1

It starts softly, the gentle clink of coins and quiet piping music of a carnival. Softly, softly, white horses nosing at hands and the chuffed greetings of tigers. For a moment, it is almost as if everything will be alright. But nothing is, nothing ever is.

There is a shout, "Barton!", and the sound of a knife cutting through air. It flies swift and fast and true, missing only by a hair's breath. Desperately, Clint grabs someone's hand, yanking them forward despite his small frame.

"We gotta go," he gasps, eyes big and blue and scared. They run, nearly tripping, knives flying, scoring a line across Clint's arm, nearly taking him out at the knee, until they reach the tightrope, and: "We gotta climb--"

p.2

The quiver is a welcome weight upon his back, but it slows him down. Clint is young, he doesn't know yet how best to run quiet and careful with his weapon of choice. Even if he did, he wouldn't know now. He's running scared, breath sharp bursts, hands trembling, legs moving without thought. Trickshot killed him, he thinks. Again and again and again, the words stumbling from his mouth.

Trickshot killed him, but it is Clint who draws the next arrow, a guard appearing out of nowhere, gun in hand. He shoots, skids to a stop, because that face is one he knows. A young man with features gone slack with surprise, blood pooling from the arrow lodged in his chest.

"Barney?"

DAY 7; cw: violence, death, child casualties ( closed to sam )

Clint is an assassin. A good one, yes, but he has not been a soldier in a long time. His war is fought in the shadows, arrows and knives and silenced guns.

But he remembers war. He knows death intimately, the way only someone whose hands are permanently dyed red can. It goes fast, quick snap shots, mortar fire and flame, screaming men and women and children. Clint runs because he must, he fights because it is all he knows. People come at him and he kills without stopping. Quick quick quick, face stony and intent, searching, scanning, looking for someone. He doesn't remember who he is looking for, only that they are important, only that he will know when he sees them.

And he does. Oh, he does.

The air rends with a scream, primal and agonized, the sound of someone who's had everything they loved torn away from them. There, in the middle of the battlefield, are two twinned, small little bodies mangled and limp in death. Clint sees red, doesn't register he's running until he drops to his knees beside them. Nothing matters, not the blood, not the fact that he's defenseless kneeling down here with two children's bodies in his arms. He simply heaves with his sobs, shaking and trembling and gasping no with every breath he takes.

Day 4, pts 1 & 2 (interacting with 2)

[silberfuchs]

He's still exhausted from his own ordeal that morning, a mental exhaustion that translates to physical in the realm of dreams, but he feels more in control now at least. What came to pass in his dream was just that, a dream, not reality, and he knows now that he could beat it if it ever became reality. After over 70 years, Albert knows no one will be able to control him so completely ever again.

Others, perhaps, need some help with that.

The black haired man with the staff Albert recognizes only vaguely as a former Tribute. Loki, he thinks. A cocky son of a bitch who couldn't make that work for him in the Arena so much as with the sponsors. That's all he remembers of him. His victim, however, Albert is more familiar with, and is who he suspects is owner of the dream.

He doesn't actually know Clint, not personally, but with all he watched the past Arena to keep track of Jet, Sam, and others he calls friends and family, he'd watched Clint too. It had been hard on him, losing a limb, and Albert had been proud of Jet in his husband's staying with Clint so often, helping keep him together. It's what Jet did best.

It seems he'd caught this dream in its last moments, the landscape shifting and suddenly becoming something else, as dreams are wont to do. It now seems he's a part of it, if the nocked arrow aimed directly for his chest is any indication. Clint's eyes glint unnaturally, a blue not unlike the glow that overcomes Albert's infant-bodied teammate's eyes when he utilizes his psychic powers. Perhaps it's something similar, only Albert doesn't recall Clint having any powers.

Someone else then. Loki. Mind control. It's not hard to piece together with the ice over Clint's mouth mirroring that which he was cocooned in during the previous dream.

In all the time Albert takes to examine the situation and think, the arrow lets fly straight at his chest. He could move, he has the time, but he doesn't bother, instead starting to walk forward and allowing the arrow to bounce harmlessly from the red breast of his uniform. This may be Clint's dream, but it's Albert's willpower that drives him even in this space, and he knows deep in his very being that he cannot be hurt here.

He's a cyborg, after all.

He continues to advance on Clint, determined now to help his husband's ally out of this nightmare he's caught in. The first step is to get rid of that muzzle of ice.

Arya Stark | Day 1, 2, 6 | Open

[needlebearer]

Day 1
When she'd been told she needed to get a shot, she'd panicked that the Capitol were going to take her out and shoot her. Instead officials appear with a little vial of something or other, which they stick into her while she struggles and tells them to stop, panicking that she's about to die and resenting them for it as she's tried so hard not to get into trouble here. She looks daggers at them as she passes out, but when she awakes she's confused to find herself wandering the streets of the Capitol, Balerion perched on her shoulder - full of vim and vigour rather than his usual sickly demeanour. It's how perky he seems that's the first sign that something's not right here, but she's not going to complain about it. Instead she continues through the streets, wending her way through brightly clothed and jewel bedecked Capitol citizens, her eyes widening as she sees someone before her who's not supposed to be here.


Day 2
She's home. The crisp, cold air fills her lungs and the snow crunches under her feet, and Arya finds herself running toward the familiar towers and turrets of Winterfell. At first an overwhelming sense of happiness and relief bursts through her, that maybe all this was a horrible dream and she's waking up safe at home with Jon and Robb sparring in the courtyard, and Bran climbing the towers while their mother shouts after him to take care, baby Rickon in her arms, Sansa looking at her in disdain across the table, and their father surveying his keep, so busy and burdened, but never so much that he hadn't the time for her. She runs between the halls and through the courtyard, even down into the crypt, calling their names, but the only sound that comes back to her is the echoing of her own voice and footsteps.

When she reaches her own room, she finds Needle on her pillow, and she grabs it covetously, arcing the sword in front of her in a grand swooping motion before attaching it to her belt, determined never to have it taken from her again. She's about to head back out when there's a snuffling and the scraping of claws on stone behind her, and there's Nymeria sat in front of the fire, looking up at Arya as though asking her why it had taken so long to return.

She sits for a long time with her face buried in the direwolf's fur, holding her close and trying not to cry, then she sets off again with Nymeria at her heels, running through the halls and turrets of the castle in search of anyone else who might be here.


Day 6, warning for violence, death, animal death, corpse desecration
The smell of blood is acrid in the air, and the clash of steel and dying screams echo in Arya's ears. From far off, a sombre tune plays on repeat. Her chest tightens as she sees Stark banners burning all around her, hears Grey Wind's frightened yelping suddenly silenced, sees the dying crawling toward her with a look of utter desperation in their eyes.

It had been hard enough for her to go through the massacre people were already calling the Red Wedding once, with the Hound there with her, but cast into the fray all alone is even worse. She wanders through piles of the dead, rage boiling inside her as Roose Bolton's men hack at their corpses and even urinate on them, hearing the mocking cries of All hail the King in the North! as Robb's body is paraded around, his direwolf's head stuck on.

She runs toward the Twins, Needle clutched in her hand, knowing that Walder Frey and Roose Bolton are here and determined to take them out now while she has the chance. Running into the great hall where the wedding had been she stops dead in her tracks as she sees Catelyn Stark writhing on the floor, blood gushing from her throat, staring up at her in her dying moments.


Other days:
I'm happy to write individual starters for your character on any of the days - PM me or hit me up at viridianwings!

Day 1

[bastardblood]

Jon doesn't remember much from before he came to be in this strange place, but he was told he'd find someone important here. When he spots Arya, he almost doesn't recognize her. She'd clearly done some growing up from the little sister he'd always been so fond of.

He cracks a smile, walking towards her with his head slightly tilted, comfortable in his Night's Watch blacks with his hand resting casually on Longclaw at his belt.

"It may not be long before you are calling me "little brother" if you keep growing like this, Arya."

Sigma Klim | Day 1, Day 4 (cw: body horror) | OTA

[twoklimmen]

Day 1 - Training Center Lobby & District 10 Suites. For Phi and OTA.

Sigma was in the unfortunate situation of having to pretend that the Capitol's idea of entertainment was not barbaric and inhumane, hence his presence here. A Gamemaker who, by nature, lived to serve his audience skipping out on a fabulous manufactured event would not raise Tribute morale, and in this category he had been scored quite low. For this reason Sigma is strongarmed into buying tickets, and by the time he's arrived at Hypnogogia he's more or less resigned to his fate.

But as he enters the dream, he discovers that not all hope is lost. His unfailing, defensive optimism that he would succeed in his time-travelling ambitions meant that his elderly body had always felt like a rented home, a dwelling inside which he would only belong until he had earned back what was rightfully his from the start. If he had tricked his younger self into being unable to tell the difference between his two bodies, he can certainly feel the difference now. The young Gamemaker feels up his face, runs his hands through his hair - right there in the middle of the simulated Tribute lobby - to make sure everything is as it should be.

Black hair, healthy tan skin, organic eye... This was his body. This is the way he was meant to look.

He exhales, relaxed, and rolls his shoulder to remind himself how it felt to have arms that were his. A tactile appraisal feels more or less the same - his prosthetics had been modeled from the arms of his youth, after all - but mentally it feels comfortable. He feels human again.

Feeling suddenly adventurous (perhaps mischievous was the better word), he rushes up towards the District 10 lobby to see if his younger self may be recognized by old ghosts. At the great risk of being burned, he wonders whom else he might find, here.

Day 4 - The "Victor's Arena" - Mars. OTA
[[Note: Sigma will eventually be woken up, so there should not be too much horror before that happens.]]

On the fourth day, the young Gamemaker awakens to an Arena.

It is not of his own design. Flat on his back, the first thing Sigma (and any other interlopers) can see is light, the sterile, beige-white of government formality, a slick, bright interior designed without corners. Sigma groans and sits up, rubbing his forehead with his left hand -

- when the thing on his arm comes into full view.

"No way. No fucking way!"

He jumps to his feet and tries to tear off the wicked thing with no success. Anyone who enters the room has also been locked in one, and looking at it instills a sense of dread. The first version of the bracelet had a detonator inside them that would tear your body to shreds. The second bore needles that would infect you with a devastating plague, or euthanize you if it decided your usefulness had come to an end. What will this one do? The dream hasn't quite decided yet, but you know it can't be good.

The portholes outside of the inescapable room show a red, desolate wasteland. If one tries to venture deeper into the facility, they will only be caught in a loop, an endless, escher-like prison of metal walls. Deeper still, you will find traps. The worst of all is a chair, a terrible, familiar chair that makes Sigma's whole body shake with dread. He knows it well - the moment he chose to take a seat, it became the background noise of the rest of his life, an invasive memory permeating his waking hours. It is how he lost his eye and arms and won his second Nonary Game. He feels a terror he hasn't known since he watched LA turn to ash, a terror that makes him want to claw out his throat and save himself from this fate. This wasn't supposed to happen again! Who was doing this to him?! What did they want from him?!

The Gamemaker's eyes go blank and he collapses to his hands and knees, taking deep, panicked breaths. He knows what comes next.

"Phi?! PHI!" He screams for her until the membrane of his throat turns thick, hot and raw. Whether he's calling to her to keep her safe or shouting for a lifeline, even he does not know.

What he does know is that if someone does not sit down, everyone in this building will die in a violent, painful fashion, courtesy of the bracelets that monitor them. But the person who sits down will...

The time for deliberation is over. The bracelets have already begun their red, beeping countdown to death.

Let the Fourth Official Nonary Games begin!

Day 4

[silberfuchs]

An Arena.

It's hard not to recognize it as such when you've been in a few yourself, and Albert clicks his tongue disapprovingly in trying to figure out who's dream it is. An off worlder, he thinks, mostly because the technology doesn't look Capitol and the exterior shows Mars.

The watch is new, and while he vaguely feels he should be upset that it's there, it's in a detached sort of way. He knows it's a dream and he knows with the rock-solid will of belief that he cannot be harmed here, that he'll wake up back in District 13 with perhaps some mental scarring depending on the situation but for him that's merely a drop in the bucket after everything he's been through.

Thank whatever spares these people from his nightmares and memories.

"PHI!"

The yelling grab his attention, Albert whipping his head to catch sight of the man on the floor, apparently overcome by the situation. The cyborg doesn't recognize his companion at all, not from the Arenas or from Capitol TV, nor even from the small masses of Thirteen. So who is he, then?

"Hey," Albert intones gruffly, oddly unconcerned despite the tense atmosphere. He moves over to help the man up, offering a metallic hand that shows starkly against his bright red uniform. "It'll be alright. What's your name?"

Bucky Barnes (MCU) | Day 3/6/7 [tw: violence/death/torture/child murder]

[tookthewheel]

Day 3

The lazy afternoon sun baths Brooklyn in gold so that even the most rundown apartments look almost magical in that light. Bucky's heart hurts to see it but it's in a good way.

It's home.

Last night he dreamed of the modern world he barely knew, filled with superhero's and the ruins of an intelligence agency, laid waste to by the parasite that grew inside it. He was as much a stranger to that world as he had been to Panem when he first arrived there with very little context in which to fill the dream.

This one though, this one he knows so well. He knows the streets and the stores, the ball parks, he knows the apartment building that was home and not too far away the brownstone that was filled with his parents and his sisters, joyfully calling his name to welcome him home. They're not real he tries to tell himself, tries not to choke with emotion at the sight of it all and fails miserably.

He's dreaming of home, in a world where there was never a war to be forcibly marched off to. There was no HYDRA, no Red Skulls or Captain America's, just home and family. A place where everyone was well and content, filled with the joys of a happily mundane life and he'd never ever left.

Day 6

Bucky has a lot of nightmares, he doesn't need the Capitol's tech to help him with those. He doesn't want the Capitol's tech to bring them to an even more vivid life than ever before but, as previously established many times over in Bucky's life, his own wants rarely matter to those in power.

It can't just be one scenario.

He falls to the echo of a trains whistle and a man's helpless scream above. He falls so fast and so long, plummeting down an icy canyon with the roar of frostbitten wind in his ears. He falls so long that the impact when he hits the ground is a terrible surprise all over again.

Ragged breathing, his own, in his ears. The horror that is his left arm ripped off just above the elbow among all the other injuries. The dizziness in his head mixed with disbelief that he survived the fall only to freeze to death. Everything around him is ice and snow and fatalistic surety.

He screams and strains against the restraints of the chair. The electricity isn't flowing yet, the headpiece hasn't come down but threat of it is omnipresent. He's trapped in a snapshot, a moment of time with the threat above and the dispassionate eyes of the doctors around him watching like he's nothing more than a particularly interesting lab rat.

Bucky doesn't want to forget, he doesn't want to be wiped again. Not by the chair, not by the deceptively kindly looking doctor with the gold ring, not by anyone or anything.

From where he strains and struggles he can see the cryochamber waiting, the door open with yawning shadows and cold air. He'll lose himself all over again and when he wakes up--

He stands frozen, looking down at the bloodied knife in his hands in confusion. The feel of leather and kevlar restrains his body like a straitjacket, maybe a collar for a barely tamed wolf in an obedient dogs skin. That's not even taking into account the muzzle fastened across his face.

There's a desk with a body slumped over it, some Russian official who'd gotten too close and whose lips were a little too loose to be allowed to keep on living. And... and on the ground at his feet there is a smaller corpse still, a little girl with wide open eyes and her throat gaping wide open as her blood spreads in a puddle against his feet. She couldn't be more than four years old.

Bucky's mouth feels dry behind his mask, his throat parched. Acceptable collateral, no witnesses. The little girl had been at the door, he thinks dizzily, her voice whispering "папа?" to the still air after he cut her fathers throat.

No witnesses.

Day 7

War. It feels too familiar, edging onto the dangerously comfortable, as if the whistle of shells overhead and the rattle of machine gun fire were the lullabies his mother sang to him as a child. Was Bucky Barnes born in Brooklyn or did he only really come to life on the battlefield of Europe, singing into existence with the earliest conception of the Winter Soldier?

Blood and mud, that's all it is. Blood, mud and the screams of the dying.

The rifle feels good in his hands, it's reach is long and the buzz that runs through him as he picks off enemy after enemy takes him back to his Howling Commando days. The only problem is the faces his scope finds among the dead, those of friends and family making him sick to his stomach, sucking out the last echoes of hope as time ticks down and he keeps on firing.

There's never enough bullets.

Day 6; cw: dismemberment and unwilling prosthesis, loss of physical sovereignty, mad science

[silberfuchs]

Bucky screams but Albert sees himself in the chair.

It's not the same he tells himself, but it is. The point is the same. To be used, a tool, a weapon, not a person. Parts replaced and upgraded until the subject nothing more than a machine. It's less literal for Bucky, but only a little, only by a single degree of separation. Hydra, not Black Ghost.

But this is a dream and with Albert's will quivering, it begins to morph. It's not a deceptively kindly scientist with a gold ring, it's a semicircle of stern men in lab coats standing and congratulating each other with now two subjects, Bucky in his monstrous chair and Albert strapped to a sterile operating table, his body displayed in its entirety. Metallic parts with synthetic flesh stretched over his core but his extremities laid bare, cold steel. One leg is detached from the knee down, eerily hollow save for the firing mechanism built into the side.

"NEIN."

The denial sounds loudly from everywhere and nowhere and suddenly they're free. There is no more lab, no more imprisoning chairs or tables with straps and wires and IVs, no more scientists. There's simply Albert and Bucky, still naked to the waist with all their scars and unnatural parts on display, but thankfully free of all else.

Albert pants, eyebrows furrowed angrily at the effort he had to expend to turn the dream harmless, mental exhaustion manifesting as physical.

"Bucky."

Sandy Marko OTA

[justoutrunyou]

Day 1 You belong with me.

It was like any other day for Sandy as she drug herself out of the warm and cozy Capitol quality bed she had grown so accustomed to when she wasn't sleeping in the dirt or under bushes.

Her first indication that things were not how they should have been was as she approached her mirror yawning and caught a glimpse of herself that made her yelp in surprise and stumble back. When she rubbed her eyes and looked again everything was normal...

...but for just a moment she could have sworn the horrible branding mark of the Capitol was on her forehead again. The mark of a traitor.

With her heart now fluttering from the sudden start it had gotten she shuffled out of the bedroom still in her dark blue PJs with little yellow ducks on them. Her actual pet duck was still sleeping peacefully in a nest made out of blankets in her room.

It was a surprise to find there was a full meal spread out for them in the kitchen but Sandy found herself unable to question her good fortune. The last few weeks of having to make sure she earned her own food had been a difficult. She helped herself to an apple and savored the crisp fresh crunch, completely unaware that she was not alone in the room.

_________________________________________________________________________

Day 2 Back to the Beginning

She'd done it!

Somehow...some way she'd finally returned to her own crappy version of New York.

Except...it wasn't how she left it. There was no laser grade lacing the sky...it was still raining as it often did but the rain was soothing. Familiar to her.

No scary monsters ripping through the streets.

Just people. Boring bland people without flashy over the top outfits or glitter. Not a single sequin to be found.

Sandy ran.

She ran through the streets she had grown up running through fleeing from danger. She darted down alleyways that had always seemed menacing to her but now it was like being welcomed in the arms of an old friend.

Up the fire escape to the roof of the old brownstone building she'd grown up in looking out at the massive sea of rooftops. Concrete and glass as far as the eye could see shimmering darkly in the constant patter of rain.

Her trainers were getting soggy.

She was home!
________________________________________________________________________

Day 3 : Top of the World

New York again but...cleaner. Brighter. This is not the New York of Sandy's childhood but a New York that she had only ever dreamed of.

Gleaming buildings of chrome and fine metals that have hints of the Capitol every so often in their futuristic design. Murals that Sandy herself had painted decorated the billboards and brick walls offering splashes of color and curve to the buildings. Hovering cars and bikes zipped this way and that in an almost chaotic but perfectly timed dance between the intersections.

And not just home, but a hero!

People smiled when they saw her, thanked her. Told her she was awesome! She was wearing a leather jacket and fitted pants. Her shirt claimed "I will be taking your fucking eyes!" And no one even batted an eye. They thought it was awesome! And the weather was just nice enough she could wear the green knitted cap with a yellow flower that Pruna had made for her. She was even a few inches taller.

The jacket had a logo on it for something called N7 and Sandy could not be prouder. Everything was perfect.

Day 4 I'm just your problem.

A trip to District 12 just like any other day.

Wearing her very best traveling clothes as prescribed by Effie Sandy is stepping off the train to the applause and cheers of the residents of the city. Peeta's family greets her with cookies. Katniss looks so proud of her. Even Haymitch has turned up sober for the occasion.

The district is rustic and quaint, no where near as dirty as it ought to be but Sandy's memory is subtly influenced by the dream and the amount of time spent since her last visit.

However...something is lurking in the coal mines and the shadows of the space between buildings. Something that simply should not be...

______________________________________________________________


Day 5 Give me the strength to carry on.

Candyland part 2.

Sandy never expected to find herself here again. The Capitol was not in the habit of re-doing arenas. And really this one was a little different.

Rather then the majestic rolling hills of sucrose and the massive castle, this was an indoor setting with doors leading deeper into the magical candy factory that felt vaguely familiar to those with a proper child hood of movie watching.

Armed with a bag of glitter bombs she'd nabbed from the Cornucopia Sandy was taking cover behind a spotted mushroom that squished like it was made out of gummy and tasted faintly of fruit.

whipping around the top she launched one of the sparkly bombs and cheered in delight when it burst on her target ducking again. The last time the Capitol had invited guests they'd done something similar to this with pool noodles. Sandy hadn't had any guests so she'd kept out of it but apparently this time she'd decided to join in the "fun" even if she couldn't remember volunteering.

Once again something sinister was brewing however in the bubbling chocolate river that cut across this arena.

______________________________________________________

Day 6 Holding out for a hero.

Sandy's own personal hell was a tiny six foot by six foot cell.

The cell seemed to shrink every time Sandy dared look up, and she had to look up because every few minutes the guards would drag someone past the laser grid cutting her off from the rest of the world. Someone screaming, sobbing, fighting but inevitably someone who would be tortured.

Sandy had never actually seen Penny torture people other then the broadcast on TV. But she had seen what was left of the people Penny had gotten her claws into.

And what was worse now is everyone knew. Every single person who was dragged past Sandy's cell screamed at her for help. Screamed at her that this was all her fault. That she was a coward and a useless little girl.

All except two.

Effie Trinket who simply sobbed and couldn't raise her head to look at Sandy until she was strapped into a chair.

And Pruna who glared at Sandy accusingly. Her face bore the mark of a traitor already and Sandy could feel it burning on her own forehead as well.

There was nothing she could do.

No one would save her. No one should save her. All of the pain they were enduring should have been hers.

________________________________________________________________________________

Day 7 On the run.

Gasping, panting as tears stung her eyes and the hot humid air choked her with dust and debris.

The sound of gunfire, of screaming. The sky was red like fire and her shoes splashed in puddles of what she could only hope was water, but when she dared to glance down the sticky crimson that clung to her boots made her want to throw up.

Without a weapon, without a shred of hope for rescue she did the only thing she ever knew how to do. She ran.

She ran through the streets of the Capitol.

She ran through the streets of New York.

She ran till the world blurred together in red and black and hot rain splattered her face and weighed down her clothes.

She ran past the bodies of Clementine, Bayard, Mindy, Eva, all the way past the first three people who had helped her survive.

Sigma.

Javert.

Riddick, she'd never even learned his name till after the arena.

Finally when she could run no more she fell to her hands and knees sobbing and shaking as the boot clad footsteps of her pursuers grew closer and closer. Who was going to be the one to finally put a bullet in her? The Capitol? The Rebels? The Police?

[originalbeachboy]

It said a lot about Flint's life that this situation wasn't approaching the strangest he'd been in. Aside from the single most important aspect of that, of course.

That his daughter was involved. Not the one who had adopted him, not one he'd ever met. One he'd made, was a part of him. He'd had some time to think things through waiting for her, considering if it was a trick. That idea evaporated the very second he saw her. He hadn't seen anything more perfect in his whole life than that girl taking a bite out of an apple.

He awkwardly cleared his throat, leaning on the wall behind her. Where to even start with this? Did she know him? How much did she know of him? Would she want to see her deadbeat, no good crook of a dad?

It all hinged on her reaction now.

Bucky Barnes (Panem) Days 4/5/6 CW: Child death, reference to suicide

[hollowvictor]

Day 4 - Closed go cantquit
When he 'woke up' to darkness, he knew what what was happening. This was the dream mission they'd been warned about. He was a little surprised he was aware of that, he'd half been expecting to not even realize it was happening. Especially since it was supposed to be about facing his fears.

Of course, he didn't know what was more surprising: the fact he was lucid enough to realize what was going on or the fact there didn't seem to be anything. It was all black. He stood there looking around the darkness and had just about given up on the whole thing -something must have gone wrong with the dream technology, he reasoned- when a turn to look behind him revealed a familiar figure. It wasn't like the last set of dreams when that Steve that wasn't his had shown up, the Steve before him was familiar and wore the worn down clothing of District 10 and the smell that suddenly came into the air with his appearance was a hundred percent Bucky's Steve. For one second he forgot what it must mean for him to show up like this, for one moment all Bucky could think about was how Steve was standing there within reach and he closed the distance between them to pull his best friend into a tight but careful hug.

"God damn, Stevie...it's good to see you." Who cared if it was a dream? Maybe he just shouldn't wake up.

Day 5 -Open
He felt the rain before he saw it. It soaked his hair and clothes and flooded his hearing as he opened his eyes to see the rain-drenched stone basin of his arena. Bucky stood at the edge of a large pool of water, the tip of a structure poking out from the center of it the only thing left of the cornucopia. The rain had already filled the bowl-shaped arena enough to cover that and soon it would cover the rest of the tributes too.

Seventeen and shivering from the elements and exhaustion all over again, Bucky looked around him. There at his feet lay the career who's hamstrings he'd cut and who now lay face-down in the pool of water. The bubbles of air from his head had stopped long ago and the canon's boom had faded into the sound of rain. There were no other sounds or sensations, only wet and rain and cold.

Bucky looked down at his hands and there in the right was the sharp and vicious curve of his sickle sword his method of execution. The palms of his hands were drenched in thick and dark blood and no matter how much rain fell, none of it seemed to wash away.

That was fine...he didn't deserve to lose the reminder of what he'd done.

Looking around, he could make out the bloodied and massacred bodies of children everywhere, his competition, cut down around him and no longer in his way. No one would get in his way. He was a murderer and they couldn't stop him. He stared at them blankly, bright blue eyes just as empty as the ones staring back at him, just as still. The only movement came from the slow and sluggish bleeding coming from his side where a large gash lay and his forearm where two bite-like puncture wounds sat. If he knew they were bleeding, he didn't act like it.

Instead, he whipped around, sword in hand and pointed it right at the throat of whoever approached, eyes steely and hard even as his chest and throat clenched tight. He couldn't lose his resolve now.

Day 6 -Closed to cantquit and impaledqueen
The gash on his side and the wound on his arm were long healed, although exhaustion was plain on his face from sleepless nights, but he was happy for the first time in weeks. He was going home and even thought there was a part of him that feared what everyone would think of him now, he trusted Peggy's word that those who cared about him, at least, would stick with him. If he had that, it would be enough.

He was away from her for now, mostly just to gather his thoughts and arrange himself so he could still smile properly when he saw Steve again. He knew the other boy too well, since Bucky had volunteered for him, he was bound to not only be mad but to also feel extremely guilty for any hurt Bucky suffered from the Games and Bucky wanted to limit that as much as possible. He could show the scars in front of Peggy, she'd under stand better, Stevie...he had better things to worry about.

In his wildest dreams, the three of them could just go back to how they'd been now. They could be happy again.

The train shuddered to a stop at District 10's station and Bucky found the nearest door to leave from before anyone could come find him and stepped out onto the platform. For one second he breathed deep 10's rich scent of grass and livestock and a feeling of peace he'd been missing came through him. He was home. The thing that broke him from his momentary trance was the sound of someone calling his name.

Day 5

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Sam shouldn't be surprised when he the clear skies he'd been flying through disappear, and he's hit with a shower of rain before he saw so much as a cloud. He curses loudly, and swoops a little lower so he can see what's going on. A sudden change like this means something's up, and at least he's aware of it this time.

...he isn't sure he wants to be when he spots the mangled bodies of children laying on the ground, though. There's someone still standing, so Sam drops down close by, silvery feathered wings half-tucked behind him as he cautiously approaches him.

And then freezes, both because hello yeah that's a sickle pointed right at him, and he because he's close enough to recognize him now.

"Bucky?"

He isn't entirely sure which Bucky this is supposed to represent. He can tell, normally, even beyond the haircut and arm difference, and his instinct says it's the Bucky from here - being set in an arena with children is a pretty damn big clue - but this is still a fucking Capitol nightmare, and he isn't sure if that's enough to mess with what he should know.

And he knows he can't admit to knowing Bucky back in thirteen, either.

Sam holds his hands up, palm out, keeping himself calm and his stance open. "Hey, man, I'm not gonna hurt you. You know who I am?"

Gary Epps | Day 3 OTA/mingle?

[a_minute_younger]

It should come to no surprise to anyone that Gary's idea of paradise is a party.

The dream looks very much like a bustling club on a Saturday night. Most of it is an open dance floor, and most of that dance floor is filled with bodies. Nameless, faceless people grove in place and with one another and with the more recognizable individuals that have stumbled inside, but save the circling, sparkling overhead tricolor spotlights that sift through the crowd, it's too dark to make out their identity, and the soul of the party moves them to wordless whoops of excitement or laughter, culminating in a dull, ambient roar of vibrant conversation. The generic synth music is loud enough to pulse through the ground, but not so loud that you can't make out what the people around you are saying. But for those looking for a more quiet venue, booths line the sides of the area, and there's always one open nearby. Tribbles in colorful, branded cozies coo and purr in the centers of the tables. The venue is cozy, but not cramped, because there doesn't appear to be an end to it.

For a dream--specifically for one of Gary's dreams--the landscape is amazingly well-groomed. This is as much a fun dream party as it is an exercise in creative marketing, and after all, Gary learned from the best how to make his mind work for him. If only his brother could see his handiwork.

This is not something Gary is thinking about. He lives on the dance floor in his shimmering rainbow cape, bobbing his head and gently boots-and-cats-ing to the beat as he strides backwards through the crowd. The non-solid constructs naturally move out of the way for him. Visitors probably will not.

((ooc: Replies can either be for Gary specifically or they can be toplevels for a general dream party mingle, both work fine!))

[belongsontv]

The visitor in particular he bumps into laughs softly at the invasion of space. Milla akin to Gary lives in this environment- thrives in a party.

"Sweetie, you can't get too carried away with dancing, otherwise you'll get yourself hurt." She gently chides as well as teases, balancing Gary out. Milla's grip is gentle, gloved hands resting on his shoulders.

Day 3 & 4 OTA

[belongsontv]

[Day 3]

One thing those who find themselves in Milla's dream notice is the thrum of music, bubbly upbeat and cheery. Children seem to be bouncing on glowing levitation balls to the beat. Some of the children play games, laughing and playing amongst the psychedelic colors and bubbles in the air.

Visitors might find themselves fumbling on a ball themselves given a moment to settle into the dream. If they can't keep their balance, they can slide (or stumble) over to a long colorful lounging couch. A snack table sits nearby the lounging couch.

Milla herself is floating in the air in a seated position, laughing at something being said to her as she pats a child on the head. She floats over to the couch herself, stealing a chip with a grin.

"Having a nice time so far, baby?"

[Day 4]

Fire licks the edges of the building, consuming the wood and causing a giant creak to echo through the night. The air is cloudy with smoke and ashes. Fire fighters yell close by, water hoses trying to extinguish the flames to no avail. Shadows of people run around in a panicked flurry.

Milla sits on the ground, tattered dress and her hair in a disarray. She flickers between her outrageous outfits and something more subdued. She cannot move as the building collapses. She just stares blankly ahead.

She simply cries.

Day 4

[a_minute_older]

This isn't just a nightmare for Milla. Clayton can hardly imagine anything worse than the scene he stumbles into from the darkness--roiling flames and smoke blending into the black sky, people screaming, general panic. He comes in running but stops short when he realizes that the building has already collapsed. There's nothing he can do. Clayton jogs to a halt and his shoulders slump in defeat. On the ground next to him, a woman cries.

He stands there, panting and staring in horror, for some time. Clayton is a broadly-built boy, angular in dress and frame like he ought to hold himself with confidence, but there's none of that here. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders vaguely if everyone made it out alright. Even his sense of desperate optimism can't shake the impression that they didn't. It's already over.

At some point, Clayton slumps down on the ground next to Milla. There's a thought that he could try to help her, at least, but he doesn't want to interrupt her grieving. Instead he keeps quiet and lets her work through it. A solid presence is just about the best thing Clayton can offer her at that point, up until she calms down enough for him to feel comfortable addressing her directly. His head swings over from arms folded on his knees and his voice is kept low.

"...Are ya hurt?"

Hannah Megido | 4/5/6 | OTA | CW: suicidal ideation, explicit abuse

[f0rthereaping]

Day 4

She feels it there before anything else. She doesn't know who it belongs to-- District thirteen, the Capitol, the Doctor, Calevinus, the Avoxing team, District four, anyone-- but it's not hers. A metal panel at the back of her neck. She knows what it's for before it makes her do anything. A sharp shock and she feels her limbs obeying command.

The orders roll behind her eyes and she follows them, one after another, serving shadowy figures of her memory.

But that's not all. As she follows their commands, stares blankly into their sneering faces, she watches them age. Before her eyes they all deteriorate into nothing. Flesh, muscle, skull, bone, dust and shadow. She sees the whole world around her crumbling in decay. Yet she's still here. She doesn't age. She doesn't die. She just lives on and on and on and she can do nothing but what everyone else wants her too. Ten years. One hundred years. One thousand. One million...

Day 5

She sits atop the tallest building in the arena. The clock tower ticks away and the bells ring for every hour.

Tick, tock, tick, tock...

She stays there feeling the wind on her face, ash and snow swirling down from the darkened sky. Her feet hang off the tower's edge.

Day 6

"Let me OUT" She screams furiously. Her call remains unheeded.

In the bright green room, decorated with girlish table and chairs, tea set, bookshelf, and bed, Hannah turns with grit teeth to pick up one of those beautifully crafted chairs. She raises it high and walks back toward the door. She's young here, dressed in the same bright green as the room, hair at the back of her head growing in uneven where she cut it hastily. There's a hypnotic flashing in her eyes of all kinds of colors that reflects on the door as she stands before it. She raises the chair high and swings.

There's a sharp resounding sound but the chair doesn't crack yet. Nor does the door. She swings again. And again. And again. She stops only when a voice sounds within the room, coming from an unseen speaker above.

"Young lady, you only just got your electricity privileges back. Are you intending to lose your furniture privilege again too?"

This only inspires young Hannah to beat more furiously against the door. Until finally, the chair breaks, the wood splintering. She scoops up the wood chips and sifts through them, searching them, the selecting a small bit of wood and to jam it into the lock, and jimmy. Incredibly, it opens.

A snow-white man is there, dressed in the same bright green with eyes to match. He looks up idly from his tea and tuts at her. He rises up and reaches for a broom in light of the mess of wood on the floor.

"It seems we have chosen to give up our eating privileges." The broom is swung, the hard bits of wood and metal cracking against her face. She trips backwards into the room and the door is slammed shut on her. Within minutes comes the sound of more locks being set upon the door.

"NO!" She screams again, rising up to hit her fists on the door. But today is not a day where the fight is in her. She drops down to the floor with her face in her hands

Day 6

[hollowvictor]

He knew they were supposed to be acting as living propaganda, but he could help seeking her out. These were nightmares and he could only imagine what hers might be like. He'd been helped out of his own past come back to haunt him, so he mentally reached for her to do the same.

When the scene first materialized, he could move or react or apparently even be seen, he was an observer only. He observed the snow-white man from his side of the door and the sounds coming from the other side. He watched as that man swung the broom and Hannah across the face with it. Anger branched through him, but he sill couldn't move. It wasn't until the door was slammed shut and he heard her strikes on the other side stopped that it seemed he finally had a presence.

He reigned down like a lightning strike on the older man before he could even make it back to his desk, a quick flash of violence where Bucky's fist connected with his face much as the broom had hit Hannah's and then Bucky turned to the door instead, calm again. He unlocked all of the locks and hoped the sound would alert the girl it was about to be opened so she'd move out of the way.

When he did push the door open, it wasn't to step inside, it was to let her out. Still, he braced for some kind of instinctual retaliation from her if only cause she had no real reason to think it would be anyone other than the man Bucky had just laid out on the floor.

"Hannah, it's me."

Day 2 | CLOSED to The Dolorosa and Roland

[69problems]

For the first time in two years the sky looks right. It's full of the stars that Signless knows, constellations that tell him it's mid-summer. The two moons are full and seem closer somehow than they should be. Around him stretches sand that glints pink and green in the moonlight, broken only by the occasional scrubby bush or outcropping of rock. It's quiet save for the intermittent chirping of bugs.

It hasn't occurred to him yet that this can't be real. The fuzzy certainty of dreams explains away any incorrect detail, any niggling doubt. Even the tattoos on his arms don't strike him as odd. He wanders, enjoying the feeling of soft sand beneath his bare feet and not entirely understanding why that sensation prompts such an upwelling of homesickness. This is his home, isn't it?

[ka_sera_sera]

Roland, too, thinks nothing of the stranger details here, although there is no homesickness to it for him. Instead there's a little niggling feeling that this familiarity is wrong, from the sound of the sand under his boots to the boots themselves, the old jeans that'd lasted him decades, the long holsters strapped over his thighs and the sandalwood handles emerging from those holsters at his hips. Every time he catches sight of the empty spaces where his right hand's first two fingers used to be he frowns, then dismisses it. A part of Roland remembers the brief, bare explanation he'd gotten before sleeping and knows that this is a dream - of course it is, look at that sky - but as in dreams, the majority of him does not care and takes everything at face value. The bare plant life is here, because he can see it in front of him. There are insects somewhere, because he can hear them. That figure over there might not have been there a moment ago, but is here now.

"Signless," Roland says, the empty spaces on his right hand pulling down at the wide brim of his hat as he makes his way over. "Long days and pleasant nights."

Peggy Carter (Panem) | Day 2-3 | OTA

[impaledqueen]

Peggy looks very different here. She doesn't have any makeup or fancy clothes or manicured nails. She wears coveralls and no shoes. Her hair is tousled, tangled with hay, and her face is peppered with freckles that she hasn't had in ten years (not since her Stylist lazered them off without her permission before her Games).

She's lying on her back under a tree, her head resting on the back of a sleepy baby llama that sometimes mouths her hair. A beautiful chestnut mare nibbles at the grass a few yards away. Animals of all kinds roam the lands freely, from cows to kangaroos. Kids with little bare feet and full bellies play with them in the fields, and their laughter carries on the wind.

Peggy's paradise is D10, without the Capitol or the Games or starvation destroying it. Her friends are alive, and she leads life on her own terms. She's happy.

[cantquit]

Steve lies beside her, his own pillow a real one instead of one of the gentle young animals surrounding them on the paddock and a blanket under his frame that's so thin his overalls hang from his shoulders like a sack. He can't handle lying in the grass without some kind of barrier, it sets off his asthma sometimes, and though he grouses about it Steve always found it easier to give in to at least that demand.

At least this time he's managed to get his boots and socks off without anyone complaining too much. A guy's gotta have a little freedom.

"I think Bailey's trying to give your head a wash, Peg," he snorts, referring to the llama softly moving its lips through her hair to reach the bits of hay sticking out at odd angles. He's in a good mood today. He always is when he's feeling generally okay and either Peggy and Bucky have time off to spend with him. There are so few days like this, lazy end of summer days where the sun is just as slow to retire as they are, rolling across the sky like it's got no other place to be.

Phil Gray - Days 1, 2, 4 - OTA - CW: Child death, gore, guilt issues

[voiceinthephone]

Day 1
It was strange to wake up like this, just another day in the tower for Phil. “Some drug they gave me,” he rolled out of bed and scratched his back. He’s pretty damn sure that Foxy’s still resting, the poor thing got a good walk and play last night and…

Wait, something is…different about this day. He quickly gets dressed with his button-up and tie, no need to change that routine and heads out of his suite.

Day 2
The clearing still smelled of the crisp autumn air that Phillip remembered from his childhood. It was close enough from school that he could run around after class, and then turn around and head to Fredbear’s for a quick snack and a show. He could still hum the “sea shanties” Foxy would sing in his show and of course the Freddy Bear Pizza Rhyme. He probably drove his parents insane with the song and more so when he came back muddied up and covered in branches from climbing the trees.

He found himself humming one of those songs as he sat down to relax. “Yo hoh hoh hoh, Come and seize the day, Yo hoh hoh hoh, with Cap’n Foxy and friends today” Hey, no one said they were good.

Day 4
Phillip had no idea what his assigned District looked like but the dreamscape reminded him a lot of home. The factories of the old Rust Belt came alive with production, and people working on their merry way. But something was missing…Linden described a much more industrial region, nothing like the sanitized images he was seeing. It felt like a theme park rather than a proper factory center. He wasn’t questioning it, so he just kept walking and exploring.

Other days are open for plots!

day 2; warning for blood, disturbing imagery, discussion of child murder, gore, all things FNAF

[leiche]

"I remember that song."

He's not far away, maybe a few steady paces to the right and standing under a tree. He's staring out at the same view as Phil, a quiet autumn evening with the leaves surrounding them and dancing in the wind. It's almost as if nothing's wrong, like it was years ago when it was all fun and games, and no one was scared or missing or haunted or horribly murdered. It must've been nice, way back then. But not anymore. Everything's gone quite terribly wrong.

If the scenery is of the past, Jeremy is a vivid image of a past after that idyllic time. He stands perfectly still, staring at the leaves in the wind, his head angled just slightly to once side, as if trying to see something from an askewed angle. But most disturbing is the blood.

It drips from his fingertips as they twitch and tremble, staining his work shirt and tie, covering his badge in a dark crimson red. It flows freely from the row of deep puncture wounds across his forehead, six in total and evidence of a seventh from a scrape across his temple. The blood pours from his head and covers his face, an ever grim reminder of that fateful day so many years ago.

You remember that day, right, Phil?

"Foxy's. Always in the back. But sometimes the kids heard him."