thecapitol | Once Upon A Dream

Once Upon A Dream - 4th wall

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.]

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Relief doesn't cut through him, simply a muted sort of contentedness in a job done. It's all that he has left for himself, nothing left but the ice. It only lasts maybe a second, before the scrape of metal on metal catches him, and the lack of blood has Agent Barton wary all over again. The hands grabbing at him simply make him hold on tighter, forearm tight against throat.

Nothing's worked so far, but he doesn't give up. Can't, really. He tightens his hold on his knife, slicing up towards the mark's face, aiming for his eyes. It's one of the few things the man had dodged, after all.

But Albert is far stronger than Agent Barton is, and he dodges the blow. Even though his knife scrapes against the ridge of cheekbone, up into hairline, he can't stay where he is. The ground rushes up, quiver knocked painfully into his back. Hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Agent Barton shoves himself up, a desperate sort of need to survive cutting through him even if he's somewhat dazed.

This is quickly becoming a terrible annoyance. It's a dream, and he's certain if he had to Albert could muster up the willpower to picture himself without the superficial wounds to his synthetic skin, but he doesn't have the time just now, not with Barton still squirming and writhing like a cat trying to scramble away from water.

Albert takes him down and though Clint attempts to rise almost immediately, Albert plants one heavy boot on the archer's chest to keep him grounded. "Stay down."

He leans in, fake skin peeling just a bit from his cheek where the knife had found purchase and creating a terrifying visage as he looms and promptly aims a steely punch directly to the side of Clint's ice muzzle. It's a glancing blow, but he hopes enough to crack the damn thing off without harming the person wearing it.

He'd heard the sound of metal beneath skin, felt the unfamiliar strength, but nothing prepared him for the sight of skin peeling away from skull. Terrifying isn't a word used lightly, and he's pinned down, unable to get away.

Panic cuts through him, the sort of notion that comes with fighting an apparent life or death situation. Albert isn't aiming to kill him, but Agent Barton doesn't know that. Something kindles in his gaze, a fierce sort of desperation, a far cry from the muted apathy of before. One hand curls around the boot planted on his chest, the other striking up, as if to push Albert away. He can't, of course, even writhing as he is in an attempt to escape.

The punch hits, ice cracking, but it's strong and stable, and nothing more than tiny shards splinter off. It'll take another blow at least, and that's with the assassin trying furiously to escape too.

Clint struggles to get away and Albert struggles to hold him still. The agent is slippery, trying every tactic in the book and some from outside of it to attempt and squirm his way out of the cyborg's cold steel grip, but Albert can't let him go, can't leave him at the mercy of the nightmares when he's a partial cause. Well, not personally, but Thirteen's running of a mission at the same time is what brought all this on and Albert can't help but want to rescue who he can from the consequences.

Hitting the muzzle does no good but a bullet or his knife this close to Barton's writhing face would be certain to kill him. Instead, Albert has to try something far less efficient and far more terrifying.

Metallic digits lower purposefully onto the ice, not feeling any cold that may come from it. With as much care as he can manage considering Clint still furiously trying to free himself, Albert slowly begins to squeeze.

The ice groans, delicate fissures crackling out from Albert's grip. Though Agent Barton does not make a sound, his chest heaves with his breath, something dark and gleaming behind the neon of his gaze. One hand strikes out, clawing at Albert's eyes, ignoring the horror that is his skin peeling away from his skull. It's easy to do, though that's no surprise. Horror has no use within a proper weapon.

But if this man can hold him so still, can break this ice so easily, then there is little holding him back. Agent Barton fights, but he knows it is in vain. His blood will stain this mark's hands, it is inevitable. He'll simply have to make it as hard as possible before he goes down.

In the end, this simply means he's endangering himself more. He nearly pulled his arm out of its socket freeing it, fingertips scoring bloody where he misses and scrambles against metal and shorn away flesh. The frantic thrash of his body trying to get away tires him out, tossed against an immovable object, muzzle fracturing more and more between the way he moves and the pressure of Albert's hand. With a final sound it shatters, shards flying, and Agent Barton drops.

Clint's smart and keeps going for his eyes and Albert has a rough time keeping himself out of the man's grip when he's all but sitting on him. Finger manage to hook under already torn synthetic flesh and rip at it more, revealing a long streak of steel skull underneath, rivets catching the dim light as Albert tries to turn his head away. It doesn't hurt, per se, but his vision explodes in warnings popping up all around the corners and making Albert grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep going. It's in Clint's best interest, isn't it? Albert knows he's not trying to kill the archer, it's just that the man writhing in panic underneath him doesn't know that.

Fingers come at his eyes again and this time one connects, forcing Albert to flinch away and curse. It's a dream, it's a dream and this is causing no real damage to either of them, he repeats to himself like a mantra, utterly ignoring what psychological effects it might have on either of them.

Those damned fingers keep clawing and finally Albert lets out a frustrated yell from the back of his throat, reverberating across the dreamscape, and puts all his effort into breaking the muzzle quickly. It crunches under his grip, finally, coming off in shards and splinters that would likely leave his hands bloody if they'd been normal flesh and blood.

Barton drops and Albert immediately backs off, moving his boot from Clint's chest and scooting a few feet back to rest, sitting and panting from the effort he'd just expended. While he waits for Clint to collect himself, the cyborg examines his face. His eyes, usually blank white, are bloodshot and reveal the shape of his iris in the tiny red lines that crawl across his sclera and stop. The skin on his face flaps loosely and he tries to push it back into place, knowing he doesn't have anything to keep it in place with. Only this is a dream, as he'd been telling himself. It's a dream which means it's only limited by what he can imagine and imagining himself whole is easy.

Or it should be, he disparages himself as he holds the loose flap against his cheek and wills it unsuccessfully to knit back together.

He's still for a long moment, chest unmoving, gaze blank. And then, suddenly, his hands twitch, scrambling at the ground, head tossed back, features creasing with pain. The neon blue of his gaze is muffled as his eyes flood black, blue crawling under his skin, frenzied, desperate along the lines of his veins before dissipating. Almost seamlessly, as if being pulled by invisible puppet strings, Clint sits up, arms limp beside him.

"What," He says, voices layered over his own, snarling and sobbing and neutral all, "have you done?"

Before shifting, slumping over, groaning as he heaves up blue and red, shards of ice drawing blood where it scores his throat and mouth. He shudders with it, a pained sound in the ruined wreck of his throat, shivering with the cold he can newly feel and acknowledge, and the memory of this happening again and again. The pain suddenly sinks into him, arm curling close to his torso, a lingering ache, body protesting the rough treatment. It's a wonder Albert didn't crack his ribs -- which means, mostly, that Clint's gaze sweeps up and over, and he forces himself back onto shaking legs. The utter surety that this man would kill him hasn't entirely left, and the horror that is his mangled face settles like a punch to the gut.

He shifts his weight, trying not to sway, trying to keep his wit bout him. Thing is, he doesn't really know Albert. Even in a dream, which he's slowly remembering this is, Clint cannot trust blindly. He eyes Albert warily, unsure, ready to run if he has to -- even if his limbs are trying desperately to tremble and go out from under him.

"Thanks." He murmurs, cautiously.

The response when Clint is free is violent and hard to watch. Moreover confusing to watch as a blue light drains from him into nothing and he speaks in a voice that's many and one all at once. Albert's readouts go crazy, blipping fervently in his vision and adding to the chaos that finally dies down with Clint on the floor, having heaved up what looks like shards of glass that slowly melt into the ground.

Albert nods, cautious himself after that display. He's not entirely certain what happened. "You're welcome."

A beat. Then, since Clint looks confused.

"I'm Jet's husband."

Trust him, it's just as hard to get through, confusing and aching and overwhelming. He's cold, straight through to his bones, and maybe that's all in his head, but it feels real. He's trying desperately to ignore it, just as he's ignoring the way his hands want to tremble.

"Ah," That, actually, makes a bit more sense. At least, it does now, in the dream where anything and everything is possible. Clint reaches up, rubs at his mouth, gaze flicking away and then back, doesn't quite realize all he's succeeded in doing is getting blood across his cheek from bloodstained hands. He needs a distraction, and he gets one, trying to remember a name, before: "...Albert, right?"

Clint's pretty sure. But he's also running on fumes right about now.

"Right."

This is the part where he would tell Clint his mission if it wasn't for secrecy. They'd been warned not to be too obvious as the Capitol is monitoring all of the dreams. For now, he's just part of the dreamscape. Start asking seditious questions and suddenly they get attention. But personal things, the Capitol doesn't care about either way.

"What was that?"

Something isn't right about this. Clint doesn't know Albert, and it makes him unsure, unmoored. His gaze flicks over Albert, the way his skin peels away from his metal skull, the space he takes up, and over the rooms around them. It doesn't feel right, something's missing. The walls fritz, staticky for a moment, and his gaze slides over with intent.

"Loki." He dismisses, although there's a dark edge he cannot fight, lip curling with the beginning of a snarl.

"Loki as in Thor's brother?" It had been a brief conversation, but the big Norseman had mentioned it to Albert, something in passing about them not getting along, but between men in their line of work 'not getting along' takes on a much more sinister meaning.

"What did he do to you?" It looked suspiciously like what the Capitol had attempted on him in his own dream trial, a loss of autonomy, a loss of control of the self. He feels a great deal of sympathy for Clint if that's the case, whether this is a new nightmare or an old memory.

There's a sharp nod, barely there. He doesn't need to expand upon that, if Albert already knows the answer.

He stole me, he'd once explained to Sam, but though it's true, Clint does not use those words here. Loki unmade him, fingers dug deep into the yield of his mind, and Clint still aches with that some days. Here, now, he shifts, unsure and readying for anything.

"His scepter could control people."

"It's not a unique power," Albert points out with awkward sympathy. He holds up his hand, clearly referring to its metallic structure. "This wasn't willing. I understand being made into a tool."

He doesn't want that sympathy, and maybe that's a left over from his childhood, reinforced every step of the way. Back home, in SHIELD there are only a few men and women left over from Loki's control. Clint and Selvig came through it best, but Selvig's more than half mad. He's not so sure he isn't himself.

Here though, there's Bucky, and now, Albert. It's enough for him to wonder.

"Guess they like that sort if thing."

"It may be they bring some of those who have been controlled before in the hopes of trying to utilize that control again. What they don't realize is that we come out of it stronger, and more resistant."

There it is again, sympathy, but in this case it's hidden in the word 'we' for Clint to find and pursue if he so chooses.

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Once Upon A Dream - 4th wall

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cw: body horror

poor albert he didn't sign up for this

No he did not but it's Clint who's gonna have to live with that visual x.x

casually adds it to the rest tbh

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