Unreality [DawnsLight]

Status
Not open for further replies.
Flinne stuck out like a watermelon in a crate of oranges. For one, thing he was only wearing one boot, the other foot clad in a worn and patched sock that looked as if it had been walked on. For another, he cradled his rifle in his arms. Finally, -and perhaps most obviously, in comparison to the rest of the party-goers- he had a trio of bloody rends in his shirt, which had been stained from shoulder to elbow where blood had gathered enough to soak through the fabric and begin dripping.

His bright green eyes scanned the crowd in stunned silence. He'd spent his days in and out of dreams, but none had felt this vivid. This solid. Not since he'd met the first dreamer. And the music... His heart ached. He wanted to dance. To set down his rifle, and let his feet carry him off into a care-free waltz, with a pretty woman in his arms, and a warm bed waiting at home. He shook off the sense of nostalgia, and let out a sigh as he began to move through the crowd of party-goers.

The Survivor did his best to avoid bumping into the dancers, but on the rare occasion that a couple would approach from his blind-side, they'd dance through him, which was an unsettling experience at the best of times. He didn't see the master of this particularly vivid dream outright, but he felt drawn towards the center of the dancefloor. His stomach rumbled, and -caught in indecision- he paused midway between the center of the square, and searching the fringe for food and drink.
 
The Dreamer stopped her distracted turning when she caught a glimpse of the Survivor over the shoulder of her partner. The figure moved on without her, the figure of a woman taking her place as he turned. Aria took in the sight of the ragged man with surprise; he was different from her last dream, half-booted and bleeding upon the cobbles. And yet he wore that look of being so utterly lost, it made him seem younger somehow.

She moved around the fountain, coming to a stop beside the Survivor. Her voice rose just above the music and she could not disguise the incredulous surprise she felt: "Flinne... you look like hell. Let me help you; do you remember me?" Aria reached out to put her hand on his back cautiously, leading the way to a wrought-iron cafe table and chairs. There were full water glasses already there. She motioned for him to sit before taking a seat herself, her hazel gaze intense as she took the sight of him in.

It was alarming. Not only his physical appearance, but the fact that he was here within a dream of hers again. "What on earth did you get into?" she murmured, leaning in close to inspect the blood-soaked tatters of his coat sleeve. She huffed in frustration, and looked up into those unnervingly bright green eyes. "Your coat has to come off. Do you want me to do it, or would you rather...?" she trailed off.

Once the garment in question had been shed, she got a better look at the gouges in Flinne's arm. Her heart sank, the lacerations were deeper than she had thought, but may not require stitches. Maybe. She bit her bottom lip and dipped the corner of a napkin into her glass of water before she set about cleaning the wound, mindful to try not to hurt him, murmuring a gentle litany of reassurances and apologies as she worked.

"I didn't expect you to show up again, certainly not like this and certainly not here. I've had this dream so many times." She brushed a fallen tendril of hair back over her shoulder and bent farther forward, modesty forgotten in her concentration. "When I was 14 my grandmother brought me to Spain, to the village where she was raised. While I was there, they held a street festival and even since I dreamed of dancing around the plaza like the older girls did." Aria shook her head at the absurdity of what she had just said to him, but there was no taking it back now. Obviously this man had larger problems than wondering about her silly girlhood dream of dancing. She could feel the heat of her embarrassment creep into her cheeks.

Sitting upright, she grasped the hem of her dress and tore a long swath the length around. She used it to wrap his arm tightly and prayed that it would staunch the steady flow of blood. The Dreamer looked about her before returning her gaze to him, "You should rest. And- and probably eat something if this is anything like real blood loss. How do you feel?"
 
Flinne half-turned at the sound of a human voice, the butt of his rifle rising to his shoulder, although the muzzle didn't rise from it's position aimed at the ground. Those stern green eyes found the first Dreamer he'd come across, and his eyes widened in surprise. The rifle returned to a casual cradle as Aria lead him away from the square, and to one of the tables. He laid the rifle down on the table before him, and tried to make sense of Aria's appearance. She was attired for revelry, and she looked... Well, she looked beautiful. More than just the beauty of life of the forest they'd last met in, and more beautiful than just another solid human to speak to.

The sort of beautiful that makes men stare like idiots when they're being addressed. The Survivor chided himself sternly. "My coat," He said. "Yes."

Without further ado, the Survivor unzipped his coat, and shrugged out of it. He let out a hiss of discomfort as the bloodied sleeve pulled away from his arm, and let the tattered garment fall to the cobbles beside the table. Beneath, he wore a tee with the what looked to be the logo of some punk band emblazoned across the chest. "I didn't think I'd see you again. I remember you very well." He grimaced. "You'll be happy to know that you're not an illusion." He added, ignoring the question of what he'd been into. How could he explain that a nightmare had come alive to tear him to shreds?

He bore her treatment with a passive face, as he watched the indistinct figures dance by. Her story plucked at his curiosity, a thing that he'd learned to avoid if he wanted to survive. Even so, the wrongness of unreality didn't feel present.

"What are you-" He began, as the girl leaned to grasp the hem of her dress. The tearing of fabric brought color to the man's cheeks, and he averted his eyes politely. Only when she set to binding the wound did he return his eyes to her face. "I am well rested. I wouldn't say no to a bite to eat, though. The blood loss isn't as bad as it looks. I haven't had the wound long." He flexed his arm experimentally. "I've found more dreamers. Like you." He looked almost as if he were to run down some line of reasoning, but he stopped himself.

Rather, he asked: "Did you ever get a chance to dance in Spain?"
 
His question caught her so off-guard that she couldn't help laughing softly, her eyes shining good naturedly before widening. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry, that must have seemed so rude." She smiled brightly despite herself before looking away, suddenly shy. "No, I never did. I never got to go back when I was old enough. But..."

Aria's hands fluttered at her lap. With the coat gone and Flinne sitting there in a band t-shirt and a little color to his face- had he actually blushed when she tore a bandage for him?- he was almost like any other man her age and not nearly so hopeless as she had seen him before. She looked at him for a moment, quietly, before standing and kicking off her shoes.

"I don't know how you're going to dance with one boot on, but if you're barefoot then I'm going barefoot too." She smoothed the frayed skirt of her dress and nodded, deciding it wasn't scandalously short. She smiled and held out her arm for him to take it and lead. "After this though, you had better eat something."
 
Flinne found his lips curving upwards at Aria's laugh. It was rather infectious, in it's mirth. His brows rose as she kicked off her shoes. Suddenly feeling rather inadequate, and unshaven, Flinne took a measure of his appearance. He was bloodied, gaunt, and unshaven. He was washed -thankfully- but his attire was far from the sort of clothing that someone would wear to a dance. A concert maybe, but not a dance.

<i>She wants <b>me</b> to dance with her?</i> He thought to himself incredulously.

"I don't know if I'll be any good," He said. "It's been years." Even so, he bent and undid his remaining boot, before peeling off his socks in turn. He straightened, and rose to take the woman by the arm, to escort her to the dance area of the square.

When they found it, he released Aria's arm to turn and face her. A hand slid to the woman's waist, as another rose out to their side. Flinne didn't leave the gap that novice dancers favored to glance down at their feet through, but rather he stood precisely as close as formality dictated. Even with his informal clothing, unshaven jaw, and barren feet, he looked comfortable on the dance floor.

"I consider this some small return for the care you've given me." He said, quietly. "You look very nice." He added, so as not to make it sound like he wasn't enjoying himself.
 
Taking his outstretched hand, Aria placed her hand on the Survivor's shoulder lightly. "Thank you." she whispered.

As they began to move in time with the music she ran over what he had said, and more importantly what he hadn't. Cocking her head to the side slightly, she looked at him questioningly. "You mentioned other dreamers. Did they do this to you?" Her dark brows knit, glaze sliding to the bandage before flicking back to his face.

However, she was finding it distracting trying to pick out the threads of this strange and ongoing dream conversation when the hand that held hers was so real that she could feel the rough calluses on his palm and the hand at her waist was so warm. He moved well, she noted with surprise. But he did say that he had danced before. Pulling herself from these thoughts, she forced herself to be more attentive despite the distraction.
 
Flinne's eyes only left his partner when the dance turned her back to the table where his rifle lay. Then, his eyes only slid away for a moment to check that it hadn't vanished, or moved. Her thanks made an irrationally gigantic swell of relief wash over the Survivor. Since he'd begun to find Dreamers all over the place, he'd begun to experience things he thought were long lost to him. Security. Happiness. Fulfillment.

His feet swept masterfully over the cobbles, and he might have been able to forget that he'd have to leave this dream all too soon, if the other dancers didn't seem like phantom-images. Nonthreatening, but unreal all the same. Aria's question caught him off guard, and he narrowly missed stepping on her toes. He murmured a brief apology, and frowned.

"That... Is not so easy a question to answer." He said. "I'm still not entirely sure what to make of... Everything. I do not think the Dreamers did it on purpose, but..." He trailed off.

<i>Not all dreams are pleasant.</i> In his mind's eye, that monstrous face twisted in a snarl, with the pallor of a corpse lurched at him. His shoulders tensed, before the image was gone from his mind.

His attention snapped back to his partner, as the song began to wind down. "I will be fine. And you will need to be careful." He insisted. "It is strange to run into the same Dreamer twice, it seems. Would you like to join me for... Food?" He asked, lamely. He wasn't entirely sure what the food in a Dreamer's own mind would do for them, but it surely nourished him.
 
Concern filled her eyes as she felt his shoulders tense. Whatever had happened in these other dreams had not been pleasant and had obviously left a lasting physical mark. Aria regretted her inquisitiveness, looking a little distant as the music slowed.

At his words of warning, she started to ask whatever he might mean but thought better of it despite her overwhelming curiosity. Instead she stepped away from him and turned back in the direction that they had come. "Is it really so strange? How do you go from dream to dream anyway?" She smiled over her shoulder, making a beeline through the phantom crowd towards the cafe. "I think I can remember some of the things they served here..." she spoke almost to herself before standing in the doorway to wait for Flinne.

Silhouetted in the warm light of the cafe, the Dreamer closed her eyes, conjuring the scents and flavors of that faraway childhood experience. Salty ham and melon, crumbly cheeses, and seafood and chicken over rice scented with saffron. Wine as well, even if grandmother only gave her a small sip when she was a girl. She knew it would be right there on the polished granite of the cafe counter when they entered.
 
Flinne regretted having to let Aria slip away from him, much to his surprise. He was coming to crave reality almost as much as he did nourishment, and shelter. He made a stop by the table to fetch his rifle once again, and he slung it over his shoulder to follow Aria. Considering her question quietly, he stopped short of the counter as scents filled his nose. They made his mouth water, and his stomach rumble. "It is not an easy thing to explain." He said, again.

"In my world, reality stands out." The absurdity of that statement alone gave him pause. He cast about for something to keep supplies in. He had nothing on hand, and his coat was ruined. With a grimace, he simply began to pluck food from the counter, and eat it between words. "There really isn't any way to put it into perspective. Not properly. If you can imagine a world as... A dress. A bright red dress. Only somebody's dropped it into a tank of bleach. That's my world."

He glanced up from the food, to see if Aria was following. "Now Dreamers... Dreamers are like... if somebody pulled that shirt out, and let a droplet of food-coloring fall to the cloth, that would be where a dreamer's world intersects with my own. I touch whatever seems real, or out of place in my world, and then I'm in the dream. Only after the dreamer wakes up, it's like that droplet of color never existed, apart from whatever I've attached to myself. Or whatever I've consumed, I suppose."

He took a break to consume a slice of ham ravenously, and to wash it down with juice, milk, or water, whichever was available. Liquor -even wine- wasn't the sort of thing he wanted in his system if he had to do much more running. "From what I've heard," He continued, once he'd finished. "From other dreamers, your world is very like mine. Or... Like mine was. Millions of people could be dreaming, all at the same time. I've only had access to Dreamers for a day. I've found you twice."

He rolled his shoulder in a shrug. "Strange."
 
Taking a seat on one of the leather stools lining the counter, Aria poured herself a glass of wine and watched Flinne eat. She crossed her legs, letting her foot bounce absently as she considered his words. For a moment, the thought that this would make for an excellent story if it should make it into her journal in its entirety occurred to her. It was all just so surreal; a colorless parallel world, a man who ran from dream to dream for shelter and nourishment, all alone in his bleak world while the dreamers went on about average lives in theirs. She took a sip of the crisp white wine and pushed this reverie from her thoughts. Although it made sense that this was all fantasy, the labeling of it as much seemed to smack of denial.

Aria sighed and turned to face him more fully. "Alright, I think I've got a handle on it. That sounds... Flinne are you really the only one who's survived in your world? What drained it of its... its substance like that?" She stumbled over her words, feeling clumsy about how to approach what might be a delicate subject. "I understand if you don't want to tell me, but at least tell me this: what did you mean when you said I should be careful?"

Reaching out, she plucked a slice of melon from one of the plates arrayed on the counter and nibbled at it thoughtfully, sweet juice running down her fingers. Her eyes met his again. "Can whatever it was that hurt you get in here, too?"
 
Letting out a gentle sigh, he eyed the fruit in silence for a moment. He wasn't hungry any longer, but -again- he needed the nutrients. He wearily leaned his hip against the counter, and relished the flavor of the melon. His eyes fell away from Aria, as if he was ashamed to have survived when the rest of his world had passed on. "I don't know," He said, wearily. He looked exhausted all over again.

"I'm not a scientist. I was a kid when it started, and I heard some of the... Symptoms of it. Stars started winking out of existence at an impossible rate, Scientists said. Something about the fact that even if thousands of stars on the far side of the universe all went dark at the same time, it would take us some insane number of generations for them to go black in the sky. But then stars closer and closer were disappearing. By the time I'd turned twenty, we couldn't even see any planets besides ours. We had the sun, and the moon, and an empty sky so black that..."

The Survivor closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. Bile threatened to rise in his throat. "Towards the end, maybe three months ago," He made himself say, "There were rumors that a group of scientists were trying to alter the laws of the universe. Some said that they frayed reality, and it just started to unravel. Some say that they insulted God, and he decided to unmake us. Others still, said that in fracturing our own laws of existence, we made ourselves vulnerable to some malevolent entity that wanted to devour us."

Flinne opened his eyes again. "The thing that wounded me shouldn't bother you. I killed it. It was a nightmare. I believe they're harmless unless I'm... Unless I'm in your dream, or unless they follow me into the dream. But... I don't know enough about how this all works to make you any guarantees." He pushed off of the counter, and sighed heavily. It was time to get back to his own world. It hurt, physically hurt to make himself pull away from this slice of false reality.

"That means it's dangerous for me to be in your dreams. I'll try not to find you again. And remember. Don't stare at the wrongness. That's how it finds you." He stiffened. "And you have to go. Now. Wake up." He commanded.

Again, the Survivor had disappeared, leaving only the tattered coat back at their table.
 
The horror of his story was overwhelming, and she wouldn't have believed a word of it if it weren't for the absolute honesty and pain etched into his face and apparent in his voice. Her heart broke for him, but as Aria reached out to place a steadying hand on Flinne's shoulder he moved away out of reach.

His parting words chilled her. When she woke again on the sofa, her cheeks were wet. Checking the time and seeing that there was an hour or two until she had to get ready for work, the Dreamer opened the nearby journal and began writing furiously.

_________________________________________________________________

Walking home that evening, Aria cursed herself yet again for missing the bus. She hadn't been able to concentrate all day at the tasks that needed doing, but had somehow managed to finish out the day with a minimum of reprimand. This little hike was sure to make her feet doubly sore, though.

Adjusting her purse on her shoulder, she took in her surroundings as she walked, the dusk pulling the shadows long and a chilly breeze stirring fallen leaves and bits of detritus in the street. The sky was afire with oranges and reds and pinks. She was passing a chainlink fence when she stopped short mid-stride. Something was wrong. Her eyes scanned the surroundings, expecting to see the mundane but still unwanted presence of a man walking to closely nearby, but no one else seemed to be there. Still she felt that cold creeping feeling down her spine that signaled a threat on an instinctive level. Glancing through the mesh of the fence, at the vacant and overgrown lot beyond, she couldn't help feeling drawn to a rusted beam sticking out of the weedy ground. At last, Aria saw it. She saw it and ran, sneakers pounding the pavement the rest of the way home. The shadow was leaning into the sun.
 
Flinne's flight from Aria's dream hadn't stopped with his disappearance. A soon as his feet landed on the pavement he could feel the wrongness all around him. Nearby however -perhaps impossibly so- a yo-yo lay in the middle of the street. He'd have to cross the shadows to get to it, but a quick glance around told him that his choices were to draw the unreality's attention by escaping into a dream, or wait and hope another appeared outside of the shadow.

Bracing himself, he bellowed a warcry, and sped into the shade of unreality. An oily, slick, putrid sense of wrongness soaked him to the bone. A vile taste filled his mouth, and it felt as if his very soul wept for it's impurity. Fingers touched the yo-yo, and Flinne had just a glimpse of an orchard in full blossom before the taint of unreality began to spread from his position.

Sickened, he ran, and around him, flowers bloomed brightly, before bearing fruit, like the last flicker of a guttering candle before it's expiration. All too soon, the fruit of the forest began to drop with sloppy, wet squelches of rot. Tree trunks once-healthy became twisted and bulbous, and plagues of worms sprouted from the ground to consume everything in their path.

Flinne saw a man, a farmer stare horrified at the wounded man racing towards him, with pestilence on his heels.

"RUN!" snarled the Survivor, tears stinging his eyes for the destruction that had followed him.

He'd seen it before. The unreality had followed him into a dream, and the Dreamer's mind coped with the wrongness by translating it to fear. That fear could kill. More importantly, that fear could follow Flinne back to his world, if it had enough power.

The rotten, sickly, swolen trees began to groan and move, bursting with caustic sap that flew in all directions. When the survivor reached the farmer, the blight was almost on his heels. He gave the man a shove.

"Wake up!" He cried, before winking out of existence, and back into his own world.

_______________________________________________________

In Aria's world, a localized condition was claiming the lives of people in their sleep. Men, women and children. On the television, scientists got in heated debates in the sudden upswing of unexplained deaths during the sleeping hours of the city.

Elsewhere, unnoticed, nearly halfway across the country in a little-used observatory, a man stared agape as stars began to go black.
 
Aria sat on the couch dressed for bed, hair still wet from showering, her knees drawn up to her chest and brows furrowed as she watched the nightly news. The talking heads were arguing about a rash of deaths among the sleeping. They exhibited no previous symptoms and were from such wide and varied walks of life that there seemed to be no clear connection between them. The CDC was still testing.

Her hands shook. Maybe what she had seen in the vacant lot was just a trick of the light; she had glanced at it so quickly before running. Perhaps it was just a figment of her overly-distracted and tired mind. She shook her head. It was hard to reassure herself when she felt so certain. Her stomach clenched as another cold wave of worry broke through her. She glanced through the doorway to her dimly-lit bedroom. Despite the exhaustion and longing she felt, she couldn't shake the fear that if she did go to sleep she would only make things worse. Or she might not wake up at all.

The next segment on the news tried to lighten the mood with several different photos from the internet, taken around the world of contradictory shadows. It seemed to be a burgeoning trend.

Standing, she walked into the kitchenette and began to brew a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night.
____________________________________________________________________________________________

If she was distracted yesterday, she was damn near useless today.

So much so that she was riding the bus home early, having been asked to go home before causing a disaster. With a sigh, Aria leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, staring out at the world flying past. She could just see her reflection, like a ghost against the world outside. Even so she could tell that she looked pale, with deep circles under her eyes. Tired. At least at this early hour the shadows were short; she tried not to stare at them.

She did manage to make it all night without sleeping, and this gave her a lot of time to read. Deciding that the dream dictionary she had purchased was better used as a doorstop, Aria had read the book on lucid dreaming from cover to cover. She had tried it a little, the last time she slept, to conjure food for the Survivor that seemed real and nourishing enough. She had tasted the melon and the wine herself. If she could do this with other things...

The brakes on the bus squealed their protest as it came to a halt and Aria grabbed her purse, a little smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She had an idea, and she had to sleep sometime after all. She just hoped he would find her again, despite his promise to try not to.
_________________________________________________________________________________

Crawling into bed and falling asleep was like a balm, despite the nagging fear in the back of her mind. She had done the exercises as the book had instructed; she knew she was asleep and dreaming and most importantly, in control.

The Dreamer was crouched in a foxhole, mortars screaming to earth and exploding nearby, sending showers of dirt into the muddy trench. Crouching and holding her helmet to her head as she ran between the dirt walls, Aria made her way to the bunker that she knew was not far. The mud was slick and cold, but her heavy boots found purchase; a rifle bounced against her back. Her panting breath made little puffs of steam in the cold air that led where she was going, and she was thankful for the warmth of her mud-spattered uniform.

If Flinne didn't make an appearance, at the very least she was in for an exciting night.
 
It was a rare moment of respite in his world. Even so, The Survivor didn't stop. His still-bare feet carried him over broken pavement and grit. He had no fear of glass to cut his feet. It had all been worn down in the second week past the disappearance of the last stars. Metals were still scattered about, stubborn and dangerous as ever, but as long as he was careful he wasn't in any sort of pressing danger.

Flinne hadn't seen Aria in days. He was equal parts relieved, and concerned, despite the surety that he'd left her dream long before the Unreality tracked him to it. What if she'd been hurt in her world?

<i>Hurt? What sort of thing can hurt a person so badly that they don't dream? What if she's been killed?</i>

He gave himself a shake, and his pace picked up. He wasn't running away precisely. Unreality was everywhere. Only when it was concentrated, was it directly dangerous. He was looking for a dreamer. Since he'd lost Aria, he'd found a number of them. One, -a doctor- had seen to stitching and disinfecting his wound properly. The rest had been nightmares, which was as troubling an idea as anything else he'd experienced in the past year. They'd all been about monsters, or sicknesses killing people abed. The survivor felt a pang of guilt for those, although he fled the latter as quickly as he came.

His eyes fell to a line of yellow on the road, and he frowned. Unlimbering his weapon, he wasted no time in touching toe to color. Almost immediately, the whistle of a mortar shell put the hackles at the back of his neck up, and he dropped into a low crouch. The deafening explosion was such a change from the utter silence that he froze for a moment.

He was in no-man's land. Fear, sharp and greasy struck him, and adrenaline kicked in. He was close to one of the trenches, but a stretch of razor wire prevented immediate access. He darted near, and dropped to his belly to produce that length of twine. He tied two of the broad coils together, pulling them tight to stretch the wire, and to make a low opening through which he could crawl.

A time or two he felt a hot lance of pain along his back, followed by a trickle of blood, but -for the most part- he made it through the wire. When he tumbled into the trench on the other side, he was shocked at the chill of the soggy mud encasing his feet. Grimacing, he set out in search of the dreamer. Perhaps he could replenish his ammunition here. And get some boots.
 
Rounding a corner, she collided with a body and went sprawling backwards into the mud. Aria scrabbled at the dirt walls of the trench in an effort to right herself, but it was difficult to see with her helmet askew. At last getting to her feet once more, she adjusted the awkward thing and looked for what- or whom- she had run into.

She couldn't help the little whoop of excitement that bubbled forth, accompanied by the quick victorious pump of her arm. "Flinne! I can't believe you're here so quickly! I only just laid my head down..." she made a motion as if to wave the chatter away but the wide grin on her face remained. Aria pointed behind him. "Bunker is that way, I was on my way there now."

Pressing herself to the compacted earth of the wall, she squeezed by the Survivor, mumbling an apology as she brushed against him. The sensation sent a little trill of excitement through her, recalling the way his hand felt on her body when they danced before. She was grateful for the chill in the air to cool her face. Ducking as an explosion went off nearby, she continued down the trench, looking back every so often to make sure that he was behind her.

After a few more yards of being rocked by explosions, the Dreamer opened a roughly made plank door and stepped up into the shelter. The walls and floor were still compacted earth, but it was dry and oil lamps flickered where they hung from beams spaced along the roof. The bunker was long an narrow, surprisingly well outfitted. A table and chairs sat in the center of the room with maps and diagrams laid out on it; there were munitions and rations stacked neatly along one wall and a bunk in the back, a metal trunk and a tin washbasin at its foot.

Aria made her way over to the table. She tossed the helmet aside disgustedly and pulled the rifle from her back, leaning it against a chair. She turned hard eyes on Flinne, her earlier joy taking a backseat to the problem at hand. "Get comfortable because we need to talk. Things are getting weird in my waking life."
 
Flinne grunted as a body collided with him, and his hand flew to the hatchet dangling from his hip. His rifle was far too unwieldy to brandish in close-quarters trench combat, slung as it was from his shoulder. The little axe was half-drawn before the face that met him however, stalled his hand. Surprise registered on his face in a flash, before a tight, quick smile flashed across his face. It vanished when she moved to squeeze past him, and he tried to make himself as flat against the earthen wall as he was able. Even so he felt the brush of body-to-body as she passed. He thought nothing of it beyond the necessity of the space they were in.

The Survivor followed the Dreamer, sorely wishing he had a pair of dry socks, and thick boots to cut the chill of the muck surrounding his toes. Reality was nice, but it came with very real problems.

When they came to the bunker, Flinne unlimbered his own rifle, and leaned it against a crate. "Comfort evades me." He murmured dryly. "But don't let that stop you from saying what you need to say." He let out a sigh, and began to peruse the crates in search of munitions. "We're the Russians," He mused, selecting a box of 7.62x54r rounds, to carry over to the table. He also appropriated a satchel, and a few rations. "Very well-supplied Russians, at that. I don't suppose there are any boots to be had hereabouts?" He cast an inquisitive glance up to Aria, before continuing to peruse.

Idly, he went on. "I'm beginning to think it's safer to stay in my world than to risk the nightmares you Dreamers can invent." He dragged a crate nearer the table, assumably to sit on when he settled down. He froze there for a moment, his bright, green eyes flicking up to the Dreamer. "I'm rambling." He said, and sat himself down on the crate without further ado. "You have my attention."
 
Lips pressed into a thin line, the Dreamer stalked over to the footlocker and flicked it open, pulling a uniform and boots from within. Reaching in once more she produced a long wool coat as well, folding it over her arm and returning to the table. She set the items before Flinne, perhaps with a little more force than was necessary before taking a seat across from him.

Well, I guess he isn't as happy to see me as I was to see him, she thought. But then, he said last time that he hoped he didn't. Alright then. Let's just move this along.

Aria crossed her arms over her chest, scowling. "I felt bad about your coat and shoes." she mimicked his dry tone; "So here are replacements and clothes. Take whatever supplies you can." After a while she moved her eyes to his face for just a moment, looking away quickly. "I know you don't want to be here with me, but I need your information. It's like you said: the shadows... They've been acting strange. I thought it was just me, but it's been all over the news and the internet. People take pictures because they think it's neat. I saw it myself, close to my apartment; a shadow pointing into the sun. Things just don't do that. People have been dying in their sleep, Flinne." This last was said in a pleading whisper. Her face losing the hard edge it had worn before and instead she just looked scared. She put her hands to her face before running them back over her hair while she drew a deep breath.

"I'm sorry. I didn't even know if you would show up. I had hoped.." Aria trailed off. She clenched her hands into fists at her side, stubbornly refusing to look at the Survivor. She hoped he couldn't see the tears in her eyes.
 
Flinne reached forward to take the boots. They were the most needed, presently. His muddy socks came away one after another, accompanied by a grimace, as he put his relatively dry feet into the lace-up boots. They fit him well, and he was able to lace them tight. He glanced up in time to catch both the scowl, and the glance at his face. It was as solemn as ever. Flinne wasn't very good with women. He was blunt at the best of times, and thick-headed to boot. And these were far from the best of times.

<i>What've I done to this one?</i> He wondered.

With his feet dry in the boots, the Survivor rose and tucked his fingers under the edge of the shirt, to peel it off over his head. He let it fall to the floor carelessly, and took up the button-down shirt of the uniform to replace it. He then set himself to the task of thumbing rounds into stripper-clips, and tucking them into the satchel. He took a fistful of shells as well to tuck into his pockets variously. Guilt began to spread across his face however, at the news of the deaths. He knew about them of course, but to see that they were both localized, and numerous enough to cause this sort of grief sickened him.

<i>Does she know?</i> Indecision to own up to his hand in the deaths gnawed at him for a long, awkward moment as the Dreamer hid her face.

When he spoke, he did so slowly. "It's not that I don't want to be here, Aria. Those deaths are my fault. Unreality follows me like iron to a lodestone. Sometimes it's hot on my heels, and sometimes it's slow to arrive, but it always comes. And if it catches a Dreamer, it kills him."

Guilty or no, those bright green eyes were fixed unwavering, on Aria's face. "If the shadows have started to act strangely, you still have some time. You need to let people know about the Unreality." He finished tucking the munitions about his person, and pushed himself to his newly booted feet. "Find a scientist who'll believe you. The closer to the fringes of hard science, the better. You'll have maybe ten years before your world is as bad as mine. The stars are important. The shadows are important. Secondary images don't seem to draw Unreality's attention, so the news feeds and pictures shouldn't hurt, but keep your eyes away from the shade all the same."

The Survivor shrugged into the greatcoat, and took up the rifle to sling it over his shoulder. "And for god's sake, don't <i><b>touch</i></b> any off shadows. It'll feel like someone's dumped oil under your skin. The longer I'm here, the more danger you're in. Any questions?"
 
Aria tilted her head back, blinking the tears away as she listened to him. A range of emotions seemed to pass over her features like light on water. The familiar nervous action of biting her bottom lip returned. Taking a shuddering breath, she seemed to ground herself and allowed her eyes to meet his once more. There was no judgment in them; just a strange sort of pain.

"I thought you might have something to do with it, but I didn't want to believe that it might be true." She stood on numb legs and went to retrieve a rucksack, holding it out to him. "They're rations. You have to find food in dreams, right? At least this way you might be able to... to last a little longer in your world." She clenched her jaw, cursing herself for getting choked up like this. Instead, she nodded her understanding of his advice.

"I'll look into finding a scientist; if what you said about the stars winking out is true, then I'll start with astronomers. If anyone even believes me about all this." The Dreamer spoke bitterly, her chest feeling tight again as a wave of hopelessness washed over her. The mortars outside had stopped.

She looked at him for a long moment before she built up the nerve to approach him. Deliberately walking too quickly to stop herself, she caught him up in a hug. She was a little surprised at her own boldness, but shook her head and answered him just barely above a whisper: "No. No more questions. Thank you, Flinne. Good luck out there."
 
Status
Not open for further replies.
Top Bottom
Back