Re: The Battle Royale S2 [Round 2: Prospect Creek]
04-06-2011, 11:52 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by MalkyTop.
Dream couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at the man (the Photographer, for some reason, couldn’t seem to remember him very well at the moment, or really remember anything much besides pink fluffy clouds that looked somewhat like elephants) who was now fighting that other thing, the other dark thingy that had no business clinging onto his spineless pile of goo’s mind. Or subconscious. Or whatever.
Bits of dream trailed behind them as he continued to drag the slumbering photographer along. He had his mind on fish, it seemed, for a school of possibly-piranhas leapt out of his tracks before being suddenly gutted in midair by something invisible. They landed on a shore of rice. Uncooked rice, thankfully, because the Dream was fairly certain that he didn’t want to trudge through tons of grains of sticky crap.
Nothing hostile. At least not overtly or directly so. It was just a dream that made no sense, at least less sense than usual. The only thing really dangerous was that shadow thing. Which someone was already fighting for him. Hopefully that’ll turn out alright.
What kind of dreamself can’t keep a handle on his subconscious monsters? But going back and fighting was too dangerous for the Photographer. This monster was different than the usual…somehow. Could a guy he didn’t really know really hold up his own until it went away? Sometimes subconscious monsters just didn’t die. But they can kill. On top of everything that was happening, his ward definitely did not need a death on his subconscious.
Okay, so obviously the subconscious monsters couldn’t hurt anybody when he was conscious. This crazy beast was no exception. It was better to destroy it, of course, but containing it would be good too. And it would stop all this insanity and random destruction going on. Did whatever cause this weird dream also apply in consciousness? Hopefully not…but it seemed best bet would be to wake the Photographer up.
He dropped the sleeping photographer onto the ground (rice) rather roughly. The Photographer didn’t mumble. Erm. This was going to be a little awkward and not exactly enjoyable. The Dream nudged him with his foot. Considering that he was a blobby thing, this really didn’t do much. Kicking wasn’t useful either. Slapping his face made him jiggle a little, but he was sure that was due more to his consistency than to conscious movement due to being slapped.
Okay, so maybe getting verbal would be a better plan.
“Hey, wake up.” Oh, that was just pathetic. The penguin agreed before zooming off into the sunset. “HEY. GET UP. WAKE UP SO THAT THING’LL STOP EXISTING.” Nope. “YOU’RE LATE. YOU’RE VERY, VERY LATE. THERE’S A. Uh. Ah. A….meeting. A MEETING. THE BOSS WILL NOT BE HAPPY IF YOU’RE LATE.” Well, he was definitely making him worried. A pastiche of his boss always seemed to show up when he was anxious. The Dream punched the screaming dream-boss until it shattered then turned back to the Photographer. “THIS IS A DREAM. THE THING YOU’RE IN IS A DREAM. IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW. BECAUSE THIS IS A DREAM. NOTHING YOU SEE IS REAL. THIS IS A—“
Great, great, he’s stirring, he’s definitely waking up…
…Hm. The Dream didn’t feel any less insubstantial. And yet the Photographer was standing up…so…
“Uh. Are you still asleep…?”
The Photographer turned to him, looking somewhat sheepish. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, this is a dream, isn’t it? That’s pretty obvious. Why else would I be standing on a bunch of rice?”
The Dream was so bewildered that he almost didn’t notice the rice disappearing. “But…you…uh…do you mind actually waking up…?”
“I’m not sure. This is sort of the first time this happened.” The Photographer looked around, interested. “This place’s sorta related to my dream…sorta. That’s cool, I guess. So, what’s going on?”
“It’s a lucid dream, I think,” said the camera.
“Hey! You’re fixed!” said the Photographer rather chipperly.
“Not exactly. This is a dream, remember?”
“Oh.” Before he could look too disappointed, the Photographer fished around for the knife, which had gotten completely engulfed somehow while he had been unconscious. “Ah, here you are! How are you?”
“I’m just glad you’re finally back to somewhat normal. You are, right?”
“I dunno,” he replied, much too happily for the knife’s liking. He simply grumbled. “So. Lucid dreaming.”
“…Yeah,” the Dream said, unsure what else to do. He shouldn’t feel so flustered…wasn’t he always supposed to be calm and collected? But…he was actually talking to what was essentially his creator. Or at least part of himself, sort of. Or he was the one that was part of him. Or something like that.
“I’ve really never done this before,” he said conversationally, looking around. “Are they always as weird as this? I think I see a flying chair.”
“Uh. No.”
Arms folded behind his back, the Photographer spun around a little, taking in the altered, bizarre landscape. “Hm. Soooooo…what do you do in lucid dreaming?”
“Well, it’s your dream,” the dream-camera said, knowledgeable and kind as ever, despite not exactly existing. Was she even allowed to know things he didn’t know? Whatever. The Dream was still amazed that he was actually walking and stuff. “Really, you can do what you want in your dream.”
“Really?” the Photographer said as the sounds of a certain fight between a ghost-hunting detective-for-hire with an infinite supply of large, heavy projectiles and a shrieky nine-year old drifted through the air. The Photographer continued looking around. Well. That cloud should stop being cotton candy, as nice as cotton candy is, and that house should be there and that door shouldn’t just be floating in the middle of nowhere and that chair ought to get down from there and penguins don’t live in such an environment, poor penguin, and pancakes usually didn’t make up the ground and…
“Hm. What’s that?” the Photographer said, finally turning towards the thing that crawled into his subconscious without permission.
The Dream trailed behind, still feeling bewildered. He shrugged. “I have no clue.”
“Then,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t belong here, does it.”
“No.”
The Photographer continued staring, looking the calmest he had been in ages. “It’s gonna be hard. It’s not actually part of my dream. I can’t really…”
“Remember, it’s your dream,” the ever patient and intelligent camera reminded.
“Right.”
Dream couldn’t help but glance over his shoulder at the man (the Photographer, for some reason, couldn’t seem to remember him very well at the moment, or really remember anything much besides pink fluffy clouds that looked somewhat like elephants) who was now fighting that other thing, the other dark thingy that had no business clinging onto his spineless pile of goo’s mind. Or subconscious. Or whatever.
Bits of dream trailed behind them as he continued to drag the slumbering photographer along. He had his mind on fish, it seemed, for a school of possibly-piranhas leapt out of his tracks before being suddenly gutted in midair by something invisible. They landed on a shore of rice. Uncooked rice, thankfully, because the Dream was fairly certain that he didn’t want to trudge through tons of grains of sticky crap.
Nothing hostile. At least not overtly or directly so. It was just a dream that made no sense, at least less sense than usual. The only thing really dangerous was that shadow thing. Which someone was already fighting for him. Hopefully that’ll turn out alright.
What kind of dreamself can’t keep a handle on his subconscious monsters? But going back and fighting was too dangerous for the Photographer. This monster was different than the usual…somehow. Could a guy he didn’t really know really hold up his own until it went away? Sometimes subconscious monsters just didn’t die. But they can kill. On top of everything that was happening, his ward definitely did not need a death on his subconscious.
Okay, so obviously the subconscious monsters couldn’t hurt anybody when he was conscious. This crazy beast was no exception. It was better to destroy it, of course, but containing it would be good too. And it would stop all this insanity and random destruction going on. Did whatever cause this weird dream also apply in consciousness? Hopefully not…but it seemed best bet would be to wake the Photographer up.
He dropped the sleeping photographer onto the ground (rice) rather roughly. The Photographer didn’t mumble. Erm. This was going to be a little awkward and not exactly enjoyable. The Dream nudged him with his foot. Considering that he was a blobby thing, this really didn’t do much. Kicking wasn’t useful either. Slapping his face made him jiggle a little, but he was sure that was due more to his consistency than to conscious movement due to being slapped.
Okay, so maybe getting verbal would be a better plan.
“Hey, wake up.” Oh, that was just pathetic. The penguin agreed before zooming off into the sunset. “HEY. GET UP. WAKE UP SO THAT THING’LL STOP EXISTING.” Nope. “YOU’RE LATE. YOU’RE VERY, VERY LATE. THERE’S A. Uh. Ah. A….meeting. A MEETING. THE BOSS WILL NOT BE HAPPY IF YOU’RE LATE.” Well, he was definitely making him worried. A pastiche of his boss always seemed to show up when he was anxious. The Dream punched the screaming dream-boss until it shattered then turned back to the Photographer. “THIS IS A DREAM. THE THING YOU’RE IN IS A DREAM. IT’S TIME TO WAKE UP NOW. BECAUSE THIS IS A DREAM. NOTHING YOU SEE IS REAL. THIS IS A—“
Great, great, he’s stirring, he’s definitely waking up…
…Hm. The Dream didn’t feel any less insubstantial. And yet the Photographer was standing up…so…
“Uh. Are you still asleep…?”
The Photographer turned to him, looking somewhat sheepish. “I’m pretty sure. I mean, this is a dream, isn’t it? That’s pretty obvious. Why else would I be standing on a bunch of rice?”
The Dream was so bewildered that he almost didn’t notice the rice disappearing. “But…you…uh…do you mind actually waking up…?”
“I’m not sure. This is sort of the first time this happened.” The Photographer looked around, interested. “This place’s sorta related to my dream…sorta. That’s cool, I guess. So, what’s going on?”
“It’s a lucid dream, I think,” said the camera.
“Hey! You’re fixed!” said the Photographer rather chipperly.
“Not exactly. This is a dream, remember?”
“Oh.” Before he could look too disappointed, the Photographer fished around for the knife, which had gotten completely engulfed somehow while he had been unconscious. “Ah, here you are! How are you?”
“I’m just glad you’re finally back to somewhat normal. You are, right?”
“I dunno,” he replied, much too happily for the knife’s liking. He simply grumbled. “So. Lucid dreaming.”
“…Yeah,” the Dream said, unsure what else to do. He shouldn’t feel so flustered…wasn’t he always supposed to be calm and collected? But…he was actually talking to what was essentially his creator. Or at least part of himself, sort of. Or he was the one that was part of him. Or something like that.
“I’ve really never done this before,” he said conversationally, looking around. “Are they always as weird as this? I think I see a flying chair.”
“Uh. No.”
Arms folded behind his back, the Photographer spun around a little, taking in the altered, bizarre landscape. “Hm. Soooooo…what do you do in lucid dreaming?”
“Well, it’s your dream,” the dream-camera said, knowledgeable and kind as ever, despite not exactly existing. Was she even allowed to know things he didn’t know? Whatever. The Dream was still amazed that he was actually walking and stuff. “Really, you can do what you want in your dream.”
“Really?” the Photographer said as the sounds of a certain fight between a ghost-hunting detective-for-hire with an infinite supply of large, heavy projectiles and a shrieky nine-year old drifted through the air. The Photographer continued looking around. Well. That cloud should stop being cotton candy, as nice as cotton candy is, and that house should be there and that door shouldn’t just be floating in the middle of nowhere and that chair ought to get down from there and penguins don’t live in such an environment, poor penguin, and pancakes usually didn’t make up the ground and…
“Hm. What’s that?” the Photographer said, finally turning towards the thing that crawled into his subconscious without permission.
The Dream trailed behind, still feeling bewildered. He shrugged. “I have no clue.”
“Then,” he said slowly. “It doesn’t belong here, does it.”
“No.”
The Photographer continued staring, looking the calmest he had been in ages. “It’s gonna be hard. It’s not actually part of my dream. I can’t really…”
“Remember, it’s your dream,” the ever patient and intelligent camera reminded.
“Right.”