[OPEN] MISSION 3.1 | Dream a Little Dream of Me

[groupiedrifter]

CHARACTERS: Newton Geiszler and YOU!
LOCATION: Newt's Dreamscape / Memories
DATE: During Mission 3: The Sleeper
CONTENT: Newton's fallen into a deep sleep; in this log are multiple memory prompts people may venture into, to be updated as they're completed!
WARNINGS: Basic warnings include: possible violence/blood, monster imagery, domestic and emotional abuse (including a toxic relationship memory), and removal of bodily autonomy.

MEMORY 1: YOU'RE ONLY YOUNG ONCE. 1997.
MEMORY 2: BUT YOU CAN BE IMMATURE FOREVER. 2008.
MEMORY 3: CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTES. 2015.
MEMORY 4: THE BUFFET LINE. 2025.
MEMORY 5: XIMILIA, N̷̥̑Ì̵̱Ĝ̴̩H̵̩͐T̷͈̀T̶͙̂I̸̛̹M̴̤̉E̷̠̾. XXXX.
PERSONAL GOAL: THREE LETTERS YOU'LL NEVER SEND.

[OOC NOTES: If you would like to have multuple memories (i.e. one memory segways into another), feel free to let me know via PM, through the subject line, or at my plurk, simpledog! If none of these speak to you in particular, feel free to post a top level with 'WILDCARD' as the subject line, and I'll whip up a randomized memory not on this list. ;)

ALSO — feel free to have your character interject anywhere in the “‘memory”, they absolutely don’t have to wait until the dream prompt is over and can change the flow of the dream at any point they’d like; I just write a lot for each prompt to give lots of meat for ya.]

Comments

MEMORY 1: YOU'RE ONLY YOUNG ONCE. 1997.

[groupiedrifter]

... What the hell is going on...?

[That's the first thing he mutters, as the world shifts from blackness to greeness — it's a forest, a clearing specifically, one that reminds him intimately of his uncle's old cabin back in Germany. They used to do all kinds of fun things there together. Fishing, catching frogs, sleeping out in a tent and doing the whole campfire thing, eating bags of Schaumkussen until he was practically vibrating. Everything was so different back then. Like, easier. Occasional meltdowns and school troubles aside (never the grades, always the people, people are nothing but trouble), life in his youth was... good. Really, really good. No stress, no fear of what the future might be, none of that.

It's easy to get... swept up in it.

Too easy.

Those who wander into the space will see a cabin to their left: reddish wood, green windowframes, old rickety stairs that lead down into a trail that goes to the small river nearby. There are a pile of plastic dinosaur toys in the grass, right beside a fine assortment of bug-catching materials. Picking them up, they feel sturdy and real. Weighty. The sounds of the brook nearby may draw you further in, especially when nobody seems to be home at the cabin. A hyper little voice, somewhere aged seven or so, belts out a song that floats through the air:]

♪ There's An-ti-mo-ny, Ar-se-nic, A-lu-mi-num, Se-le-nium,
And Hy-dro-gen and Ox-y-gen and Ni-tro-gen and Rhe-nium
And Nic-kel, Ne-o-dy-mium, Nep-tu-nium, Ger-ma-nium,
And I-ron, A-mer-i-cium, Ru-the-nium, U-ra-nium...! ♪

[Following the trail reveals the culprit: in familiar thick-framed glasses, Newton Geiszler, somewhere abouts seven in age, stomps through the muddy riverbank with a frog held in his grasp carefully. He's dirtied up his clothes something spectacular, with muddy spots on one side of his glasses, and his voice continues:]

♪ Eu-ro-pium, Zir-co-nium, Lu-te- t(s)ium, Va-na-dium
And Lan-tha-num and Os-mium and As-ta-tine and Ra-dium — ♪

[Ah! He looks up quickly, and then smiles (where did those two top front teeth go? It is a mystery) before shoving the frog up toward your face. It's a good thing the boy's short, or you may have ended up with a faceful of displeased yet coolly patient frog.]

Aussehen! Ich fand diese springenden Frosch weg! Ist er nicht cool?

slips in here first

[coordination]

[ There's something very peaceful about this place, so before Yzak makes his way down the trail, he takes a little more time to get his bearings and check his surroundings. He's not sure what this is, or what's going on here just yet, but so far it seems ... feels relaxing.

But Yzak naturally can't stay still for long in that kind of atmosphere, so he eventually does follow that childish, singing voice. And when the kid takes note of him and faces him, there's no mistaking who it is. ]

You—

[ He automatically leans back, blinking down - at the frog, at little Newt holding it up toward him.

And when he starts speaking German: ]

What?

[groupiedrifter]

[The boy is certainly not easy to mistake for anyone else, it's true. Who knew a man could carry his glasses all the way into adulthood? They've not changed a bit in style. As Yzak leans away from Newton, the kid leans in more, apparently none too concerned with the random adult that has appeared near him. Actually, where was older Newton?

(Right in front of you, of course.)

With big hazel eyes pinched in amusement, he speaks again — this time in English, with a thick accent that had certainly not followed him into his thirties. W's turn to V's and TH's turn to S's as he speaks, but he's certainly very fluent for his age as he switches:]

'What', what? You are not German? Or you don't know frogs?

[He motions with the whole frog toward the brook behind them.]

I catch a frog, I say. From up there.

MEMORY 2: BUT YOU CAN BE IMMATURE FOREVER. 2008.

[groupiedrifter]

[There are far noisier memories to be in. Like this memory that some poor soul is too abruptly sucked into.

Like a crash of musical lightning that never stops, the rampaging crescendo of punk-rock booms to the left and right in speakers rigged up high on rafters, followed by the cheers of overeager concert-goers that crowd around at all sides; some of them are tattooed bald head to booted toe, some are girls with purple hair or black lipstick, and some are the most typical men in rock band t-shirts that you've ever seen in your life. Regardless, all of them share in the same kind of excitement as the guitarist on stage starts in on his solo. The sky is blue up above, and though it's hard to see while in the thick of it, the crowd stretches far, far back, scattered here and there like busied ants with a flair for porta potties and beer out of plastic cups.

You, an Orber, alone in a sea of bodies. That's kind of ironic, right?

Is that how irony works? Alanis Morrissette was the opposite of helpful.

As the guitar solo ends and the singing starts up again, there's suddenly an arm slung over your shoulder, attached to an excited, smaller figure in leather and tall lace-up boots. Ah, there he is, that fucker. Newton Geiszler looks younger, looks perhaps late teens or early twenties, and there's a piercing in his ear and nose that accompanies the familiar overabundance of leather and silver bracelets, which shake as he throws his fist up. Newt happily joins in with this 'stranger' beside him, singing his heart out as the lead vocalist belts a climax that leaves the whole crowd vibrating with joy.

It's a lot to take in, but if you're either strong-willed or as devoted to the boom of the bass as everyone here, you may very well just enjoy the tail-end of the playlist. Perhaps you're very much not strong-willed — Newt seems to take notice of it, and holds up a hand to start pushing through the crowd, tugging you along with him. Despite being pretty short-statured, he seems to part a fine trail through the waving, flowing crowds of chanting figures.]

C'mon! Outta the way! Excuuuuse me, pardon me!

[The arm around your shoulder turns into a hand gripping yours, as you escape the swell of dancing fans and wind up standing off to the far side of the performance. The noise is tolerable here, and as he lets you go at last, he shifts gears and pulls a pack of cigarettes out of one pocket.]

You alright? You look kind of spooked. What were you doing all the way up front if you're claustrophobic or whatever?

[thelastb1]

[Within this crowd is a robot that has absolutely no clue what the fuck is happening here. Everywhere around him is noise and humans and he's nearly overwhelmed when he realizes one of the performers is playing a guitar. The purpose of the event becomes more clear to him, and the situation slightly more tolerable.

The guitar is an instrument Roger had never heard of before appearing on Ximilia Station, but it's one he finds enchanting. He focuses on the guitar solo, standing completely motionless. It is then that Newton might notice the battle droid, who is very distinct from his fellow concert-goers and any kind of person Newton might have expected to see.]

[groupiedrifter]

[The young lad currently belting his heart out stops, adjusts his glasses, and double-takes properly at the robot currently enjoying that sweet guitar solo. Did he get slipped something when he wasn't looking? He's straight edge, okay! Liquor's his vice, not narcotics!

Maybe someone's manning it from some remote location? It's not like robots are totally impossible, especially with all that awesome tech they're using for the Jaeger programs, but-!

After a moment, he wanders in closer, putting his hand on Roger's shoulder.]

Hey...! So...!

[There's literally no way to say this that sounds right, so:]

Are you a robot, dude?!

[soups]

❰ it's a good thing she's shed her robes, almost for good at this point. it's already so claustrophobic in this throng of people jiang yanli has shoved herself into somehow, she couldn't imagine how she'd fare with long sleeves and clunky shoes. a broken ankle, dragged under the crowd, trampled to death.

instead, she's dressed modestly -- calves and upper arms barely visible between the long dress and sleeves. if the air was crisp, she couldn't tell with all the body heat being shared as people press against each other; they jump, they thrash, they collide as if it's a fun sport and not a worrisome situation to be in.

when the arm drapes across her, it's initially not comforting. instead, she worries someone is meaning to grab her. the loud music filling the air is already disorienting enough, having only heard anything like it at the various ximillia parties. that it's meant to be enjoyed in such a setting is new to her. it all starts to click, however, when she sees the person who is now in contact with her was the person who introduced her to music of this variety to begin with -- albeit younger, but still recognizable.

her being a fish out of water must be obvious, she guesses, as she's yanked away eventually. finally, once out of the group of people, it feels like she can finally breathe again. the unfamiliar scenery distracts her for a moment while she catches her breath, though eventually she comes to realize the questions newt is asking are obviously meant to be answered by her. ❱

I...I don't know. I wasn't scared, so much... ❰ one more long and deep breath makes her feel like her lungs aren't being squeezed together inside her chest. ❱ It was just quite a rowdy crowd.

[groupiedrifter]

[If there's one thing about Newton someone will admit to, it's that he's very much a person who knew who he was from an early age. You'd think over ten years would show some difference, but there's really not a lot. A more angular face, maybe. Less meat on his bones, like he had burnt a lot of energy at things like this. But other than that — Newton Geiszler, through and through. As he helps pluck this nervous chick from the crowd, he considers for a moment what she was doing here; it didn't really seem her style.

Also, y'know. She looked startled as hell.

As he moves to put an unlit cigarette in his mouth, he smiles sympathetically.]

Hey, it's alright! We don't bite too hard out there.

[He's joking, of course. Mostly!]

... You didn't get dragged here by a boyfriend or something, didja?

MEMORY 3: CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTES. 2015.

[groupiedrifter]

(TOP LEVEL CW: toxic relationships, domestic violence)
[The third memory is neither soft or harmless, nor bursting with vivacious energy.

This, my friends, is a bad break-up to a bad relationship.

The bar is predictably alive with music, but it's easier than some rowdy dive bar — it's the kind you can sit and relax in, the kind of sound and energy that forks over dollars for a beer at the counter. Ol' ZZ Top and other 'ancient' covers muffle the dimly lit conversations, all by a band that gets paid every night to give folks a nice time. A bit stuffy, this place, but warm. Unfortunately, the two figures that walk in are nothing remotely warm or easy.

A tall, longer-legged man with short dirty-blond hair and a sleeve of tattoos pushes through the doors with an icy expression shadowing his features, his cheeks splotched red. Everyone else in the full bar doesn't pay him any mind, though, nor do they seem to give the shorter man that trails after him any mind, either. Newt's looking mostly like his usual self as he wanders in behind his supposed boyfriend: familiar black jacket with a band shirt beneath it, doc martins and tight black pants, fingernails polished black, with chips in the paint... though the uneasy and disappointed look on his face isn't quite so typical. His arms are folded defensively, protectively, as he says:]

I just don't get why you're so mad, Trav.

['Trav', short for Travis, turns and glowers back at him, struggling to keep his voice down.]

You don't? The way you blab with some fucking chick for twenty minutes straight while I stand there like a jackass?

[Newt looks gobsmacked at first, and then shakes his head.]

Dude, what? She's my student. In my cellular biology class. Are you out of your damn mind?

Oh, yeah, sure, that's it. I'm out of my mind. Didn't know you had a psychology doctorate, or whatever the fuck.

I never said — We were having a good night, man. Don't be a dick.

A what?

You do this, you just go off like — [He runs his hands over his face, cutting himself off.] I just don't get why you're—

Unhinged? Jealous? Keep making me out to be the bad guy so people will feel sorry enough for you to pity flirt. No, you listen to me — shut up and listen. What else have you got otherwise, huh? Five-hundred PhD's to make you think you're anything special? [Travis crowds in closer, and Newt's hips bump into a chair as he backs up, but there's nothing but counter to back up into after that. His arms stay crossed, defensive and stubborn despite the anxiety that flashes behind his black-rimmed glasses.] Newt, that's all you're special for. You're not shit without the job you brush me off to obsess over. Pull your head out of your ass and drop the bullshit for once in your life.

... Whatever, man. Let's just drop it.

[Travis' smile twists up, eyes pinched. He looks like he's humming with energy; Newt always thought they were alike, like that. Always humming with energy when they're stressed out. There were a lot of things he liked about Travis, until the day he started not liking them. Funny how fast things shift.]

Before you freak out? Get too emotional? Oh, why don't you cry about it to your little 'pen pal', Hermann? Write him a dozen more letters, go ahead! Don't forget to put a little 'P.S., can't wait to fuck you'!

[Newt's expression drops into something too neutral.]

Stop.

[Travis does not.]

Seriously? You're the most unlovable fucking person in the world, Newton. He'd drop you after a day.

[Newt quiets, throat working as he swallows miserably. The words are disarming for a moment — just a moment, and Travis takes advantage of that moment to continue:]

You know what? I don’t know what was I thinking, trying to make this work all this time.

Look at you. You're ugly inside and out.

[Newt's body moves on its own, then — two hands shove Travis back by the shoulders in outrage before Newton can even stop to think it through. Travis barely budges, just stumbles back a step or two before he looks at Newton with grim consideration. Then, with back-alley vindication and acid in his expression, he counteracts by sending a fist right into Newt's cheek. It throws the shorter man against the edge of the counter just as the bar patrons seem to finally notice the disruption.

Which is... just in time for them to watch Newton launch himself at Travis with full fury now, scrambling to throw a punch, and soon they're a crooked line of violence that clamors around the room like a messy tornado, knocking over tables and chairs. The bouncer comes in from outside moments after to try and part them. Newt's wired, though; he’s angry and bursting with energy and is yelling over the shoulder of the man that tries to keep him restrained:]

Fuck you! Fuck you and your tiny baby dick, you massive prick!

[... The rest is history, huh?

While a pair of disgruntled, newly arrived cops take Travis' statement, Newt sits on the street curb outside the bar with a split lip and his hands cuffed behind his back, his forehead resting against his knees, waiting for them to make their way over to him next.]

[unclesam]

[ Sam knows how to throw a punch, but he's not a violent person. Has learned his lesson especially in regards to antagonizing white people. Remembers sobbing, bloodied nose and mouth. Suspended from school for punching a boy who'd called Sarah something beyond reprehensible, and the kid walked away while Sam got suspended for having started it. Remembers his father's hand, heavy and warm, remembers a deep voice saying 'This world ain't ever gonna be gentle or faith with you, Samuel. You gotta be fair and gentle with the world regardless. And don't you ever get angry with a white boy. You feel that anger, but you don't let 'em have it. 'cause it's gonna be you who pays.'

And it's true. Shouting at Bucky on the street in Baltimore nearly made a cop pull a gun on Sam until his partner reminded him who Sam was - gunning down a minor celebrity ain't a good look even for white cops.

And still. Still. As he stands in this pub, surrounded by accents that make it easy to pinpoint where in the world he is, watching the scene unfold... Sam's blood is running hot. At first he tries to tune it out. It's an argument, it's none of his business - except Sam's more than just trained to listen for shit like this. He's clocking this long before the first punch is thrown. And it's a memory. He could let it play out, and nothing would change. He can stay on the sidelines and pick up the pieces, after. Try and pull Newt out, give him a good talk about this kinda abuse.

Except.

Except.

Here's the thing. Sam's moving before Travis has recovered from that shove, because he sees it coming. Seen plenty of men gear up to throw a bunch. Fuck this memory. He's not letting Newt live it again. And Sam knows the implication - that in reality, no one got in between them, that this likely ended with Newt hurt in more ways than one. But today just ain't the day, and Sam just ain't that person. He steps in between them, then. Inserts himself and takes that fist like the wall of muscle he is compared to Newt. Shields the man with his body.

Sam doesn't usually do this, either - doesn't rely on his height and the width of his shoulders to intimidate. But listen - he rocks up to gunfights in jeans and t-shirts, knife in hand, and walks away with the biggest gun on the block. Fuck this dude. Sam gives Travis a shove, less harsh than what Newt did. Glowers. ]

Walk away. Don't gimme another reason. I ain't gonna hesitate to take you out like trash, asshole.

[ Travis chooses poorly - Sam doesn't know if he would in real life, or if this is just the dream compensation his mood for violence and throwing it at a different target - but Travis leans to the side. Opens his mouth, begins saying something nasty and ugly and twisted to Newt. And Sam ain't here for that either.

He punches Travis, once. Practiced ease. Sam's able to keep pace with super soldiers. He's as superhuman as it gets for an unenhanced person in the modern world. He's strong, but more than that, he's trained. Travis goes down, hard. He's not out, but dazed for a moment. ]

Stay the fuck down.

[ And Sam casually turns to Newt, curls a hand around his shoulder. Now he's warm. Not towering, but casual, body language easing off the threatening buttons. His voice is casual, but steady. ​]

We walking away or taking your ex outside?

[groupiedrifter]

[Some part of him, deep down, knows this scene beat for beat. There's the part that relives it with bleary exhaustion, then there's this youthful idiot — this 20-something that's both a MIT college professor and a disaster in boots, the kind of guy who probably gets what's coming to him, because he doesn't think before he speaks. He stares gawking for a moment, first to Travis where he's been knocked to the floor, then to this stranger (stranger?) with wide eyes behind the same old black-rimmed glasses. He opens his mouth, struggles (for once) to speak.

Travis speaks for him, using the nearest table to try and drag himself back up. For round two? For leaving? Licking his wounds elsewhere? Newt's not sure. Travis just says: "I fucking knew it! I fucking knew you were fucking around with other guys; who the real trash here?! Couldn't even wait until I dropped you, you two-timing prick."

Newt's more than a little torn on what he wants, but he's pretty sure letting this stranger wail on his boyfriend (ex-boyfriend?) would just be shitty for everyone involved. So he grabs Sam's arm before he considers maybe going for that round two, his face turning red enough to blotch out his freckles.

His voice is reedy and thin and like it's getting stuck and stilted in his throat.]

Whoa, whoa, it's...! Walking away. Walking away's good.

[He glances around Sam to the blonde-haired man leaned holding his face, glowering. He hasn't jumped at them yet, though. Hasn't pulled them into a catfight; maybe it's because he knows this guy is bigger and tougher, and he'll actually really get hurt. But worse than that... the entire bar is turned to watch. Every pair of eyes look back, and the band's not playing anymore, and — he feels shame as hot as embers in his face, along his neck.

Anxiety creeps up as quickly as the embarrassment did.]

... I'd — like to get out of here, yeah.

[At least the air outside is cold. It feels like a hundred degrees in here right now.]

[petsthedog]

[These dreams are a pain in the ass, Shinjiro has decided. The bar is nicer than the types of places he usually hangs out in -- he was, technically, too young to drink in Japan, but if he ever wanted to he knew exactly the places where he could get alcohol if he wanted it -- but he still recognizes Travis' type immediately. Shinjiro would see them all the time, the ones who thought they were hot shit. They always piss him off. None of his business, he thinks, though.

None of his business, he reminds himself as the argument escalates, none of his--

--He's in front of Newt before he really even consciously decides on it, catching Travis' fist in a hand. And while he's young, he's tall, just a couple inches shy of six feet, and he glowers at Travis with an expression that's legitimately intimidating, unlike his typical worn, tired air.]

You must be lookin' in a mirror, asshole. Get out before I make your face even uglier.

[groupiedrifter]

[Most people would be wise enough to turn away and leave a clearly dangerous situation. Especially when they're not much of a fighter, not like most people who are scrappy enough to intercept a fist. Travis, unfortunately, doesn't seem very intelligent when it comes to knowing how to pick his battles. He glowers back, ripping his fist away from Shinjiro and taking one step back — but not leaving, not stepping down.

Newt blinks from behind Shinjiro's shoulder before his brain catches up (okay, not punched in the face, that's cool) and then he reaches over to put a hand on the stranger's shoulder.]

Hey, man, I appreciate it, but we're good—

[Ugh, but he can see it already, that fiery personality that has lately been a fiery temper instead. Trav's never hit him, never tried to — ... before tonight, anyway — but he's busted a lamp or two in his time. Volatile's a word for it, and volatile is what Newt's tried to rectify, but Newt's volatile in his own unique way, and —

Shit.

"Let's see you try, prick," Travis seethes. He's bristling with anger and seems more than ready to unleash that energy on someone. Judging by the look in his eye, he's had maybe one too many drinks.]

Jesus Christ, Travis, just let it go—

[Travis proceeds to lunge at Shinjiro, trying to use his weight to shove him backward. Newt's kind of in the line of fire if he succeeds, stuck between Shinjiro and the bar counter. So hey, at least you'll have something to cushion you if he manages to actually get one over on ya, huh?

(Please don't crush him on accident.)]

MEMORY 4: THE BUFFET LINE. 2025.

[groupiedrifter]

[You're running with the crowd. Running hard and fast, and the panic is unrelenting — maybe because of the creature that towers high above you in the not-so-distant distance, smashing its large head through the thirty-story buildings like they're tissue paper. Looking back, you can see the kaiju making a beeline... for you. Wait, no — maybe it's not for you. Maybe it's for the small, waterlogged scientist that is pushing past you suddenly in the rain, making his way toward the underground stairway passage that everyone in the vicinity is rushing towards. Try to catch him if you can, or keep up with the frantic footfalls as they all journey down, down, down the stairs and into the iron-clad doors that eventually close behind them, sealing them all inside.

There in the deep underground, in a mingling crowd of terrified people, Newton looks up at the ceiling with fear in his eyes. The thuds above rattle everyone like pennies in a coin purse: thump, thump, thump. And then they stop. The stopped quakes leaves a hush among the crowds, one that Newton eventually cuts through with growing panic in his voice:]

He stopped right above us... Oh, my God. Oh, my God. This isn't a refuge.

This is a buffet line!

[Everyone cries out when another thud rattles the cramped bunker. Debris rains down, and Newton looks up again — ]

He knows I'm here. He knows I'm here!

[The woman near him hushes him. "He knows we're all here!"]

No, you don't understand, he's trying to get me! He knows I'm here! [The girl points to him, urgently, speaking to the others in Mandarin: "The Kaiju wants the little dude!" And as Newton is pinballed around the room by the civilians trapped here with him, he clings to one man, then another, fumbling for help, for understanding, for anything:] What was she saying? What was she saying? I gotta get out of here! Let me out of here!

[They shove him, finally, to the center of the bunker. A sacrifice, in a way. If he's what the creature wants, he's what the creature gets: he lands harshly on one shoulder while his glasses fly from his face to skid across the ground. Pawing along the floor, his wrist throbbing and vision a smudge of dreary brown-grays, the memory abruptly pauses. A reprieve for just one moment. A chance to actually talk to him before everything goes to shit again. Newt mumbles wretchedly under his breath, not at all realizing he's trapped in a momentarily quieted dreamscape:]

This is the worst.

[hatejakku]

[ This is a mess if Finn's ever seen one.

Now that the scene is frozen, and the people have stopped shoving enough for him to actually do something, Finn runs into the center of the room. ]

Newton, what the hell is going on? What was that thing? Who are these people? [ Why are they so mad? Are they mad? They seem really pissed with Newton, who seems to have also gone through one really paranoid panic attack.

... Unless that thing is after him. ]

MEMORY 5: XIMILIA, N̷̥̑Ì̵̱Ĝ̴̩H̵̩͐T̷͈̀T̶͙̂I̸̛̹M̴̤̉E̷̠̾. XXXX.

[groupiedrifter]

[This is... huh.

The memory feels memoryless.

On every side, there is only an sea of white that stretches out endlessly; you get the feeling that if you went in any direction, you would just wander forever. The only sign that the bone-bleached floor beneath your feet is even solid seem to be the strange, glowing tendrils buried beneath the ground. These vine-like marks seem slim and sparse at first, but then seem to thicken and fork out, much like the roots of a tree. As you approach the figure that is sitting where these tendrils lead, you may recognize him as a Ximilia crew member pretty quickly:

Newton, in the flesh.

He sits with his legs tucked under him, his pants ripped here and there as those blue, glowing vines burrow into the flesh of his calves, his thighs, his hips, becoming more like veins under his skin; they root him to the spot, keep him from leaving that downtrodden pose he's slumped down into. The hands in his lap twitch. His head is bowed, bare shoulders sagging with an invisible weight, and the kaiju tattoo on his naked chest is downcast in shadow.

He looks defeated.

Then one of his arms suddenly tugs upward; its wrist is limp and his hand flops bonelessly. It may occur to you that it looks... more like a marionette. Like his arm is a puppet's wooden limb wagging on a string. It sways around as his fingers twitch, and then his arm lowers again. If you blink a few times — much like getting sunspots out of your eyes — you see just what it is that is manipulating his limbs:

A large, towering creature, one with many hands that all twitch around Newton's head; the creature has slippery, inhuman flesh and boney, thick horns, and numerous beady, black eyes that look down in quiet focus. They're tall, taller than anyone aboard the station. Their shadows are long.

One by one more of these large, terrible creatures appear huddled around Newton, whispering to each other in some other strange, alien language. One creature in particular seems to weave something in the air with its fingers, and then pulls its hand up. Newton's puppeted hand moves, too. Looking more closely, it seems that there are glinting, slippery slivers of flesh that look concerningly like arteries being used to hoist and manipulate Newt's limbs.

Suddenly, they all stop talking. The tall, gnarled figures stop focusing on Newton's slumped, seemingly unconscious form. They instead turn and look —

— at you. The strange, messy structures that may pass for mouths on their faces do not move, but someone in the throng says:]

... Hmm. How did you get in here?

[OOC: Characters who tag into this memory will be speaking with the Precursors in Newton's head, an alien race who have been plaguing his dreams many times a night aboard the Ximilia! They have been blocking Newt from remembering any of these dreams, and as such will do the same to intruders.

Any character who tags into this will have no memory of this encounter upon leaving the dream and/or waking up. They may feel uneasy or like they're forgetting something important when waking up or looking at Newton in the waking world, or they may feel like they're being watched by numerous eyes, but that will be the extent of their memory of this (tentatively, until a date!).]

[droide]

[ Out of all the sights that all the doors in this Maker-forsaken castle have led Elthree too, this is the most unsettling one. Not least of all because she's aware that she's sleeping, when such a thing shouldn't be possible. But because she's actually formed a positive opinion of Newt after her conversation with him in the laboratory, so to see him strung up like a puppet for these beings... It worries her.

She doesn't let her worry show, however, as she strides up to them full of purpose and anger. ]

Never mind how I got in. Let him go, now.

[bindsthedead]

How did you?

[This doesn't feel like a memory, and if it's a dream, it's a strange one- most of those are rearranged pieces of peoples memories and experiences and fears, warped into something surreal. This... feels different. and even if it's a dream, Sabriel still draws her sword, her mind reaching towards the Charter.

Especially when she sees the puppet strings.]

Release him.

[There's an echo of power in Sabriel's words, and the confidence of one used to being obeyed.]

[spacedisaster]

[ This dream feels unlike any other. More than a memory, more than illusions. But the dreams had been becoming more and more real the longer Peter had been trapped here looking for a way out, so he's not alarmed-.

At first.

The sights of Newt trapped and manipulated by what are no doubt aliens creatures is not a pretty one. Peter remains calm, it's hardly the first time he sees an alien, even if he doesn't recognize his species. But the tense set of his jaw speaks of unhappiness, and there's a coldness to his voice that's not usually there. ]

Funny. I was about to ask the same question. [ They don't belong here. Maybe it's a hunch, or years of surviving by recognizing danger quickly, but Peter can just tell. ] What are you doing to him.

are we ready for this???

[lateness]

Ah — yes. Hello! Wandered in by mistake, I suppose. I do that sometimes.

[ It does take a moment for the Doctor's eyes to adjust to the scene that begins filling in around the space, and it's unfamiliar and cold and feels wrong in a way other dreams haven't quite felt to him when he'd stepped into them. His own included.

He isn't sure just when he'd pulled the sonic screwdriver out from the pocket of his coat, but it's in his hand now — not yet activated but in his grasp. Just in case. ]

Now. I've met many different sorts of things over my lifetimes, but you — well look at you, eh? Just look at you, big, powerful thing that you are.

[ He flicks his gaze to Newt, trying not to study the way this creature's found a way to burrow itself into his friend's flesh, melding itself into one connected organism. It isn't an easy sight to behold, no, but the Doctor doesn't flinch. ]

What do you need the human for?

[unbreachable]

[ Flitting from dream to dream is mentally exhausting - the people on the station have a lot of trauma buried, Raleigh included, and bouncing around between theirs and his has left him feeling weakened, tired (can you be tired in a dream?), overstimulated.

The door he opens leads directly into bleached whiteness that is tainted by the twisting (and horrifyingly familiar) tendrils just below the surface moving beneath his feet.

Booted feet, he notices. His steps are heavy, the drivesuit he wears shifting and creaking as he moves, gloved fingers balling into fists as he nears. He knows these things, these creatures, recognizes them from the brief glimpse he had into their world. ]

Get away from him.

[bijective]

[This part of the dreamscape is so far removed and far from what Hermann has navigated. Each step further into this unsettling void makes his heart beat faster and faster. A lump builds within his throat as finds himself lost within the sterile stillness and unruly roots beneath his feet. There isn’t anyone to shout for. He is — ]

…Newton?

[His feet stop as he feels his heart skip a beat. Seeing his dear friend seated without an ounce of boisterous life in his limbs.

What have you done? What have they done to you?]

This…This isn’t possible.

[bossily]

[There are some people who would be terrified of what they're seeing here. They might freeze in place or cry, or turn and run away. If Clara was smart, she'd do just that. Unfortunately, Clara is incredibly reckless. This means that her tiny little body is filled with rage watching these creatures mess with Newt.

Her eyes narrow as she stares right back, and ignores the question she's just been asked. At least for the time being. She isn't going to answer to some monster that's harming her friend. Instead, she charges forward with every intent of trying to punch the creatures away from Newt's prone form.]

Better question is, what in the hell do you think you're doing to him?

[She's as intimidating as a barking pomeranian.]

HERE I COME 👊😠

[coordination]

[ From the last memory, distorting from that peaceful atmosphere to this is something Yzak can feel. And when he notes his surroundings, it all happens within the span of a couple of seconds. First his eyes fall on the familiar. ]

Newton?

[ And then, immediately, the unfamiliar as his gaze moves to the large form behind him as it speaks. ]

You answer that question first! How the hell did you get in here? What are you doing to him!?

(frozen comment) Personal Goal: Write Three Letters You'll Never Send

[groupiedrifter]

["Write three letters sentimental letters to significant people in your life but do not send them," the orbs tell him.

... Well, at least he's not sending them anywhere.

The first two letters Newton writes are for his uncle and father; they're easy enough — questions about their work, about Illia's retirement or Dad's tendency to overwork. He's no spring chicken, right? Better start thinking about ways to enjoy a similar retirement, right? Ha, Dad's someone who'd work until he died. Newt inherited that from him. Other parts neg them about their love lives — any sexy ladies you're all hitting up on dating sites? will I finally have a step mom for more than a few months? — and he absolutely explains in excitable detail the journey he's on right now. Ximilia...! Space...! The final frontier! X-Files was Right, and he Does Believe. But with his writings comes a vulnerability; it's easy to write to Illia about his feelings of weariness, of his headaches and nosebleeds and sleepless nights. It's easy to write to his father about the frightening situations he's been in, be it getting handcuffed and left in a quaking tower or slammed into a pillar by an angry monster (not a monster, just infected, just an upset person).

But when he gets to the third letter, it admittedly takes him a lot of time to just sit and write. Because...]

Dear Hermann,

Man, this is weird. I haven't written a letter to you in so many years, feels like my writing skills have atrophied. Well, this is a letter you're not actually ever getting, because part of it is never sending the letter, so it works out. What kind of stuff would I put into the first paragraph of these again...? How are you? How's your mom? How's your piece of shit dad? Have you finally watched that episode of X-Files I've been begging you to try out? Ha! Man, so weird. This is weird. I kinda like it, though. Feels comforting, or like scratching an itch that I haven't been able to reach until I got a backscratcher. Heavenly, right?

Anyway. I don't really know what I need to write. I guess the orb wasn't super specific? I could probably just write 'sup Hermano!' with a smiley face and as long as it has 'dear' and 'sincerely' I win. Right? But that felt shitty to do. I don't know why, but it does. So hey! I'll use this as a little diary. It's 2025 back home! The 'diaries are for girls' thing is a relic of a stupider time! But I imagine you'd probably say it was immature anyway. Or maybe you'd secretly think it sounds nice, to catalogue thoughts and feelings? You've always been so good at writing out data of whatever kind. I'm so impatient with that stuff. Sorry I always ran off and left that part to you for so many of our projects at the PPDC. I'd say that was the unmedicated ADHD talking, but frankly it just sounded like the worst way to spend my time ever.

Immature? Absolutely. That's me, ol' Childish Geiszler.

Stuff like that, stuff like me staining your fancy sweater vest with kaiju blood in the laundry, or misplacing your half of a report, or shoving guts on your side of the line when you piss me off, it made me figure you'd be creaming your knickers when the war was finally over and we had to go our separate ways (was that too disturbing a visual? too bad, you'll never see this anyway). But hey! You said I'm your best friend. You know, that's one of the best things that I've heard in, like, half a decade. Do you know how much I thought I'd completely blew any chance of being called that? Man. After our big fights, I used to angst for days after. You remember all that. Sure you do. You probably even have some drift memories of me stomping around and screaming into a pillow and calling you all kinds of real colorful names. I'd like to think you were doing the same, but I'm the dramatic one, so. Probably not.

Truth is, since we're being honest here: I definitely am in love with you. Like, not just love, because in my scientific opinion there's a lot to love about you and your bitchin' science brain, but in love, as in I would kiss you on your dumb mouth and spend my life with you in a way that is definitely not 'no homo'. You know what I'm saying? Like, I love you. Are you mortified? Well, I guess you wouldn't be mortified, you're not getting this message. But I am absolutely head over heels, and it's been that way since before we met in person. Which is tragic, huh? Honestly, the reason it went so poorly is because I loved you, I think. I screwed that up. I freak out, I get too emotional, I make the situation uglier than it has to be. That's one of my tragic hero flaws, right? I screw things up and make them worse. Who else but me would meet someone they'd come to pine after and utterly destroy that relationship in one meeting at a cafe? I'd like to say it was totally your fault, but I know myself too well to actually believe it.

Yeah, yeah. Woe is me. It's my diary-letter-thing, I'll cry if I want to.

You don't have to love me back or anything, btw. This isn't a hostage negotiation. You won't destroy me forever if the feeling isn't mutual. I'm a big boy, I've had a lot of relationships fail, I can take it. I'm just happy that you're my best friend, okay? And really, the biggest reason I don't just say all this is I don't want to ruin that. I'd spend a lifetime with these feelings in a confidential folder if it means not ruining the things we've fixed here.

I'm really, really, really, really fucking glad we ended up at the PPDC together. I'm glad that wasn't the last time I saw you.

Having you to bitch at was both torture and the highlight of my day, man. Masochism isn't always a distant concept, apparently.

We were great. We were phenomenal. The PPDC needs to bend down and kiss our feet, we got their asses out of so many jams. Putting all of that on a science division made up of two people in the end? We handled it like rockstars. We were rockstars! Like, you put your ass on the line for this. I mean, you risked your ass for me, too. Kind of. Not to make myself out like I'm remotely as important as saving the world... Kinda bold (selfish???) of me, but I like to think you did it for me, too. But wow. Just. Drifting with a kaiju to save the day. We knocked it out of the park. Raleigh and Mako better high-five us when we're actually back to the 'dome. Actually, maybe Rals will since he's here, too. I'm gonna make him highfive me sometime. If I remember to.

Drifting, though. What a rush.

... Yeah.

Hey, so. Since this is 'letters you'll never send' in personal goal format, uh. I guess I can admit I'm scared of something? OK.

I think something's wrong with me. I know something's wrong with me. More than before, I mean. More than the normal. I don't know what it is, exactly, but I'm worried I really fucked myself up when I drifted. I'm scared I did something and it's doing something to my brain, and I'm scared to tell anyone honestly because it means I have to actually face it, and I'm scared that I did it to you too, because you're having these symptoms, right? And the nightmares, the nightmares I don't remember, the kind I want to remember so bad but I also never want to know. I'm scared I fucked something up. Something's not right, something's WRONG, but when I try to think about it too long, I start panicking and I just want to run away from it. I don't want to tell you, but I want to tell you EVERYTHING. My mouth opens and I don't say anything, like I just can't, like my brain just stops me because it knows I would rather run away from my problems than ever say them out loud. But you're being effected too, and that's my fault, even if it's not it IS. I'm so sorry, Hermann, I'm sorry I tried to push you into my drift project, and I'm sorry you felt guilty for what happened after, and I'm sorry you had to be the one to drift with me. If something happens to you because of it, I'll never forgive myself, okay? I'll never forgive myself in a million fucking years if I messed up your head.

Something's wrong with me, I just know it. I don't know what. But I'm not okay. Please don't be 'not okay' too.

Sorry, I think I ruined this letter. I should probably get rid of it now. But.

I'll probably keep it.

Sincerely Love,

Newt

[All three letters end up shoved into the very back of a drawer in his room aboard the Ximilia, after the mission.

He's never discarded a written letter before; despite being the one who'd written them, he can't bring himself to do it, even now.

Especially now.]