Repose

WHO: Hugh March & Raleigh McKensie
WHEN: Nowish
WHERE: The Mean-Eyed cat
SUMMARY: Sad boy drinks things, will talk to strangers or bartenders, or whatever?
WARNINGS: N/A.

( Did you belong? )

Who: Holly and Eames
What: A dream
Where: A dark and foreboding sea
When: Nowish/When we finish
Warnings/Rating: TBD. Just to be safe, let's go with possible jump scares, violence, bashing, and military stuff.

The boy was a boy. He wasn't a small boy, because he couldn't recall ever being small, but he was a boy. Aged about 10, his brown hair was shaggy, the bangs falling well into his eyes and obstructing his view of the world around him. He wore military fatigues that bunched up at the heels of his white sneakers, and the buttoned camouflage shirt boasted sleeves that went past his fingers. He was an unimpressive scrap of a thing, but his brown eyes were intelligent as they looked beyond messy brown strands to peek down the hall.

The hall of what, you ask?

Well, a ship, of course.

This dream ship was built in a more gilded age, with shiny, warm wood and ornate runners running here and there in the halls, from first to third. It was the type of ship that had a name that would never be forgotten SS-this, HMS-that, RMS-the other. The outside was pristine white, all the way up to the gleaming black fireplaces that jutted into the sky. The decor was Art Deco, and it was all plush and posh... or it had been once. Tonight, the boat was abandoned, a ghost ship taking on water and listing on a dark, dark sea. The lights still worked, but they flickered with abandon, and the boy glanced this way and that down the third-class hall and its ankle-deep seawater, and he ran. From someone? To someone? There was no indication yet.

He was a pop of camouflage, a slap of sneakers in water, a blur of movement as the ship creaked ominously, and he rounded the corner and ducked into a room he'd been in often. But, this being the type of dream it was, the room was black, black, ink and absence and cold.