cv (ephemeras) wrote in repose, @ 2020-03-23 18:58:00 |
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The room inside Atticus' head was white, and he sat on a metal chair, against the wall and surrounded by nothing. The room was dark. There were four walls, and each wall had one window in the center. Grimy. The windows were grimy, with dirt caked on. The sky outside was dark. Stormy. Wind whipping. Rain falling. Thunder cracking. Lightning illuminating the dark room in bursts. The scene outside the windows was an ever-changing diorama. Shades crowding close, their noses to the dirty windows. Shades, but they were solid deathly spectres. They tore each other apart to press closest to the glass. Blood and gristle. Bones breaking. Oozing. Screams. Voices. Hands against the glass and bloodied fingerprints streaming down. Atticus sat in his chair against the wall. Lazy. Chair tipped back and front legs off the floor. Had a book in his hands. Opened. Spine cracked a long time ago. "'In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep. And before you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep, what are you. And when you are emptied for sleep you are not. And when you are filled with sleep, you never were. I don't know what I am. I don't know if I am or not,'" he read aloud. Or were the words in his head? Either way, he read to no one. Liked the ways the words sounded. They made perfect sense to him here. In this particular instance, Janus couldn't just go. When supernaturally Called, much of the time they could locate the physical presence of a soul on move to that point in space-time, less of a trick and more of a professional tool, but not in this instance. Physically, Atticus' soul was just fine and on location in his supine body. It was his mind that was off somewhere, and that took… finesse. No, not finesse, more like brute force. Janus had to work their way past Atticus' natural defenses without actually doing any damage. It made the trip to Atticus' warm little spot a bloody fucking adventure, and by the time they burned their way through the grasping bodies to get to the nearest window, they were covered with gore and more than a little reminded of Hell. Being reminded of Hell made Janus a much more selfish, refined version of themself, like they'd been sliced down around the edges, put through a meat grinder, and strained into a pure essence of themself that was focused on survival. Physically, the demon was a roughly human-shaped figure, of Janus' usual unassuming height. The determination rolled off of them in a heat so intense that it was just a ripple in reality that outlined the silhouette. It made all the grasping bodies steam and sear as they grabbed at them. The very distant ratatatatattttat of gunfire had heralded their appearance in what felt like hours ago, but now they were close enough, they held a black Gerber Mark II, which they kept using to slice at the things grabbing at them as they it fought their way to the window. Once close enough, Atticus' words were muffled through the grimy windows. The words had a humanizing effect on the demon, and the dead youth that they once were appears… or mostly appears. It hinted in the face area, flat food-starved planes, sharp cheeks, sunken blue eyes. The hair was darker, flattened back. They were dirtier. "Atticus." The demon wrapped mostly not-skeletal knuckles on the window. "Atticus. Can you let me in, please. It's kind of crowded out here." This was a big ask. They try to be calm about it. Atticus stopped reading. Mid-sentence. Or mid-thought. Or both, Atticus stopped reading. It was the voice that did it. Heard the voice. No, maybe the gunfire. Knew the sound. Had spent a lot of time in the barrio, with his parents, as a youth. His parents had believed they could save the world; hadn't even been able to save themselves, but it meant that gunfire was a normal sound for Atticus. Recognized it. Assumed a haunt carried it with them, since so many haunts carried their manners of death. For some, it was gaping wounds and obliterated faces. For others it was sounds and memories and circumstances coiling around their dead souls. Assumed. But wasn't really thinking. In the way of dreams, everything was a reaction. And all of those reactions only came when a situation was right atop him. Like now, the voice and the decision that came with it. Didn't recognize the voice. Didn't know it. Didn't think he knew it. But Atticus lifted a shoulder and allowed the speaker in. Was an immediate thing. Outside one second. In the antiseptic room the next. Except the room was now the local diner, and the haunts were outside, faces still pressed against gore and viscera covered glass. Atticus sat on a stool at the counter. Had a coffee. Had a slice of pie. Music played from the nearby jukebox, but it was a distorted and glitched assortment of old bands: Nirvana, AC/DC, Guns N' Roses, Pink Floyd. Atticus wore sweats, barefoot, a good amount of hair on his face. Swiveled to look at the gaunt, unfamiliar kid. "War, huh?" he asked. Looked like a soldier. The gun was a dead giveaway, but was more than that. The kid looked haunted and hollowed out the way soldier haunts did. Always had the feeling they'd come a long, long way in search of him. "Want some pie?" It took the demon a moment to collect themself against the abrupt change of surrounding. It was like getting an electric shock and then landing in a bed of feathers: it took some time to realize it. Atticus was used to seeing a lot of dead people, and the demon was very quick to conceal any sign of their own death or the struggles preceding it. The last thing they wanted was to become one of those things shut out outside, or one of Atticus' pity cases, the ones he ignored when they got too difficult. The demon shifted a little on two feet, tropical combat boots stained cloth and brown leather, disoriented, and tried to assemble a visual of themself when there wasn't a physical body to work with. It was not easy. The bone structure under the skin kept giving them problems, more messy hellfire in faint gleams than real bone, and hair was really important when you wanted to look normal and human, even more so if you wanted to look young or even middle aged. In the end, they were mostly the very young man they'd been on leaving high school, before the army crew cut. The hair was one soft brown wave, up and over then along a high cheek, something far more modern and perhaps even traditionally "feminine" than they'd ever had in life. The blue eyes were still a little deep, but they were pretty sure they didn't look dead. The molten skeleton kept peeking through in gleams under the skin. Not everything could be fucking perfect. "Not war, just fought my way here. Made sure I didn't do any damage… I wanted to make sure you were okay, but you seem like you're set up pretty good." They took a deep breath. "Fuck yeah I want some pie. Dish it out." They slumped into a chair across from the other man and gave him a searching look. In the manner of dreams, Atticus' mind filled in gaps and made things make sense. The changing scene, the things outside, the soldier inside. All made sense to Atticus' sleeping mind. There was something in the corner of the diner though. Something not the soldier, not the waitress puttering behind the counter in an oddly repetitive motion. Something that wasn't the pie or the coffee. Something strong and magical. Something encroaching and trying to pick at Atticus' brain. Not that Atticus knew that was the genesis of the electric energy. In the waking world, a girl was out there trying to bring Atticus back to consciousness. Wasn't happening yet. "A slice for my friend," Atticus told the methodical waitress, and she came and put a plate in front of the soldier. Was a soldier now. Atticus had filled in the gaps and colored inside the lines; was a soldier. And the pie was apple, with a good crust and plenty of cinnamon and nutmeg. Better than any pie the actual diner served. For that matter, the coffee was good too. Rich and dark, and Atticus took a sip and regarded the soldier in the mirror that was suspended opposite the counter. The diner in Repose didn't feature that type of mirror; this dream diner did. "Am fine. Why wouldn't I be?" Atticus took a forkful of the pie in front of him. Tucked in. Chewed. Swallowed. Looked over his shoulder, to where the haunts were pressed against the window. "Those guys? Used to them. You're new." Pointed with his clean-again fork. Janus used Atticus' temporary distraction with the waitress to look over their shoulder at what was in the corner. The soft wave of brown hair shifted over one eyebrow as they turned back again as Atticus' attention came back. Janus didn't know what the thing in the corner was, exactly. It felt like something meant to wake Atticus up, or jolt him somehow, but they could not be sure of that. As long as it didn't start growing tentacles, the demon decided to ignore it. They certainly didn't draw Atticus' attention to it, since dreamers were unstable and sometimes they made bad decisions. They didn't bother thanking the waitress, who didn't really exist, but they picked up a fork and dug into the crust. The attention to detail was nice, the flaky butter there, and the savory scent of the apple. Atticus had a lot of detail in his dreams, not everyone did. Janus tried to remember when exactly they had been in one of Atticus' dreams, but nothing specifically came to mind, which was mildly troubling. Sigh. They were too tired to worry about it. Janus settled forward on their elbows and took up the coffee. It tasted good, though they weren't thirsty. The gold glow off the aging lights gleamed off the cheekbone not hid by the soft curl of hair, and then glowed twice again on the ember flare of the zygomatic bone beneath. "You went off my radar kind of abruptly, when I thought to look for you." One deepset blue eye rolled sideways and then up, to look at Atticus in the mirror. "You know me. You'll think of it, in a little bit." Was detailed. Atticus' dream was detailed. Wasn't really aware of it. Wasn't aware that not everyone dreamed this way. Wasn't even aware he was dreaming. The diner was old and gauzy, rheumy. The mirror over the counter was tilted and illuminated the two men at the table behind them. Tellingly, both men had runes burned black into the skin that was visible over their collars. They ate pie. They drank coffee. They talked, but their words didn't carry. Atticus wasn't troubled by them. Atticus took a bite of his own pie. Had a swallow of coffee, then grabbed the pack of smokes that was on the counter and lit one smoke. Packed the box against the counter, despite already having the cigarette between his lips. The paper sizzled and burned. The tip of the cigarette was amber, but the glow didn't throw or even illuminate Atticus' face. Glanced over at the man/boy... person beside him on the barstool. Was a product of his time, Atticus, and didn't know about gender-neutral pronouns, but was also relatively young (at 28) and understood that there was something different about the person on the stool. Grinned when his companion sighed. "That bad?" Atticus asked. Atticus sucked on the cigarette. Cheeks went concave. Exhaled. There were no rules about smoking around food here. The waitress didn't so much as bat an eyelash. "Alright. Humor me. Think you know my name. Tell me yours," he said, and he looked over at the curl-haired youth. Looked hungry. Looked dead. Looked emaciated. Wasn't so different than the haunts at the windows, but was different. "Or tell me why I was on your radar to begin with." The corners were closing in. Dark, with more of the shadows that had lived there since the dream began, moving from white room to rheumy diner, and taking up more space as the scene began to wobble like jello, to waver like a road on a sunny horizon. Wasn't sunny here, though. The men at the booth glanced over. Janus also didn't know about gender-neutral pronouns, they just thought of themselves as "I." The complications came when others started to describe them, or think of them in some other way besides "Janus." To Janus' way of mind, the number of people who knew they were neither strictly male or female was very low, so it wasn't a big problem. And the remaining little problem wasn't theirs. So they could keep thinking of themselves as "I" and match up the physicality with how they felt that day. Which they did. The demon was untroubled by the various spectres of Atticus' inner psyche. A good thing, because Atticus was smarter and deeper than he was, so said inner spectres were probably smart deep metaphors that Janus wouldn't understand anyway. The red eyes glinted in the mirror as they glanced up, then again at the corner, then back. "Janus." The name meant more "I" than the one they'd died with. "If you don't remember, don't worry about it. You will later." The demon tried to shovel in some pie before it was too late. "Soon, I think." The name rang a bell with Atticus. Distant bell, but a bell. In the way of dreams, it was a literal bell. Rang far off. Glanced left, toward the sound, and then returned his attention to the man. Janus. "Are dead though," he said. Sounded like a statement, but was partially a question. Janus was different than the ghosts outside the diner, but he still felt dead to Atticus. Didn't bother him. Wasn't the kind of dead that was going to siphon energy from him. Not sure how he knew that, but he knew. Became tired of the pie. Atticus shoved the plate away. Wanted a smoke. Tapped his pack on the counter, and he pulled out a smoke and lit it. Was a product of his time, and you could still smoke in places in his dreams. Smoked. Sucked the cigarette paper flat. Exhaled, but did turn his face away from Janus. Was polite. Behind them, the men argued. Faces close, good and evil, a decision to be made. "They're trying to figure something out," he told Janus, his gaze back to the mirror over the counter. "Bad decisions. Good decisions. Don't believe in black and white," he told Janus. Was fairly certain Janus didn't care much. Maybe it was because Janus was dead. The dead had a singular desire: To not be dead. Still, talked around the cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth. "Can't keep going on like this. Someone was here earlier. A woman. Rey? Works for me, I think. Didn't invite her in. Can't have people coming who aren't invited." Pulled the cigarette from his mouth for the exhale. "Hazel," he added, sounding like he'd tasted something sour. "Have to be careful. People will suck you dry out there," he told Janus. Advice, given as he ashed a cigarette that didn't ash at all. The music changed. Atticus glanced toward the jukebox. "Time to go," he said, swiveling on the stool. The men behind him rose and walked toward the door of the diner. "See you around, Janus." And the dream dissolved. |