[Log] Dream Disjointed Who: Dave Strider When: August 14th Where: The dorms What: Dave dreams, and the nightmare monsters are here. Warnings: Swearing, death, morbid humor Open or Closed: Closed Observable: No
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Your eyes open to dim light, the deep dark glow of magma and the dry hot heat. The scorching wind ruffles your hair against your forehead, salty sweat on your lips already. The constant grinding growl of gears - you know this place and you know it well. The Land of Heat and Clockwork, the land just for you.
The weight of Caledscratch in your hand is familiar, comfortable against your palm. You raise the broken sword and turn, hearing the skittering clawed feet of the imps. There, the Amber Imps, coming for you with claws raised, tentacles swinging. You feel your lips stretch up into a smile. These haven’t seen how you’ve laid waste to their brothers.
The heat bakes through you, through the suit, presses against your skin. You take a searing breath and move, shoes tapping against the hot steel girders in a staccato beat. Crazy rhythm like your heart against your ribs, a dancebeat no beatboy could match. Hard fast alive and the whistle of air around your blade before the bone-jolting resistance as it bites deep into the body of an Imp. You’ll never forget the first time you felt that, the shock of the impact through your own body as you killed an enemy for the first time.
But right now the wave is coming and you’ve got to keep moving.
Dead Daves are the enemy. You can’t stop and you can’t be weak, not with everyone counting on you.
Keep moving.
Never stop.
Move hard and fast and quick, feel claws catch at your sleeve in a last-second dodge. Clockwork grinds and lava hisses, Imps squeal and your shoes keep up the rhythm. Keep it up keep it up don’t stop don’t stop don’t you dare stop.
And you turn and instead of an Imp you find yourself.
Well, half yourself, the other half gone down to charred skeleton from the heat of the lava.
Your heart slams against your ribs and your whole body jolts from the adrenaline rush, fingers tingling in the aftermath. “Holy hell,” your voice comes over breathless, “too much sun, roll over next time.” Okay, that was a lame attempt at humor but goddamnit you’ve got a reputation oh fuck here comes the nightmare again.
Is dream deja-vu a thing? Well it had better fuckin’ be a thing because that’s what you’ve got. You’ve dreamt this before, gone toe-to-toe with your dead selves in the heart-pounding surreality of the Dream Bubbles from the Horrorterrors of the Farthest Ring. Steel on steel and your own fragile weight against the blade, why do you always feel so small in these fights? You’re not and you’re better and you believe that and your heart steadies and you parry like perfection, finding that rhythm and keeping it don’t stop don’t stop never stop. You can’t stop not at all not like this parry parry twist and suddenly it’s no longer yourself.
It’s Bro and that sharp scimitar grin he used to wear while sparring when you were doing so well. That grin makes your heart stop and your skin tingle - he’s about to trip you up and watch you fall, that’s what that smile means. His eyes are unreadable behind his too-cool shades and you parry-lunge-block--!
The katana grates past in a shrill of steel and pain blossoms over your heart.
For a moment you’d almost forgot it was a dream.
“Good job, asshole,” you choke out, blood on your lips, heart throbbing to a new beat of pain. The steel grates against your ribs, tears your back, oh God you never want to die like this poor Davesprite his life sucks.
Bro that is not Bro suddenly snatches the sword free and turns, like you’re worthless like you’re nothing, like you’re not the real enemy because you’re not. No, that’s Jack Noir, jackal face snarling. Jack Noir and Bro go toe-to-toe, glittering blinding brilliance, and you never saw this not at all but your mind keeps coming up with how this played out. How it went down, because at first you just couldn’t imagine what it would take to bring Bro down, not at all. How would it happen, how could it oh goddamn this is one of the worst fights. Where Bro is the best because he is/was and you know that you’ve always known that but Jack Noir morphs into Bec Noir and oh God it’s worse.
Worse because Bro is so brilliant, so fast so strong so enviably quick and you could never hope to match the perfect rhythm, not even in your dreams are you that good. That cool. Every beat and every block, every slice of blade and oh that little scimitar smile. Perfection like a goddamn Bible saint, cooler than dry ice, hotter than the Latino dance beats under a DJ’s fingers.
Worse, because Jack Noir doesn’t give a goddamn fuck and he’s only toying with Bro. With Bro, best of the best. Top of the line.
And the god-demon of nightmares snarls and teleports too fast to see. Too fast to register.
Bro’s blade is still moving to parry when Jack Noir’s black blade rips through his chest.
You choke down the scream, bite your tongue it’s a dream it’s a dream only ever a dream and watch Bro slide from the blade, his own sword falling from limp hands, all cocky grin gone replaced by faint shock. His shades tumble free, orange-hazel eyes wide and blind in a face so pale the ghosts of the freckles stand out livid. Jack Noir howls and the sound grates down your spine like steel on bone, cold against the hot blood pulsing down your back.
You never saw it never saw it it was Davesprite who was there but you found him after and you were too late. Too late too slow too late too slow you let him down. You weren’t good enough to save him too late too slow too late too slow.
Somebody’s gotta stop that goddamn broken record. Might as well be you.
Blood pulses from your chest as you lunge, a hot gush down your back. Your suits is wet and cold and sticking to you (how long does it take to bleed out?) but goddamn you’re doing something.
Jack Noir snarls and his breath is hot and fetid as his blade slides through your heart.
You wake but for a moment you’re not sure you’re awake because Jack Noir is still growling and your chest still burning.
…oh shit.
Sharp needle teeth latch into your arm and the pain is instantaneous, incredible.
You fling the nightmare monster away and shoot to your feet. You are Dave Strider and you’re in the Ludus, in a dim-lit dorm room. And that, that right there? That is the nightmare monster morphing into Jack Noir.
“Somebody’s pissy. Couldn’t make me afraid, huh?” you drawl, voice rough with sleep, with pain, your chest feels like it’s been abraded raw with sandpaper. Your arm...hot blood slicking your hand as you call your sword from the sylladex.
Your nightmares have lost their edge, red in tooth and claw. You’ve dreamed them too much to be afraid, even as you’re not afraid of this Jack Noir. It’s not the real thing, and guess what? You’re going to kick the real thing’s ass so hard for killing your Bro. You’ll kill this one too, your arm is burning burning burning with the blood.
You lunge. The monster leaps.
For a few shadow-tangled heartbeats you’ve only got the sense of chaos, feathered wings and snarling teeth and the erratic pounding pulse of pain. But now you’ve got it, found the rhythm, and duck the desk as the monster flings it your way with a tentacle. (What you wouldn’t give for a set of goddamn prehensile appendages!) Up again, come in quick, feel the fever-hot flare of your God Tier powers kicking in full blast, wham! like an adrenaline shot straight through the fuckin’ heart. You’re immortal, you’re goddamn near invincible, and time ticks past in your head as the world slows down.
That monster?
Doesn’t stand an icecube’s chance in Hell against the Knight of Time.
(That being you. You are the star.)
Your sword takes the things’s throat out and grinds against bone. Acid-burning blood sprays across the room and you dive behind the tumbled desk. It goes down in a series of bone-crackling contortions, ‘till all that’s left is the smear of frothy acid on the floor.
Hot damn, you think as you peer over the desk. Not bad for waking up stupid with dreams.
Your chest still aches and your arm is on fire, but it’s distant, second to the burn of your God Tier powers. But from the way your arm is bleeding, the way the torn flesh burns your good palm when you try to staunch the bleeding...yeah, infirmary for you. Pronto. Get your ass gone before your ass is grass.
You pick up your sword again and start walking.
You try not to remember Bro’s long slow slide off Jack Noir’s blade.