∞ [ a dream ]

[fatespoken]

Two-hundred eighty nine kilometers per mile, sixty seconds per minute contracting, reverberating electric against your spine like a million cells exploding. The air presses against your skin, while the metal car sways back and forth and rips balance from beneath your feet. If you stand, you will fall. Metal will scream until all you can hear is your heartbeat, pounding uniform, skittering beats, a hundred even micesteps within your chest. The train is crashing, and time retards; seconds suppress their weight into viscous ticks of a clock. All of them cry. A hundred people in the car break their fingernails into brown-leather seats, but you can't hear them because the metal's screaming too loud.

If you look on their faces, you will see them yelling; moreover, you will see their wounds bleeding into their skin. Not real wounds, rather shadows creeping above their skin. They're dusky, translucent imprints where injury will be, as if fate has already marked them. Hasn't it already? The train screeches against the tracks, and the axle juts up through the bottom metal, cracking through the floor so that it clips a woman. A track tie follows and slices up to impale the right side of the car.

Outside the windows, staring through the foggy marks of hand-prints, you will see the ocean: bruised, dark waters pin back a purple sky and lie stagnant against chaos.
 

[ ooc: Prose or [] are fine! Your character may or may not meet Amory, or if he or she does, it may be later on, as several people from his world will be paying a visit. You're free to kill your character or wound them during the dream, and the pain can either be dampened or felt at full strength. It's up to you!

Each thread should be a new iteration unless you'd like to coordinate something with another character. ]

Comments

as it's winding down to zero

[middlestate.livejournal.com]

"What are waiting for?" he hesitates in meditation, folding his fingers together into his lap, letting his shoulders lean inward, only slightly, "We will know when it arrives, Claire. For now, it is necessary that we wait."

Her sarcasm is ignored. These echoes of people are filtered through Amory's mind, spliced and fractured through the cut of a dream. They may come off as oblique, for their conversations are divided into jagged segments and their personalities reduced to fractals. It's either seemingly melodramatic enigmatic or non-nonsensical abstraction. Or maybe it's something else.

as it's winding down to zero

[adamantined]

She'd like to press the issue further, drag it out until she has the answers that she wants. Instead, she watches the way the colors spin across the opposite wall: shadows and tinted red glass muting what sunshine is left like shining a light through a jar of cherries. The silence becomes eerie, and Claire wonders if everyone around them hasn't died or at least bubbled them into this strange waiting room of a world so that they might experience it undisturbed. Sitting there with her hands on her knees and blood crusting in her hair, Claire thinks that they could at least play some music while she waits for whatever it is that's coming.

She hopes it's the next dream.

Before she can let the overwhelming sense of nothing get to her, Claire turns to look up at the man next to her again. If she squints, he looks like he could be familiar in darkness. "So what's your name?" she asks casually. At any moment she might inspect her fingernails, though she doesn't know why. Even she isn't the type of person to react so calmly to what is shaping up to look and smell like the end of the world.