thearena | Sweet dreams are made of this

Entry tags:

Sweet dreams are made of this

Who| Everyone and anyone! May be with or without the Initiate
What| IT'S VOODOO TIME. COME GET YOUR FREE DOSINGS OF FEAR & NIGHTMARES!!!
Where| Specifically the culture exhibits, but really anywhere
When| Starting from early-mid week 1 and carrying on with increasing severity from there (in ten minute bursts)
WARNINGS| to be announced!! / self harm?

The masks pique his interest. Like the paints, but made to something even more exterior. But somehow they were less and more all the same. Something that would work well for war. With no one around, at least that he can see, he pries one off the wall. It comes down easy, like it was meant for him to have. He turns it over idly for a moment or two, examining the designs on the front, how it was crafted, then lifts it up to put it on and peer through it, a grin on his face.

The holy fear rushes in. It's bursts like a bomb going off in him and it immediately rushes out, spreading all around him across the arena. His eyes flash like bright strobes between pink and purple. He can feel it. He laughs out loud in surprise. He can motherfucking feel it. He can feel everyone, where they are, he can feel every layer of fear, the textures of it all, the mother. Fucking. LIFE. He can almost feel the holy two again in his mind, just so very close. He laughs again, louder this time, and brings the voodoo to wrap and curl around him like an affectionate but terrible beast and he gives a joyous purr with it. Then, he lets it free.

He doesn't even give pause the whole ten minutes. Until the mask latches in. Ten paltry ass minutes. And then suddenly it's gone. It evicts more of a cry than the hooks do, digging into his skin. He starts and snarls, immediately reaching up to tear the mask off his face and throw it from him. Indigo pours out from the wounds over his paint. He breathes heavily, staring at it. Then turns his head to another. These masks would have his face ruined by the end of this if his suspicions are correct.

But he knows, as he reaches out to the next mask with his scarred up palms, sometimes wounds were more than worth it.

[OOC: Below is your chance to thread out one of three options! For the first, Option 1, think of it like the nightmare part of Enjolras Crowning. Whether you got in that or not, this is your chance to have some fun! What paranoias or fears might your characters feel or hallucinate if they are awake? What nightmares might they navigate in their dreams? Perhaps they get a little trigger happy? It's all tailored to what your character fears most and available for you to thread out amongst yourselves+with other characters! The major bursts of nightmares and/or fear last for ten minutes (as long as he has the mask on) and so long as they are not too close in Initiate's range (or are particularly susceptible to psychic attack) these things shouldn't be too severe, but the effects can often still linger on... (and obviously, everyone can opt out, just assuming the Initiate is not in range at the time of these attacks.)

Option 2 is similar to the above, but in this case, the Initiate would be attacking your character specifically and this tends to make the power lay on more intensely. This is the option for folks who want their character driven to some intense nightmare jitters, the most vivid of hallucination to, at it's worst, a drive to madness. Or perhaps you character is going to be Initiate's mind-control pawn for the next ten minutes (PM me for more details) for something or other. Maybe both! Of course, your character should be someone he is not close with in this case unless discussed prior.

Option 3 as stated in the player post, of those he considers trustworthy (on the scale of not back-stabbing and selling him out, AND not being vocal about capitol distaste while definitely having it) and able, he will seek them out to try and share information with them through use of his power. It speaks directly through and using fear so it will definitely leave your character feeling distinct discomfort (fear, nausea, dizziness, etc.) regardless of whether they think themselves fearless or not. But it will be a way only they can hear the message, capitol will know nothing of it. If your character is not particularly close with the Initiate, he will begin on something like option 2 or 1 until he picks out the right fear for capitol, and determines they are worthy of the info-- but only with an inserted fear of speaking the information out loud (for safety measures) and possibly even an erasure of the memory of where it came from (PM me on this). If Initiate does not like said character, i'm afraid they're out of luck.

Please specify when you tag in which of these options you wish to chose!!! If the first option is chosen, the Initiate himself will not be tagged into the thread. For more details/a place to message me, go here. HAVE FUN!!! AND SWEET DREAMS!!!]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Funnily enough, it's the fear that frightens Carlos.

Carlos has felt a creeping, unexplainable, sourceless fear before. He's only felt that way in Night Vale. There's the actual creeping fear, sure, but Carlos's gut reaction is, am I in Night Vale? Did I go back? Did I ever even leave?

He'd thought he'd been pulled through some kind of interdimensional rift into a completely different world. This place, while frightening and dangerous, actually obeyed the laws of physics, and Carlos hadn't seen a single bleeding door. But if he was wrong -- if this place was like Night Vale -- then he had a lot more to worry about than just the other tributes.

Out of the corner of his eye, in the shadowy doorway to the IMAX theater, Carlos thinks he sees a hooded figure.

No.

He doesn't look directly at it, he knows better, so instead he runs. He'd left the relative safety of the planetarium to get water, but that mission seems a lot less important now than finding out if this is really Night Vale. Of course, he thinks, of course a place an interdimensional rift takes you won't be less strange or mysterious than Night Vale. You were an idiot to think it would.

Carlos ducks into the restroom where he'd planned to get water, slumping against the cool tile of the wall. It's no better lit than anywhere else, but at least it's not out in the open hallway. Breathing hard, Carlos pulls himself together. Night Vale hadn't killed him yet. He had to clear his head. Had to think. Had to ignore the blood that had begun to seep out of the seams of the wooden restroom door.

That place hadn't killed him yet but how much of that was sheer dumb luck? There was already proof he was unlucky. He'd been brought here. He was stuck there. Did he really think he had the luck to keep him going? Did he not feel the timer on his back slowly ticking down to zero? Did he not sense the eyes in the walls and the ceilings and in the blank spaces between watching it count down? These are thoughts that might invade from the dark corners.

Like the blood dripped down on the floor it seeps and spreads. In it's shimmering darks surface, things writhe inside, until from it, something begins to crawl. Wtih claws long and spidery, it rises ever so slow from the pit. The ceiling sinks and dips with that weight of something. The lights crack, spark, and flicker.

No where to run, no where to hide, can't escape, never going to escape, going to be swallowed up whole, no way out, no way-

The first claw breaks the surface, or rather, the surface comes with it, forming a skin of shining red. The creature moves in twitching, jerking motions, that shift violently quick in contrast to it's slow ascent. The ceiling, and walls now too, give a faint distressed creek.

If it's all still being ignored, if even now Carlos hasn't noticed, the mirrors over the sink darken. Figures press at the other side of the glass.

(And in the corner of one, briefly flickers an Arby's sign.)

Tick, tick, tick, hears Carlos in his mind, and his already round eyes go wide behind their glasses: he knows this nightmare. A great clock ticks off seconds that pass by quickly at first but soon, inexorably, slow down. They will slow to a crawl, until Carlos can barely move his own body, can't react fast enough to avoid the painful death that comes to him. Am I even awake? he thinks desperately, glancing from the mirrors to the red stain on the floor, seeing the familiar light of Arby's flickering red against the writhing depths of the glass. Is this just another nightmare?

No, he thinks, coldly certain of it, I'm awake. This is real. If it were a dream, I wouldn't be missing my lab coat.

But Carlos does feel a familiar weight in his pocket. He reaches in, and pulls out a small black box. The feel of it is familiar in his hands, and for the moment, is comforting. With practiced ease, Carlos flicks a switch and pushes a button and begins to speak.

"Museum tape one. Local date: Impossible to determine." His voice is tremulous, terrified, but even as he shrinks away from the mirrors and the creature, Carlos does not stop speaking. "It has been five days now since I arrived. I am caught in a gladiatorial game: several dozen of us are trapped in a museum until we kill each other. The last one standing wins." His voice is low, urgent, and hurried -- Carlos wants to get all this out, get it recorded, before he dies. "I thought it wasn't like Night Vale at all, but I saw a hooded figure standing in the doorway to the IMAX theater, I'm certain of it, and the door to this room is secreting a viscous, bloodlike substance. Currently --" and here he pauses to dart to a corner, putting as much distance between himself and the red thing as possible while still keeping an eye on the mirrors -- "I am in a public restroom. The mirrors have all gone dark, and I can see shapes moving behind the glass. There is something on the floor above me, something large and heavy that is making the ceiling sink and the walls buckle. Unfortunately, between me and the door is a pool of the red liquid I mentioned before. There is some kind of creature emerging from it -- it's coated in the substance. Or the substance is its skin. I can't tell which, just that it's red and glistening, with long claws and moving like a crab, or a spider. Oh, god, it's in here with me."

A deep, shaky breath. It takes Carlos another moment to find his voice. "The cracks in the ceiling are getting wider. I don't know what's happening or what that thing is, but it's between me and the door. I'm trapped. I can't get out." The terror in Carlos's voice is gripping; it's a shame no one in the Capitol can see what he's seeing. "Mouse, Dr. Bashir, Dr. Zoidberg -- if any of you find this, do not go in the IMAX. If you see hooded figures anywhere else, do NOT look at them. And if the ceiling collapse hasn't sealed this room off already, make sure you do it yourselves. These things cannot get into the rest of the museum." A pause, and Carlos's brows knit, and his voice, when he speaks, is sad. "I hope you make it further than I did."

If I am still in Night Vale, or something like it, Carlos thinks, watching the red creature approach, I wonder if Cecil will report my death. I wonder how he'll feel about it. Carlos is afraid of many things. He is afraid of the creatures that come through dimensional rifts. He is afraid of the radiation leaks from Radon Canyon and of the earthquakes they keep recording but cannot feel. He is afraid of publishing papers only to realize that his conclusions are completely wrong. He is afraid of the unstoppable slowing of time. And he is afraid of Cecil Palmer.

Cecil Palmer, with his little community radio show. Cecil Palmer, with his willful ignorance of the world around him. Cecil Palmer, who talks about evisceration and municipal re-education and underground pulsars like there's not a problem with any of it. Cecil Palmer, with his ridiculous infatuation that somehow did not go away even after Carlos had been here for a year. Cecil Palmer, with his Oh? and his Go on? and his insistence on calling their business meetings "dates." Cecil Palmer, with his thoughts about the universe that perfectly capture the mystery of it all.

Cecil and his way with words.

Cecil Palmer, who wished death and insanity and sun blisters on someone just for cutting Carlos's hair. Cecil Palmer, who frightens children. Cecil Palmer, who has probably at some point killed someone and seen nothing wrong with it. Cecil Palmer, who absolutely, positively, cannot be trusted.

It's Cecil Carlos is thinking of, as the ceiling screams and the red thing emerges from the pit. I wonder what he'll say...?

Edited 2014-01-26 19:21 (UTC)

Of course he's aware of it. Of course the Initiate is up and aware. The fear of all is nothing but an extension of himself, when he's got his power. When he's using it to his fullest. Sometimes motherfuckers took that piece of him and themselves and got to crafting art.

Sometimes motherfuckers made things beautiful.

He sees with the eyes of the shadows, the cracking walls, the beast that climbs up out of the pool. He sees through the eyes of Carlos himself. And for a motherfucking minute, he imagines he sees through the eyes of this motherfucker's so called Cecil.

The beast reveals jaws, opening them wide. Fear's jaws, his jaws, Carlos's own. Fear was a give and motherfucking take. A wonderous rite and ceremony. The Initiate himself strolls idly, laughably calm and pleased, on to where his Victim struggled for his life against their own fear.

He feels the impression of Carlos's question, like a great pet snake curling up over his shoulders in demand of affection. The beast in the room with Carlos lets out a rumbling growl, with the crumbling world, thunder, as the Initiate himself purrs.

He reaches out with voodoo, in response to the question asked, and he puts suggestions of his own there.

Can't fight against what you have? Can't fight against your world? What of this one? What all if you could have something to change, to fix, to understand... what if everything you believed wasn't all wrong and you could fight what seeks to harm you? What if you had a chance?

What then would Cecil say?

He slows down his beasts, the creak of the world, just like the time Carlos thought. He waits for an answer.

Tick...tick.

The world slows. The air thickens. His limbs grow heavy. It feels like being encased in amber -- something Carlos saw happen to a restaurant once -- as he becomes nigh-unable to force his limbs to move. It is claustrophobic, stifling, and though in real-time Carlos's lungs expand and contract at a normal rate, it feels as though he is not breathing. He cannot expand his lungs fast enough to take in more oxygen, but it doesn't matter, since his muscles have not had time to take the oxygen already in his blood and use it for energy. That was the thing about stopped time. You couldn't breathe, but you didn't need to.

What would Cecil say, he repeats in his mind, as the suggestions sink into his brain. The question is a distraction from the looming maw of the red beast, a distraction Carlos honestly welcomes. He would probably say that I shouldn't talk like that where the Sheriff's Secret Police can hear me. Which is everywhere, so I shouldn't talk like that at all.

Around him, the nightmare changes, just a little -- instead of mirrors along the wall there are now windows, and the whup whup whup of helicopter blades cuts through the thick, treacly silence of slowed time. Floodlights pour out through the mirrors, throwing the monster into sharp, almost bluish relief.

"Secret Police! You have been charged with operating under expired permits, performing illegal science under said permits, and four hundred and twelve counts of thought crime! Please remove your hands and place them on your head!"

Oh, no. No, my permits were all up-to-date, thinks Carlos wildly, staring at the floodlights like a deer on a road. There must be some mistake -- but even if there is, he realizes with a sinking feeling, they won't listen, or do anything about it -- the City Council won't care, and the police own the courts -- there's no accountability at all, or regard for guilt, or innocence, or truth...!

It is the disregard for truth that makes anger well up in Carlos. It wasn't just that they, as often as not, arrested the wrong person -- it was that they did not care. They didn't care that they were wrong, because no one could touch them, and no one tried.

In Night Vale, that was something Carlos could not change. His job was to test and observe and record, and Night Vale was chaotic enough without overthrowing a government that, while oppressive and unpredictable, worked. And besides, the citizens did not object to it. The people of Night Vale lived there willingly, knowing the risks, and were even proud of their little town. Carlos did not understand it, but it was fact, and he acknowledged it.

However, that did not mean Carlos liked it. He didn't like seeing the arrests, and not seeing the disappearances. He didn't like how easily, how frequently, people died in Night Vale. He had seen so much death over the past year, death and disfigurement and insanity, and Carlos was not numb to it. Not in the least.

The voodoo suggestions were still echoing around Carlos's head.

What if you had a chance?

I don't want anyone getting hurt, thinks Carlos. If I could, I would make it so that Night Vale's phenomena could be understood, predicted, planned for. There would be safety regulations in place so that no one would be at unnecessary risk. And the City Council, the Secret Police, the corrupt courts -- they wouldn't be necessary anymore. No more jails filled with journalists.

Make that 413 thought crimes, he adds.

But what of this world? Carlos hears again, painfully, in his head, and he remembers suddenly that he is not in Night Vale, that he is in a world called Panem, and it is a world where people are pulled in from other dimensions to be locked in a building until only one of them was left.

There is a difference, in Carlos's mind, between a world full of uncontainable, unexplainable, deadly phenomena where citizens submit willingly to the only government that can give them stability, and a world without bleeding doors and whispering trees where the only real horrors are man-made.

The first set of horrors is immutable and also scientifically interesting. The second? Unacceptable. No knowledge to better humanity could be gained from the completely ordinary suppression of one group by another. Carlos understood that already. And, if he could?

The sound of the helicopters still echoes around the room, and Carlos is still caught in their floodlights, clearly facing arrest. But even in the face of all that, he thinks that if he could, if he knew how, he would try to change Panem for the better. After all, what was science but an attempt to do exactly that? Scientifically speaking, of course.

It is good such details untouched by fear are lost on him. The Initiate would never do a damn thing for sake of science should he be able to help it.

But he would in the case of this.

The door opens. A great seven foot tall beast, with the waving horns of a goat, a long braid swinging, and a mask on its face, calmly enters the room in all its chaos. Through the eye-holes of the mask is a steady flash of pink to indigo. Indigo blood drip from beneath the mask along either side.

The ceiling stops caving, the walls heal anew. The sounds of the helicopter become a distant chiring silencing more with each passing second. The lights all return to normal, and the windows become simple mirrors again, reflecting only the room and the room alone. It happens all at once, like water spiralling down a drain.

The red monster closes its jaw and lifts its head to the new arrival. It pays no mind to Carlos any longer as it steps over and across the room. It goes to the Initiate's side, lowering it's head for Initiate to run a hand over the top of it. He twists that same hand, and then, the creature too disappears to nothing in quick whirl.

The masked troll turns to face Carlos now, staring him down. In the opposite hand, he grips a club, but for now at least, he holds it loosely.

"Well then, motherfucker. YOU'VE UP AND GOT MY ATTENTION."

He walks closer to stand before the man. He continues, "You held your fear well. TELL ME, WOULD YOU LIKE TO MAKE WORTHWHILE?"

Carlos's breaths are sharp and gasping in the silence -- it feels so good to breathe again, breathing is something one cannot take for granted -- as he takes in the changing, normalizing scenery. His heart is pounding, his veins full of adrenaline and lingering fear.

Was it over? It couldn't be over, it was never over -- but for now, at least, it looks like he'll have a respite. He stares at the Initiate, confused and alarmed, trying to piece the last few minutes together...

"I don't understand," he says, staring at the seven-foot-tall goat creature with the club, the only horrifying thing still in the room. Carlos also notes that the tape recorder in his hand is gone -- shame. Either that, or it had never been real in the first place. He looks back up at the creature with the club, deciding that if it was sapient enough to talk, it could be questioned. "Was all of that...an illusion?"

He watches Carlos and waits. He can feel the fear as it settles, roused and ready, but no longer completely arisen from its depths. His head tilts.

"Is fear a motherfucking illusion?" He asks. "IS THERE NOT SOME MOTHERFUCKING TRUTHS TO THE FEARS WOULD ARE BORN FROM AND GUIDE A FUCKERS OWN SELF? Is it not a real thing that is felt? THAT CAN BREAK? That can kill?"

He laughs, delighted with himself. His voice still reverbs ever other sentence, with the layer of voodoo still heavy there.

"FEARS, MOTHERFUCKER, ARE REAL," He says. "They ain't all meant for you to understand them."

That sounds like a lot of Night Vale talk to Carlos, so Carlos does what he usually does when people start talking macabre philosophy: he changes the subject.

"What did you mean, make it worthwhile?"

This creature, from his talk, was likely the orchestrator of the illusions, and Carlos is on his guard.

Edited 2014-02-27 18:09 (UTC)

The Initiate chuckles. He holds his empty hand out to him.

"WHY MOTHERFUCKER, I MEAN THIS," He says, and abruptly the fear returns. His eyes light up again, shining bright. When he speaks again, he does so into Carlos' head. Every little fear makes to speak and all them words sounding like all those little fears. And himself of course. The words seem to echo in layer.

'WE SHARE COMMON ENEMY, DON'T YOU KNOW? WE GOT ALL LIKE TO HAVING FAMILIARS UP BETWEEN OUR MOTHERFUCKING SELVES. YOU KNOW WHAT ALL I'M TALKING ABOUT, DON'T YOU?'

He pulls up ghostly image, not of any beasts or shadows, but of the helicopters. the fears of things capitol could make to do; the people the could be destroyed by them. a source-less voice echoes comment of thought crimes and fades quick.

GOT MY SEEK ON SPECIFIC FOR THE WICKED SHIT. BUT LET ME TELL AT YOU, YOU GOT AT TO MAKE A MOTHERFUCKING DEAL WITH ME FIRST, MOTHERFUCKER. A BEARING AND SIGNING OF SOULS IF ALL YOU WOULD.' He laughs. He asks in sing-song, 'CAN YOU KEEP A MOTHER FUCKING SECRET?'

He swings his club. Spinning it up and catching it. He pours a fear there of what he might do, using it. He wants to make that reall motherfucking clear.

'I AIN'T TALKING NO PALTRY MARKET HOOFFBEASTSHIT. I WANT ALL TO KNOW IF YOU CAN ZIP YOUR LIP ALL LONG ENOUGH SO AS NOT TO RUIN EVER FUCKING THING. YOU NEED AT TO KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN AND TRAP SHUT AT ALL COSTS. EVEN UNDER GODDAMN TORTURES YOU ALL MUST. YOU KEN?'

Carlos's arms fly up to cover his head, his ears. He tucks into a crouch, falling back against the wall again, letting it take his weight. The words echo in his head, and though Carlos is terrified, he understands.

The Capitol is a terrible place. In Night Vale, no one bothered to hide the municipal corruption: everyone understood that the government was what it was, and there were more immediately deadly things to be afraid of. But here -- here, it was like biting into a cupcake and finding spiders. Deceptive. Deadly. Disappointing. The spiders had no right to be there.

But Carlos can hide that he knows about the spiders. They're under surveillance. Carlos knows what it's like to be under surveillance. He won't talk. He doesn't know that he can hold up under torture, though. Carlos has never before been tortured. He wouldn't want to talk, and he would certainly try, but it seemed really easy to say 'I could keep a secret even if I were being tortured' but hard to actually do it. There is uncertainty in his mind.

The Initiate doesn't like that. He doesn't like the concept behind any of this at all but if he is to do it, he wants sureness, security. He wants results.

'I CAN MAKE A MOTHERFUCKER FORGET. UNDER PAINS AS SUCH I CAN KEEP ALL RIGHT THE FUCK OUT OF REACH.'

It would be difficult, isolating the fear block to a single situation. And possibly torturous for a moment, with Carlos here, being gripped and warped with such fear. But if he could manage it might work. Maybe. That was iffy. But no skin off his motherfucking neck (unless of course he failed and the fucker blabbed).

Of course, if the motherfucker refused, he'd have to wipe out the whole of this all anyone. Unfortunate.

'SHALL HE?'

Carlos uncurls, just enough to look the Initiate in the eyes. Even through the fear, knowledge matters to Carlos, and the idea of voluntarily forgetting something he knows is reprehensible to him.

He does not want to forget any of this.

But if he's understanding the Initiate right, the Initiate will leave knowledge of the rebellion against the Capitol, leave the knowledge there -- just obscure the source.

Carlos knows himself well enough to know that he will be suspicious of sourceless knowledge. However, even that is better than forgetting completely, and Carlos is more accustomed than a normal human should be to the idea of modifying memories, of re-education, of someone reaching into and changing things in someone else's head. It was done municipally in Night Vale. Carlos totally understands that the Initiate doesn't want to risk his neck.

If forgetting the Initiate is the price of retaining his knowledge about the Capitol resistance, then Carlos is willing to pay it. Future Carlos would just have to confirm the information himself.

Carlos doesn't speak it. He doesn't say a word. But his face is resigned and some far off forgotten part of him understands without the need for words.

'THERE IS REBELLION. THERE ARE THOSE WHO SAY IT DOES NOT EXIST BUT THEY AIN'T KNOW FOR SHIT OR THEY AIN'T GOT A TONGUE OF TRUTHS TELLING. THERE ARE LIES PERSISTING HERE AND THEY DO NOT CEASE. BUT I AM PREACHER OF TRUTHS AND UNTO YOU I SHALL TELL.'

In Carlos's mind, in his fear, he paints a new image. He paints a motherfucking opportunity.

'THE REBELLION PERSISTS. IT LIVES ON THE THIRTEENTH DITRICT WHICH TOO STANDS PRETENDED INEXISTENCE. THEY STAND AT STALEMATE WITH THE CAPITOL AND ALL WHAT IS NEEDED IS THE RIGHT MOTHERFUCKING POWER TO PUSH. BUT... THEY DO NOT RECOGNIZE KNOW WORTH THE LOT OF US. OF OUR ILK, THEY SEE NAUGHT. THEY CARE NOT. THEY WOULD SEE ALL DEAD FOR THEIR CAUSE AS EASILY AS ALL THE CAPITOL WOULD MAKE AT TO UP AND DO SO. THEY HAVE ABANDONED THEIR OWN KIND AND ON OUR PEOPLE THEY HAVE UNLEASHED BEASTS, CLAIMING IT TO BE CAPITOL WORK. THEIR IS TREACHERY WITHIN EACH SIDE AND WE MUST ALL MAKE TO BE MOTHERFUCKING MINDFUL. OF THEM WE MUST BE MINDFUL WHILST WE SHOW THEM THEY ARE WRONG.'

The voodoo cuts and carves. To speak like this into the mind leaves marks. Scars that while perhaps forgotten, will not fade completely. But as it cuts into his own mind and has down so for longer than his recollection stretches, he knows it shall not break if all done right. And he knows well how to work fear.

'WE MUST SEEK ALLY TRUE, AND WE MUST UNDONE, AND WE MOST SHOW THEM THEY CANNOT WIN WITHOUT US. AND WE MUST SO THEN WIN. WE SHALL NOT STOOP TO THAT WHICH ALL THEY UP AND DO. OUR SINS BE ADMITTED AS SUCH AND OUR GLORIES LIKEWISE. WE SHALL CULL THE LIARS. WE SHALL BRING OUT THAT WHICH IS RIGHTEOUS. AND YOU SHALL NOT UTTER A MOTHERFUCKING WORD. ABOVE ALL THINGS, WE MUST KEEP THIS ALL SECRET.'

He lets that all settle. Like the gasp for breath after a knife lifts. Then he asks, 'DO YOU UNDERSTAND?'

Carlos breathes fast, in and out like a metronome, as his pained and fear-ridden mind tries to process all of this.

He thinks about it like he's making one of his tapes, hoping that that will make all this easier to sort out. Museum tape one, he thinks. Local date unknown. There is an entity in this room with me, something masked, with horns, that is able to reach into my mind and create illusions. I think it draws on my fears -- that's the only explanation for the things it has shown me. Things that could only have come from Night Vale.

But it's not only capable of illusions. It is putting words directly into my mind. It says that we are under surveillance. That we will be under surveillance even after we leave the museum. The entity also says that I may be tortured if I share what I know now, which is one reason why this is a mental tape and not a physical one (the other reason being that I have no tape recorder). The world outside is still mostly a mystery to me, but I do know that they told me that there are twelve districts, and that I was chosen to represent District 10 in a fight to the death. None of these are signs of a healthy and functional government. It's all very concerning. But this entity tells me that there is a rebellion, in a thirteenth district that is unknown to the public for some reason. The government knows it exists, but they're at a standoff -- neither one has the power to destroy the other. The entity thinks that we, the people brought here from another dimension, could be that power, but it's also warning me that we can't trust District 13. It says District 13 has made something attack us -- I think some kind of animal, or maybe monsters, it's hard to tell -- and will use us just like the Capitol does.

He stops thinking his recording, gasps in a deep breath, and tries to gather himself again.

The entity...I think...I think it wants my help. It wants me to be part of the rebellion.

Yes. Yes, Carlos does understand.

I can't let anyone know about this. If the Capitol knows I know, I'll be tortured until I reveal who told me about District 13 and the rebellion. I won't say the thought isn't frightening. It is. It's very frightening. Everything is frightening right now, and this masked entity in front of me is the most frightening of all.

He feels that last flicker of fear like a compliment. He smiles, pleased, behind the mask. But there are more important things to worry on.

The man before him isn't making no protest further than what all is natural-- reeling and cringing away and under fear. He's meeting his eyes, and he decides, yes, this one may do.

On that last thought, he speaks through voodoo and says, 'DON'T FUCKING FRET. THAT LAST MIRACLE, I CAN ALL UP AND OFFER YOU.'

He steps forward and reaches a clawed hand out to touch Carlos's face, just at the chin, just to hold him steady. Then, the flash of color glazed over Initiate's eyes, glazes over Carlos's too. He builds and creates, pulls up fear and from it, he constructs walls. Not around the information passed, but just one thing; his own identity. It would be safer this way. This way, he, and so his people, could be safe.

There's no pain. Just a dizziness. Just a loss, a sickness, a wrong felt. But no pain. The memory is locked up tight, until the Initiate can pull it free again, and with that, the Initiate steps back and away.

He thinks, make a motherfucker proud.

And he leaves Carlos where he sits.

Carlos, alone, feels like he's just woken up from a dream.

He thinks someone else was in here with him, but he can't remember who, or what they did.

But it's not the first time Carlos has had strange feelings like this, and he shakes it off like he did that afternoon when he'd called Cecil Palmer.

Then, he kicks himself for spacing out like that in the middle of a murder arena. Really, Carlos, you picked the worst time to get lost in thought -- there are people out there trying to kill you! he thinks. Carlos picks himself up and, after careful glances up and down the hallway, slips out of the bathroom and back towards the planetarium.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Sweet dreams are made of this

2, then 3?

im so fucking sorry I couldn't resist the joke

why the hell are you apologizing jokes like this are 100% appropriate

Sorry for not tagging back in a timely manner. It wasn't okay of me.

no sweat! I will backtag into absolutely forever. also I'm sorry these keep getting so long

It's all good!!

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