[open log] i don't care about the mess you made

[strove]

WHO: Clarke Griffin, Riku, and Goro Akechi + anyone who wants to do some dreams or other stuff
WHERE: Dreams, New Amsterdam.
WHEN: Month of January IC!
WHAT: Dreams, memory shares, etc. General open log things.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: Mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation for Akechi and Clarke (respectively).

[Riku, Clarke, and Akechi couldn't be more different on the surface—but when it comes to dreams, to the control of the mind and the actions they take, the similarities come together. Oddly enough, each of them has some experience over this space. Riku, through being a Dreameater. Clarke, through Josephine taking over her body and through having to fight back against the sociopathic scientist. And Akechi through the metaverse, having to traverse it alone. That's not to say that they have special powers here: but control is something that will come more easily, as will lucidity.

Of course, thematically they're different:]

riku: mistakes of the past, worries of the present

[These days, Riku is more or less at peace with himself. Once, his dreams were mercurial and lacked control. They showed his worry about strength. Power. And at times, Darkness—the Darkness that reigned over his life, that acted as a threat. These days, that Darkness is as much a part of him as anything: trapped in his heart, a constant in motion. A part of who he is.

But there are themes and motifs that reoccur. Friends fading away. The danger of thinking too much, even if the thoughts don't string together. A friend slipping, falling into a wave of Darkness. More recently: images of his home falling apart, of New Amsterdam falling to the same ruin, crashed into by a wave of dangerous Darkness.

And of friends dying. Of not being able to do enough. Of the struggle of having to accept that they will do as they do, even if he can't do nothing. His hands always tied, forced to be idle, passive. Accepting that, too.

There is always a push for logic against even the most irrational of thoughts. Always.]

clarke: guilt, the lives she's taken, a peaceful interlude

[Many of Clarke's dreams take place separate from what would be her mindscape. Her dreams are of green: sprawling trees with a beautiful, forested canopy. A bright sun overhead, though sometimes there are two. But in the horizon, there may or may not be ruin: ruins of a city that managed to come together in the aftermath of an apocalypse, or ruins of a world, covered in dirt and sand, and strange creatures that burrow into the ground and can dig into someone's skin. She doesn't dream of those creatures, not often.

When she can, Clarke dreams of what could be: a life in this area of rich, fertile environment. A time with her daughter, her mother, her friends. Bellamy is there when he can be, but during times of strife, it seems she has a hard time facing him. (This Bellamy is older, with facial hair and a calmer expression. Like he knows to keep what he can inside.)

When there are people present, there is always a pressure. Of being boxed in, of being the one to find the solutions. Clarke always feels as if her answers are the wrong answers, and they show here. But there is no resentment toward the many, many people in her life: angry, making demands. Just an acceptance. Clarke doesn't feel as if they're wrong to ask so much of her. Besides, she put herself in that position to ask to make those decisions.

After all, she is a mother. A leader. But also: a tumor. A cancer. These days, Clarke doesn't let those thoughts creep up, but in dreams, who can say?]

akechi: wasted potential, what could have been

[Akechi doesn't dream of exact moments or of exact places: he dreams of the settings he likes, with drawn out, complicated scenarios where he's called upon to solve a problem. Solve any problem. Because he is someone who came into his power at an age when he was already embittered by the world, embroiled in hatred for everything around him. His mother committed suicide when he was young, and he was forced to be passed from home to home, a blemish upon his family and upon the world. An illegitimate child and a problem. Rather than choosing to overcome these notions, Akechi internalized them, took them to heart.

His dreams reflect this: colored often in blacks and reds, with Akechi moving alone, carrying every purpose that he believes that only he can accomplish. His dreams are a sign of how he deluded himself: believing that his long term plans would become something at some point.

He is extremely intelligent, and his dreams show it: with him trying to make logic out of nothing, out of the world around him. He seems to be at odds with it, caught between a sense of justice (inherently emotional) and a world out of order, one that's inevitably going to be that way no matter what.

If Akechi's gambit had paid off—if he had been aware that he was a part of a game with a gambit in motion—his view of the world would've taken hold. It would've fallen into disarray, granting control to a single deity because people are inherently messed up. At the heart of his dreams, this is a singular, notable truth. It's just one that's at odds with what Akechi really wants: to be praised, loved, and seen as less than a blemish and more that someone who can accomplish things. He just hasn't admitted as much to himself.]

ooc notes

[The general overview here is to give people an idea of what my characters' dreams would contain. This is an open log, and you can request a starter hitting on one of the notes above! I'll also be posting closed requested starters below. I'm also open to memory sharing or characters just catching up, though the former may need to come along organically (as none of my three know it's on the table).

If you'd like to discuss further, hit me up on plurk @ medieval or on discord at alison#8996.]

Comments

before all your innocence is lost [ closed to eugenides ]

[strove]

[The setting looks a bit like the medical military tents that were omnipresent in MASH: a green-walled tent with a lot of make-shift scientific readers and medical supplies. At the heart of it is a single table with someone lying on it. Right now, it's Bellamy Blake. There is the sense that it's not always Bellamy Blake. There is a machine that beeps off Bellamy's heartrate, but it doesn't seem to be consistent. Why would it be? This is a dream.

Several facts are in place here: Bellamy has an open wound, one with a bullet that's come too close to his heart. Clarke has washed her hands with a bottle of alcohol to try to disinfect herself. He's currently under.

Clarke has to save him. She looks around, panicked, only coming to a halt when she spots her roommate there. Eugenides. It jars her out of where she is, what she's doing.]

This is a dream, [she says, flooded with relief.]

[kleptocratic]

He's been shot.

[ Very helpful.

But Eugenides has never seen a bullet wound up close like this. Or, maybe, he still hasn't.

This isn't a dream he likes. Eugenides has no skill with surgery. He has only one hand and a hatred of doctors, but he hardly wants this man to die. Is he familiar? ]

Does this happen often?

[strove]

Which part? [The question isn't a very formative one, and she doubts it's helpful in the least. Which part doesn't answer any questions. She only just spits it out because it's the first thing that comes to mind.]

The scene isn't new. [A beat. She looks around.] Though usually it's the dropship I hit the Earth with the first time. I guess my subconscious decided to change it up a little.

[Gabriel's tent. Speaking of places she'd rather not perform surgery. She trusts the man—mostly. Mostly. But he was also very much in love with Josephine. It's a mark against him.]

[kleptocratic]

Where are we?

[ A tent, obviously. He has been in tents before, at least. He doesn't understand the beeping machine, but he's grown used to being around machines he doesn't immediately intuit the purpose of.

Eugenides hopes very much that he's not going to watch a man die slowly in front of him. He doesn't recognize Bellamy. ]

how light carries on endlessly [ closed to the OA ]

[strove]

[The dream opens up onto an audience chamber (at 2:29), only there are no people there. The roof overhead has been ripped off, torn away. Nothing about this action was tidy or neat. Instead, it may seem as if a blast eroded it away rather quickly, breaking it down, deconstructing it bit by bit. Thanks to that, the height of where The OA is will be very obvious: many, many stories off the ground, with little sign of how to get down.

All of the light itself is natural: there is no sign of any kind of electricity or electrical outlet, though it's likely obvious that this had been a skyscraper of some kind, built to house numerous offices or apartments.

While there were no people there, Clarke will soon appear alongside The OA. Her announcement is made with a shuffling of sound: too loud, perhaps, but also evident of how little life there is here.]

This shouldn't be here, [she says, though she doesn't indicate what she means. Confused, she turns to The OA.] Neither should you.

[hierophante]

[OA moves through the chamber, this indistinct mind-place, with the quiet contentment of a dreamer. In the strange logic of dreams, this is where she is and it is therefore where she's meant to be. That she cannot remember how she came to be here is no particular cause for alarm because, as she runs her fingertips with quiet curiosity along what remains of one of the decaying walls, it does not occur to her that that's something one is meant to recall in the first place.

Such is the way of sleepers. Such is the way of travel, in dreams as in life as in death. One always forgets.

There's something raw about it, the wound open to the sky, the precipice, which tickles and tugs at her memory as she approaches it -- unclear at first and then unmistakable. She closes her eyes, pausing a mere handful of feet from the wreck of the windows, that long drop, and it's the darkness that reminds her. It had smelled of earth then, of growing things, forest soil. She, sightless, feeling the change in the air, scenting metal on the wind, feeling the ground beneath her feet turn soft, uncertain.

And then the blow had fallen. She remembers that, too, and Clarke appears with a rush of sound that in the stillness is a tumult. OA jolts, eyes snapping open, and turns her head sharply to take in the new arrival, her lips parted around a soft gasp -- though she does not cry out, weighed down as she still is by the sluggishness of somnambulance.

This new stranger's confusion is palpable; OA feels sympathy, but no agency. The former flickers across her face, a slight and temporary furrowing of the brow. The latter hardly needs expressing: her own presence is a mystery to them both. Should. also, is a loaded word, one with which she opts not to engage for the moment.]

I don't know this place.

[It's a half-agreement, intoned impassively. She doesn't know this place, but that doesn't yet alarm her. The part of her that knows, deep down, that she's dreaming isn't alarmed either. It's too preoccupied with listening intently.]

What is it?

[This place, she means, to Clarke. What is a far more interesting question than where.]

[strove]

[Clarke often dreams of Polis.

In her dreams, it's still in one piece and full of life. Down below, people run through the streets hurrying to get somewhere, the streets themselves made up of bits of wreckage and ruin throughout the decades. Though Roman-inspired architecture forms parts of the foundation of Polis, the rest of it was put together through sheer desire to make something great. What one person might call a maze made out of the remains of a junkyard, another would call it their home. Clarke wouldn't know the first comparison, so she happily settled upon the second.

Polis in her dreams is a place of anxiety, trauma, regret. It's where she wasted her days with Lexa, feeling as if she needed to keep her distance. Wasted her time so that she could've left sooner. Wasted the opportunity to keep the love of her life alive. But it's never empty. There is always the threat of people—here or somewhere else.

Halfway broken like this, it seems wrong.

She swallows—or, at least, mimics the movement behind it. Dreaming, lucid or otherwise, is always a strange thing. Clarke never needed anything inside her mind when she'd been trapped there, hoping for an opportunity or a foothold of some kind so she could wrench back control. But she still feels herself making the motions. Doing what psychologically makes sense. She doesn't even think of it.

As she turns, she considers her words. What to say.]

This is the remains of Polis. [She crouches down then, putting her hand over the floor. There are shards of glass there, which is surprising. That shouldn't have survived, either. Her mind is a tricky place.] It's the capital for a group of people who survived on the ground during the apocalypse in my homeland. We're in what is the throneroom. Or audience chamber. [I nearly died here once.

Clarke doesn't think or dream of that day as often. It's never her near-deaths that stick with her, or never as much.]

Do you know the geography of the United States of America? [Clarke realizes it's an odd question, what with them being in the dreams and all. In a dream. But it's where her mind wanders and goes, falling on a more geographical definition of "where" they are. She can provide that. Somewhat, anyway.]

[hierophante]

[OA is an attentive listener, even in dreams. Perhaps more so in dreams, in fact. Hers so often carry messages that she's trained herself to pay careful attention, and so when Clarke speaks, OA listens, her gaze strafing the floor -- rubble, bits of glass -- but an attentive tilt to her head, ear angled politely towards her companion. It's only when a question is directed at her that her eyes find Clarke's face again.

There's something in the set of her brow as she nods, a quiet sympathy. She's never survived an apocalypse; for that she has no context. She can understand endings, though, the bittersweet pang of memory complicated enough that the mind catches on it, revives it in dreams.]

I-- sort of.

[OA squeezes her eyes shut. Another nod, more vigorous, and a little gesture of the hand -- go on, I'm following. It's easier than trying to explain: she doesn't have the visual context of a map, wouldn't know how to pick that country out among any other if one were placed in front of her, much less point to a given location. She knows it in relative terms, though.

When OA was a girl, Nancy had taken her hand and placed it against the surface of a raised relief globe. She'd run her fingertips over it slowly, felt out the boundaries of continents, traced the ranges of mountains. We're here. Her small fingertips had settled naturally into the the depressions of the great lakes, Michigan and Huron nestling her new home between them and Superior arching above. Ever after she'd been able to find them again with relatively little effort, the one place on the Earth that seemed made for her hand.

Later she'd learn other measures: Claude, Michigan is a little over 14 hours by bus from New York City. New York City is five hours by single-engine plane from... somewhere. Somewhere is an unknown number of hours' drive from the side of a two-lane highway in the middle of Missouri, which is three days' walk from a homeless shelter and a bridge, which is, give or take, 200 feet above the water.

So she knows. She knows enough.]

It's okay; I'm following. This is in the United States?

two feet standing on a principle [ closed to jyn ]

[strove]

[Off in the distance right away, there is a castle. Perched high on a hill, it was clearly built for a reason and a purpose. The odd part is how little it seems to blend in. While there is a village not far from the stairs leading up to the castle, none of the houses in the village have any of the same architecture. On the contrary, it seems as if all of the effort for this village was put into that castle. Why is the castle there, then? What purpose does it serve?

Clarke is here, of course. Time shifts and changes suddenly, moving from a barren land to a place where kids play in an organized way. Madi is also there, in the distance, among peers. She looks as if she doesn't belong, but every time she looks at Clarke, she nods to herself and tries again. Like she knows she needs to try.

But even then, Clarke stands and turns, feeling out of place. She looks at Jyn when she does, stopping short.]

Hi, [she says, and it's a touch muted, like she doesn't know what to make of it. Clarke studies Jyn, as if she's waiting to see how she responds.]

[realists]

[ a lifetime of war had broken a lot of jyn, but not the irrepressible curiosity of new planets. this planet has trees, enough for forests, with leaves of green and gold and orangey brown. there are flowers and bright colors and banners of flags and it is so wildly different from the glass and steel of new amsterdam's metropolis.

for a moment, she wonders if this is another zerzura, brushing her fingers against the velvety soft petal of a pastel green flower, dipping down to breathe in the rich fragrance, heady and intense. the only dream she has been privy to thus far has been her own and she relives that nightmare every night, she didn't even realize she had voyeurs. it doesn't immediately occur to her that this is also a dream.

the children are playing something that feels familiar despite jyn's isolated childhood -- she didn't have much time for playfulness and it certainly wasn't with children her own age. ]

Hey.

[ she gestures towards the one other person she recognizes: madi looking exactly like clarke's portrait of her, young and determined and disheveled. ]

That's her?

[strove]

That's her. [Of course, Madi has never lived this scenario. There has been no idyllic life waiting for Clarke and Madi here. The more Madi began to adjust to the Flame being in her head, the more of a chance that Sheidheda would prove to be a threat. Clarke had never been able to do anything about that. It's one of many worries on her mind, but something that she feels comfortable waiting on. If anything, she knows that the world outside of her dreams right now can help her daughter.]

She wouldn't be outside with anyone right now, at least not normally. I guess this is a better place to be than most.

[Dreamwise, that is.

Though Sanctum isn't without its nightmares.]

[realists]

I used to play by myself.

[ it isn't a statement that madi will grow up to be a normal functioning adult because jyn barely functions on a daily basis and is far from normal, but she survived and she doesn't think she is a monster. her childhood imagination made her an unexpectedly good orator whose speech, unbeknownst to her, will be sent in holos across the galaxy as a rallying cry for the rebellion after her death. all from having heated discussions with herself and her handmade dolls. it wasn't all bad. ]

It was just me and my parents until I was eight. What is this planet?

[ one day maybe it will come more naturally to break planets down to the cities across them but her mind still goes to planet first. ]

but I forgot we were fragile [ closed to Nill ]

[inherited]

[Just as time is meaningless in dreams, it's meaningless in this fragment of a dream: it's hard to say if Nill and Riku have been walking for days or for hours. To Riku's mind, they've been here forever, traversing the World of Darkness, desperate to find a way out. This is a version of that world that's been heavy in his mind lately. The typical version of it is there: dark landscape with occasional rock-like fixtures, complete with the yellow-eyed Heartless that spring up. But just off in the distance, there is a set of Islands that hang in ruins. They're just out of reach, making it impossible for anyone to get to them. To help them.

But if they're here, can they be helped?

Riku's footsteps are steady and plodding. One after another, foot hitting the ground as he focuses on the distance in front of him. There is a body of water to his left, splashing up against the shore, but he pays it no mind.

They need to keep moving. Pass the time. Wait for the way out.]

I guess this is where we'll be now. This place can't hurt me. [Riku doesn't seem to be aware of how he's saying it, though he hesitates, looking toward Nill. When he does, she starts to fade.]

Nill! [He lunges for her to try to keep her there.]

[culver]

[There have only ever been two constants with Nill's dreams: either she doesn't remember them at all, or they are vividly etched into her mind after she wakes up in a cold sweat. The latter has been more common recently; knowing she's alone in her apartment has pushed her to the very brink of insomnia, and the few hours of rest she manages to snatch each night are riddled with decrepit buildings dancing with shadows and long, empty streets silent except for the occasional muffled cry int he distance. Nothing overtly nightmarish, at least not lately, but still unsettling and enough to make her come close to dreading sleep.

Tonight, she isn't sure which category what she's dreaming will fall into. Riku is walking beside her, which is new in itself, and she thinks should be comforting--the only people who ever really appear in her dreams are people she doesn't want to see. But he definitely isn't one of those, and while the landscape around them is certainly bleak, it doesn't really scare her. No, what she feels is a kind of despondence that fits right in with the view around them, and the longer they walk, the more she comes to believe that even if it all fits together, something is wrong. They shouldn't be here. But when she looks to find anything different, any potential landmark, all she sees is more of the same rocky outcroppings, some floating plates of land she can't identify. Even the ocean beside them seems barren, and she can't feel much of anything even when she sees the darkness start to take form, ocher eyes shining in the gloom. But she knows, somehow, none of this is right.

Now the cold sweat starts, sending goosbumps up her arms and making her wings flutter with disquiet.

She's jolted out of her anxiety when he speaks, but his words make it kick right back up again. It sounds like he's just... giving in to being stuck in this monochrome place. This place can't hurt me. But that doesn't mean it can't hurt her.

Nill's breathing picks up, and her wings tremble against her back. No, they can't just stay here. She won't let them. Somehow, she's going to find a way out.

It isn't until she lifts a hand in surprise at his lunge that she realizes she can see through her own fingers. Panic slices through her, and in an instant she's grounded once more, solid and somehow aware of the fact that she may have given up her only chance of getting out of here. But no--she isn't going to leave him. She tries to reach for that feeling again, the certainty that they need to leave, but can't quite grasp it.

Wide, frightened eyes shift to meet his. Nill rarely shows fear; where she's from, a weakness like that is like a trail of blood for ravenous wolves. But she can't help it.

Even though this is a dream, and she could probably give herself a voice if she wanted to, she defaults to using the implant to try sending a text she doesn't know if he can even receive.]

What is this place?

[inherited]

[The problem with dreams is that Riku, when alone in them, loses control over his thoughts. Even though he's undoubtedly a better dreamer than most among the Displaced, he only has so much control. He's not a Dream Eater in this world: not like he'd been in the actual dreamscapes. This is just a dream. And in his dream, his thoughts go like this:

That maybe it's better if she fades away. In a dream, that's good. In a dream, that means she won't need to experience the World of Darkness. Being here is terrifying. Being here is difficult. The only good thing is that she doesn't need to experience it alone. And if she fades away, she'll be safe—but what if she isn't? How can he keep someone he knows from fading away?

His jaw sets, and he reaches out quickly, and in his dreams—by the logic of this dream—he's able to hold on to her fading hand and hold it in place. Keep it from fading. Because if she fades and slips and experiences the Darkness trapped in his heart, he'll never be able to forgive himself. He feels at ease with that which lies there, always turning over and impacting him in one way or another. But he also knows that it could harm someone else.

Riku likes the world where he protects Nill from another horror like this. Like this world could be.

The problem is, he doesn't see her words. So, he doesn't respond to them. After he seemingly forces her to stay in one piece, he lets go of her hand, and his own falls to his side.]

I never wanted you ... or any of my friends to have to see this place. Or know what I did. I'm sorry.

[culver]

[His hand is real and solid on hers as anything can be in a dream, and she knows without a doubt that the moment for escape has passed. For the time being, they're stuck here together. At least the things creeping in the shadows don't seem overtly dangerous--to her, they just seem to be observing the two of them. And while it's definitely unsettling, they aren't making immediate moves to engage them, so she puts them from her mind for the moment.

He doesn't answer her question, and it sinks in that she can't talk to him. It's been over two years since Nill was last cut off from easy communication, and it makes her trust this place even less. Her brows draw together, and she focuses on her face, her hands--they're her only tools once again, and she's going to have to rely on them like she hasn't in a long time. She tries to force the fear from her expression, attempting to look calm. Freaking out isn't going to solve anything. Letting him see it is just going to make things worse.

Nill shakes her head when he apologizes, raising a hand with her palm out to try and make him stop. What's in his dreams isn't his fault. Everyone has thoughts that bubble up in their subconscious, and controlling those seems impossible to her.

She turns her hand, palm towards the gray sky as she sweeps it in a short arc around them, the question she can't say in her eyes. Where are they? What did he do?]

rest my fears in your hands [ closed to Rey ]

[inherited]

[When Rey shows up on the Islands, she'll find that it's night. The air is humid despite the night air, offering a thick sense that it could rain at any minute. The breeze that comes off the water helps, however, moving in her direction to keep her cool. The Islands are simple, with a few huts, and it's clear that this Island in particular is mostly without life. Just off in the distance, to the north, she'll see a larger island, plush and beautiful.

Off to the south is where the ocean is, and where Riku sits.

He doesn't seem to know she's there. Instead, his mind is elsewhere. It seems—at first—like there could be nothing wrong here. The water from the shore moves up and down in a very, very low tide, and the moon overhead is just a crescent.

His shoulders rise and fall with an inhale, but then he keeps sitting. Peaceful.]

[forcevisions]

[ It feels like intruding.

Rey remembers the dreamscape. Remembers the people who'd come to Jakku with her, who had found her a child, trapped in her own past. She hates that memory. Both of those people have gone, now. If they took the memory of where she'd been with them, it made no difference; she'd likely never see them again.

But it makes her wary to act as an interloper in any part of Riku's mind. Despite this, the lush scenery, the warm feeling of the tropical ocean air, it all makes her want to explore it, to see more. It's not like Takodana or Ahch-to -- it's more beautiful than both. She keeps glancing back at it as her feet carry her up beside Riku, an eager longing that she can't fully lay claim to because this place doesn't belong to her.

Then she settles down beside him anyway, and finally says, ] Is this real? [ Is it him? Has she manufactured it? The dreams make it hard to know. ]

[inherited]

[The fingers on Riku's hands curl. Right now, he knows more than anything he's trying to find peace in himself. He's not himself, however: there are times when Riku's heart betrays him, playing tricks on him. In his usual dreams, this beach collides and becomes the World of Darkness, and it's him walking through the water, eyes a bright, vibrant yellow. The Darkness took him because of course it did. Unlike with Aqua, no one could be late.

Here, that doesn't need to happen.

He can feel the uncertain, unsteady emotions swirling his heart. The way he felt in those hours—days—months following the destruction of his home. He can feel that taint, even if it should be gone. In his nightmares, he becomes what he fears most: a remnant of himself that he's confident is gone, but knows his thoughts can lead to again. If he lets them.

Riku doesn't look at her at first. Gaze pointed forward, there is nothing about him that shows that trouble. But when he looks at her, she'll see it: the golden eyes, no longer hidden by heavy lids.]

No. But it could have been. [No, but it could be.]

diamonds waiting to be found [ closed to faith ]

[impede]

[Akechi and Faith will quickly find themselves in the lobby of the headquarters of a political campaign—as well as the headquarters for an unnamed cabinet position within the political structure of Japan. Whether it's specified is unnecessary here: Akechi stands near the receptionist's desk with a sense of purpose. Here, he looks different from how he does in New Amsterdam. He wears a tan coat, black gloves, and carries a silver briefcase with the letter A engraved upon it.

He looks at Faith as if she belongs, though whether he recognizes her as a member of the Displaced won't be immediately clear.

What will be clear is this: they aren't in Kansas or New Amsterdam. Though the writing is seemingly immediately translated, it's obvious that they're somewhere in Japan. The setup of the office indicates as much.

After finishing up the phone call, the receptionist looks to Akechi and says,] You can be right up, Akechi-san. You and your associate. [Akechi turns to Faith and motions for her to follow him.

It seems as if he carries some weight here. Several men pass them at this point, pausing only for a second to nod at Akechi. They're discussing different experiments, as well as ways to change and control the cognition of the public. As they reach the elevator—was that always there?—they pause, muttering about how one politician or another isn't falling in line. They look back to Akechi with a great deal of meaning, as if they suspect that's why he's there.]

Ignore them. We have somewhere to be, don't we? [A pause.] And while I suspect this isn somehow related to our powers, I don't have your name.

[watcherless]

Faith.

[ This, she offers warily.

Looking around, it doesn't take a genius to guess she's out of place. But there's something nostalgic about it, and in the context of the dreamscape, that's easy to feel rolling off of her. Nostalgia. Regret. She can see shades of the mayor in this place, as if he might have occupied it in another life.

But more puzzling is that she knows it's not in English, yet she can read all the signage and understand all the people anyway. She isn't savvy enough to place it as Japan -- even with the late-night anime she's caught on cable in the motels. But she knows something about this is ... surreal. ]

Last time I did this, it wasn't with a stranger. [ It feels almost a violation of what she and Buffy share, to be sharing it with someone else now, but she at least knows to connect it to the blue light that way. It's a commonality -- pulling them together. ] You wanna tell me where we are?

[impede]

Oh, of course. We've been asked to root out the crimes of a politician. In theory, anyway. [The way Akechi speaks is soft and well spoken. He's not someone dripping with sarcasm or anything like that, but instead talks as if he's aware that eyes can be on him at any moment. Even the way he dresses informs that. Standing alongside Faith, that seems right.

Akechi does like a sharp contrast to how he's established himself, at any rate.]

We'll need to go up and meet with Masayoshi Shido's associates. They'll give us the information on where to begin. [He doesn't say that this will likely result in death.

Does she know it will?]

let me live that fantasy [ closed to hope ]

[impede]

[Many people never have the opportunity to see their goals all the way through to the end. Akechi had been convinced for so long that he wouldn't be a failure like ... "many people." He refused to acknowledge that, and had spent two and a half years believing that he would be able to reach the pinnacle of his goal. Once there, he would be able to control his father with the knowledge of what he'd done for him, and might even be able to turn it against him.

Many people with lofty goals like this never get to see them to the end. They give up for whatever reason. They realize the error of their ways.

Akechi had no intention of doing that. The problem is—if he hadn't come here, he'd be dead. And if he had lived there, he would still need to stand in the shadow of the Phantom Thieves, accepting the folly of his decisions. Knowing that he performed an egregious mistake.

That's because his lofty goal was nothing but a dream, one that he rode for as long as he could manage. Now, it feels ... pitiful. He was going to be tossed away no matter what. His identity wouldn't have stalled his father. It wouldn't have done anything.

So, the disaster of a goal has changed, evolved. Been simplified. That's where he stands now. The interrogation room is exactly the one where he believed he killed Ren Amamiya not so long ago (as, for him, it wasn't that long, not by a longshot). He holds a gun in his hand, and it trembles with anticipation. Shido sits in front of him, dressed impeccably, mouth forming into a thin line.

And where there should be a guard, there's Hope. He doesn't pay her any mind at first.]

I heard that you'd be down here. It wasn't difficult to convince them to let me have some time alone with my father. That proved to be a rather ... compelling story. And ... truthfully ... you don't deserve the opportunity to speak out. To apologize to the public. Not when I know that a man like you, heart stolen or not, is never truly sorry.

[He turns toward Hope only then, pausing in the middle of his performance—there's no other word for it, not really—to look her over. Not a guard. He was too taught up. His hand trembles around the gun, not knowing what to make of it.]

You shouldn't be here.

[tribridfreakshow]

[Most people would probably be a little more disarmed by the fact that Akechi is apparently training a gun on his father, likely intent on blowing his brains out, but a few things have already fallen into place in her mind.

1) This is a dream.

2) Akechi clearly hates him.

3) She's no stranger to familial violence.

It makes sense, then, the little conversation they had after her father disappeared. She's had time to move on, at least a little, from that little upheaval of her world. She's not quite to angry, removed herself from grief, invested in her roommate. The people she trusts are few and far between, but she doesn't hate her father for leaving her. Different circumstances, different results.

But she understands this anger. She also knows that it won't truly make him feel better to pull the trigger. Not even in a dream.]

It's not like I showed up on purpose.

[She looks past him, over his shoulder, at the man sitting in the chair.]

What did he do?

[impede]

[If Akechi had the words for it, he would recognize Hope for what she really is: a kindred spirit. Someone whose own father couldn't live out his life because he took the easier route, rather than giving her a choice. She was a blemish, wasn't she? Just as he was for his mother, just as he would be for Shido (someone to kill once he was done with all his crimes, once he was no longer needed). Of course, his view of Hope is skewed. Twisted in some way. In many ways. He doesn't understand what it means to have someone make a sacrifice for him.

He only knows the one he made, the one he had no choice to take. The one good deed he could do in his life. It feels meaningless now. Taking that path had done ... what for him, exactly? He doesn't feel at peace. Nothing has changed the anger in his heart. Nothing has abated how he feels day in and day out.

Because with it has come the knowledge that he was a tool twice over.

He breathes, though there is nothing that indicates it. No dramatic shaking of his shoulders, no way where he inhales and exhales and both Shido and Hope can hear the sound. He just does: steadying himself.

The Phantom Thieves would be better at this. They would be able to put Shido's crimes to words.

Of course, Akechi doesn't need to speak.]

I ignored his existence until he became of use to me. I used him in my plans to become Prime Minister. He killed and framed many of my political rivals, believing that he would one day succeed in trapping me at the end. As if that knowledge would be enough, as if I could even care. [Shido relaxes back.] Frankly, my only crime is letting the little charade go on long enough. I only would welcome the strong into my future, and he was always weak.

But here's a secret, [Shido says, going on. He smiles: but it's a thin, barely perceptible one.] I'm speaking for him because he can't say the words himself. But I'm as much him as he is right now. And he believes that hearing the truth from my mouth right before he kills me would be of some ... comfort.