Washington (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
hardwearing) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2020-03-03 01:16 pm
hardwearing) wrote in meadowlarklogs2020-03-03 01:16 pm
you were injured. you don't remember? [ OTA ]
WHO: Wash & whoever!
WHERE: dreamland~~
WHEN: March 15-31
WHAT: dreamshare x3 (one fluffy, one relived, one traumatic)
NOTES OR WARNINGS: oh boy. war, torture, self harm, suicidality, imprisonment, dissociation... possibly more, will add as needed.
i. poker night
There are three moons.
It's night on Chorus, and a group of soldiers are out in a field under those moons, playing cards. There's some food set out between them (not much, with the rationing, but someone inexplicably got snacks) and they have their helmets off, a rare sight during a war. Those that know Wash will recognize him in the group, sitting between two people in teal armor -- a redheaded woman and a man with symbols buzzed into his hair. They're all frowning at their hands.
"I fold." A man in orange armor throws down his cards and eats a cookie from his pile.
"Grif, you can't keep folding just so you can eat your bets." The soldier who speaks is in maroon armor, and trades in two cards.
"You don't know my life, Simmons."
"I know if you actually played, maybe you could win more snacks."
"That sounds like effort. I already have these."
"Well I'm not lending you any more!"
The oldest of the crowd, a grizzled man in red armor, speaks sharply. "You shouldn't have lent him anything! In my day we--"
"Oooookay, everyone who is playing." The lone woman in the group cuts off the fight before it can start, tossing a cookie into the center. "Time to bet."
"Are we sure this deck is legit? Caboose, where'd you get these?" The man beside Wash only has half a cookie left in front of him, and doesn't seem happy about it.
"Tucker, just play." Wash rearranges his cards and bets two cookies, leaving Carolina to meet him. "Or pull a Grif and eat it, I don't care."
"Ugh, fine." Tucker drops his cards and stuffs the cookie in his mouth. "I fold."
"Sarge? Donut?"
Everyone else plays, and turns out their hands. Somehow, the man in blue armor wins, though he has to be told that by the guy in pink. "Yay!"
"Fucking again?!"
"I am very good at this game."
"It's just dumb luck! Emphasis on dumb!"
The soldiers continue to bicker, but Wash just smiles quietly to himself. Eats a cookie from his meager pile and looks around at the others. There's a sense of belonging here, in this ragtag group of idiots, and Wash hasn't felt that in a long time. It's then that he turns to look at the visitor.
"What are you doing here?"
ii. "Freckles, shake!"
Welcome to a brutal firefight. The colorful soldiers and their would be saviors are hopelessly outnumbered. Wash is huddled behind some crates providing cover while the others run away, towards the only way out of their cliff-isolated little canyon. There's a precariously fragile tunnel through the rock that they're hustling through to the waiting ship on the other side, Freckles as a Mantis guarding the entrance.
From Wash's position, through all the gunfire, it's hard to make sense of the chaos, but his team's shouts are audible through his helmet's radio that somehow anyone in the dream can hear.
"What are you doing, where's Wash?" A worried voice comes through.
"He's still at the base!"
"What?"
A third voice, sounding panicked, "Sir, if we leave now, they'll just follow us back to headquarters!"
"Aw, shit, somebody get me some explosives!" A fourth voice, sounding authoritative -- presumably the leader of the soldiers helping them. Meanwhile, from the dreamer's vantage point over by Wash, multiple soldiers go down trying to get to the tunnel.
The first voice chimes back in. "Wait, guys, there he is! Wash! Wash, come on!"
Wash glances back towards the escape route, and now a soldier in teal armor is visible through it, waving for Wash to hurry the fuck up.
"We've gotta seal this tunnel!" Another random soldier, maybe the one who was running with an armful of explosives who gets shot straight in the head before he can set any charges. There's a robot standing beside the opening of the tunnel, now their sole defense. There's no other cover left for Wash between his position and only way out...
He looks to the enemy force advancing towards his friends, checks his clip -- he's nearly empty. Back to the robot... and he makes a decision. He can't run. He has to protect them at all costs.
"Freckles..." Wash hesitates before giving the command, then takes a deep breath and orders the droid to do the trick Caboose taught him, which isn't quite what it sounds like. "Shake!"
"Hey, no, what are you doing?!" The teal soldier is frantic, and Wash's gaze settles on his friend for the next few moments before Freckles obeys.
Shake doesn't mean himself -- it means everything. The Mantis stomps the ground with a massive robotic foot, hard. The ensuing shudder is enough to collapse the tunnel without explosives, an avalanche of rock coming down between Wash and Tucker. Closing it off, trapping Wash with the enemy but saving his friends. That's it. They're safe now... Wash is not. Neither is Freckles, who is caught in the collapse, massive rocks crushing his metal form.
Wash lets out a sigh, relief and acceptance, even as bullets continue to whiz past him. In reality, this is when he was taken out. In the dream, he hunkers back down behind the crates, clutching his rifle to his chest, looking around to see if anyone else is left alive. That's when he spots the visitor, and gestures frantically to them wherever they might be.
"Get down--!"
iii. your name is david (cw: self harm, suicidality, imprisonment, dissociation)
This is a cell.
There's padding bolted to the walls and floor, once white and pristine but now smeared with blood. No one has bothered to clean it up.
A man with mussed dirty blond hair and a few days growth of beard is sitting up in the corner, his blue eyes rimmed with red and accented by bruise-dark circles, staring at nothing. He's barefoot, in white scrubs, and both his arms are heavily bandaged though he's not restrained. Not right now. It doesn't seem necessary -- is he drugged?
A voice comes from somewhere. That speaker on the ceiling maybe? Or is it just in his head?
"Agent Washington." There's no response, no acknowledgment from the man in the corner, and the voice continues. Smooth and calm. "Has the medication taken effect? Are you feeling better, Agent Washington?"
"Allison?"
No. It's a man's voice, seemingly unperturbed by this mistake. "I know this is difficult, but try to focus. What is your name?"
"I'm..." His head falls forward, revealing angry lightning-webbed scars spreading out from the implant at the base of his skull. It looks fresh. It looks like it hurts. Wash reaches up to grab at his head, and there's blood under his fingernails.
"Your name is David."
"No. I'm..." Lost. Alone. Hurting. No one's come for him. No one cares. He's been left behind here, with just the voice in the ceiling and the ones in his head. That's audible now too, a woman's carefree laughter turning to screams. Wash clutches at his hair, tearing some out, and when he lifts his head again there are tears streaming down his face. Whatever he's seeing, it's horrible.
"Increase his dose."
As if the words themselves could drug him further, the scene warps. Suddenly he's in a metal-walled room, strapped to the chair with a man sitting across from him, his expression as smooth and placid as his voice. The voice from the speaker.
"Do you know your name, Agent?"
“I’m… Church. Where am I--?”
“You were injured. You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“I believe you may be too heavily medicated for this session, but if you are comfortable continuing, I can answer some of your questions. If I may ask my own.”
“I-- okay. Okay.”
“What is the last thing you can recall?”
It’s a struggle but he tries, he’s quiet for a moment while he tries, everything in his head feeling fragmented and sharp, the pieces grating together. It hurts. “It’s my fault.”
“No. You did the best you could. We’ll need your help again, we need you to get better, David.”
“That’s not my name!” He's thrashing now, pain from his injured and bound arms shooting up somehow into his neck, a stabbing at the base of his skull and deep through, all the way through. Something missing, something torn out. His memories, maybe? No, not torn out, shoved in and it broke all that he was and then they took the new self away too, and now he’s… what? Who? Who is he now? Church? David? Washington? He wants to scream but he just feels more tears, and that makes him angry. He remembers anger, that it was familiar once, it was part of him and so he tries to hold onto it, but it gets eaten by the emptiness like everything else.
“I’m sorry you’re in so much pain. Perhaps we should let you rest. We can do this later.”
“No-- no, don’t leave me alone. Please don’t leave me alone, I need to know… what happened to Allison?”
But the Counselor is already getting up, his chair-that-he-isn’t-strapped-into scraping behind him as it’s pushed away. No. No no no no no no….
“Please!”
“Take him back to his room. Make certain he cannot harm himself again.”
And then Wash does scream, the sound raw and agonized like a sob, like someone lost who knows they will never be found. A tech comes forward with a needle and sticks him as he struggles, and the padded room fades back in. The chair disappears and Wash is just curled up on the floor, eyes glassy, breathing ragged.
[ ooc: will match format! brackets are fine. any questions, hit me at![[plurk.com profile]](https://plurk.com/favicon.ico)
cuddlebug or on discord at koutavi#1461 ]
WHERE: dreamland~~
WHEN: March 15-31
WHAT: dreamshare x3 (one fluffy, one relived, one traumatic)
NOTES OR WARNINGS: oh boy. war, torture, self harm, suicidality, imprisonment, dissociation... possibly more, will add as needed.
i. poker night
There are three moons.
It's night on Chorus, and a group of soldiers are out in a field under those moons, playing cards. There's some food set out between them (not much, with the rationing, but someone inexplicably got snacks) and they have their helmets off, a rare sight during a war. Those that know Wash will recognize him in the group, sitting between two people in teal armor -- a redheaded woman and a man with symbols buzzed into his hair. They're all frowning at their hands.
"I fold." A man in orange armor throws down his cards and eats a cookie from his pile.
"Grif, you can't keep folding just so you can eat your bets." The soldier who speaks is in maroon armor, and trades in two cards.
"You don't know my life, Simmons."
"I know if you actually played, maybe you could win more snacks."
"That sounds like effort. I already have these."
"Well I'm not lending you any more!"
The oldest of the crowd, a grizzled man in red armor, speaks sharply. "You shouldn't have lent him anything! In my day we--"
"Oooookay, everyone who is playing." The lone woman in the group cuts off the fight before it can start, tossing a cookie into the center. "Time to bet."
"Are we sure this deck is legit? Caboose, where'd you get these?" The man beside Wash only has half a cookie left in front of him, and doesn't seem happy about it.
"Tucker, just play." Wash rearranges his cards and bets two cookies, leaving Carolina to meet him. "Or pull a Grif and eat it, I don't care."
"Ugh, fine." Tucker drops his cards and stuffs the cookie in his mouth. "I fold."
"Sarge? Donut?"
Everyone else plays, and turns out their hands. Somehow, the man in blue armor wins, though he has to be told that by the guy in pink. "Yay!"
"Fucking again?!"
"I am very good at this game."
"It's just dumb luck! Emphasis on dumb!"
The soldiers continue to bicker, but Wash just smiles quietly to himself. Eats a cookie from his meager pile and looks around at the others. There's a sense of belonging here, in this ragtag group of idiots, and Wash hasn't felt that in a long time. It's then that he turns to look at the visitor.
"What are you doing here?"
ii. "Freckles, shake!"
Welcome to a brutal firefight. The colorful soldiers and their would be saviors are hopelessly outnumbered. Wash is huddled behind some crates providing cover while the others run away, towards the only way out of their cliff-isolated little canyon. There's a precariously fragile tunnel through the rock that they're hustling through to the waiting ship on the other side, Freckles as a Mantis guarding the entrance.
From Wash's position, through all the gunfire, it's hard to make sense of the chaos, but his team's shouts are audible through his helmet's radio that somehow anyone in the dream can hear.
"What are you doing, where's Wash?" A worried voice comes through.
"He's still at the base!"
"What?"
A third voice, sounding panicked, "Sir, if we leave now, they'll just follow us back to headquarters!"
"Aw, shit, somebody get me some explosives!" A fourth voice, sounding authoritative -- presumably the leader of the soldiers helping them. Meanwhile, from the dreamer's vantage point over by Wash, multiple soldiers go down trying to get to the tunnel.
The first voice chimes back in. "Wait, guys, there he is! Wash! Wash, come on!"
Wash glances back towards the escape route, and now a soldier in teal armor is visible through it, waving for Wash to hurry the fuck up.
"We've gotta seal this tunnel!" Another random soldier, maybe the one who was running with an armful of explosives who gets shot straight in the head before he can set any charges. There's a robot standing beside the opening of the tunnel, now their sole defense. There's no other cover left for Wash between his position and only way out...
He looks to the enemy force advancing towards his friends, checks his clip -- he's nearly empty. Back to the robot... and he makes a decision. He can't run. He has to protect them at all costs.
"Freckles..." Wash hesitates before giving the command, then takes a deep breath and orders the droid to do the trick Caboose taught him, which isn't quite what it sounds like. "Shake!"
"Hey, no, what are you doing?!" The teal soldier is frantic, and Wash's gaze settles on his friend for the next few moments before Freckles obeys.
Shake doesn't mean himself -- it means everything. The Mantis stomps the ground with a massive robotic foot, hard. The ensuing shudder is enough to collapse the tunnel without explosives, an avalanche of rock coming down between Wash and Tucker. Closing it off, trapping Wash with the enemy but saving his friends. That's it. They're safe now... Wash is not. Neither is Freckles, who is caught in the collapse, massive rocks crushing his metal form.
Wash lets out a sigh, relief and acceptance, even as bullets continue to whiz past him. In reality, this is when he was taken out. In the dream, he hunkers back down behind the crates, clutching his rifle to his chest, looking around to see if anyone else is left alive. That's when he spots the visitor, and gestures frantically to them wherever they might be.
"Get down--!"
iii. your name is david (cw: self harm, suicidality, imprisonment, dissociation)
This is a cell.
There's padding bolted to the walls and floor, once white and pristine but now smeared with blood. No one has bothered to clean it up.
A man with mussed dirty blond hair and a few days growth of beard is sitting up in the corner, his blue eyes rimmed with red and accented by bruise-dark circles, staring at nothing. He's barefoot, in white scrubs, and both his arms are heavily bandaged though he's not restrained. Not right now. It doesn't seem necessary -- is he drugged?
A voice comes from somewhere. That speaker on the ceiling maybe? Or is it just in his head?
"Agent Washington." There's no response, no acknowledgment from the man in the corner, and the voice continues. Smooth and calm. "Has the medication taken effect? Are you feeling better, Agent Washington?"
"Allison?"
No. It's a man's voice, seemingly unperturbed by this mistake. "I know this is difficult, but try to focus. What is your name?"
"I'm..." His head falls forward, revealing angry lightning-webbed scars spreading out from the implant at the base of his skull. It looks fresh. It looks like it hurts. Wash reaches up to grab at his head, and there's blood under his fingernails.
"Your name is David."
"No. I'm..." Lost. Alone. Hurting. No one's come for him. No one cares. He's been left behind here, with just the voice in the ceiling and the ones in his head. That's audible now too, a woman's carefree laughter turning to screams. Wash clutches at his hair, tearing some out, and when he lifts his head again there are tears streaming down his face. Whatever he's seeing, it's horrible.
"Increase his dose."
As if the words themselves could drug him further, the scene warps. Suddenly he's in a metal-walled room, strapped to the chair with a man sitting across from him, his expression as smooth and placid as his voice. The voice from the speaker.
"Do you know your name, Agent?"
“I’m… Church. Where am I--?”
“You were injured. You don’t remember?”
“No.”
“I believe you may be too heavily medicated for this session, but if you are comfortable continuing, I can answer some of your questions. If I may ask my own.”
“I-- okay. Okay.”
“What is the last thing you can recall?”
It’s a struggle but he tries, he’s quiet for a moment while he tries, everything in his head feeling fragmented and sharp, the pieces grating together. It hurts. “It’s my fault.”
“No. You did the best you could. We’ll need your help again, we need you to get better, David.”
“That’s not my name!” He's thrashing now, pain from his injured and bound arms shooting up somehow into his neck, a stabbing at the base of his skull and deep through, all the way through. Something missing, something torn out. His memories, maybe? No, not torn out, shoved in and it broke all that he was and then they took the new self away too, and now he’s… what? Who? Who is he now? Church? David? Washington? He wants to scream but he just feels more tears, and that makes him angry. He remembers anger, that it was familiar once, it was part of him and so he tries to hold onto it, but it gets eaten by the emptiness like everything else.
“I’m sorry you’re in so much pain. Perhaps we should let you rest. We can do this later.”
“No-- no, don’t leave me alone. Please don’t leave me alone, I need to know… what happened to Allison?”
But the Counselor is already getting up, his chair-that-he-isn’t-strapped-into scraping behind him as it’s pushed away. No. No no no no no no….
“Please!”
“Take him back to his room. Make certain he cannot harm himself again.”
And then Wash does scream, the sound raw and agonized like a sob, like someone lost who knows they will never be found. A tech comes forward with a needle and sticks him as he struggles, and the padded room fades back in. The chair disappears and Wash is just curled up on the floor, eyes glassy, breathing ragged.
[ ooc: will match format! brackets are fine. any questions, hit me at
no subject
He gets up from the game and none of his imaginary teammates seem to notice that he's leaving them, they just go on playing unbothered as Wash steps towards his old friend, who does appear in so many of his dreams. Just not usually the quiet ones, the good ones, like this. He should be wary, things could be about to go bad, but he has to at least say hello first. ]
Long time. I've missed you.
no subject
But Wash is here now. Here, not gone without a word.
Maine hums in agreement and lets himself smile a little. Finds that his visor is no longer in the way, but doesn't wonder where the hell his helmet went. After all, this is a dream. ]
Having fun?
[ Said with a little nod towards the odd, mismatched group. ]
no subject
They're ridiculous, but you'd--
[ No, that's not true. Wash's expression turns more to a smirk. ]
--probably hate them at first, actually, but they grow on you.
[ The chatter continues aimlessly behind him, hard to understand now that Wash's focus isn't on the group. It's on Maine, and everything else blurs slightly. ]
You're okay?
no subject
But Wash is moving on. Asking a question as the sims seem to fade from focus. Maine blinks, focusing on his friend. ]
Fine. [ Then, because there's more freedom in dreams: ] Little confused.
[ About the dream itself. About Wash's armor and comment. About Tucker. ]
no subject
So he doesn't realize what Maine's confusion is for, it makes perfect sense to him. Just like the larger man's presence, despite him being long gone. This is a dream about his friends. ]
About what?
no subject
[ Said with a gesture to the sims; to their surroundings; to Wash. It's a remarkably nonspecific gesture, really, but Maine doesn't think he needs to be specific. He knows what he means. Knows that he's puzzled by pretty much every part of this odd dream.
But he does speak again; it's more comfortable in dreams. ]
Weird group. Location. Armor.
[ Maine doesn't appear bothered by the oddities. Just faintly puzzled as to why his brain has done this. ]