Encounterlogs
Ashs Odd Encounter Sr Roger 240913
In the decaying setting of Haven's mental asylum annex, Ash is unexpectedly tasked with a grim and urgent mission-to delve into a young man's fading consciousness and extract vital secrets before his imminent death. Amidst the dust and shadows, the young man, Ethan, is dragged in by two Hand underlings, his chest gruesomely wounded. The atmosphere is thick with despair and urgency as Ash realizes the young man's life hangs by a thread. Utilizing their peculiar talents, Ash constructs a dreamscape, blending the eerie, decaying asylum with the fragments of Ethan's mind. Despite the odds, Ash is determined to pry loose the secrets locked within Ethan's mind, employing a blend of conjured imagery and emotional manipulation to coax him into revealing crucial information.
As Ethan's life ebbs away, the dreamscape descends into chaos, with Ash facing not just the challenge of extracting information but also battling the consuming darkness of Ethan's dying mind. In a dramatic turn, as Ethan succumbs, revealing the secret of "Void. Beneath. Fanuiel Hall," the dreamscape threatens to trap Ash within its collapsing reality. However, through sheer will and defiance, Ash breaks free from the imminent collapse, emerging back into the tangible world. The mission accomplished with Ethan's last whisper, but not without leaving Ash marked by the haunting echo of an unseen adversary's promise, "I see you." In the wake of the mission, Ash is left to deal with the aftermath, a reflection of their resilience in the face of otherworldly threats and the haunting burdens of their tasks.
(Ash's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Thu Sep 12 2024]
In the Intake Room of the Mothballed Clinic Annex
The entry hall of the abandoned annex of Haven's mental asylum is in a state of decay. The walls are lined with peeling green paint, and the floor is littered with debris and dust. Broken windows let in only a faint light, creating deep shadows. The air feels heavy, reflecting the building's grim past.
(NORTH) ------- Dormitory & Treatment
(WEST) -------- Visiting & Recreation
It is after dusk, about 76F(24C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with stealing a vital piece of intelligence from a subject by delving into their mind with dream invading to try to tease out the secret. )
Only in Haven would people choose to linger in a place like this with their free time. In most towns, you might find the locals enjoying a night out at a cozy bar, or gathered around a bonfire on the beach. But in Haven, the after-hours hotspot was the mold-ridden annex of an old mental asylum, where the walls had long since given up on keeping their secrets-or their paint, for that matter. Here, beneath the eerie glow of a broken moon and the sway of a single, flickering bulb, the bravest souls-or perhaps just the most peculiar-gathered to test their nerve against the buildings dilapidated charms.
The Intake Room itself seemed to revel in its own decay, almost as if it were an art installation dedicated to the concept of abandonment. The cracked linoleum stretched out like a grin full of missing teeth, while the chair bolted to the floor in the center stood as a monument to bad ideas and worse decisions. The paint curled from the walls like a dying fern, exposing bare plaster beneath that appeared almost grateful to see the light of day again. The windows, what few of them remained intact, offered a distorted view of the gibbous moon outside, its light fractured into shards by the spiderwebs of old cracks
And yet, there was something almost theatrical about the way it all came together, as if the room itself knew its place in Havens peculiar pantheon. The kind of place where local teens from the nearby White Oak Institute dared each other to spend the night, or where urban explorers hoped to find something more than just mildew and broken tiles. Even the shadows seemed to have a sense of humour, stretching long and thin across the debris-littered floor like they were trying to make an escape before the whole building gave up and crumbled down around them.
A sudden buzz filled the room, sharp and insistent, like a hornet trapped in a jar. The air seemed to hum with a faint, electric charge, a signal meant for one person alone. A message-urgent, clear, and distinctly lacking in social niceties-crackled into existence, hanging heavy in the air as though it had been spoken aloud:
FROM: HAND-REDACTED
CONSTRUCT DREAMSCAPE IMMEDIATELY. ACQUIRE BLACK FLAME SECRETS BY SUNRISE. FAILURE NOT AN OPTION.
The walls seemed to close in for a moment, the shadows deepening as the room took a breath. It was time to get to work, time to conjure a new reality from the fragments of dreams and nightmares, to shape a landscape that could lure secrets from the deepest recesses of a strangers mind. A good starting place, perhaps then, the abandoned clinic, god knows how many fragmented dreams were left to spin and pluck together here.
Time to get to work, then, on creating an entirely new pocket dreamscape. In a place like Haven, that was just another Thursday night.
Ash was just here planning their new store - a Halloween costume store, and what better place to put it? They have plans, too: a haunted house on top? Volunteers and animatronics alike can terrify customers, and the supernatural can feed on the fear... yes, it would make for a most excellent impromptu business for this setting. Ash even rubs their hands gleefully as they plan... though, the first step is cleaning up the real mold, and replacing it with fake mold.
While cleaning, however, that signal comes, that message. Ash lifts their Hello Kitty phone out of habit, though it actually comes from where a hair bead comes into range with an implant, so they set it back down. They freeze as they process the message, disbelieving. Unbelieving. Unable to believe... but, luck always comes in extremes, for faeborn, and for this one, it's very, very good luck. They grin, and set to work.
It's not too difficult to bring this building, still fresh in their memory from their repeated tours and brainstorming, into the realm of dreams. In their dreams, the night is darker, longer. The shadows writhe, and there are sounds of whispers, and maniacal laughter, in between moments of complete silence. The tiles shift beneath your feet, making it harder to run, and the hallway twists and turns. The doors slam open and shut, with sudden, loud bangs, and the screams come from right... behind you!
After creating monstrous beings to run the place - things that were once nurses, things that only vaguely resembled patients, and things born entirely from the minds of the deranged and mad - it was time to bring in the main actor in this sordid play. No, not quite... Ash forgot the most important part in their excitement! Every big top needs its ringmaster. Ash decides to keep it simple - they will look like Your Father. Yes, *Your* Father. For every You who enters the dream, they will all see Ash as their father. Yes. Yes, this is good.
And *now*, the games may begin. They are ready for their subject.
The urgency behind the demand, the terse command sent through the ether, becomes painfully clear in the span of a heartbeat. The uneasy stillness of the room is shattered as two Hand underlings burst through the doorway, dragging a limp figure between them. The young man's feet scrape across the floor, leaving faint trails in the dust, his head lolling forward, hair matted against a pale, sweat-slicked forehead. The two who carry him are scarcely older themselves-fourteen, maybe fifteen-far too young to be soldiers in any war, much less one that rages in the shadows of the supernatural.
But there is no mistaking the desperation in their eyes or the grim reality that clings to them like the stink of fear. It only takes a moment for the terrible truth to become visible: a yawning wound gapes in the young mans chest, a grotesque mockery of flesh and bone where his ribcage has been shattered. A jagged chunk of steel protrudes from the ruin, slick with blood that drips steadily onto the cracked linoleum, pooling in dark, sticky puddles at their feet. The wound is grievous, mortal-a gash so deep it seems to swallow the light, pulling even the shadows of the room into its orbit.
Hes dying. His breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps, the sound of a body fighting against its own inevitable collapse. He isnt conscious
He may already be too far gone to know where he is or whats happening to him. But one thing is certain: if he dies, the secrets locked within his mind will die with him, carried away by the final, rattling exhale of a blood-starved brain.
This is why Ash has been summoned-why the order had come down with such ruthless clarity. A dreamscape must be conjured, and fast. There is no time for subtlety, no room for hesitation. Ash must dive into the fragmented remains of this young mans consciousness, weaving a landscape out of dreams and memories, a net to catch whatever secrets still flicker like dying embers in his fading mind. Whether through whispers or screams, coaxing or torment, those secrets must be pried loose before the light behind his eyes is snuffed out for good.
The room itself seems to tighten around this grim tableau, as if aware that it is now the theater for a desperate, final act. Blood drips rhythmically to the floor, marking the passing seconds with a sickening, steady beat. The Hand underlings look on, their young faces taut with a mix of fear and determination, waiting for Ash to act, to build and bend the fractured reality of their budding dreamscape to their will and pull from the dying boys mind the knowledge they seek.
Ash eyes the underlings - they are too young to be in the Hand, by its rules, but there is, at times, a way - if they are involved in some lesser society (such as the Black Flame), they can get around the rules, generally as a sort of asylum - an ironic word to use here. Or perhaps they were the children of slaves? Or employees of a gang member or business person associates of the Hand? Either way, Ash doesn't have time to question why they're under 21 - they have work to do.
They pounce into the boy's dreams immediately, combining his thoughts and dreams with the dreamscape they've conjured. Beckoning him in, they try to let the time dilation of dreams stretch out these precious moments as they take the role of His Father. Sweeping him into a side room, away from the monsters, He hisses at his Son, "What happened? What were you doing?"
Too young to join the Hand in Haven, this is true. But the reach of the organisation extends far beyond these walls, and the eyes of Venice have their limits.
The boy's eyes dart around the room, trying to anchor himself in a reality that feels as slippery as oil. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts, his brow furrowed in confusion. He recognizes the figure before him-or thinks he does. The familiar shape of His Father, standing over him, sharp and stern. But there is something off, something his fractured mind can't quite piece together in the fog of his dwindling consciousness. He swallows hard, his mouth dry as sandpaper, blinking rapidly as if that might clear the haze.
His lips tremble, a whisper on the edge of breaking free."I-I don't know," he stammers, voice thin and wavering, barely audible over the strange, distant echoes that seem to pulse within the walls of this conjured space. His gaze shifts nervously toward the door, toward the flickering shadows that dance and weave just beyond the threshold, like predators waiting to pounce."There were-people... I was just supposed to watch. Just watch....""
His hands twitch, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, a small gesture of fear."But they saw me. They knew." His eyes widen, pupils dilating with the memory of whatever nightmare has followed him even into sleep."I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to-"
He cuts off, his breath catching in his throat as if he's been gripped by some invisible force. The fear is evident now, a raw and visceral thing that tightens around his chest."Please, I didn't mean to fail! I didn't mean to...."
The boy's voice is barely a rasp, his words coming out in a desperate tumble, as if trying to outrun whatever spectre haunts his mind. His eyes flick back to Ash's borrowed face, pleading."What do I do, Father? What do I do now?"
Ash takes a chair and pins it up against the door, under the knob. It's just enough to stop them. There's a window with bars - a peek through the slats of the blinds shows that they're safe, for now. Ash makes his way to the desk - they're in an office, it seems - and digs through the door. A weapon... a remote? Some science thing - yes. It will work on their collars, the ones they have - and have always had, but only if they get close. A weapon, a means to protect - it makes Ash strong and reliable, an authority figure who can keep the boy safe. So long as he let's them.
"You have to tell me what happened, son," He hisses, quiet but urgent. "I know you didn't mean to - here, grab that filing cabinet. And the desk, yes - push them over to the door. Stack all of that on top." Something to do, something to keep the body busy - something calming and productive. He will be helping, he will be useful, he will redeem himself, and find himself worthy of praise, love, and warmth.
"Then, while you do that - who saw you? What was happening? We can get through this, I can get us out, but I need to understand. Give me what I need to better protect you." The responsibility is on Ash, the Father. He will save them, he will bear the consequences, he is the authority, he is in control. All the boy has to do is obey, and tell him, and all will be well.
At least, that's the energy that Ash is trying to present here.
The boy's gaze flits nervously to the door, then to the window with its barred, moonlit view, and finally to the desk. His breathing steadies just a fraction as Ash-the Father, HIS father-takes charge, makes decisions, gives orders. The reassurance of action, of purpose, seems to seep into his bones, pushing back against the creeping edge of panic. His hands grip the filing cabinet, fumbling at first, but finding strength in the motion as he begins to drag it toward the door. The old metal groans, reluctant, as if resisting the command, but the boy's desperation gives him an edge of determination.
"Okay... okay...," he mutters to himself, his voice a breathy whisper, almost a chant, as if the words themselves could ward off the fear. He pushes the filing cabinet harder, shoving it up against the door, piling it on top of the chair already wedged beneath the knob. Then, he grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, and begins to manoeuvre it alongside the other obstacles, building their fragile barricade higher, stronger.
All the while, Ash's words coil around him, threading through his mind, settling like weights against his conscience. Tell me what happened... who saw you... I can get us out. The boy swallows hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He wants to believe it-needs to believe it-that there is a way out, that safety is just one answer away. The sense of being protected, of being useful, wraps around him like a warm blanket against the cold - but that cold is strong, and it grows with every staggered, stolen breath. Blood begins to ooze and pool through the walls of this room, of the office. Under the door.
"I don't know... there was a group," he begins, his voice trembling but growing steadier as he focuses on the task in front of him, on the desk he's dragging closer to the door, on the promise of safety. "They were... they were dressed like you-like the others. But different, somehow... They knew I was there, watching. I think they were talking about... moving something. A transfer. Something important." He swallows again, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest."I think... I think they saw my signal. I didn't mean to send it! I swear! But they saw it, and then...." He falters, glancing nervously back toward Ash, searching His Father's face for some sign, some hint that he's doing the right thing, saying the right things. "They started looking for me. I ran. I tried to get away, but...." His voice breaks, and for a moment he looks so lost, so painfully young, as he glances down at his hands-hands that shake ever so slightly as they start to collapse, and melt away, like a bad acid trip. He's dying. "I just wanted to do good. I just wanted to prove I could..."
"...I couldn't trigger it in time." It. His words hang in the air, fragile as the barricade they've built, waiting for Ash's judgement. The boy's eyes are wide, desperate, hoping for approval, for reassurance that he has done enough, that he has made amends. His breath catches as he waits, clinging to Ash's every move, every word, as if his very life depends on them.
Ash gives a smile... one not suited for this time, really, nor this place. But sometimes, a smile is what a person deserves. It's a source of warmth in the cold, a signal in the silence, a reward. It's only a flash - there's too much else to focus on. But he *does* take the time to look away from the window, to look the boy in the eyes, and give him that flash. Then, a distraction - something moved! He presses the button, pointing out the window, and there's a grotesque sound of something trying to grunt or groan, the sound caught in their throat and vibrating until it goes silent, with a thump.
"That's excellent... sounds like they weren't us, they were *rats*." He growls, raising a fist to slam against the wall - then stops. No, not the time. He exhales. "We all make mistakes - and you're making up for it. Go, check the desk, see if there's anything else useful. Keys? A weapon?" He looks out the window again, but he looks more confident. "Now I know who to look for - but, the signal? The trigger - what were you triggering? I'm focused on this, so I need you to tell me, simply." The same tactic, but with praise, added.
There's an oozing, acidic smell that cuts through the dreamscape, as some other part of the boys brain dies from the lack of blood. The reality shimmers, and shakes, but it remains standing, for the time being. There are echoes of memories that bleed through this link between Ash and the Black Secret youth. Flashes and sparks of his youth, of his parents. The smell of baking bread. The first time he rode a bike. When he'd broken his arm falling out of a tree. A void of endless agony, and pain, that stretches into nothingness. It calls. It beckons. One of these things is not like the other. Tendrils of consciousness invade the dream through him, reaching out with terrible, evil intent. Not the evil of the Hand, where they can at least claim that they are trying to do good, to bring order, to set things right. This is an intentless evil, with no goal but to consume.
Where there was once one Father, there is now two. A terrible doppelganger of the form that Ash had adopted, with tendrils that hang from their features, and a black abyss for their eyes. Ash doesn't see the father, they see themselves, but wrong. So wrong.
"It was the openin-" The boy begins to elaborate toward Ash then pausing as a command cuts through the dream, "Don't."
Ash moves to stand besides the boy, that remote pointing at the other Father. "This is his chance to make things right," He hisses, standing semi-protectively. "We can't make the same mistake again, not if we want to succeed. We have to trust him." Ash is sifting for a name in these shifting memories, in his own (Father's) voice. To the boy, he says, "Don't let me change my mind. Tell me, and you are redeemed. We all doubt... even I do. But to get out of here, we have to get through this together. You are giving me the strength we need. You're doing well, so keep going. Tell me."
If there's anything Ash can do well, it's make up bullshit on the spot, with the confidence of an expert, one that truly believes. It's how they tricked Kitty, way back when, betrayed and enslaved her alongside them. It's how they've gotten out of many of the dangers Haven has thrown their way. It's how they attack, and how they defend, which makes the magic they've come so close to mastering so well suited for them. Illusions, dreams, and lies - they're all the same thing, ultimately, and that is no different from reality.
Ash doesn't act surprised to see their other self, but portrays it as an opponent that is no different from the self. They are assuming, guessing, making it up as they go. The Father is involved. The Father may have power, may truly be this alien being. The Father is always a figure of authority, but also of cruelty. The Father can give approval. The Father can give absolution. And so, the Father is a dual concept, and so the boy must choose the Father he truly wants, in his last breaths. The iron grip, or the salvation?
"I see you." That voice ripples through dream, and reality both, bleeding through the tenuous link between the boy, and Ash themselves, invading and poking at their mind. They're alien. Wrong. Uncomprehendable. The more that Ash may try to define this otherworldly presence, the worse yet that the pressure builds, and builds. This dream, this ensnarement, threatens to become a cage, as the walls bleed, and pools of ichor and venom spill from the windows and the tiles. It's collapsing, and there's a chance that it may take Ash with it, drawn into the brain death of the boy.
Not just a boy, or the boy, that isn't their name. It's Ethan. Ethan. Whatever defenses had remained in his mind are shutting down, one by one, as it is starved, and his heart slows down in the real.
Cruel tendrils, and spearing fingers are extended from this Other Father, this terrible creature of madness, and hate, and they spear through the psychic projection of the boy, tearing and reaving, pulling him apart. He screams, he begs, he cries out. He reaches out to Ash, out to salvation and absolution, and warmth in this final terrible moments, and a whisper bleeds from his lips, "Void. Beneath. Fanuiel Hall." The information is gleaned, captured by Ash, though the faeby yet remains in a trap of this Other Fathers making, entangling him in the dream as the brain of their host shuts down, potentially trapped them inside.
Ash yells, "Ethaaaaaan!" He reaches out for the boy (Ethan), an expression of love and pain and loss on his face - but it's merely the follow through, acting out the part as they struggle to figure it out - no. No, they are *not* trapped... for this is *their* dream. They had combined this dream - their asylum remained. There's no doubt in their mind, only fact - for belief is where magic truly grew, as their mentor has taught them.
Without a single further thought for Ethan, they slam open the door, the furniture against it like paper, and stalk out with the self-same confidence they used to drain those last words. They flow down those halls like water to the earth, to the Intake door. They are God in this realm, and no half-assed dying dream will stop them - and certainly not that spectre from beyond that took the boy - Ethan - before salvation could be given.
Ash's anger is at the attempt to trap them, even if the Hunter was Death itself, inevitable and omnipresent. They are not dying today, not in that child's - Ethan's - dream, and not in their domain. Not even in the Nightmare, or the real world. Today, Ash is defiant, and livid. They will not be chained. They are no longer a slave - they broke through, through ashes and water, and they are *alive*. They will open that front door and emerge - alive, awake, and successful. That is The Secret to success, to believe.
Ethan.
The room shudders as Ethan's breath hitches, his body convulsing once, twice, and then stilling. The boy's eyes stare blankly, unseeing, his expression frozen in a grimace of terror and betrayal. His life flickers and fades, a candle snuffed out in the howling wind of his dying dream. For a moment, the air feels thick with the weight of his final, fractured thoughts, the secrets now lost forever in the depths of his broken mind.
The dreamscape convulses with his passing, the walls buckling inward, the floor cracking like thin ice over a black, yawning chasm. Shadows thicken, creeping closer, more alive than ever, fed by the boy's last breath, his fear becoming a part of this place. The air grows colder, the light dimmer, and the smell of decay-a deep, rotten musk-rises like a fog. Everything here feels as though it's collapsing, folding into itself, as if trying to bury any trace of the child who once existed.
Yet, even as the room falls into ruin, even as the forces of this dying dream rage and thrash like a beast in its death throes, there is a sudden shift-a rippling wave of willpower that cuts through the chaos. The barricade splinters apart, furniture scattering like dried leaves in a gale. The door bursts open, as if it had been flung wide by an unseen hand, and the dream itself seems to draw back, recoiling. The walls of the hallway warp and ripple, the ceiling crackling with splintered light, but a path remains clear-a passage to the Intake door. The shadows pulse, flickering with a strange, malevolent intelligence, but they part, grudgingly, as if sensing a force beyond their ability to consume for the time being. The very fabric of the dream bends to this new force, unable to close in, unable to hold its prey.
Every inch of ground covered is a battle won, every step taken is a statement-a refusal to be bound by the dying embers of a young mind's nightmare. The Intake door looms ahead, solid and unmoving, a promise of escape, and it is flung open with a fierce, unwavering intent.
And then, suddenly, everything stops. The crumbling walls cease their collapse, the flickering lights freeze, and the shadows, once ravenous and restless, are stilled. Reality reasserts itself with a jarring clarity. The door swings wide, and the night air rushes in, cool and sharp, as if to wash away the last remnants of the dream. The abandoned clinic annex is just as it was-decaying, forgotten, yet solid and real.
The moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting long, silvered shadows on the cracked pavement outside. The world is quiet again, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the soft sigh of the wind. The dream is over, the danger passed. Ethan is gone, dead, his body hanging between the other two Hand underlings. The rest of his secrets left buried within him- but Ash achieved what they had to. What they were commanded to do.
They're alone now, at least, as alone as one can be in a room with a corpse, and two underlings. But at least that shadowed figure appears to have left them alone. Appear.
The door wasn't quite closed. There was a crack. And from that crack a voice whispers in the back of Ash's mind, like an echo, like a promise.
"I see you."
Ash staggers awake - inasmuch as that makes any sense - and exhales, rubbing their eyes. They boy ( ) is dead, and they nod to the other two. "Dispose of him - you know how?" If they do, they leave it at that, but if they don't - well, Ash has gasoline and they're in a pretty remote enough place so as to have a private bonfire. A bonfire where Ash only keeps enough focus to keep it from spreading, spending the rest of the time checking on the boys with their current medical expertise, then sending them off so that Ash can get back to work. And sending the report in, of course. Busy, busy. Far too busy. How does one deal with the lurking horrors? They keep going. If you can't hold on, hold on.
As Ethan's life ebbs away, the dreamscape descends into chaos, with Ash facing not just the challenge of extracting information but also battling the consuming darkness of Ethan's dying mind. In a dramatic turn, as Ethan succumbs, revealing the secret of "Void. Beneath. Fanuiel Hall," the dreamscape threatens to trap Ash within its collapsing reality. However, through sheer will and defiance, Ash breaks free from the imminent collapse, emerging back into the tangible world. The mission accomplished with Ethan's last whisper, but not without leaving Ash marked by the haunting echo of an unseen adversary's promise, "I see you." In the wake of the mission, Ash is left to deal with the aftermath, a reflection of their resilience in the face of otherworldly threats and the haunting burdens of their tasks.
(Ash's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Thu Sep 12 2024]
In the Intake Room of the Mothballed Clinic Annex
The entry hall of the abandoned annex of Haven's mental asylum is in a state of decay. The walls are lined with peeling green paint, and the floor is littered with debris and dust. Broken windows let in only a faint light, creating deep shadows. The air feels heavy, reflecting the building's grim past.
(NORTH) ------- Dormitory & Treatment
(WEST) -------- Visiting & Recreation
It is after dusk, about 76F(24C) degrees, There is a waxing gibbous moon.
(Your target and their allies have been tasked with stealing a vital piece of intelligence from a subject by delving into their mind with dream invading to try to tease out the secret. )
Only in Haven would people choose to linger in a place like this with their free time. In most towns, you might find the locals enjoying a night out at a cozy bar, or gathered around a bonfire on the beach. But in Haven, the after-hours hotspot was the mold-ridden annex of an old mental asylum, where the walls had long since given up on keeping their secrets-or their paint, for that matter. Here, beneath the eerie glow of a broken moon and the sway of a single, flickering bulb, the bravest souls-or perhaps just the most peculiar-gathered to test their nerve against the buildings dilapidated charms.
The Intake Room itself seemed to revel in its own decay, almost as if it were an art installation dedicated to the concept of abandonment. The cracked linoleum stretched out like a grin full of missing teeth, while the chair bolted to the floor in the center stood as a monument to bad ideas and worse decisions. The paint curled from the walls like a dying fern, exposing bare plaster beneath that appeared almost grateful to see the light of day again. The windows, what few of them remained intact, offered a distorted view of the gibbous moon outside, its light fractured into shards by the spiderwebs of old cracks
And yet, there was something almost theatrical about the way it all came together, as if the room itself knew its place in Havens peculiar pantheon. The kind of place where local teens from the nearby White Oak Institute dared each other to spend the night, or where urban explorers hoped to find something more than just mildew and broken tiles. Even the shadows seemed to have a sense of humour, stretching long and thin across the debris-littered floor like they were trying to make an escape before the whole building gave up and crumbled down around them.
A sudden buzz filled the room, sharp and insistent, like a hornet trapped in a jar. The air seemed to hum with a faint, electric charge, a signal meant for one person alone. A message-urgent, clear, and distinctly lacking in social niceties-crackled into existence, hanging heavy in the air as though it had been spoken aloud:
FROM: HAND-REDACTED
CONSTRUCT DREAMSCAPE IMMEDIATELY. ACQUIRE BLACK FLAME SECRETS BY SUNRISE. FAILURE NOT AN OPTION.
The walls seemed to close in for a moment, the shadows deepening as the room took a breath. It was time to get to work, time to conjure a new reality from the fragments of dreams and nightmares, to shape a landscape that could lure secrets from the deepest recesses of a strangers mind. A good starting place, perhaps then, the abandoned clinic, god knows how many fragmented dreams were left to spin and pluck together here.
Time to get to work, then, on creating an entirely new pocket dreamscape. In a place like Haven, that was just another Thursday night.
Ash was just here planning their new store - a Halloween costume store, and what better place to put it? They have plans, too: a haunted house on top? Volunteers and animatronics alike can terrify customers, and the supernatural can feed on the fear... yes, it would make for a most excellent impromptu business for this setting. Ash even rubs their hands gleefully as they plan... though, the first step is cleaning up the real mold, and replacing it with fake mold.
While cleaning, however, that signal comes, that message. Ash lifts their Hello Kitty phone out of habit, though it actually comes from where a hair bead comes into range with an implant, so they set it back down. They freeze as they process the message, disbelieving. Unbelieving. Unable to believe... but, luck always comes in extremes, for faeborn, and for this one, it's very, very good luck. They grin, and set to work.
It's not too difficult to bring this building, still fresh in their memory from their repeated tours and brainstorming, into the realm of dreams. In their dreams, the night is darker, longer. The shadows writhe, and there are sounds of whispers, and maniacal laughter, in between moments of complete silence. The tiles shift beneath your feet, making it harder to run, and the hallway twists and turns. The doors slam open and shut, with sudden, loud bangs, and the screams come from right... behind you!
After creating monstrous beings to run the place - things that were once nurses, things that only vaguely resembled patients, and things born entirely from the minds of the deranged and mad - it was time to bring in the main actor in this sordid play. No, not quite... Ash forgot the most important part in their excitement! Every big top needs its ringmaster. Ash decides to keep it simple - they will look like Your Father. Yes, *Your* Father. For every You who enters the dream, they will all see Ash as their father. Yes. Yes, this is good.
And *now*, the games may begin. They are ready for their subject.
The urgency behind the demand, the terse command sent through the ether, becomes painfully clear in the span of a heartbeat. The uneasy stillness of the room is shattered as two Hand underlings burst through the doorway, dragging a limp figure between them. The young man's feet scrape across the floor, leaving faint trails in the dust, his head lolling forward, hair matted against a pale, sweat-slicked forehead. The two who carry him are scarcely older themselves-fourteen, maybe fifteen-far too young to be soldiers in any war, much less one that rages in the shadows of the supernatural.
But there is no mistaking the desperation in their eyes or the grim reality that clings to them like the stink of fear. It only takes a moment for the terrible truth to become visible: a yawning wound gapes in the young mans chest, a grotesque mockery of flesh and bone where his ribcage has been shattered. A jagged chunk of steel protrudes from the ruin, slick with blood that drips steadily onto the cracked linoleum, pooling in dark, sticky puddles at their feet. The wound is grievous, mortal-a gash so deep it seems to swallow the light, pulling even the shadows of the room into its orbit.
Hes dying. His breaths come in ragged, shallow gasps, the sound of a body fighting against its own inevitable collapse. He isnt conscious
He may already be too far gone to know where he is or whats happening to him. But one thing is certain: if he dies, the secrets locked within his mind will die with him, carried away by the final, rattling exhale of a blood-starved brain.
This is why Ash has been summoned-why the order had come down with such ruthless clarity. A dreamscape must be conjured, and fast. There is no time for subtlety, no room for hesitation. Ash must dive into the fragmented remains of this young mans consciousness, weaving a landscape out of dreams and memories, a net to catch whatever secrets still flicker like dying embers in his fading mind. Whether through whispers or screams, coaxing or torment, those secrets must be pried loose before the light behind his eyes is snuffed out for good.
The room itself seems to tighten around this grim tableau, as if aware that it is now the theater for a desperate, final act. Blood drips rhythmically to the floor, marking the passing seconds with a sickening, steady beat. The Hand underlings look on, their young faces taut with a mix of fear and determination, waiting for Ash to act, to build and bend the fractured reality of their budding dreamscape to their will and pull from the dying boys mind the knowledge they seek.
Ash eyes the underlings - they are too young to be in the Hand, by its rules, but there is, at times, a way - if they are involved in some lesser society (such as the Black Flame), they can get around the rules, generally as a sort of asylum - an ironic word to use here. Or perhaps they were the children of slaves? Or employees of a gang member or business person associates of the Hand? Either way, Ash doesn't have time to question why they're under 21 - they have work to do.
They pounce into the boy's dreams immediately, combining his thoughts and dreams with the dreamscape they've conjured. Beckoning him in, they try to let the time dilation of dreams stretch out these precious moments as they take the role of His Father. Sweeping him into a side room, away from the monsters, He hisses at his Son, "What happened? What were you doing?"
Too young to join the Hand in Haven, this is true. But the reach of the organisation extends far beyond these walls, and the eyes of Venice have their limits.
The boy's eyes dart around the room, trying to anchor himself in a reality that feels as slippery as oil. His breath comes in shallow, ragged bursts, his brow furrowed in confusion. He recognizes the figure before him-or thinks he does. The familiar shape of His Father, standing over him, sharp and stern. But there is something off, something his fractured mind can't quite piece together in the fog of his dwindling consciousness. He swallows hard, his mouth dry as sandpaper, blinking rapidly as if that might clear the haze.
His lips tremble, a whisper on the edge of breaking free."I-I don't know," he stammers, voice thin and wavering, barely audible over the strange, distant echoes that seem to pulse within the walls of this conjured space. His gaze shifts nervously toward the door, toward the flickering shadows that dance and weave just beyond the threshold, like predators waiting to pounce."There were-people... I was just supposed to watch. Just watch....""
His hands twitch, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, a small gesture of fear."But they saw me. They knew." His eyes widen, pupils dilating with the memory of whatever nightmare has followed him even into sleep."I didn't mean to... I didn't mean to-"
He cuts off, his breath catching in his throat as if he's been gripped by some invisible force. The fear is evident now, a raw and visceral thing that tightens around his chest."Please, I didn't mean to fail! I didn't mean to...."
The boy's voice is barely a rasp, his words coming out in a desperate tumble, as if trying to outrun whatever spectre haunts his mind. His eyes flick back to Ash's borrowed face, pleading."What do I do, Father? What do I do now?"
Ash takes a chair and pins it up against the door, under the knob. It's just enough to stop them. There's a window with bars - a peek through the slats of the blinds shows that they're safe, for now. Ash makes his way to the desk - they're in an office, it seems - and digs through the door. A weapon... a remote? Some science thing - yes. It will work on their collars, the ones they have - and have always had, but only if they get close. A weapon, a means to protect - it makes Ash strong and reliable, an authority figure who can keep the boy safe. So long as he let's them.
"You have to tell me what happened, son," He hisses, quiet but urgent. "I know you didn't mean to - here, grab that filing cabinet. And the desk, yes - push them over to the door. Stack all of that on top." Something to do, something to keep the body busy - something calming and productive. He will be helping, he will be useful, he will redeem himself, and find himself worthy of praise, love, and warmth.
"Then, while you do that - who saw you? What was happening? We can get through this, I can get us out, but I need to understand. Give me what I need to better protect you." The responsibility is on Ash, the Father. He will save them, he will bear the consequences, he is the authority, he is in control. All the boy has to do is obey, and tell him, and all will be well.
At least, that's the energy that Ash is trying to present here.
The boy's gaze flits nervously to the door, then to the window with its barred, moonlit view, and finally to the desk. His breathing steadies just a fraction as Ash-the Father, HIS father-takes charge, makes decisions, gives orders. The reassurance of action, of purpose, seems to seep into his bones, pushing back against the creeping edge of panic. His hands grip the filing cabinet, fumbling at first, but finding strength in the motion as he begins to drag it toward the door. The old metal groans, reluctant, as if resisting the command, but the boy's desperation gives him an edge of determination.
"Okay... okay...," he mutters to himself, his voice a breathy whisper, almost a chant, as if the words themselves could ward off the fear. He pushes the filing cabinet harder, shoving it up against the door, piling it on top of the chair already wedged beneath the knob. Then, he grips the edge of the desk, his knuckles white, and begins to manoeuvre it alongside the other obstacles, building their fragile barricade higher, stronger.
All the while, Ash's words coil around him, threading through his mind, settling like weights against his conscience. Tell me what happened... who saw you... I can get us out. The boy swallows hard, sweat beading on his forehead. He wants to believe it-needs to believe it-that there is a way out, that safety is just one answer away. The sense of being protected, of being useful, wraps around him like a warm blanket against the cold - but that cold is strong, and it grows with every staggered, stolen breath. Blood begins to ooze and pool through the walls of this room, of the office. Under the door.
"I don't know... there was a group," he begins, his voice trembling but growing steadier as he focuses on the task in front of him, on the desk he's dragging closer to the door, on the promise of safety. "They were... they were dressed like you-like the others. But different, somehow... They knew I was there, watching. I think they were talking about... moving something. A transfer. Something important." He swallows again, trying to ignore the pounding in his chest."I think... I think they saw my signal. I didn't mean to send it! I swear! But they saw it, and then...." He falters, glancing nervously back toward Ash, searching His Father's face for some sign, some hint that he's doing the right thing, saying the right things. "They started looking for me. I ran. I tried to get away, but...." His voice breaks, and for a moment he looks so lost, so painfully young, as he glances down at his hands-hands that shake ever so slightly as they start to collapse, and melt away, like a bad acid trip. He's dying. "I just wanted to do good. I just wanted to prove I could..."
"...I couldn't trigger it in time." It. His words hang in the air, fragile as the barricade they've built, waiting for Ash's judgement. The boy's eyes are wide, desperate, hoping for approval, for reassurance that he has done enough, that he has made amends. His breath catches as he waits, clinging to Ash's every move, every word, as if his very life depends on them.
Ash gives a smile... one not suited for this time, really, nor this place. But sometimes, a smile is what a person deserves. It's a source of warmth in the cold, a signal in the silence, a reward. It's only a flash - there's too much else to focus on. But he *does* take the time to look away from the window, to look the boy in the eyes, and give him that flash. Then, a distraction - something moved! He presses the button, pointing out the window, and there's a grotesque sound of something trying to grunt or groan, the sound caught in their throat and vibrating until it goes silent, with a thump.
"That's excellent... sounds like they weren't us, they were *rats*." He growls, raising a fist to slam against the wall - then stops. No, not the time. He exhales. "We all make mistakes - and you're making up for it. Go, check the desk, see if there's anything else useful. Keys? A weapon?" He looks out the window again, but he looks more confident. "Now I know who to look for - but, the signal? The trigger - what were you triggering? I'm focused on this, so I need you to tell me, simply." The same tactic, but with praise, added.
There's an oozing, acidic smell that cuts through the dreamscape, as some other part of the boys brain dies from the lack of blood. The reality shimmers, and shakes, but it remains standing, for the time being. There are echoes of memories that bleed through this link between Ash and the Black Secret youth. Flashes and sparks of his youth, of his parents. The smell of baking bread. The first time he rode a bike. When he'd broken his arm falling out of a tree. A void of endless agony, and pain, that stretches into nothingness. It calls. It beckons. One of these things is not like the other. Tendrils of consciousness invade the dream through him, reaching out with terrible, evil intent. Not the evil of the Hand, where they can at least claim that they are trying to do good, to bring order, to set things right. This is an intentless evil, with no goal but to consume.
Where there was once one Father, there is now two. A terrible doppelganger of the form that Ash had adopted, with tendrils that hang from their features, and a black abyss for their eyes. Ash doesn't see the father, they see themselves, but wrong. So wrong.
"It was the openin-" The boy begins to elaborate toward Ash then pausing as a command cuts through the dream, "Don't."
Ash moves to stand besides the boy, that remote pointing at the other Father. "This is his chance to make things right," He hisses, standing semi-protectively. "We can't make the same mistake again, not if we want to succeed. We have to trust him." Ash is sifting for a name in these shifting memories, in his own (Father's) voice. To the boy, he says, "Don't let me change my mind. Tell me, and you are redeemed. We all doubt... even I do. But to get out of here, we have to get through this together. You are giving me the strength we need. You're doing well, so keep going. Tell me."
If there's anything Ash can do well, it's make up bullshit on the spot, with the confidence of an expert, one that truly believes. It's how they tricked Kitty, way back when, betrayed and enslaved her alongside them. It's how they've gotten out of many of the dangers Haven has thrown their way. It's how they attack, and how they defend, which makes the magic they've come so close to mastering so well suited for them. Illusions, dreams, and lies - they're all the same thing, ultimately, and that is no different from reality.
Ash doesn't act surprised to see their other self, but portrays it as an opponent that is no different from the self. They are assuming, guessing, making it up as they go. The Father is involved. The Father may have power, may truly be this alien being. The Father is always a figure of authority, but also of cruelty. The Father can give approval. The Father can give absolution. And so, the Father is a dual concept, and so the boy must choose the Father he truly wants, in his last breaths. The iron grip, or the salvation?
"I see you." That voice ripples through dream, and reality both, bleeding through the tenuous link between the boy, and Ash themselves, invading and poking at their mind. They're alien. Wrong. Uncomprehendable. The more that Ash may try to define this otherworldly presence, the worse yet that the pressure builds, and builds. This dream, this ensnarement, threatens to become a cage, as the walls bleed, and pools of ichor and venom spill from the windows and the tiles. It's collapsing, and there's a chance that it may take Ash with it, drawn into the brain death of the boy.
Not just a boy, or the boy, that isn't their name. It's Ethan. Ethan. Whatever defenses had remained in his mind are shutting down, one by one, as it is starved, and his heart slows down in the real.
Cruel tendrils, and spearing fingers are extended from this Other Father, this terrible creature of madness, and hate, and they spear through the psychic projection of the boy, tearing and reaving, pulling him apart. He screams, he begs, he cries out. He reaches out to Ash, out to salvation and absolution, and warmth in this final terrible moments, and a whisper bleeds from his lips, "Void. Beneath. Fanuiel Hall." The information is gleaned, captured by Ash, though the faeby yet remains in a trap of this Other Fathers making, entangling him in the dream as the brain of their host shuts down, potentially trapped them inside.
Ash yells, "Ethaaaaaan!" He reaches out for the boy (Ethan), an expression of love and pain and loss on his face - but it's merely the follow through, acting out the part as they struggle to figure it out - no. No, they are *not* trapped... for this is *their* dream. They had combined this dream - their asylum remained. There's no doubt in their mind, only fact - for belief is where magic truly grew, as their mentor has taught them.
Without a single further thought for Ethan, they slam open the door, the furniture against it like paper, and stalk out with the self-same confidence they used to drain those last words. They flow down those halls like water to the earth, to the Intake door. They are God in this realm, and no half-assed dying dream will stop them - and certainly not that spectre from beyond that took the boy - Ethan - before salvation could be given.
Ash's anger is at the attempt to trap them, even if the Hunter was Death itself, inevitable and omnipresent. They are not dying today, not in that child's - Ethan's - dream, and not in their domain. Not even in the Nightmare, or the real world. Today, Ash is defiant, and livid. They will not be chained. They are no longer a slave - they broke through, through ashes and water, and they are *alive*. They will open that front door and emerge - alive, awake, and successful. That is The Secret to success, to believe.
Ethan.
The room shudders as Ethan's breath hitches, his body convulsing once, twice, and then stilling. The boy's eyes stare blankly, unseeing, his expression frozen in a grimace of terror and betrayal. His life flickers and fades, a candle snuffed out in the howling wind of his dying dream. For a moment, the air feels thick with the weight of his final, fractured thoughts, the secrets now lost forever in the depths of his broken mind.
The dreamscape convulses with his passing, the walls buckling inward, the floor cracking like thin ice over a black, yawning chasm. Shadows thicken, creeping closer, more alive than ever, fed by the boy's last breath, his fear becoming a part of this place. The air grows colder, the light dimmer, and the smell of decay-a deep, rotten musk-rises like a fog. Everything here feels as though it's collapsing, folding into itself, as if trying to bury any trace of the child who once existed.
Yet, even as the room falls into ruin, even as the forces of this dying dream rage and thrash like a beast in its death throes, there is a sudden shift-a rippling wave of willpower that cuts through the chaos. The barricade splinters apart, furniture scattering like dried leaves in a gale. The door bursts open, as if it had been flung wide by an unseen hand, and the dream itself seems to draw back, recoiling. The walls of the hallway warp and ripple, the ceiling crackling with splintered light, but a path remains clear-a passage to the Intake door. The shadows pulse, flickering with a strange, malevolent intelligence, but they part, grudgingly, as if sensing a force beyond their ability to consume for the time being. The very fabric of the dream bends to this new force, unable to close in, unable to hold its prey.
Every inch of ground covered is a battle won, every step taken is a statement-a refusal to be bound by the dying embers of a young mind's nightmare. The Intake door looms ahead, solid and unmoving, a promise of escape, and it is flung open with a fierce, unwavering intent.
And then, suddenly, everything stops. The crumbling walls cease their collapse, the flickering lights freeze, and the shadows, once ravenous and restless, are stilled. Reality reasserts itself with a jarring clarity. The door swings wide, and the night air rushes in, cool and sharp, as if to wash away the last remnants of the dream. The abandoned clinic annex is just as it was-decaying, forgotten, yet solid and real.
The moon hangs heavy in the sky, casting long, silvered shadows on the cracked pavement outside. The world is quiet again, save for the distant rustle of leaves and the soft sigh of the wind. The dream is over, the danger passed. Ethan is gone, dead, his body hanging between the other two Hand underlings. The rest of his secrets left buried within him- but Ash achieved what they had to. What they were commanded to do.
They're alone now, at least, as alone as one can be in a room with a corpse, and two underlings. But at least that shadowed figure appears to have left them alone. Appear.
The door wasn't quite closed. There was a crack. And from that crack a voice whispers in the back of Ash's mind, like an echo, like a promise.
"I see you."
Ash staggers awake - inasmuch as that makes any sense - and exhales, rubbing their eyes. They boy ( ) is dead, and they nod to the other two. "Dispose of him - you know how?" If they do, they leave it at that, but if they don't - well, Ash has gasoline and they're in a pretty remote enough place so as to have a private bonfire. A bonfire where Ash only keeps enough focus to keep it from spreading, spending the rest of the time checking on the boys with their current medical expertise, then sending them off so that Ash can get back to work. And sending the report in, of course. Busy, busy. Far too busy. How does one deal with the lurking horrors? They keep going. If you can't hold on, hold on.