Encounterlogs
Meridiths Odd Encounter Sr Rachel 240408
Meridith's serene night in her cabin is shattered when she finds herself ensnared by a dream stalker, who lures her into a fabricated dreamscape designed to keep her passive while it feeds on her energy. In her dream, she finds herself in a familiar cafe, encountering a woman named Nat who appears to need her help. As they interact, the dream subtly shifts, revealing odd inconsistencies and prompting Meridith to sense something is amiss. Despite the comforting illusion, the intrusion of another character, Sable, disrupts the fantasy. Sable's aggressive insistence that Meridith "wake the fuck up" serves as a jarring call to action amidst the comforting deception. Meridith eventually realizes the peril she's in, and upon asking how to awaken, the dream collapses, returning her to the stark reality of her cabin—now understood to be not just a refuge, but a battleground for her own safety.
Meanwhile, in a stark contrast of setting, Luc finds himself embroiled in trouble outside the fantastical and dreamlike dangers Meridith faces. Instead, his troubles are painfully earthbound and corporeal, as he's falsely identified and subsequently beaten by two men posing as police officers. The men, motivated by a directive from the powerful Patricia Wilson, subject Luc to a brutal lesson aimed at punishing him for transgressions he's unaware of committing. Luc's experience is visceral and immediate, highlighting the physical vulnerabilities humans face against orchestrated malice. Despite his attempts at reason and compliance, he's left battered and bruised on a dark, rainy road—his situation a grim testament to the consequences of crossing unseen lines within Haven's clandestine power dynamics. Both Meridith and Luc's stories intertwine threads of manipulation and danger, each facing their own nightmarish scenarios that test their resilience and awareness in the face of deceptive and violent forces.
(Meridith's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Apr 7 2024]
In A Small Cabin
In this small but well-designed living space the walls are adorned with wooden panels, giving a sense of nature indoors. To your left, there's a black sofa with plush cushions, and warious throw pillows. The sofa is strategically placed near a large window that allows natural light to fill the room during the day. The window also provides picturesque views of the surrounding wilderness.
On the opposite side, there's a neatly arranged bed with green linens and various mix-matched pillows. The bed is framed by a wooden headboard, adding to the rustic feel of the cabin. Overhead, a warm and subtle lighting fixture casts a soft glow, creating a tranquil ambiance in the sleeping area.
Adjacent to the bed, a built-in closet is seamlessly integrated into the wooden wall. The closet features sliding or folding doors, maximizing space efficiency. Inside, there are shelves, drawers, and hanging rods for organizing clothes and personal items, keeping the cabin clutter-free.
Overall, this one-bedroom cabin combines the comforts of modern living with the tranquility of nature, providing a serene retreat for those seeking a peaceful escape.
It is night, about 50F(10C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
Meridith is laying on her bed in the cabin, sleepy and exhausted from a long day of hunting. She has her phone out, watching dumb internet videos the pass the time
It's pitch black outside. The rain patters in a rhythmic constant. Even in here, it smells fresh, like grass and wind and the warm approach of summer. It beckons for sleep. Even Meridith's phone agrees. Her feed produces an ASMR massage video. Then, the cover song of a sleepy ballad.
The pillows feel so soft. Against Meridith's bare arms, the linens are soothing.
Meridith drifts off almost immediately. What a combo. The warm air, the soft linen, the soothing sounds from her phone, the rain. She's as content as cozy as she's ever been before.
Meridith's sitting in the Black Rose, now. Her memory's fantastic. It recollects the black columns, and the embossed wallpaper. The glass roof, too, is intricately detailed, although colors are difficult to make out. It's still the middle of the night here. A cashier's working late, but otherwise, it's just Meridith and a cup of steaming tea. Until --
The door pushes open. In comes a young woman, maybe coming from a late shift herself, maybe seeking shelter. Whatever the case, she looks tired; even so, she's pretty. The kind of pretty that books call girl-next-door, and in real life, can only be found in magazine pages. Just like in those books, she wears a pair of round-rimmed, Windsor glasses, and a cardigan. Her brown hair's left loose, made wavy while it dries from the downpour.
Meridith stretches out, yawning sleepily, enjoying a gentle cup of tea and smiling dreamily over at the door. When the woman steps through her heart skips a beat, she blushes faintly and, perhaps ashamed, turns to sip her tea with more focus.
The woman holds an older model of Android. From where Meridith sits, she can just barely make out the woman's conversation with the cashier. "Hi. My car broke down, and --" The next part's hard to hear. "...Phone's out of charge. Do you have something I can use?" The cashier's kind enough. He starts rooting around the drawers, but all he produces is a cable that -- if the woman's expression is any indication -- isn't the right fit. So, onward she goes, to Meridith. She doesn't look particularly hopeful when she starts to repeat her spiel. "Hi. Um. I'm sorry to bug you." Before she can be interrupted, she hurries through. "I was just passing through town, and my car broke down -- and I need to get to a hotel, but my phone's dead. Do you, um, have a charger?"
Meridith blinks and stands up as she approaches, when she walks over she fishes in her own pocket for a cord, or charge. "Oh you can use my phone too, um, the hotel, I'd say we could w- er you could walk there from here but it is raining," she frowns. "Maybe we could call you a cab?"
Meridith had blushed before. It's the stranger's turn now. "...I kind of got pickpocketed a couple days ago, while I was in Boston. Really stupid. I mean, I know you're supposed to keep your backpack in front, but I just thought, like, what're the chances?" High, apparently. "I can't pay for a cab. And--" Now she's flustered, trying her best to preserve social niceties. "That's not an ask to, um, give me money or anything. I'm not panhandling."
The red on her cheeks deepens. "...Not that there's anything wrong with panhandlers! They're just trying to do their best with a shitty lot in life." Aaaaand off the rails she goes. In her nervous gesticulation, she accidentally tips Meridith's cup of tea over. It spills. "Oh no."
Meridith gasps. "Oh, no, I mean," she laughs nervously. Then over goes the tea and she waves a hand, now more anxious for the woman feeling awkward and anxious than she does for the tea that's been spilt. "It's fine!" she insists, sincerely. "Um all of it! The tea, the panhandling comment, the cab!" She's fishing around for napkins, oh gosh.
Unfortunately, some of the tea has spilled onto Meridith's t-shirt. "No, it's not," she overlays. She scrambles for napkins, wadding them all up in a bunch and -- very forward of her -- starting to dab away at wet fabric. Up close, she smells of lavender, some fading, floral perfume. "You were just having a nice night, and I've gone and ruined it. I'll buy you another cup, okay?"
They're face-to-face, just a few hand spans of distance intervening.
Her volume lowers. "...When I have... cash again."
Meridith takes a breath, air suffuse with that, lavender, floral scent that makes her hair stand on end and her heart skip a beat. The dabbing the sudden closeness. She exhales, finding her mouth dry. "...b-but," she manages somehow firing on her brain cells still held in reserve. "...you're broke?" she offers.
She just stares at Meridith. Her hand's paused on Meridith's shirt, slight pressure applied. One of them should probably move. It's her, eventually. She stops trying to fix Meridith up -- she's done the best she can, and while Meridith's not sopping wet, she's not completely dry, either. "Not all the time," she says lamely. "I'm, um, I'm Nat -- in case you want to send me your dry cleaning." It's said with probing humor; she's testing the waters. "I can give you my number for when I can get this--" She waves her other hand, in which she's still got her phone. "Working."
Meridith flushes deeper and is embarassed, and being embarassed seems to make the problem worse. She steps and almost trips over her chair and yelps. "It's fine, really it's tea!" She insists and then shakes her head. "Ah, right uhm, charger...!" She's practically falling over herself to find one.
Nat winces sympathetically ("oh no, look out for the--") -- but of course, by then, Meridith's already colliding with the chair. At the rate the two of them are going, she's not going to need a hotel at all. It's been an hour. A few more and dawn will have risen.
While Meridith's preoccupied, she's exchanged her wad of napkins for a single clean one. She might not have cash or a working phone, but in her pocket's a ballpoint; she clicks it. She scrawls something for Meridith a set of numbers. Except, if she tries to focus on them hard enough, they don't read right, like they're blurred.
When did the rain stop coming down? It's so quiet. There's a complete absence of sound, like they're squirreled away in the underground.
Meridith blinks, and moves over to Nat. Her eyes flick across the napkin and she blinks. "Sorry, I..." She hesitates. "I can't read it, could you tell me them...?" she asks, gazing outside a moment
"Seven-one-oh-seven-three-one-six," Nat says, tucking the mass of her curls behind her ear. The napkin makes sense, all of a sudden, as if there had been nothing amiss to begin with. But there is. someone' shy demeanor has vanished, as if it never were. She leans in, touching a finger to the inside of Meridith's wrist -- it's to lift the link of Meridith's bracelet. Up close, there's a smattering of freckles across Nat's nose. "This is really pretty."
Just inside of Meridith's peripheral notice, Nat's shadow is -- not right. That is, there isn't one at all. In fact, that's true of the chairs, the tables, the cups. There's light enough in here that that shouldn't be the case.
"Seven-one-oh-seven-three-one-six," Nat says, tucking the mass of her curls behind her ear. The napkin makes sense, all of a sudden, as if there had been nothing amiss to begin with. But there is. Nat's shy demeanor has vanished, as if it never were. She leans in, touching a finger to the inside of Meridith's wrist -- it's to lift the link of Meridith's bracelet. Up close, there's a smattering of freckles across Nat's nose. "This is really pretty."
Just inside of Meridith's peripheral notice, Nat's shadow is -- not right. That is, there isn't one at all. In fact, that's true of the chairs, the tables, the cups. There's light enough in here that that shouldn't be the case.
Meridith's eyes flickers over to the table, but in truth, Nat suddenly being forward is itself quite the occupier of attention. She smiles softly, "Oh...thank you!" She declares happily, letting out a content breath. "Are you in town long?" She asks, obliviously
"Days," Nat replies. "Maybe weeks. Or months, if you want." That last comment lifts a corner of her mouth, and puts a glint in her eye. She's still in Meridith's space; she's still touching her. She feels warm, not just at the point of contact, but -- all over. The sensation Meridith is given is comfort. Peace. The kind of 'at home'-ness that can be found in front of a roaring fireplace, with the smell of grass and wind and the warm approach of summer. How nostalgic. Meridith's smelled that someplace before.
Outside, the silence breaks. There's the sound of conversation, fast-paced and concerned.
Meridith exhales and her eyes widen slightly. It's the sensation that calms her, the closeness the abruptness, the little glint raise the alarm bells. But that cozy sensation is what makes her lean in, then, the conversation? She blinks, turning to look
The door opens again. It bangs against the wall. Interrupting the peace is a newcomer. She's wiry, and tall enough to impose. Which she does. "Wake up," she says. Who is she talking to? She's never met Meridith -- but she's looking right at her. She closes the distance. It *is* Meridith she's talking to; Nat's ignored. "Wake the fuck up."
Meridith yelps and scrambles back. "Wake...wake up?" She poses and looks to Nat for some reassurance, only to have some of the facts come into focus. She turns to the new woman and backs up. "Who are you?" she demands.
"Sable," the new woman says, like that's supposed to mean something. It's an apt name. Her hair's black, shot through with steely grey. She's older -- maybe mid-thirties. And while she has pleasing attributes, she - unlike Nat - could never be described as something so banal as 'pretty.' Her voice is a deeper, throaty rasp. "You're fucking going to die if you don't wake the fuck up." She's in Meridith's space, too, alongside Nat.
"We were talking," Nat rejects. She's got one hand on the table, and the other on her hip. Her tone's sultry. "Weren't we?" That's at Meridith.
Meridith shakes her head, confused by Sable for the moment, then back to Nat and it dawns on her, the gentle reaction to this extreme moment. Her heart aches, shifting back from Nat. "How do...how do I wake up?" she asks the woman.
As soon as Meridith asks the question, the answer comes. The cafe's colors bleed; its structure loses integrity. The outline of the pillars become wavy, the red and green of the wallpaper distributing into more muted browns and whites. The cabin Meridith had been in -- has always been in -- comes into focus. Everything is as it was. The sofa, plush, with its variety of cushions. The window. The bed, soft and comforting. And -- no, it's not normal. Meridith had felt Nat's hand, as surely as if it were real. There's a hand on her now. The hand connects to an arm, and that arm to a man.
Meridith yelps as the world around her dissolves. And then she's home. She gazes up and she feels a hollow longing in her stomach, twisting a knot. But not for long, as the realization she is touching someone springs into her mind, she pulls away sharply.
"Ah fuck," a baritone says. It's lamenting, not panicked. "I was hoping for another hour or two."
Meridith would, as she wakes, feel more tired than she had been before falling asleep. Her limbs are heavy, her eyelids sore. The incoming day promises to be difficult should the feeling persist -- and persist, she might correctly guess, it will.
He withdraws.
He even takes the time to give Meridith a pat on the arm, and a patronizing kiss to the temple. "Next time, sweetheart."
Meridith scowls and sits up, wavering a moment as a spell of dizziness grips her. "Ugh..." She clasps a hand to her forehead as the man departs and she fantasizes about some gratuitous violence she'd like to deliver.
The cabin is empty of all but Meridith again. The peace from before is gone. Now she knows that it's that easy, that simple, for another to invade. The rain isn't peaceful, with the wind howling, and the window rattling in its frame. The calm of being alone is replaced with the fear that she might, in fact, not be. It's deep enough into the night that within an hour or two, the sun will rise -- Meridith will find no rest today.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Rain pelts against the windows of the diner, casting a rhythmic drumbeat that echoes through the cozy space, and Luc is bathed in the warm glow of neon lights where he sits at his table for two. The scents of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon waft through the air, mingling with the sound of clinking dishes and sizzling griddles. Outside the fogged-up windows, the world is painted in grey, the streetlights casting a dim glow on the rain-soaked pavement. A lone car rumbles by now and then, headlights cutting through the haze that's set in.
And then there's the distant wail of sirens, piercing through the quietude. A police cruisers pulls up to the curb right outside, flashing red and blue lights casting an eerie glow. A pair of police officers step out of their car, their uniforms drenched in no time at all in the relentless downpour, and they confer amongst themselves for a few moments before making their way for the entrance of the diner.
The opening of the door brings in a rush of cold wind, the soothing sound of raindrops getting louder for just the moment before the door's closed again, and the officers are tracking wet footsteps across the floor. One of the officers scans the room, looking at all patrons present before he locks eyes with Luc. "Luc Jenson?" comes the question in a stern, authoritative voice.
Luc just goes right on sipping his milkshake, letting his gaze slide past the cop's as if the name meant nothing to him in the world. It was a rehearsed calm, and the way the cop had looked straight at him probably didn't signal anything good. Still, it wouldn't hurt much to chance things and play dumb. If needed, he could also pull out the Shaggy Defense.
Unfortunately, he'd also brought his pistol with him. Looking up its serial would confirm his identity if they frisked him for it, and if he touched his gun now to try and hide it from them, and they noticed, he'd find himself at the pearly gates in a hurry. That was less than ideal. Okay, no more thinking - after a good pause, he finally replies, "Are you talking to me, officer?"
While he hems and haws, the officer's attention remains fixed on Luc in ways that make it impossible to consider that he may be speaking to anyone else at all, the silence stretching on, heavy with tension, for a good while during the milkshake-sipping. He's here for a purpose, it would seem, and not so easily deterred - in fact, he's taking his time sizing Luc up, visibly so, his gaze boring into the man. This certainly isn't a small-town cop, and his hand lingers near the gun in his holster. "Yes, Mister Jensen, I am indeed talking to you," comes the reply, firm. "We have reason to believe that you may be involved in a certain matter that requires our attention. I would advise you to come with us peacefully."
Loosing a quiet, defeated breath, Luc nods his head slowly. "Yeah, alright," he mutters, setting down his mostly-finished milkshake with a look of mild regret. Hopefully he'd be able to just walk back in and finish it after this chat. Manifest it, Luc. Manifest.
As he stands up, he says to the officer, "I'd like to declare that I am armed and have a concealed pistol behind my back. I'm licensed for concealed carry, I just don't want to get shot when you get a glimpse of it and freak out." He glances around at the other patrons of Rosie's, and nods his head. "You all heard that, right? Thank you." He'd already paid for his food, so there's no further stalling; he follows the officers outside.
His admission about being armed draws a subtle shift in the officer's demeanor, a flicker of caution in his eyes, but he nods in acknowledgment at Luc, hand still not straying far from his holster. "We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Jensen," the officer says, his tone measured and professional. With a nod to his partner who's been waiting closer to the door, the officer gestures at Luc to precede them out of the Diner, while the other patrons stare and pretend like they're not staring quite as much as they absolutely are.
Outside, the rain continues to fall in a steady rhythm, the world cloaked in a shroud of mist and darkness. The officer's cruiser awaits, one of the officers opening the backseat door for Luc. "Please step into the vehicle, Mr. Jensen," the officer behind him says, "We'll take you down to the station for further questioning. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." And then, before Luc can move, there's a hand upon his shoulder. "But first - I'm going to ask you to carefully and slowly remove your concealed pistol and place it on the ground in front of you. Please keep your hands visible at all times and make no sudden movements."
A thief and a gadabout Luc might be, but he had no particular desire to get into it with a pair of cops. "Yeah," he sighs, nodding his head. "I have a, uh, pocket knife too. I'll put that down as well." His knife was not at all legal to carry in the state of Massachusetts, but he'd rather be fined than shot. Don't get shot, Luc. Don't get shot. He gingerly pulls his pistol - safety on, of course - from beneath his jacket, laying it down on the sidewalk, then follows up with his knife, offering them up for confiscation. He doesn't move for the car until they're collected, but he shuffles along, gentle as a lamb, once directed. "You don't have to read me my Miranda rights unless I'm being arrested, right?" he asks. "I'm, uh, not being arrested, right?"
His knife and his pistol both go into the black hole of wherever officers keep this stuff, and the hands that shove at him next are decidedly a lot less gentle when he's urged into the backseat of the cruiser. "You will have time for your questions later, Mister Jensen," comes the non-answer for him and then the door slams shut, the locks letting out that distinctive clicking sound. Both officers settle in the front seats, and the car sets off in no time at all.
There's the sound of raindrops pattering against the rooftop, an ominous backdrop to the quiet murmuring Luc can hear between the officers ahead. There's no clue to what their names may be, much less their badge numbers, but there seems to be a little debate over the route to take, and it becomes very clear very fast that by 'down to the station', they certainly didn't mean the Haven Sheriff's Department. No, they're driving down Hanging Hill, and then Cemetary Lane, and they're crossing the bounds of Haven in just a few minutes, so he's being taken all the way to Boston, at least.
... or is he? Another click, and the red and blue sirens that had been casting their flickering glow around the road shut off, and they're pulling over onto a dark side road, shrouded beneath the shade of trees. The car shuts off. If he'd thought it wouldn't bode well for him before, things probably just got worse.
Boy oh boy. Luc's gut churns as he watches the woods and the mist fade back behind him, and the supernatural strangeness of Haven becomes a thing in the distance. The two police officers should seem like chump change compared to the horrors of the night, but now he was disarmed and locked in the back of the cruiser - how would he get out of this? His thoughts whirl in his head, round and round. He could ask questions, but they'd gone pretty cold on him once he was in the car. Pushing his luck could provoke them. When they pull up to the side road, though, his heart begins to hammer in his ears. "This isn't the station, fellas," he remarks with a strained glibness. "Don't suppose you realised you got the wrong guy and you're letting me walk my way back home?"
One of the officers glances back at him through the partition in the middle, brief but laden with moderate amounts of annoyance already, and with a quiet signal, both officers exit the cruiser, their footsteps heavy against the mud of this unpaved road. A single instant after, the door closer to Luc is being wrenched open, and there's a hand upon his arm to drag him out - the officer, the one who'd spoken to him, isn't much taller than him, but he's bigger, certainly, and carries himself with a surety, a confidence of someone either entirely secure in their skills, or just used to being a bully. Luc's likely about to find out which one, very soon.
"Out of the car, Mister Jensen," he says, even as he doesn't give a single second for Luc to comply, instead just wrenching at his shoulder painfully. "You are not under arrest," he tells Luc. A relief? Perhaps. It doesn't last long, if so. "Though you really should have been, if you ask me. Still, it's not what the Wilson matriarch asked for. You see, Mister Jensen..."
A pause, and then a heavy fist comes smashing into Luc's gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. The officer continues, casually, "You have been filching things you really should not be getting your hands upon, sneaking in places you have no business being in, and our client has asked that we ensure you're taught a lesson."
Luc's taken a lot of punches in his life, but there's not a lot a man can really do to toughen the solar plexus. It was just biology. He staggers against the officer, grabbing his shoulder to hold himself up as he wheezes on the spot, coughing and sucking on air with immediate difficulty. Fucking cops - and if he so much as lifted a finger in retaliation, he'd be fucked. "I don't," he gasps, fingers tightening around the cop's bicep, "I don't know who... that is." He gets his feet back under him, no longer wobbly, and tries to back up a few steps, raising his hands. "We don't need to do this. Message received. I hate hospitals. No fucking with the Wilsons." He grimaces, tries to smile, and asks - already knowing he's probably going to be eating through a straw for a little while - "Please?"
By now, it should be slowly becoming increasingly clear to Luc if he's got the presence of mind for it that these are not, in fact, actual cops. The clues are all right there, in the lack of identification, no badges in view, and, yes, the Miranda Rights. They're still carrying guns though, that's very clearly still A Thing. "I don't even live here and I know about the Wilsons, kid. You daft?" the other officer finally speaks up now - rude. "If you're gonna stay in Haven, you gotta know who not to mess with. That's lesson number one." And given by his demeanor, he doesn't think it's a lesson they're finished teaching Luc.
The hand upon the officer's shoulder is shrugged away with irritation. Clearly, the man doesn't appreciate Luc's hands on him. "Patricia Wilson, matriarch of the Wilson family, the most powerful woman in Haven. Owns the bank, and doesn't enjoy people breaking and entering into one of her properties." Another fist is slammed into his gut, and the next one smashes against his cheek while he's busy gasping for breath. They're both teaching Luc a lesson now, slowly but steadily. "Pays real well too, when it comes to dealing with things that have incurred her wrath." Luc's the thing, in case he was wondering. "We won't kill you," they assure him, as though it were some great consolation. "But we'll need some /good/ proof of you being taught a lesson." Another fist flies for his face, and Luc may be grateful for the rain right about now, for while he's still getting beat up, at least the force of the punch is lessened somewhat by the slipperiness of, well, everything, including fists flying for his face.
The police cruiser was enough for Luc - he's not thinking at his sharpest right now, and being beaten by real police wouldn't have surprised him much, either. "Fuck," he chokes out, then eats a fist to the chin that knocks him right down on his ass. Being homeless, it's not his first beating, either - but that still only leaves him with the option to curl up into a ball and wrap his arms around his face. His body would have to take the kicks for him, but he didn't want to end up disfigured for offending whoever this 'Wilson' person was - fucking Haven and their founding families. He hunkers down and blots out thought, fleeing from pain by receding into the back of his mind, with his last motes of cognizance spent on bemoaning how much of a bitch the walk back to town was going to be.
Too bad for Luc, him curling up in the fetal position doesn't do much to stop the assault upon his person. In fact, now that he's down there getting covered in mud, it simply frees up the opportunity for booted feet to kick at him. A foot lands upon his arm-protected head smushes it against the dirt and mud further, ensuring he's going to be entirely covered in the grime while another boot smashes against his ribs - it's definitely going to bruise, at best. Thankfully, they're not too interested in disfiguring him, only in making sure he's going to be feeling this for weeks to come.
By the time they stop, the pain all melds together until his body is feeling like one big bruise, each breath he takes bringing with it a fresh onslaught of aches. "Fuck, I love stress relief," says one of the officers, while rain pelts down upon Luc's battered form. He sounds like he means it too, as though he's revitalized by these acts of violence. It doesn't continue further, though. Instead, there's a flash and a snapping sound of a camera's shutter, Luc's helpless, curled up body immortalized in digital form before they climb back into the car and they're both off and away, wheels splattering more mud all over him where they roll by dangerously close to his head.
Meanwhile, in a stark contrast of setting, Luc finds himself embroiled in trouble outside the fantastical and dreamlike dangers Meridith faces. Instead, his troubles are painfully earthbound and corporeal, as he's falsely identified and subsequently beaten by two men posing as police officers. The men, motivated by a directive from the powerful Patricia Wilson, subject Luc to a brutal lesson aimed at punishing him for transgressions he's unaware of committing. Luc's experience is visceral and immediate, highlighting the physical vulnerabilities humans face against orchestrated malice. Despite his attempts at reason and compliance, he's left battered and bruised on a dark, rainy road—his situation a grim testament to the consequences of crossing unseen lines within Haven's clandestine power dynamics. Both Meridith and Luc's stories intertwine threads of manipulation and danger, each facing their own nightmarish scenarios that test their resilience and awareness in the face of deceptive and violent forces.
(Meridith's odd encounter(SRRachel):SRRachel)
[Sun Apr 7 2024]
In A Small Cabin
In this small but well-designed living space the walls are adorned with wooden panels, giving a sense of nature indoors. To your left, there's a black sofa with plush cushions, and warious throw pillows. The sofa is strategically placed near a large window that allows natural light to fill the room during the day. The window also provides picturesque views of the surrounding wilderness.
On the opposite side, there's a neatly arranged bed with green linens and various mix-matched pillows. The bed is framed by a wooden headboard, adding to the rustic feel of the cabin. Overhead, a warm and subtle lighting fixture casts a soft glow, creating a tranquil ambiance in the sleeping area.
Adjacent to the bed, a built-in closet is seamlessly integrated into the wooden wall. The closet features sliding or folding doors, maximizing space efficiency. Inside, there are shelves, drawers, and hanging rods for organizing clothes and personal items, keeping the cabin clutter-free.
Overall, this one-bedroom cabin combines the comforts of modern living with the tranquility of nature, providing a serene retreat for those seeking a peaceful escape.
It is night, about 50F(10C) degrees, and the sky is covered by dark grey stormclouds. It's raining outside. There is a waning crescent moon.
(Your target is attacked by a dream stalker who subjects them to their greatest fantasies in the dream world in order to keep their body passive while it's energies are fed upon. They need to, possibly with the help of allies entering their dreams, resist the temptation long enough for other allies to find them or for them to wake up.
)
Meridith is laying on her bed in the cabin, sleepy and exhausted from a long day of hunting. She has her phone out, watching dumb internet videos the pass the time
It's pitch black outside. The rain patters in a rhythmic constant. Even in here, it smells fresh, like grass and wind and the warm approach of summer. It beckons for sleep. Even Meridith's phone agrees. Her feed produces an ASMR massage video. Then, the cover song of a sleepy ballad.
The pillows feel so soft. Against Meridith's bare arms, the linens are soothing.
Meridith drifts off almost immediately. What a combo. The warm air, the soft linen, the soothing sounds from her phone, the rain. She's as content as cozy as she's ever been before.
Meridith's sitting in the Black Rose, now. Her memory's fantastic. It recollects the black columns, and the embossed wallpaper. The glass roof, too, is intricately detailed, although colors are difficult to make out. It's still the middle of the night here. A cashier's working late, but otherwise, it's just Meridith and a cup of steaming tea. Until --
The door pushes open. In comes a young woman, maybe coming from a late shift herself, maybe seeking shelter. Whatever the case, she looks tired; even so, she's pretty. The kind of pretty that books call girl-next-door, and in real life, can only be found in magazine pages. Just like in those books, she wears a pair of round-rimmed, Windsor glasses, and a cardigan. Her brown hair's left loose, made wavy while it dries from the downpour.
Meridith stretches out, yawning sleepily, enjoying a gentle cup of tea and smiling dreamily over at the door. When the woman steps through her heart skips a beat, she blushes faintly and, perhaps ashamed, turns to sip her tea with more focus.
The woman holds an older model of Android. From where Meridith sits, she can just barely make out the woman's conversation with the cashier. "Hi. My car broke down, and --" The next part's hard to hear. "...Phone's out of charge. Do you have something I can use?" The cashier's kind enough. He starts rooting around the drawers, but all he produces is a cable that -- if the woman's expression is any indication -- isn't the right fit. So, onward she goes, to Meridith. She doesn't look particularly hopeful when she starts to repeat her spiel. "Hi. Um. I'm sorry to bug you." Before she can be interrupted, she hurries through. "I was just passing through town, and my car broke down -- and I need to get to a hotel, but my phone's dead. Do you, um, have a charger?"
Meridith blinks and stands up as she approaches, when she walks over she fishes in her own pocket for a cord, or charge. "Oh you can use my phone too, um, the hotel, I'd say we could w- er you could walk there from here but it is raining," she frowns. "Maybe we could call you a cab?"
Meridith had blushed before. It's the stranger's turn now. "...I kind of got pickpocketed a couple days ago, while I was in Boston. Really stupid. I mean, I know you're supposed to keep your backpack in front, but I just thought, like, what're the chances?" High, apparently. "I can't pay for a cab. And--" Now she's flustered, trying her best to preserve social niceties. "That's not an ask to, um, give me money or anything. I'm not panhandling."
The red on her cheeks deepens. "...Not that there's anything wrong with panhandlers! They're just trying to do their best with a shitty lot in life." Aaaaand off the rails she goes. In her nervous gesticulation, she accidentally tips Meridith's cup of tea over. It spills. "Oh no."
Meridith gasps. "Oh, no, I mean," she laughs nervously. Then over goes the tea and she waves a hand, now more anxious for the woman feeling awkward and anxious than she does for the tea that's been spilt. "It's fine!" she insists, sincerely. "Um all of it! The tea, the panhandling comment, the cab!" She's fishing around for napkins, oh gosh.
Unfortunately, some of the tea has spilled onto Meridith's t-shirt. "No, it's not," she overlays. She scrambles for napkins, wadding them all up in a bunch and -- very forward of her -- starting to dab away at wet fabric. Up close, she smells of lavender, some fading, floral perfume. "You were just having a nice night, and I've gone and ruined it. I'll buy you another cup, okay?"
They're face-to-face, just a few hand spans of distance intervening.
Her volume lowers. "...When I have... cash again."
Meridith takes a breath, air suffuse with that, lavender, floral scent that makes her hair stand on end and her heart skip a beat. The dabbing the sudden closeness. She exhales, finding her mouth dry. "...b-but," she manages somehow firing on her brain cells still held in reserve. "...you're broke?" she offers.
She just stares at Meridith. Her hand's paused on Meridith's shirt, slight pressure applied. One of them should probably move. It's her, eventually. She stops trying to fix Meridith up -- she's done the best she can, and while Meridith's not sopping wet, she's not completely dry, either. "Not all the time," she says lamely. "I'm, um, I'm Nat -- in case you want to send me your dry cleaning." It's said with probing humor; she's testing the waters. "I can give you my number for when I can get this--" She waves her other hand, in which she's still got her phone. "Working."
Meridith flushes deeper and is embarassed, and being embarassed seems to make the problem worse. She steps and almost trips over her chair and yelps. "It's fine, really it's tea!" She insists and then shakes her head. "Ah, right uhm, charger...!" She's practically falling over herself to find one.
Nat winces sympathetically ("oh no, look out for the--") -- but of course, by then, Meridith's already colliding with the chair. At the rate the two of them are going, she's not going to need a hotel at all. It's been an hour. A few more and dawn will have risen.
While Meridith's preoccupied, she's exchanged her wad of napkins for a single clean one. She might not have cash or a working phone, but in her pocket's a ballpoint; she clicks it. She scrawls something for Meridith a set of numbers. Except, if she tries to focus on them hard enough, they don't read right, like they're blurred.
When did the rain stop coming down? It's so quiet. There's a complete absence of sound, like they're squirreled away in the underground.
Meridith blinks, and moves over to Nat. Her eyes flick across the napkin and she blinks. "Sorry, I..." She hesitates. "I can't read it, could you tell me them...?" she asks, gazing outside a moment
"Seven-one-oh-seven-three-one-six," Nat says, tucking the mass of her curls behind her ear. The napkin makes sense, all of a sudden, as if there had been nothing amiss to begin with. But there is. someone' shy demeanor has vanished, as if it never were. She leans in, touching a finger to the inside of Meridith's wrist -- it's to lift the link of Meridith's bracelet. Up close, there's a smattering of freckles across Nat's nose. "This is really pretty."
Just inside of Meridith's peripheral notice, Nat's shadow is -- not right. That is, there isn't one at all. In fact, that's true of the chairs, the tables, the cups. There's light enough in here that that shouldn't be the case.
"Seven-one-oh-seven-three-one-six," Nat says, tucking the mass of her curls behind her ear. The napkin makes sense, all of a sudden, as if there had been nothing amiss to begin with. But there is. Nat's shy demeanor has vanished, as if it never were. She leans in, touching a finger to the inside of Meridith's wrist -- it's to lift the link of Meridith's bracelet. Up close, there's a smattering of freckles across Nat's nose. "This is really pretty."
Just inside of Meridith's peripheral notice, Nat's shadow is -- not right. That is, there isn't one at all. In fact, that's true of the chairs, the tables, the cups. There's light enough in here that that shouldn't be the case.
Meridith's eyes flickers over to the table, but in truth, Nat suddenly being forward is itself quite the occupier of attention. She smiles softly, "Oh...thank you!" She declares happily, letting out a content breath. "Are you in town long?" She asks, obliviously
"Days," Nat replies. "Maybe weeks. Or months, if you want." That last comment lifts a corner of her mouth, and puts a glint in her eye. She's still in Meridith's space; she's still touching her. She feels warm, not just at the point of contact, but -- all over. The sensation Meridith is given is comfort. Peace. The kind of 'at home'-ness that can be found in front of a roaring fireplace, with the smell of grass and wind and the warm approach of summer. How nostalgic. Meridith's smelled that someplace before.
Outside, the silence breaks. There's the sound of conversation, fast-paced and concerned.
Meridith exhales and her eyes widen slightly. It's the sensation that calms her, the closeness the abruptness, the little glint raise the alarm bells. But that cozy sensation is what makes her lean in, then, the conversation? She blinks, turning to look
The door opens again. It bangs against the wall. Interrupting the peace is a newcomer. She's wiry, and tall enough to impose. Which she does. "Wake up," she says. Who is she talking to? She's never met Meridith -- but she's looking right at her. She closes the distance. It *is* Meridith she's talking to; Nat's ignored. "Wake the fuck up."
Meridith yelps and scrambles back. "Wake...wake up?" She poses and looks to Nat for some reassurance, only to have some of the facts come into focus. She turns to the new woman and backs up. "Who are you?" she demands.
"Sable," the new woman says, like that's supposed to mean something. It's an apt name. Her hair's black, shot through with steely grey. She's older -- maybe mid-thirties. And while she has pleasing attributes, she - unlike Nat - could never be described as something so banal as 'pretty.' Her voice is a deeper, throaty rasp. "You're fucking going to die if you don't wake the fuck up." She's in Meridith's space, too, alongside Nat.
"We were talking," Nat rejects. She's got one hand on the table, and the other on her hip. Her tone's sultry. "Weren't we?" That's at Meridith.
Meridith shakes her head, confused by Sable for the moment, then back to Nat and it dawns on her, the gentle reaction to this extreme moment. Her heart aches, shifting back from Nat. "How do...how do I wake up?" she asks the woman.
As soon as Meridith asks the question, the answer comes. The cafe's colors bleed; its structure loses integrity. The outline of the pillars become wavy, the red and green of the wallpaper distributing into more muted browns and whites. The cabin Meridith had been in -- has always been in -- comes into focus. Everything is as it was. The sofa, plush, with its variety of cushions. The window. The bed, soft and comforting. And -- no, it's not normal. Meridith had felt Nat's hand, as surely as if it were real. There's a hand on her now. The hand connects to an arm, and that arm to a man.
Meridith yelps as the world around her dissolves. And then she's home. She gazes up and she feels a hollow longing in her stomach, twisting a knot. But not for long, as the realization she is touching someone springs into her mind, she pulls away sharply.
"Ah fuck," a baritone says. It's lamenting, not panicked. "I was hoping for another hour or two."
Meridith would, as she wakes, feel more tired than she had been before falling asleep. Her limbs are heavy, her eyelids sore. The incoming day promises to be difficult should the feeling persist -- and persist, she might correctly guess, it will.
He withdraws.
He even takes the time to give Meridith a pat on the arm, and a patronizing kiss to the temple. "Next time, sweetheart."
Meridith scowls and sits up, wavering a moment as a spell of dizziness grips her. "Ugh..." She clasps a hand to her forehead as the man departs and she fantasizes about some gratuitous violence she'd like to deliver.
The cabin is empty of all but Meridith again. The peace from before is gone. Now she knows that it's that easy, that simple, for another to invade. The rain isn't peaceful, with the wind howling, and the window rattling in its frame. The calm of being alone is replaced with the fear that she might, in fact, not be. It's deep enough into the night that within an hour or two, the sun will rise -- Meridith will find no rest today.
(Someone has sent the state police after your target. Perhaps they're a real criminal or perhaps they've been framed, in either case it's up to them to get their arrest warrant handled and removed.
)
Rain pelts against the windows of the diner, casting a rhythmic drumbeat that echoes through the cozy space, and Luc is bathed in the warm glow of neon lights where he sits at his table for two. The scents of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon waft through the air, mingling with the sound of clinking dishes and sizzling griddles. Outside the fogged-up windows, the world is painted in grey, the streetlights casting a dim glow on the rain-soaked pavement. A lone car rumbles by now and then, headlights cutting through the haze that's set in.
And then there's the distant wail of sirens, piercing through the quietude. A police cruisers pulls up to the curb right outside, flashing red and blue lights casting an eerie glow. A pair of police officers step out of their car, their uniforms drenched in no time at all in the relentless downpour, and they confer amongst themselves for a few moments before making their way for the entrance of the diner.
The opening of the door brings in a rush of cold wind, the soothing sound of raindrops getting louder for just the moment before the door's closed again, and the officers are tracking wet footsteps across the floor. One of the officers scans the room, looking at all patrons present before he locks eyes with Luc. "Luc Jenson?" comes the question in a stern, authoritative voice.
Luc just goes right on sipping his milkshake, letting his gaze slide past the cop's as if the name meant nothing to him in the world. It was a rehearsed calm, and the way the cop had looked straight at him probably didn't signal anything good. Still, it wouldn't hurt much to chance things and play dumb. If needed, he could also pull out the Shaggy Defense.
Unfortunately, he'd also brought his pistol with him. Looking up its serial would confirm his identity if they frisked him for it, and if he touched his gun now to try and hide it from them, and they noticed, he'd find himself at the pearly gates in a hurry. That was less than ideal. Okay, no more thinking - after a good pause, he finally replies, "Are you talking to me, officer?"
While he hems and haws, the officer's attention remains fixed on Luc in ways that make it impossible to consider that he may be speaking to anyone else at all, the silence stretching on, heavy with tension, for a good while during the milkshake-sipping. He's here for a purpose, it would seem, and not so easily deterred - in fact, he's taking his time sizing Luc up, visibly so, his gaze boring into the man. This certainly isn't a small-town cop, and his hand lingers near the gun in his holster. "Yes, Mister Jensen, I am indeed talking to you," comes the reply, firm. "We have reason to believe that you may be involved in a certain matter that requires our attention. I would advise you to come with us peacefully."
Loosing a quiet, defeated breath, Luc nods his head slowly. "Yeah, alright," he mutters, setting down his mostly-finished milkshake with a look of mild regret. Hopefully he'd be able to just walk back in and finish it after this chat. Manifest it, Luc. Manifest.
As he stands up, he says to the officer, "I'd like to declare that I am armed and have a concealed pistol behind my back. I'm licensed for concealed carry, I just don't want to get shot when you get a glimpse of it and freak out." He glances around at the other patrons of Rosie's, and nods his head. "You all heard that, right? Thank you." He'd already paid for his food, so there's no further stalling; he follows the officers outside.
His admission about being armed draws a subtle shift in the officer's demeanor, a flicker of caution in his eyes, but he nods in acknowledgment at Luc, hand still not straying far from his holster. "We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Jensen," the officer says, his tone measured and professional. With a nod to his partner who's been waiting closer to the door, the officer gestures at Luc to precede them out of the Diner, while the other patrons stare and pretend like they're not staring quite as much as they absolutely are.
Outside, the rain continues to fall in a steady rhythm, the world cloaked in a shroud of mist and darkness. The officer's cruiser awaits, one of the officers opening the backseat door for Luc. "Please step into the vehicle, Mr. Jensen," the officer behind him says, "We'll take you down to the station for further questioning. You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law." And then, before Luc can move, there's a hand upon his shoulder. "But first - I'm going to ask you to carefully and slowly remove your concealed pistol and place it on the ground in front of you. Please keep your hands visible at all times and make no sudden movements."
A thief and a gadabout Luc might be, but he had no particular desire to get into it with a pair of cops. "Yeah," he sighs, nodding his head. "I have a, uh, pocket knife too. I'll put that down as well." His knife was not at all legal to carry in the state of Massachusetts, but he'd rather be fined than shot. Don't get shot, Luc. Don't get shot. He gingerly pulls his pistol - safety on, of course - from beneath his jacket, laying it down on the sidewalk, then follows up with his knife, offering them up for confiscation. He doesn't move for the car until they're collected, but he shuffles along, gentle as a lamb, once directed. "You don't have to read me my Miranda rights unless I'm being arrested, right?" he asks. "I'm, uh, not being arrested, right?"
His knife and his pistol both go into the black hole of wherever officers keep this stuff, and the hands that shove at him next are decidedly a lot less gentle when he's urged into the backseat of the cruiser. "You will have time for your questions later, Mister Jensen," comes the non-answer for him and then the door slams shut, the locks letting out that distinctive clicking sound. Both officers settle in the front seats, and the car sets off in no time at all.
There's the sound of raindrops pattering against the rooftop, an ominous backdrop to the quiet murmuring Luc can hear between the officers ahead. There's no clue to what their names may be, much less their badge numbers, but there seems to be a little debate over the route to take, and it becomes very clear very fast that by 'down to the station', they certainly didn't mean the Haven Sheriff's Department. No, they're driving down Hanging Hill, and then Cemetary Lane, and they're crossing the bounds of Haven in just a few minutes, so he's being taken all the way to Boston, at least.
... or is he? Another click, and the red and blue sirens that had been casting their flickering glow around the road shut off, and they're pulling over onto a dark side road, shrouded beneath the shade of trees. The car shuts off. If he'd thought it wouldn't bode well for him before, things probably just got worse.
Boy oh boy. Luc's gut churns as he watches the woods and the mist fade back behind him, and the supernatural strangeness of Haven becomes a thing in the distance. The two police officers should seem like chump change compared to the horrors of the night, but now he was disarmed and locked in the back of the cruiser - how would he get out of this? His thoughts whirl in his head, round and round. He could ask questions, but they'd gone pretty cold on him once he was in the car. Pushing his luck could provoke them. When they pull up to the side road, though, his heart begins to hammer in his ears. "This isn't the station, fellas," he remarks with a strained glibness. "Don't suppose you realised you got the wrong guy and you're letting me walk my way back home?"
One of the officers glances back at him through the partition in the middle, brief but laden with moderate amounts of annoyance already, and with a quiet signal, both officers exit the cruiser, their footsteps heavy against the mud of this unpaved road. A single instant after, the door closer to Luc is being wrenched open, and there's a hand upon his arm to drag him out - the officer, the one who'd spoken to him, isn't much taller than him, but he's bigger, certainly, and carries himself with a surety, a confidence of someone either entirely secure in their skills, or just used to being a bully. Luc's likely about to find out which one, very soon.
"Out of the car, Mister Jensen," he says, even as he doesn't give a single second for Luc to comply, instead just wrenching at his shoulder painfully. "You are not under arrest," he tells Luc. A relief? Perhaps. It doesn't last long, if so. "Though you really should have been, if you ask me. Still, it's not what the Wilson matriarch asked for. You see, Mister Jensen..."
A pause, and then a heavy fist comes smashing into Luc's gut, knocking the air out of his lungs. The officer continues, casually, "You have been filching things you really should not be getting your hands upon, sneaking in places you have no business being in, and our client has asked that we ensure you're taught a lesson."
Luc's taken a lot of punches in his life, but there's not a lot a man can really do to toughen the solar plexus. It was just biology. He staggers against the officer, grabbing his shoulder to hold himself up as he wheezes on the spot, coughing and sucking on air with immediate difficulty. Fucking cops - and if he so much as lifted a finger in retaliation, he'd be fucked. "I don't," he gasps, fingers tightening around the cop's bicep, "I don't know who... that is." He gets his feet back under him, no longer wobbly, and tries to back up a few steps, raising his hands. "We don't need to do this. Message received. I hate hospitals. No fucking with the Wilsons." He grimaces, tries to smile, and asks - already knowing he's probably going to be eating through a straw for a little while - "Please?"
By now, it should be slowly becoming increasingly clear to Luc if he's got the presence of mind for it that these are not, in fact, actual cops. The clues are all right there, in the lack of identification, no badges in view, and, yes, the Miranda Rights. They're still carrying guns though, that's very clearly still A Thing. "I don't even live here and I know about the Wilsons, kid. You daft?" the other officer finally speaks up now - rude. "If you're gonna stay in Haven, you gotta know who not to mess with. That's lesson number one." And given by his demeanor, he doesn't think it's a lesson they're finished teaching Luc.
The hand upon the officer's shoulder is shrugged away with irritation. Clearly, the man doesn't appreciate Luc's hands on him. "Patricia Wilson, matriarch of the Wilson family, the most powerful woman in Haven. Owns the bank, and doesn't enjoy people breaking and entering into one of her properties." Another fist is slammed into his gut, and the next one smashes against his cheek while he's busy gasping for breath. They're both teaching Luc a lesson now, slowly but steadily. "Pays real well too, when it comes to dealing with things that have incurred her wrath." Luc's the thing, in case he was wondering. "We won't kill you," they assure him, as though it were some great consolation. "But we'll need some /good/ proof of you being taught a lesson." Another fist flies for his face, and Luc may be grateful for the rain right about now, for while he's still getting beat up, at least the force of the punch is lessened somewhat by the slipperiness of, well, everything, including fists flying for his face.
The police cruiser was enough for Luc - he's not thinking at his sharpest right now, and being beaten by real police wouldn't have surprised him much, either. "Fuck," he chokes out, then eats a fist to the chin that knocks him right down on his ass. Being homeless, it's not his first beating, either - but that still only leaves him with the option to curl up into a ball and wrap his arms around his face. His body would have to take the kicks for him, but he didn't want to end up disfigured for offending whoever this 'Wilson' person was - fucking Haven and their founding families. He hunkers down and blots out thought, fleeing from pain by receding into the back of his mind, with his last motes of cognizance spent on bemoaning how much of a bitch the walk back to town was going to be.
Too bad for Luc, him curling up in the fetal position doesn't do much to stop the assault upon his person. In fact, now that he's down there getting covered in mud, it simply frees up the opportunity for booted feet to kick at him. A foot lands upon his arm-protected head smushes it against the dirt and mud further, ensuring he's going to be entirely covered in the grime while another boot smashes against his ribs - it's definitely going to bruise, at best. Thankfully, they're not too interested in disfiguring him, only in making sure he's going to be feeling this for weeks to come.
By the time they stop, the pain all melds together until his body is feeling like one big bruise, each breath he takes bringing with it a fresh onslaught of aches. "Fuck, I love stress relief," says one of the officers, while rain pelts down upon Luc's battered form. He sounds like he means it too, as though he's revitalized by these acts of violence. It doesn't continue further, though. Instead, there's a flash and a snapping sound of a camera's shutter, Luc's helpless, curled up body immortalized in digital form before they climb back into the car and they're both off and away, wheels splattering more mud all over him where they roll by dangerously close to his head.