kore_logs | What if this is all a dream?

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What if this is all a dream?

Who: Fortescue, and you. (Open!)
When: Day 195
Where: The cafeteria.
What: Things feel weird to Fortescue, and that means the old paranoia's coming right back. This means breaking out the booze. Predictably.
Warnings: Some small mentions of torture. Will update if there's anything else.

She can't put her finger on it, but something is odd.

Jazz is slightly more irritable than usual, the black cat refusing to ride on her shoulders at all. At night, she thinks she hears whispers. Voices. Things in the dark. Things that speak when they think that she can't hear. She would toss that up to the Center being weird, as an ambiance, except she remembers her training manual on Seid magic. Dream walking and manipulating — what to do if someone is holding you against your will to get information from you, but disguising it with a dream. Less powerful casters always slip up and lessen their magic when you sleep, deep in your hallucination. Cracks appear, things spill through from where you really are.

Things like the casters' voices. Fortescue had just talked herself out of such paranoia, and now it's returned full-force. What if she never left that dank room in the jungle? What if those thugs are still draining the life out of her, and this is just some vibrant high before her mind is severed from her? What if the people here are just projections from a caster, trying to get information out of her about the war? About Imperium?

As usual when such thoughts go through her mind, Bethmora Fortescue goes for the alcohol. She makes her way to the cafeteria and kitchen in what she imagines is the late morning, after crawling out of bed with slightly shaky hands. Not bothering to change out of the black cocktail dress that she's been using as sleepwear — the Center was nice enough to furnish her with a change of clothes, a few weeks back. Maybe the Center likes her. She'd liked it much better than home... back before she'd had these thoughts. Perhaps she's still in her world after all.

She pours herself a hefty drink from one of the bottles of amber liquid she finds, whiskey from a brand she doesn't recognize, and sits down at a table to observe the room with cautious eyes. If the casters are making a habit of slipping up, she wants to see it in action.

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Dean's been having dreams. That'd be one thing if they didn't leave him with one of those dream hangovers that he couldn't shake, which means Dean's walking around with the shadow of Purgatory over his head, and he can't really settle. Probably he ought to say something about it to someone, but instead he thinks... nah. Drinking.

If he said anything to Cas, he'd probably look all sympathetic, and Meg... He's not quite ready to accept that getting one-on-one with Meg means more than a roll in the sheets now. And talking about Purgatory with Sam is just out. Alcohol never really lets him down when he needs to deal with his feelings.

He's slightly disappointed to see someone here, but that changes when he realizes it's Fortescue. Maybe she can help him blow off this steam.

"Hey. What've you got on tap?"

She pauses at the voice, looking at Dean just a fraction longer before responding than usual, observing him and the way he moves. Fortescue remembers coming here, meeting Dean and everyone else, and then leaving... and now being back, but what if all of that was a lie? What if she was never here before? How does she know what's real and what isn't?

If this is a hallucination, at least it's full of dreamy people.

"'MacCutcheon Whisky'," she reads off the side of the bottle. "Never seen it before, but it's not bad. Grab a glass and I'll share?"

Hey, if you're looking to have a hallucination in a giant, spooky, abandoned place, the bar is the place to do it.

"Sounds good to me." He grabs a glass and slides into place next to her, then pours himself a drink. He gives it a taste test, and then nods.

"Yeah, not bad. Here's to hoping it won't kill us." He smiles, but it's strained; he raises his glass up, anyway.

Fortescue gives a slightly edgy chuckle in response, gently clinking her glass to Dean's. It hasn't been fatal yet, at least. Come to think of it, most of the food in the cafeteria has been decent. If strange. The booze is no different. Although one of the bottles she'd ingested had made her dreams less than pleasant, and she'll be steering clear of that brand in the future.

"Hear, hear, love. How's your day been?" She has a sip. "Anything interesting?"

Other than dreaming about Purgatory and feeling like any second some rotten monster is going to jump out from around the corner and jump him, so Dean's gotta be ready for the attack? Nah, pretty slow day. He wants to brush it off, but he sniffs and nudges his glass on the table.

"You ever have one of those dreams you can't shake?" He glances to the side, to see if she might catch his meaning, but his assumption is that she will. She's seen some stuff, too.

"Yes," she confirms. Often, is what she doesn't say. Ever since Panama and her return to the Center, she's been plagued by dreams of the war. And dreams from before it, too. People she killed.

People who would have died by another hand, had it not been hers, but still. It was, in the end, her doing.

"When you wake up and you're not sure if you're still there or not?"

Can't sleep?

[ Maria doesn't want to startle the woman, waiting until she'd sat down before speaking but it was better than staying silent. She'd kept the room mostly dark, just dim lights on but it was easy to be missed if you weren't looking.

The same question could be applied back, too. She's new, learning the basics and actually she hadn't found anywhere to sleep yet. She hadn't been looking for a bar, either, but it hadn't hurt. Maybe she needed it ]

Hard to tell when you're supposed to be sleeping, around here.

[Fortescue considers the other woman. She doesn't seem familiar. A new arrival, then. Part of her wonders what edge of her imagination the caster retrieved her from. She shakes her head slightly, attempting to banish that particular thought.]

Care for some?

[As it happens, there's an empty glass, as she shakes the bottle slightly.]

She gets it. He nods, is quiet for a moment, and then has another drink.

When he closes his eyes, he can almost conjure Purgatory. The way it stank, the way his feet sank into the mud sometimes. He would've made jokes about horses and traumatic childhood movies if he'd had room in his mind for jokes, but it was just about two things: finding Cas and surviving.

"I feel like the same person I was then."

I'd start with 'when you're tired' and run from there.

[ Although that could dangerously seep in to excessive daytime napping territory, or less sleep than you should get - she was definitely more the latter. But maybe it was right, there weren't exactly an abundance of windows, or clocks ]

Sure. Maybe it'll end up all being a dream.

[ Except her tone doesn't exactly seem as if she believes that will happen ]

"Is that a good or a bad thing?" Fortescue wonders, if a label can even be put on it. But were it her dreams, it would certainly be a bad thing. She remembers her quiet despair in Panama, and the fog that had set in during the war — making it impossible to see her future. She'd made a lot of poor decisions in that mindset, though, given her job, they were decisions she had to back up later.

"I can think of some dreams it wouldn't feel terrible to be in, still," she adds, with a tiny smirk.

[Fortescue swallows the twitch that tries to run up her spine, at those words. Were this a caster situation, it would be the caster making a poor joke. But there aren't any ripples in the area around them, or other leaks, and so maybe, just maybe, they were just too women having a drink while feeling similar amounts of jittery.

Just maybe.]

Has it been that bad, so far?

[She pours Maria a measure of whiskey, sliding it across the table.]

You missed the hellhounds. It can get quite a bit more exciting than this.

Being kidnapped doesn't quite make being the highlight of my day.

[ Being kidnapped or taken in by the FBI, the latter becoming a little more frequent (if short lived). But whether or not anything had happened it wasn't an enjoyable situation ]

What are hellhounds?

[ There's a small frown to accompany the question, an unknowing measure about it. Her hand takes hold of the glass when it reaches her, a few seconds passing before she raises it to drink a little. At least the whiskey was good ]

[Fortescue really doesn't want to examine the fact that being in this place is normal and okay, and being back home... really isn't, anymore. There are only one or two people who seem to understand. She has a feeling everyone else would look at her like she's crazy.

So she moves onto the question, after a fortifying sip of booze.]

Nastily tempered, invisible dogs who like to rip out your throat and anything else they can reach. [She shrugs. It is what it is.] For about a week they were roaming the halls here. I received a nasty bite from one of them, a few others got taken by them. Ah, I suppose that's the next bit of information for you. Death isn't permanent here. Not usually.

[ That last piece of information makes Maria take a large gulp of her whiskey. Invisible dogs, death that wasn't permanent. Maybe this was familiar, but not quite in the best way. Aliens and things that they didn't understand. Again ]

That sounds about right. There's always something that has to be different.

[ They've brought people back from the dead before but it was risky. It was torture. Maria hoped she'd never have to experience it here ]

How long have you been here?

[She has to think about that.]

The first time I was here, I was here for about... six months, I think, give or take. Keeping track of time is more difficult than usual, here. Then I was shipped off home and didn't remember this place, spent a few years back there... And now I'm here again. I've been back a month or two. It's like riding a bicycle. But not everyone remembers this place, when they come back.

He's been wandering the halls of this place for half an hour now. By all accounts, it's not that long a stretch, especially when time means very little to him to begin with -- but it's an awful long time to go without crossing paths with another soul. He can smell that he's not alone in this place, that there are people tucked away somewhere, but he's not eager to chase the scent. Tracking is too closely linked to old habits he'd rather not revisit.

He pauses when he reaches the door to the cafeteria -- he can hear the faint sound of breath from inside, smell the whiskey even from where he's standing. Someone was in there. Maybe even someone with an answer or two. Even the faintest beginnings of an explanation would have been welcome. All he knew was that this place sure as hell wasn't Purgatory -- or if it was, they'd done some pretty extensive remodeling while he'd been gone.

He raises an eyebrow when he enters, spotting the lone figure seated at one of the tables with a glass in front of her. He cracks half a smile, keeping his distance in a conscious effort not to be invasive, but not without comment.

"Ain't it a bit early for that kinda thing, darlin'?"

If this whole thing is a caster's work, then the people in it are from the edges of her own memory or the caster's. People your mind remembers, but faces you can't put a name to. No one in Cape Kore is familiar from home, which means, in that case, they're all amalgamations of odd names and faces. Constructs. A fantasy landscape must have a cast.

Fortescue's pulled from this unpleasant thought by this stranger's very nice voice. She knows that accent. American. Southern. She'd met a number of Southern boys in uniform, overseas and far from their homes. It's both a good memory and a bad one, but she smiles all the same.

"It's seven o'clock somewhere," she notes, waving a hand vaguely. In many places in the Multiverse, for those who measure time in the same way, it's seven o'clock, and that's her shaky defense. It's not much of a defense, and it's a cliché, but it'll do. "Besides, this place has a habit of redesigning the rules."

And then promptly throwing them out the window and drafting a new set, before doing the same thing all over again. She raises a brow back, teasingly.

"Care to join me?"

"Funny how those aren't the ones that don't let go." So, yeah, it's a bad thing; he wasn't a good person then, and what scares him is that he can look back and know that he still felt like he belonged there. That person he was, it felt natural.

"What do you do?" He holds up his glass. "If it's not just this. I'm not so sure it's working."

She shrugs her shoulders lightly. "This is what I try first," she has to admit. It's simple and easy and sometimes it focuses her. Sometimes, though, it just blurs her. Makes it even harder to tell where she is, and where she isn't. She can sympathize.

Fortescue gives Dean's shoulder a teasing poke.

"The other methods I use aren't... child-friendly. I'm sure you can imagine." He does know her decently well, by now. "But there's also going back to sleep and hoping for a different dream."

It seems to be fond of throwing people back and forth. You're not the only one I've heard that from.

[ Banner was the other - mentioned gaps, multiple time periods. She hadn't asked for the in between in depth, though. She drinks a bit of her whiskey, thinking on it ]

What else is different here? Other than being in limbo here, and death.

[Fortescue thinks, swishing her drink around in its glass.]

I think that's about it. Other than the hallways. Have you been wandering for a bit?

[If she had, then she knew all about the hallways and their habit of changing positions. And lengths. Although maybe it was harder for someone new to tell, but most of the time they were fairly obvious.]

"Now how could I say no to an invitation like that?"

Simple though it was, there was something undeniably appealing about tipping back a glass of just about anything that would help him slow down enough to better process this situation he'd found himself in. He'd never really been the panicking type -- didn't do much for him. Took things slow and easy, step by step, and got through most everything just fine.

All except for that time he'd had his head cut off the first go around and he'd bought himself a one-way ticket to Purgatory, but the rest of his track record? Pretty damn clean, all things considered.

He slides into the seat across from her without waiting for any further instruction, hands clasped together as he leaned forward over the table that stood between them, curious. She'd been here awhile. That much was obvious.

"So what's all this about redesignin' rules?"

He smirks at what she's implying, and he ducks his head as he looks down at his drink.

"Nah, think I grew out of that." Mostly thanks to Hell making him into a shell of a person, but he doesn't really want to get into that, either.

Also, Dean has Cas and Meg, so it's not like he's celibate. He's used Meg for that a few times, not that she wasn't on board every time.

"I don't know if I've ever tried hoping for another dream."

"It would be terribly rude of you, darling."

Fortescue smirks just a little, sliding a glass over to him after she fills it halfway. There's a tiny little stack on the table, though she hadn't really intended them for anyone else at the time she'd grabbed them. Mostly, it had been a precautionary measure against standing up again. For a while, at least.

"There are a few that stay true, I suppose," she answers, thoughtfully. "We're generally undisturbed in our rooms — can't wait for that one to go — and the food in here comes in a steady supply. A stroll in the hallways will tell you all you need to know about the rest of this place. I found chalk for the walls once, to find my way around. Now that was an experience. Entire walls deciding to vacate the premises, in the blink of an eye."

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What if this is all a dream?

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