Isabel's Dreams, Wednesday Night
Isabel didn't know she'd had a vistor while she slept. She never woke.
As the day faded into night, she kept sleeping.
He hadn't been sleeping very well the past few nights. Strange dreams. But he crawled into bed anyway, and soon he was asleep.
Green, luscious jungle stretched out beneath him. It almost looked peaceful for a moment. Until the sound of machine gun fire brought him back to reality. Up ahead, the clearing where he swooped in to land and waited as men ran toward his bird. He glanced back and instantly wished he hadn't. Looked like it had been bad out there again. He turned back toward the front, glancing over his gauges, making sure nothing was amiss as he waited for lift off.
Catching the signal from the man on the ground, he shot up from the ground and headed for higher altitudes as quickly as possible. This was the part where his bird was vulnerable to gunfire from the ground. But he made it up. Clear blue sky ahead, puffy white clouds in the distance...
...until a horrible shudder made the chopper dip steeply. Gauges flashed and buzzed at him, but he ignored them in favor of trying to keep the bird steady. There were a few shouts from the back, he ignored those too as the chopper drifted further towards the dense jungle growth. Not much he could do except to try to angle it so it wouldn't cause any further harm to the men when it hit. Which meant nose first...
Isabel was wedged in a position that she could watch as the plane went down. She couldn't help but scream.
The scene abruptly changes and instead of being surrounded by jungle, he's in a room. It's an ordinary enough room; white walls, sparse furniture. The mesh grill over the window is a bit unusual, however. There's some kind of noise nearby. Some loud voices and the sounds of something heavy being moved.
He dashed up from his crouched position behind a wall and tried to rush through the bodies in white uniforms that surrounded him. But he wasn't quite fast enough and there were too many of them. He struggled, trying to break free, to no avail. The man with the long white coat stepped forward, needle in hand. He struggled a bit more, screaming 'No!' at the man, but the needle found still found its way to his arm. As the sedative took affect, he kept mumbling for the men to not haul him away; that he didn't want to go, he'd tell them anything they wanted...
The man in the long white coat shook his head a bit sadly and followed his patient out.
She didn't recognize the man in the dream and she didn't want to startle him. Uncertain of what to do, Isabel followed them out the door.
He was still being dragged along, but it wasn't by men in white. These men had green uniforms. And rifles. And they weren't very gentle as they flung him onto the floor of a dusty, bamboo hut. He coughed a bit and struggled to sit up, but the latter was mostly accomplished by someone grabbing him from behind and forcing him up.
"Perhaps we'll have better cooperation today?" A man in some kind of military uniform sneered down at him.
"Go to hell," he spat out.
The sneer grew cold and the man turned away for a moment as two sets of arms forced him to his knees and held him there. The one in front of him turned back, this time holding a fire-heated knife. The smile was anything but pleasant as he approached with the knife in hand...
Isabel had wanted to keep a low profile in the dreams of people she didn't know. But she couldn't watch this.
"You need to wake up," she called from the door of the hut. "This is just a dream!"
From somewhere a voice was telling him that it was a dream. How he wished it was. It wasn't a dream, it was a memory. One of many that lurked in his subconcious. All those repressed, and supposedly forgotten memories...
Murdock jerked awake and sat straight up in the bed, panting and sweating. He pulled the blanked around himself and curled up a bit, trying to shake off the rest of the memories.
He probably wasn't going back to sleep for some time...
Unfortunately Isabel didn't have that problem.
She continued to dream.
Jason stepped out of the farmhouse, dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans. He probably should have been surprised to see his grandparents alive and well, but he was too busy being surprised at who they were talking to.
The young man in the Superman outfit looked very much like him. Or perhaps, it looked exactly like what his father had looked like at his age.
"Who are you?" Jason asked.
"Your replacement." the boy said, hovering a few inches off the ground. Jason wished he wouldn't do that. Jason couldn't do that.
"My what?"
"You've fooled everyone haven't you. Supergirl, your room mate, even your parents. But you can't fool me. I'm the real Kon-El. I'm the real Superboy. Admit it!"
"Admit what?" Jason snarked, annoyed at the name Superboy. He hated that name. "That I can't believe you're wearing underwear that tight?"
Superboy snarled. "Admit that you're a fake! You're not Superboy!" And with that, he punched Jason, dislocating his jaw and sending him sailing several feet, through the wall of the barn.
And the fight was on. Jason got in some decent blows, but he wasn't winning.
[bastardized from DC Comics' Infinite Crisis]
Isabel dodged out of the way of the fight. Not sure who was the dreamer and who was just a part of the dream.
Jason got hit with a car that 'Superboy' swung at him like a bat. His face was bruised, and his nose was bleeding, but that didn't stop him from pulling Isabel from danger, as a street lamp, damaged in the fighting collapsed towards them.
"Who do you think you are?" Superboy sneered. "Trying to play the hero? I'm the only real hero here!"
Even though Isabel was pretty certain she couldn't be hurt in the dream, she was still grateful to be pulled out of the ways of falling street lamp.
"You realize this is just a dream don't you?" she asked.
Jason turned to Isabel in surprise. "It what?" Well that would explain his dead grandparents. And of course, being attacked by either an idealized version of himself, or his father as a teenager.
"Hey!" Superboy snarled, grabbing Jason by the throat. "I'm talking to you!"
"You're no hero." Jason grunted. "You put all these people in danger." he pointed to the passerby, who were gawking. "Not me. That what a hero does?"
"It's just a dream. Wake up and you end it," she told him.
Jason tried to wake up. But he'd never been in a dream where he knew it was a dream, and thus tried to wake up. He didn't know how to do it deliberately, it'd always just happened. His attempts, failed.
"This whole night is weird," said Isabel, who had no clue she'd already been asleep for two days.
"Maybe we could..."
But whatever she was going to suggest was lost as she blinked out of the dream.
Dean rearranged his cards, separating out the eight of hearts and the three of spades and passing them across the table.
"Two."
The wendigo to his left rubbed its forehead where its eyebrow had once been. He's got nothing. Probably gonna bluff. Truman Capote pursed his lips, but he'd done that for every single hand so far, so Dean wasn't sure what he might have, yet.
The dealer gave a Cajun-accented chuckle, pulled the giant purple cuban cigar out of his mouth, and ran his long black tongue along rows and rows of small, sharp teeth.
"I hate playing against L'Acallemon," the Ghost of Tom Joad whispered in Dean's ear. "Gator-headed freak has the best poker face known to man."
Isabel looked down at the cards she was holding. Poker never was her game.
"Tell me this isn't strip poker."
"This isn't strip poker," Dean, Truman Capote, and the Ghost of Tom Jones all said at once. Dean turned his head.
"Weren't you the Ghost of Tom Joad a second ago?"
"The Ghost of Tom Joad is a Springsteen album."
". . . Oh." Dean took his two cards from L'Acallemon. The Page of Cups and a business card for the CEO of Busty Asian Beauties.
Ooo, full house.
She didn't facepalm but it was close. "I should have expected that."
"Dean? You have weird dreams."
"This is a dream?"
"Uno!" shouted the Wendigo.
"For the last time, Harold," L'Acallemon said. "We're playing five-card stud."
"Pretty much," Isabel nodded. "And for some reason I'm passing through."
For some reason her cards suddenly had puppies and kittens on them. Like a Go Fish deck for a small child.
Dean considered this while the Ghost of Davy Jones peered over his shoulder and poked at his royal flush.
"I thought you were the Ghost of Tom Jones."
"Tom Jones isn't dead."
"Neither is Davy Jones."
"Monkee or sailor?"
Yep, this was a dream alright. "Hey, wait, if this is a dream, that means. . . ." He snapped his fingers, hoping to get her topless.
Suddenly there was a cool draft where there should not have been a cool draft.
"Dammit Dean!" Isabel yelled as she crossed her arms over her chest.
Dean pumped the hand that wasn't holding his cards in the air.
"Awesome!"
Truman Capote set down his cards. "I fold."
"When we wake up? I'm so going to kick your ass," she warned. "I thought you said this wasn't strip poker."
"Bridge!" yelled Harold the Wendigo.
Dean grinned. "Hey, my dream, my rules, right? I been sick, I need a good hot chick. . . ."
Isabel rolled her eyes and waved her hand with its ring around. "Sorry. Spoken for. Maybe in another life time."
Dean pouted. "Oh, come on. What happens in Dean's head stays in Dean's head? Uh, mostly. . . ."
"You're going to trip over that lip if you stick it out any farther," she laughed. "It's breaking my heart. But no."
Dean smiled, not the least bit hurt. "Eh, worth a shot."
L'Acallemon leered. As much as a gator-headed man could leer, anyway. Dean glared at him and snapped his fingers to give Isabel back her shirt.
Which was perfect timing as Isabel suddenly disappeared from Dean's dream.
[NFB, NFI, preplayed with the dreamers]
As the day faded into night, she kept sleeping.
He hadn't been sleeping very well the past few nights. Strange dreams. But he crawled into bed anyway, and soon he was asleep.
Green, luscious jungle stretched out beneath him. It almost looked peaceful for a moment. Until the sound of machine gun fire brought him back to reality. Up ahead, the clearing where he swooped in to land and waited as men ran toward his bird. He glanced back and instantly wished he hadn't. Looked like it had been bad out there again. He turned back toward the front, glancing over his gauges, making sure nothing was amiss as he waited for lift off.
Catching the signal from the man on the ground, he shot up from the ground and headed for higher altitudes as quickly as possible. This was the part where his bird was vulnerable to gunfire from the ground. But he made it up. Clear blue sky ahead, puffy white clouds in the distance...
...until a horrible shudder made the chopper dip steeply. Gauges flashed and buzzed at him, but he ignored them in favor of trying to keep the bird steady. There were a few shouts from the back, he ignored those too as the chopper drifted further towards the dense jungle growth. Not much he could do except to try to angle it so it wouldn't cause any further harm to the men when it hit. Which meant nose first...
Isabel was wedged in a position that she could watch as the plane went down. She couldn't help but scream.
The scene abruptly changes and instead of being surrounded by jungle, he's in a room. It's an ordinary enough room; white walls, sparse furniture. The mesh grill over the window is a bit unusual, however. There's some kind of noise nearby. Some loud voices and the sounds of something heavy being moved.
He dashed up from his crouched position behind a wall and tried to rush through the bodies in white uniforms that surrounded him. But he wasn't quite fast enough and there were too many of them. He struggled, trying to break free, to no avail. The man with the long white coat stepped forward, needle in hand. He struggled a bit more, screaming 'No!' at the man, but the needle found still found its way to his arm. As the sedative took affect, he kept mumbling for the men to not haul him away; that he didn't want to go, he'd tell them anything they wanted...
The man in the long white coat shook his head a bit sadly and followed his patient out.
She didn't recognize the man in the dream and she didn't want to startle him. Uncertain of what to do, Isabel followed them out the door.
He was still being dragged along, but it wasn't by men in white. These men had green uniforms. And rifles. And they weren't very gentle as they flung him onto the floor of a dusty, bamboo hut. He coughed a bit and struggled to sit up, but the latter was mostly accomplished by someone grabbing him from behind and forcing him up.
"Perhaps we'll have better cooperation today?" A man in some kind of military uniform sneered down at him.
"Go to hell," he spat out.
The sneer grew cold and the man turned away for a moment as two sets of arms forced him to his knees and held him there. The one in front of him turned back, this time holding a fire-heated knife. The smile was anything but pleasant as he approached with the knife in hand...
Isabel had wanted to keep a low profile in the dreams of people she didn't know. But she couldn't watch this.
"You need to wake up," she called from the door of the hut. "This is just a dream!"
From somewhere a voice was telling him that it was a dream. How he wished it was. It wasn't a dream, it was a memory. One of many that lurked in his subconcious. All those repressed, and supposedly forgotten memories...
Murdock jerked awake and sat straight up in the bed, panting and sweating. He pulled the blanked around himself and curled up a bit, trying to shake off the rest of the memories.
He probably wasn't going back to sleep for some time...
Unfortunately Isabel didn't have that problem.
She continued to dream.
Jason stepped out of the farmhouse, dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans. He probably should have been surprised to see his grandparents alive and well, but he was too busy being surprised at who they were talking to.
The young man in the Superman outfit looked very much like him. Or perhaps, it looked exactly like what his father had looked like at his age.
"Who are you?" Jason asked.
"Your replacement." the boy said, hovering a few inches off the ground. Jason wished he wouldn't do that. Jason couldn't do that.
"My what?"
"You've fooled everyone haven't you. Supergirl, your room mate, even your parents. But you can't fool me. I'm the real Kon-El. I'm the real Superboy. Admit it!"
"Admit what?" Jason snarked, annoyed at the name Superboy. He hated that name. "That I can't believe you're wearing underwear that tight?"
Superboy snarled. "Admit that you're a fake! You're not Superboy!" And with that, he punched Jason, dislocating his jaw and sending him sailing several feet, through the wall of the barn.
And the fight was on. Jason got in some decent blows, but he wasn't winning.
[bastardized from DC Comics' Infinite Crisis]
Isabel dodged out of the way of the fight. Not sure who was the dreamer and who was just a part of the dream.
Jason got hit with a car that 'Superboy' swung at him like a bat. His face was bruised, and his nose was bleeding, but that didn't stop him from pulling Isabel from danger, as a street lamp, damaged in the fighting collapsed towards them.
"Who do you think you are?" Superboy sneered. "Trying to play the hero? I'm the only real hero here!"
Even though Isabel was pretty certain she couldn't be hurt in the dream, she was still grateful to be pulled out of the ways of falling street lamp.
"You realize this is just a dream don't you?" she asked.
Jason turned to Isabel in surprise. "It what?" Well that would explain his dead grandparents. And of course, being attacked by either an idealized version of himself, or his father as a teenager.
"Hey!" Superboy snarled, grabbing Jason by the throat. "I'm talking to you!"
"You're no hero." Jason grunted. "You put all these people in danger." he pointed to the passerby, who were gawking. "Not me. That what a hero does?"
"It's just a dream. Wake up and you end it," she told him.
Jason tried to wake up. But he'd never been in a dream where he knew it was a dream, and thus tried to wake up. He didn't know how to do it deliberately, it'd always just happened. His attempts, failed.
"This whole night is weird," said Isabel, who had no clue she'd already been asleep for two days.
"Maybe we could..."
But whatever she was going to suggest was lost as she blinked out of the dream.
Dean rearranged his cards, separating out the eight of hearts and the three of spades and passing them across the table.
"Two."
The wendigo to his left rubbed its forehead where its eyebrow had once been. He's got nothing. Probably gonna bluff. Truman Capote pursed his lips, but he'd done that for every single hand so far, so Dean wasn't sure what he might have, yet.
The dealer gave a Cajun-accented chuckle, pulled the giant purple cuban cigar out of his mouth, and ran his long black tongue along rows and rows of small, sharp teeth.
"I hate playing against L'Acallemon," the Ghost of Tom Joad whispered in Dean's ear. "Gator-headed freak has the best poker face known to man."
Isabel looked down at the cards she was holding. Poker never was her game.
"Tell me this isn't strip poker."
"This isn't strip poker," Dean, Truman Capote, and the Ghost of Tom Jones all said at once. Dean turned his head.
"Weren't you the Ghost of Tom Joad a second ago?"
"The Ghost of Tom Joad is a Springsteen album."
". . . Oh." Dean took his two cards from L'Acallemon. The Page of Cups and a business card for the CEO of Busty Asian Beauties.
Ooo, full house.
She didn't facepalm but it was close. "I should have expected that."
"Dean? You have weird dreams."
"This is a dream?"
"Uno!" shouted the Wendigo.
"For the last time, Harold," L'Acallemon said. "We're playing five-card stud."
"Pretty much," Isabel nodded. "And for some reason I'm passing through."
For some reason her cards suddenly had puppies and kittens on them. Like a Go Fish deck for a small child.
Dean considered this while the Ghost of Davy Jones peered over his shoulder and poked at his royal flush.
"I thought you were the Ghost of Tom Jones."
"Tom Jones isn't dead."
"Neither is Davy Jones."
"Monkee or sailor?"
Yep, this was a dream alright. "Hey, wait, if this is a dream, that means. . . ." He snapped his fingers, hoping to get her topless.
Suddenly there was a cool draft where there should not have been a cool draft.
"Dammit Dean!" Isabel yelled as she crossed her arms over her chest.
Dean pumped the hand that wasn't holding his cards in the air.
"Awesome!"
Truman Capote set down his cards. "I fold."
"When we wake up? I'm so going to kick your ass," she warned. "I thought you said this wasn't strip poker."
"Bridge!" yelled Harold the Wendigo.
Dean grinned. "Hey, my dream, my rules, right? I been sick, I need a good hot chick. . . ."
Isabel rolled her eyes and waved her hand with its ring around. "Sorry. Spoken for. Maybe in another life time."
Dean pouted. "Oh, come on. What happens in Dean's head stays in Dean's head? Uh, mostly. . . ."
"You're going to trip over that lip if you stick it out any farther," she laughed. "It's breaking my heart. But no."
Dean smiled, not the least bit hurt. "Eh, worth a shot."
L'Acallemon leered. As much as a gator-headed man could leer, anyway. Dean glared at him and snapped his fingers to give Isabel back her shirt.
Which was perfect timing as Isabel suddenly disappeared from Dean's dream.
[NFB, NFI, preplayed with the dreamers]