[Dream] [Week 5, Day 6]
This dream is in between an R to an NC-17 rating for sexual and violent content.
The barn. A normal place to hang out. Old as well. Maybe as old as the Civil War. The sun shines through the rafters, the beams, the doors, the open gate. It’s all golden and rusty and old. You look up at the rafters: an old habit. You keep expecting Tobias to be here. Bird-boy. A kid who hunts rats for breakfast.
“No, Marco, you multiply cosine A with the measurements then you divide it by cosine B. See?” A delicate, manicured hand reaches over your shoulder and points to your messy, scribbled notes. You look down, to more important matters at hand (ha ha!) Not a scratch, not even a mole blemishes that pale hand. She paints her fingernails red. You fail to see the reasoning behind that. They will wear down anyway, or sometimes disappear entirely. “Be sure to add a negative sine to your calculator, or otherwise you’ll get a different and totally wrong answer.” She withdraws her hand to behind your back and you miss its presences, irrationally enough. Her blonde, bright hair cascades over her shoulders and in your face.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mutter, trying to ignore her perfume. Because sneezing would probably make Rachel punch you in the face. And Rachel’s punches are nothing to sneeze at. (Ha ha!) You write in your answer, scribble and all, and snap the notebook shut. “There. Done. I’ll totally pass that test.”
Rachel gives a snort and curls her hand into your short hair. You feel her claws scrapping against your scalp. “Somehow,” she breathes into your ear, hot air flowing past, lips hovering. “I doubt that.”
There’s always a crosspoint. (Do you spell it with a hyphen? Cross-point? Or a space between: cross point.) When a pretty person like Rachel curls her clawed hands into your scalp, there’s a direction you have to take, have to choose. Take her hand away. Move. Joke about her trying to scalp you. Move on. Take control. (This is not important to teamwork. You don’t operate well alone.) And talk about the next mission, the next time where the possibility that one of us might not comeback, Rachel, let’s go to that, let’s do this because we are all mad from suffering and guilt and all the pretty, shallow lies we have to tell ourselves. Let’s go back to all this and we shall be mighty, for one second.
"Let’s do it," Rachel said. "Let’s fall in love."
She presses her lips against the corner of your own.
You turn your head.
Her lips: pink, normally. Has sheen, sometimes. Has lipstick, sometimes. You don’t see her wearing lipstick often. And why bother? Almost everyday after school ends, ring, ring riiiiing!, you and her and the others go back to the barn, make plans, and move in for the kill.
But now: red. Red from pressing against your own. From nipping. Sucking.
“Aren’t you worried about Hawk-boy?” you say, caution snapping at your heels.
“No,” she breathes, and then she kisses you again.
On this hay bale, she pushes you down, down on your back. She presses her lips down, down on your own lips, your cheek, your neck - there, especially at the neck. Your hands: they grip her long hair. Long blonde hair. You kiss her and she kisses you back. Her nails claw through her shirt, to the skin.
And then -
- she grabs your shoulder and neck -
- and shoves you against the wall.
You’re on your knees and so is she.
Rachel practically rips your T-shirt. You grasp her top, trying to take it off. She helps you, shrugging her tank top off. No bra. You waste no time, you immediately grabs one breast and start massaging it. Marco doesn’t even really know how he should know how to do this - all of this is human instinct, the deep, primal drive that every human operates but deny it at the same time. Because humans are not animals, oh no, humans are above that, above such drives as shitting and fucking and eating. Humans are not flesh and blood, they are flesh and blood. Heh, heh, that’s so funny, because when Marco morphed into another human, he doesn’t see memories, memories aren’t genetic, no, but instincts are. Instincts are different for each individual. He feels Mr. Grant’s mellowness.
At times, when Marco nearly achieves a zen-like state while playing Doom Marco can feel his own: cold, ruthless. So maybe society is one big illusion, one big farce but something humans much survive in because it is the instincts in the human mind that drives to create such illusions, the illusions of the Other in different humans because
oh fuck
She just - oh, there, just shoved his pants, and cupping him there, there, and suddenly there’s fire, fire inside of you, all around you, it feels similar to the pain and the fire you normally feel in battle, the heat you feel when you are about to die, from the red light of Dracon beams, a Hork-Bajir blade, a Taxxon bite, or something monstrous from Visser Three. It’s the same but not. The fire is there, still burns intensely but it burns in such a different color. When fire is burned in battle, it burns blue. Hot, intense, and powerful.
The fire being burn here, right now as the color red, with Rachel kissing and sucking your neck and you wonder, how come I’m the only one who can’t have this? Everyone else has everybody else.
But no, don’t self-pity yourself, that’s not how to live. That you don’t see in tragedy.
You see the world in comedy, any kind of comedy.
So this is funny. Funny because Rachel, of all people, decided to pick Marco, of all people, to do something they would dare do to other kids at school, because, oh god what if Melanie or Jack has an evil slug in their head, making them horny?
Rachel is grabbing your - oh, yes - cock and, what, oh god, she’s totally serious and you can feel a sensation you have never felt before, which is, like, amazing because you have been so many things and have so many sensations that you know which is which without being in morph and you
you don’t exist anymore.
You don’t.
There’s only this. No humanity in this. No thoughts of Tobias and Jake and Cassie there’s only Rachel and Marco - but no Marco and Rachel here.
Here, there’s only human instinct.
Here, there are only animals.
You move. You move without thought, mind reduced to only the movement and this, yes and that, yes. You move, and she moves, grabbing your hands and shoving them against the wall. And she moves, quicker than you, faster, rotating hips and you notice that she’s still wearing her - short - skirt and that makes you even harder, if that’s possible.
You look up. You look up and see into Rachel’s eyes. Blue, clear eyes. Eyes that any supermodel would die for. But you know that while a long time ago, Rachel might be happy with that sort of life but you know now she won’t. Her smile shows that. A dangerous smile, a smile that promises fights and sarcasm and blood all over, death all over, and pain all over.
You come too soon, and you don’t want to, you want this to last forever but too late, there’s a mess all over, your mess, and with her own, oddly out of character cry, it’s her mess as well. She slumps over you, her head resting on your shoulders. She breathes hard, like she ran for her life, and in a way, she has.
The silence is crushing.
She lifts her head.
“It’s not over,” she whispers in your ear.
You feel confused. “What isn’t?”
“The fire. It’s not. They’re coming.” And there’s something wrong with her voice right there, as though she swallowed gravel.
“Who?” you ask, feeling stupid from sex. Honestly, you don’t care if Tobias or Cassie barges in on you and Rachel. Who the fuck cares?
“Yeerks,” she whispered, and her beautiful, golden hair starts turning dark, into a courser, brown color and you feel like lightening struck you.
You feel the blue flames inside you once more. You feel alive again. More alive then what you done seconds ago. You change, but not your clothes. No, whatever clothes you are wearing, they are being ripped apart. Of course. You can’t morph clothes. You focus, but you don’t know what. You are morphing but you don’t know what kind of animal you are.
You look for Rachel, who slipped off your lap and landed on the floor, and you don’t see a tall blonde girl who goes to gymnastics. Instead, you see a large grizzly bear, with at least over a thousand pounds worth of brute strength. You see her turn over cars with that morph. Hell, you’ve seen her demolish a truck with that morph.
You look down your hands and you don’t see gorilla hands you normally change into.
You see massive, white paw, with deadly hooks on each end.
A polar bear.
The largest land carnivore on the planet.
Rachel charges to the closed giant gates of the barn and smashes through them. In the sunlight, you only see her silhouette: on her hind legs, roaring and roaring and roaring. And then she runs in a lumbering gait with the strength of a speeding train.
You go after her, running as well through the mess of the opening. And you see Rachel, in grizzly bear morph, slapping a seven-foot tall alien with spikes and blades to the ground, snapping its snake-like neck in two. Two giant, fat centipedes with lamprey-like mouths, with brimming red, sharp teeth starts to devouring the dead alien. Rachel kills them too. A human approaches her, an old man who clearly can’t hold that screaming chain saw, trying to hack her apart. Rachel only laughs and smacks him in the head. The chainsaw goes flying. The man moans, grasping his suddenly red, red face as claw marks start to split the skin apart. Another fat centipede - Taxxons - start approaching him, making its SCREEE SCREEEE! scream as it bears down on the old man.
You charge and slice the Taxxon apart with your claws as though it’s been made of butter. Two bladed monsters - Hork-Bajir jumps on your back. You simply lean back and fall backwards, crushing them with your weight. You roll. You slash some kid with a Dracon beam and you ignore his screams. (His hands are crushed by your claws.)
And all of this, you think: All of this burns. This is so much, not too much, but so much.
Because it burns. What you and Rachel had, it burns. But this, this is true fire. They’ll kill you, you are on the edge, you have to push or be pushed back and oh, oh, this is life, this true human instinct. To fight. To kill. The bear is too angry, too enraged to think anything else except to survive now.
The blue flame burns on, as the red one flicker and dies.
You slash and roar and cut and slap and body-slam and bite and you roar roar roarroar . . . .
. . . . and everything else becomes quiet.
There’s Rachel, standing in human forms. All around her, there are alien and human corpses all around. Human, wearing her leotard, her morphing outfit. There’s blood and guts on her. Both red and other different colors of alien blood. But they don’t seem to stay on her skin, at the same time, there’s some reaching of the carnage to her. As though battle draws to her.
And you know she draws to the battle.
The blood is on the corner on her lips. The way the splatter is, it looks like it gives her a Glasgow smile. But then it disappears, and appears again. The wind blows, covering her face, sometimes not. But they never cover her eyes. Eyes that are human now, but they can be another predator’s. They can be anything.
Rachel burns more with her desire to war than she does with anything else.
You can only pray that won’t be the case with you.
But you are a human with human instincts.
And so is Rachel.
[Marco wakes up with a gasp. Looks at his hands, making sure that yes, they are human hands. He looks down on his front. Grunts. He grabs the nearby Hitomi and it is turned off.]
The barn. A normal place to hang out. Old as well. Maybe as old as the Civil War. The sun shines through the rafters, the beams, the doors, the open gate. It’s all golden and rusty and old. You look up at the rafters: an old habit. You keep expecting Tobias to be here. Bird-boy. A kid who hunts rats for breakfast.
“No, Marco, you multiply cosine A with the measurements then you divide it by cosine B. See?” A delicate, manicured hand reaches over your shoulder and points to your messy, scribbled notes. You look down, to more important matters at hand (ha ha!) Not a scratch, not even a mole blemishes that pale hand. She paints her fingernails red. You fail to see the reasoning behind that. They will wear down anyway, or sometimes disappear entirely. “Be sure to add a negative sine to your calculator, or otherwise you’ll get a different and totally wrong answer.” She withdraws her hand to behind your back and you miss its presences, irrationally enough. Her blonde, bright hair cascades over her shoulders and in your face.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” you mutter, trying to ignore her perfume. Because sneezing would probably make Rachel punch you in the face. And Rachel’s punches are nothing to sneeze at. (Ha ha!) You write in your answer, scribble and all, and snap the notebook shut. “There. Done. I’ll totally pass that test.”
Rachel gives a snort and curls her hand into your short hair. You feel her claws scrapping against your scalp. “Somehow,” she breathes into your ear, hot air flowing past, lips hovering. “I doubt that.”
There’s always a crosspoint. (Do you spell it with a hyphen? Cross-point? Or a space between: cross point.) When a pretty person like Rachel curls her clawed hands into your scalp, there’s a direction you have to take, have to choose. Take her hand away. Move. Joke about her trying to scalp you. Move on. Take control. (This is not important to teamwork. You don’t operate well alone.) And talk about the next mission, the next time where the possibility that one of us might not comeback, Rachel, let’s go to that, let’s do this because we are all mad from suffering and guilt and all the pretty, shallow lies we have to tell ourselves. Let’s go back to all this and we shall be mighty, for one second.
"Let’s do it," Rachel said. "Let’s fall in love."
She presses her lips against the corner of your own.
You turn your head.
Her lips: pink, normally. Has sheen, sometimes. Has lipstick, sometimes. You don’t see her wearing lipstick often. And why bother? Almost everyday after school ends, ring, ring riiiiing!, you and her and the others go back to the barn, make plans, and move in for the kill.
But now: red. Red from pressing against your own. From nipping. Sucking.
“Aren’t you worried about Hawk-boy?” you say, caution snapping at your heels.
“No,” she breathes, and then she kisses you again.
On this hay bale, she pushes you down, down on your back. She presses her lips down, down on your own lips, your cheek, your neck - there, especially at the neck. Your hands: they grip her long hair. Long blonde hair. You kiss her and she kisses you back. Her nails claw through her shirt, to the skin.
And then -
- she grabs your shoulder and neck -
- and shoves you against the wall.
You’re on your knees and so is she.
Rachel practically rips your T-shirt. You grasp her top, trying to take it off. She helps you, shrugging her tank top off. No bra. You waste no time, you immediately grabs one breast and start massaging it. Marco doesn’t even really know how he should know how to do this - all of this is human instinct, the deep, primal drive that every human operates but deny it at the same time. Because humans are not animals, oh no, humans are above that, above such drives as shitting and fucking and eating. Humans are not flesh and blood, they are flesh and blood. Heh, heh, that’s so funny, because when Marco morphed into another human, he doesn’t see memories, memories aren’t genetic, no, but instincts are. Instincts are different for each individual. He feels Mr. Grant’s mellowness.
At times, when Marco nearly achieves a zen-like state while playing Doom Marco can feel his own: cold, ruthless. So maybe society is one big illusion, one big farce but something humans much survive in because it is the instincts in the human mind that drives to create such illusions, the illusions of the Other in different humans because
oh fuck
She just - oh, there, just shoved his pants, and cupping him there, there, and suddenly there’s fire, fire inside of you, all around you, it feels similar to the pain and the fire you normally feel in battle, the heat you feel when you are about to die, from the red light of Dracon beams, a Hork-Bajir blade, a Taxxon bite, or something monstrous from Visser Three. It’s the same but not. The fire is there, still burns intensely but it burns in such a different color. When fire is burned in battle, it burns blue. Hot, intense, and powerful.
The fire being burn here, right now as the color red, with Rachel kissing and sucking your neck and you wonder, how come I’m the only one who can’t have this? Everyone else has everybody else.
But no, don’t self-pity yourself, that’s not how to live. That you don’t see in tragedy.
You see the world in comedy, any kind of comedy.
So this is funny. Funny because Rachel, of all people, decided to pick Marco, of all people, to do something they would dare do to other kids at school, because, oh god what if Melanie or Jack has an evil slug in their head, making them horny?
Rachel is grabbing your - oh, yes - cock and, what, oh god, she’s totally serious and you can feel a sensation you have never felt before, which is, like, amazing because you have been so many things and have so many sensations that you know which is which without being in morph and you
you don’t exist anymore.
You don’t.
There’s only this. No humanity in this. No thoughts of Tobias and Jake and Cassie there’s only Rachel and Marco - but no Marco and Rachel here.
Here, there’s only human instinct.
Here, there are only animals.
You move. You move without thought, mind reduced to only the movement and this, yes and that, yes. You move, and she moves, grabbing your hands and shoving them against the wall. And she moves, quicker than you, faster, rotating hips and you notice that she’s still wearing her - short - skirt and that makes you even harder, if that’s possible.
You look up. You look up and see into Rachel’s eyes. Blue, clear eyes. Eyes that any supermodel would die for. But you know that while a long time ago, Rachel might be happy with that sort of life but you know now she won’t. Her smile shows that. A dangerous smile, a smile that promises fights and sarcasm and blood all over, death all over, and pain all over.
You come too soon, and you don’t want to, you want this to last forever but too late, there’s a mess all over, your mess, and with her own, oddly out of character cry, it’s her mess as well. She slumps over you, her head resting on your shoulders. She breathes hard, like she ran for her life, and in a way, she has.
The silence is crushing.
She lifts her head.
“It’s not over,” she whispers in your ear.
You feel confused. “What isn’t?”
“The fire. It’s not. They’re coming.” And there’s something wrong with her voice right there, as though she swallowed gravel.
“Who?” you ask, feeling stupid from sex. Honestly, you don’t care if Tobias or Cassie barges in on you and Rachel. Who the fuck cares?
“Yeerks,” she whispered, and her beautiful, golden hair starts turning dark, into a courser, brown color and you feel like lightening struck you.
You feel the blue flames inside you once more. You feel alive again. More alive then what you done seconds ago. You change, but not your clothes. No, whatever clothes you are wearing, they are being ripped apart. Of course. You can’t morph clothes. You focus, but you don’t know what. You are morphing but you don’t know what kind of animal you are.
You look for Rachel, who slipped off your lap and landed on the floor, and you don’t see a tall blonde girl who goes to gymnastics. Instead, you see a large grizzly bear, with at least over a thousand pounds worth of brute strength. You see her turn over cars with that morph. Hell, you’ve seen her demolish a truck with that morph.
You look down your hands and you don’t see gorilla hands you normally change into.
You see massive, white paw, with deadly hooks on each end.
A polar bear.
The largest land carnivore on the planet.
Rachel charges to the closed giant gates of the barn and smashes through them. In the sunlight, you only see her silhouette: on her hind legs, roaring and roaring and roaring. And then she runs in a lumbering gait with the strength of a speeding train.
You go after her, running as well through the mess of the opening. And you see Rachel, in grizzly bear morph, slapping a seven-foot tall alien with spikes and blades to the ground, snapping its snake-like neck in two. Two giant, fat centipedes with lamprey-like mouths, with brimming red, sharp teeth starts to devouring the dead alien. Rachel kills them too. A human approaches her, an old man who clearly can’t hold that screaming chain saw, trying to hack her apart. Rachel only laughs and smacks him in the head. The chainsaw goes flying. The man moans, grasping his suddenly red, red face as claw marks start to split the skin apart. Another fat centipede - Taxxons - start approaching him, making its SCREEE SCREEEE! scream as it bears down on the old man.
You charge and slice the Taxxon apart with your claws as though it’s been made of butter. Two bladed monsters - Hork-Bajir jumps on your back. You simply lean back and fall backwards, crushing them with your weight. You roll. You slash some kid with a Dracon beam and you ignore his screams. (His hands are crushed by your claws.)
And all of this, you think: All of this burns. This is so much, not too much, but so much.
Because it burns. What you and Rachel had, it burns. But this, this is true fire. They’ll kill you, you are on the edge, you have to push or be pushed back and oh, oh, this is life, this true human instinct. To fight. To kill. The bear is too angry, too enraged to think anything else except to survive now.
The blue flame burns on, as the red one flicker and dies.
You slash and roar and cut and slap and body-slam and bite and you roar roar roarroar . . . .
. . . . and everything else becomes quiet.
There’s Rachel, standing in human forms. All around her, there are alien and human corpses all around. Human, wearing her leotard, her morphing outfit. There’s blood and guts on her. Both red and other different colors of alien blood. But they don’t seem to stay on her skin, at the same time, there’s some reaching of the carnage to her. As though battle draws to her.
And you know she draws to the battle.
The blood is on the corner on her lips. The way the splatter is, it looks like it gives her a Glasgow smile. But then it disappears, and appears again. The wind blows, covering her face, sometimes not. But they never cover her eyes. Eyes that are human now, but they can be another predator’s. They can be anything.
Rachel burns more with her desire to war than she does with anything else.
You can only pray that won’t be the case with you.
But you are a human with human instincts.
And so is Rachel.
[Marco wakes up with a gasp. Looks at his hands, making sure that yes, they are human hands. He looks down on his front. Grunts. He grabs the nearby Hitomi and it is turned off.]