Dark Tower Dreams - Part One
[OOC: Dark Tower dreams are not worksafe and often contain sex, violence, gore, death, rape, etc. Also, having them is completely voluntary. These are more like visions that strike your character when asleep (if not asleep, your character will be cast into a trance-like, unconscious state).]
SHUFFLE
"See, gunslinger, the sunset."
A voice offers smoothly from beside you, but the sun has departed already, and the western sky is filled with sullen furnace light. Down further on, by the sea, the lobstrosities have begun their hunting song.
It isn't Golgotha, where the man in black sits with you over a dimming campfire...but it may as well be the nearest thing World's End has to such a place. The graveyard was never a welcoming ground, nor has it never been a comfort to set foot in the shadow temple's shadow.
Yet here you are, crouched with the enemy on the stretch of loam between tombstones, absent of any living thing or restless spirit. Just you and this man in a black hooded robe, this man you've chased for so long.
You. But not you. This dust hardened body called 'gunslinger' is only a window for your eyes, for yours and others. You can feel their presence drifting in beside you, crowding up the headroom, familiar voices and brief flickers of visions that are theirs and not yours.
The day is over.
Some are reminded with bittersweet fondness of sunsets spent with friends, ice cream dripping between fingers.
Others are called to their hunting hours, the readiness that comes after dark.
Others still recall a thousand other memories, their meanings and sentiments all tangling into one another, crisscrossing, jumbling, fumbling. Turning dizzily in their semblance.
"You won't see another sunrise or what may seem like a very long time." The man in black warns patiently.
The experimentation is complete, leaving them speechless. The time has come. A new era has begun.
The True Utopian has risen.
Your mother takes you to your new place in the chapel, where decorations hang for all the world to see. Grace sings off to the side, heralding your awakening, and even Kadaj has taken to calling you "Mother". Yes, Mother. A new Virgin Mary, as it were, in your soft white dress. The new lamb.
Those who do not believe have been cast out and destroyed, from preachers to housewives and their children. Only those who are left, the ugly, the Splicers, the downtrodden and desperate look to you now. It's disgusting.
Sofia takes you to your new throne and lets you sit, looking out at the people who have gathered. Little Sisters, eyes glowing brightly, adorn the crowd and lie in wait, while the Big Daddies drone at the back. Riqis, eyes bright, stands near your side on the tethered string of ADAM, the newest Little Brother. It all seems so superficial, this new Utopia. It's not a Utopia at all really, but a scaffold of rotting wood created by the dreams and ideals of deranged lunatics.
"Eleanor," Sofia calls. She lifts her hand. "You've learned so much. I've given you all that we've had... They've been waiting for you, for your decree. Give them what they need. They are yours to command."
Yours.
You say nothing for the moment, instead opting to look around the church. Portraits of Jack Ryan adorn the walls, as well as the bodies of the unbelievers, their blood soaking the dark stones. Castiel's throat has been pierced by a stake and left to hang beside the bodies of Haine, Aqua, and Ciel. On the other side, Hermione, Trevor, and Gohan rest in line, their own bodies mutilated almost beyond recognition. The people in the crowd are not much better, barely resembling their former selves any longer. Matt, his skin half-hanging from his face, smirks lopsidedly at you. Rion's eyes are almost a pale grey-white from all of the ADAM he's drunk up, and now he's nothing but a walking corpse.
Utopia? No, this is nothing like what it's supposed to be.
Slowly, you stand.
"First, those who do not believe must be punished," you murmur. "All of them."
Riqis pounces first, driving his new, long needle into the face of Naoto, forcing her to the ground. Stanley Poole's shout of agony as a Big Daddy drills into his gut can be heard across the din of shrieks and screams. Sofia, your mother, your guide, grips you by the shoulders. "Eleanor, what are you doing?"
You shake her off and she stumbles to the floor. "The Rapture dream is over, Mother, and in waking, I am reborn. You've taught me that our survival is all that matters. But these people are a disgrace. They are nothing more than an infestation of ADAM and biomass, standing in a church." You smile. "You've just brought them all to a slaughter, Mother."
Grace is a flurry of movement nearby, going to Sofia's side. "What have you done? What have you done to her, Dr. Lamb?!"
The Little Sisters have begun to stab the growing number of corpses, draining them of the ADAM that is rightfully yours, rightfully the people's, and have cornered those who are left, those who are ADAM-free, into the back of the church. An Irish laugh is heard, praising the new lamb on the throne.
"Eleanor, stop this at once!" Sofa cries. Riqis comes to your side, around you, his needle menacing in her face.
You move, catlike, around the throne and to the altar, smiling. "This world is not ready for me, and yet here I am, Mother." You turn back to her. "What mercy did you show my father when he had done nothing wrong? What mercy did you show me? You've turned me into a monster, Mother." A wicked grin forms on your face. "And now you've given me my freedom. This city, this world...is about to change. And they will never see me coming."
Sofia begins to keen desperately, shouting for forgiveness, and Vexen glances at you, half-smirking. "It seems the experiment was a success, then, Dr. Lamb."
You smile. "Yes, I'd say it is."
He shuffles the cards with flying hands. The deck is huge, the designs on the back convoluted...nothing you can recognize.
"These are Tarot cards, Gunslinger- of a sort. A mixture of the standard deck to which have been added a selection of my own development." By the size of the deck...it's easy to see he's taken great liberties.
"Now watch carefully. I am going to tell your future. Seven cards must be turned, one at a time, and placed in conjunction with the others. I've not done this since the days when Gilead stood and the ladies played Points on the west lawn."
Shuffle. Shuffle. Unsettled, the whole of you crowd to listen. Your destiny. The fate of one, the fate of all.
"And I suspect I've never read a tale such as yours."
An unsettling mockery creeps into his voice.
"You, and all of yours. You are the world's last adventurer. The last crusader.
How that must please you, Roland! Yet you have no idea how close you stand to the Tower now.
How close they've been standing. Worlds turn about your head."
And while the man in black laughs, there's a high peal of laughter throbbing in your own head that sounds like Lady Beatrice at her games, and there's a tearing temptation to reach across the fire, grab him up by the robes and demand to know what he finds so funny.
"Read my fortune then." That voice which is not yours says instead, harshly.
And so it begins.
The sky is lit with a blazing red, far too intense to be the sun. Screams echo through the buildings, followed by the screech of an inhuman creature. Over an old radio, you can hear panic, people trying to raise morale to stop this latest threat. The dead, however, cannot speak, and there is a listlessness and fear in others. You're all alone, and the city will soon be nothing but ashes unless something is done.
Around the next block the light becomes almost unbearable. Wings, claws, scales, and a human shaped form. Fire washed over charred forms, you barely recognized them as human, let alone who they were. The source of the flames turns to face you, a wide, toothy smile on its face.
You trusted it, and now you pay the price.
Anger washes over you, and in your fury, you try to attack the creature. The knife you wield finds its way into the creature's heart. For the briefest moment, you can see the former innocence the creature used to have. The faintest flicker of blue crosses your vision, and the creature vanishes, leaving a great power in your hands.
What you do with it is up to you.
The first card is turned.
"The Hanged Man." The man in black pronounces, but it is not.
That is not at all what you see. The card bears no number, and the words beneath it read something altogether different.
The Dragon.
You see a green-scaled thing, a dragon eating its tail, wrapped protectively around a bright gem of a heart that has been pierced through with a sword. It appears to be sleeping, dormant in its den, clutching it's hoard through a long and unending cycle of a nap.
A tapering banner of school mottos flit like a snatch of ribbon across your mind's eye, along with a sharp flash of interest in that dragon's tightly guarded treasure...the final chapters of half a thousand storybook quests...a painful ache of respect for a beast that must be slain....a legend to be caught...and an old man's warning to never, never make deals with a dragon.
But the gunslinger says nothing.
She wakes in a flooded world. It looks a bit like Venice, but the buildings are empty and run down, the water in the streets nearly waist high. Walking is hard, though she manages well enough. She kisses the buildings as she passes, pressing her lips to the rusted doorframes and the dusty windows, leaving candy-colored prints in her wake.
Finally, she comes to a lake, or what appears to be as such. A house stands in the dead center of this dark, shining pool, and as she moves towards it, her movements cause ripples to appear, disturbing an otherwise immutable, immaculate surface. She knocks at the door twice, and it opens on silent hinges.
Empty rooms greet her, and it seems that only the occasional roach or spider are the current inhabitants. After walking through the house, dripping water from her wings and hair, she goes into the attic and looks out the window.
The city isn't flooded with water - it's flooded with sky. Stars twinkle and wink invitingly. Ever obliging, Lollipop leaps and hits liquid space, the surface of the water shattering like glass.
...And the second card is turned.
"The Sailor"
But that is also not what you see, and here your attention turns from the goading of this gunslinger's nemesis to the image on the card, placed downward and to the left of your Dragon.
Three white feathers on a starry background. Two are curled slightly inward, the third stands primly upright in the center. Their airy, weightless plumage reminds you of purity, and of innocence.
Are there messages and wishes that might yet take flight, as if on the wings of birds, away from here and across the sea?
It was your fault.
It was all your fault.
The fact that your father was dead. The fact that Cell had returned even more powerful than before. The fact that Vegeta had almost killed himself in a frenzy, and that you had a broken arm thanks to it. None of it would've happened if you'd just stopped flaunting your power against Cell and killed him when you had the chance. When you were at full power, and Cell couldn't stop you.
But you had to torture him, didn't you?
He tortured all your family and friends, made you watch helplessly as he did so, all for the sake of watching your true power explode. So no one could blame you for wanting to exploit your power over that green monster. But that was your failing. You let the power get to your head. You thought that with this newly-attained pinnacle of strength that had been building up since your childhood... that you could take anything that Cell could throw at you. Anything.
But you were blinded by power.
You wasted your time torturing Cell. You did the same exact thing he did. You pushed, and you pushed, and when he was pushed back into a corner at your complete mercy... he exploded. And he shattered your entire illusion of power.
And now he was going to obliterate everything important to you. Your friends. Your family. Your home.
"I thought Doctor Gero only meant for me to defeat the Earth," Cell spoke, staring you down with that ever-smug smirk on his face, his hands cupped to his side and charging what looked like a blue orb of pure energy. The Kamehameha, you knew. "But I know now, I was designed for much more." You weren't even paying much attention to him at this point. After all, all this was your fault. There was no point to listen to his monologuing when you had no intention to fight anymore. "Once I finish tearing this world into pieces, I'll just use Goku's Instant Transmission technique to move onto other planets!"
"That, is my destiny! I, am the universe's end!"
And you were the one responsible for handing Cell over that destiny.
So this is it. This is how it ends.
And the third card is turned.
"The Prisoner" says the man in black, indicating the card above the second.
But here there is a curious rendition of Five Blades, one broken in two and laid across its four brothers. Laurels wreath them all, another circlet, another wheel of Ka.
For the warriors, there is a heavy heaving of great shame in your chest. Victory is not without its sacrifices. And some of them will be needless, because of your own cowardice, because of betrayals. One brother will fall, get left behind, get offered up. Will stumble, and none of you will cease in your battling to catch him.
Or will yours be the broken blade? Can you forgive them? Will you play martyr?
Your eyes flicker away, briefly, but the reaction does not escape this mysterious man.
"A trifle upsetting, isn't it?" he says lightly, but seems on the verge of sniggering.
But the gunslinger still says nothing.
Its you, but its not you. The you that is seen in the mirror isn’t the same as the one you see in the other mirror. But the place is familiar, if nothing else is. Gentle breezes bring in the smell of the sea just as they drive the heat from your body. The sun is overhead, but the glare does nothing against the white of your skin. The tan that should start doesn’t begin, while the burn that should be plaguing you is nowhere to be found. The sun is harsh and cold against your skin, burning like ice instead of fire. You can see the tree nearby, three empty of people for once, and you turn to the left, reaching a hand out curiously towards the door before stopping.
The hand is wrong.
You look again to the tree, and you see people sitting there now. Three of them and you call out, they look familiar, but you don’t know. There’s the three boy you know sitting there, but its not him, its him. The girl is a mystery until she changes in the blink of an eye, red hair replaced with blonde, pink replaced by white. Its only the two of them there, and you feel like you’re missing something. Again, you have the feeling that you shouldn’t be here, that something is wrong. Again, you feel the need to open the door, to see what’s inside. Again, you turn to the door and reach a hand out, before stopping.
The hand is wrong again.
It’s the wrong hand, and you stumble, unable to find your balance as you take a step forward to open the door. On your knees, you look up, and then back over to the tree. The two you knew before have been replaced by two boys, both familiar and unfamiliar, and the sense of wrongness, of them being there is both sick and comforting. You call out again, but they don’t move, still as statues. You can see them talking, but its like your ears have been filled with three the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing and he can’t talk, so what could their conversation be? There’s another crash of the waves, and you hold your head in your hands at the headache that forms, closing your eyes just to open them again.
There’s no one on the tree now.
The door is still tempting, but its further and further away. You sit on your knees and watch as it grows smaller and smaller, and you don’t think you took a drink of that potion, but the door is gone before that thought even leaves your mind. And again, you turn to the tree, and there are three there now. Three, and your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you try to form the words, but nothing comes out. They’re wearing armor. You’ve seen it before, but you can’t place it, but your headache subsides enough that you can stand. They’re still at the tree, and the door has moved from the front of your mind to the back, and you walk to the tree. Your steps are clumsy, and again, you don’t know but three and you know one of the names. You reach a hand out to steady yourself near the tree.
The hand is wrong once more.
You reach out to the armor anyway, only to see that no one is inside. Each armor is standing on its own, while whatever was inside them is gone. You touch the smaller one first, and it crumbles to sand in your palm, the other two following suit, only to mix with the sand at the base of the tree. You try to scream, but no sound comes out as you stumble back, tripping over three the roots that grow out from the ground, shoes catching on them until you land on your back, looking up at the sky. The hands you bring to your face are covered in dirtblood and you know those are not your hands.
There’s the sound of a beating heart again.
You slowly climb to your feet, and this is familiar. There are two three black coats sitting on the tree. The red hair is a familiar red instead of the darker one before, and the blond spikes reassure you once more. You see them talking, but no words come out, and you wonder if your ears are blocked, but there’s no sound. The waves keep crashing into the sand, but they make no sound. There’s a bird flying overhead, but no seagull’s call, and you look back to the tree and the coats are still there.
Where did the bodies go?
There’s a storm rolling in, and you taste the few bitter drops of rain on your tongue as you hold out your hands that are not your hands that are your hands once more. Someone’s covered them with blood. The rain is still a few drops at most, and they mix in with the blood, diluting it, only for the hands to be covered with fresh red once more. Everything is turning dark again, like you’re putting your hood back over your head, and its almost safe and comforting as you walk slowly to the other side of the tree. The coats are there, but nothing stares out at you from them. You reach out to touch three the hoods, pushing them aside.
They’re wooden dolls.
This is wrongrightwrong. They need faces. They’re not dolls, they’re incompletes, and you need to add the faces to them. You look for the markers she was here before where are the markers and your search turns up empty. There are no markers, there is nothing, and the blood drips down out onto the sand their armor and you look down at your hands. They’re not the same anymore, with one normal and the other not. But you understand now what they need, what you need to do to fix them, and you turn to the first doll with a raised hand. The first eye should be green, but red works, red is okay and safe and the bright color is the right shade but not the right shade of the girl who was she and the eyes are in place and staring back at you.
The blood has stopped flowing.
You can’t stop now, you have to fix them, you have to fix all of them. You add in a nose, a mouth, the odd markings on the face and you have nothing for hair so you put the hood back up. You can see the same cocky smile there like usual and the beating of the heart is sounding louder than before. Then there’s the second three doll, and this one is committed to memory, but the blood on your hand is a deep red like the girl and its not right for what you need and you need the right type but there’s nowhere to get it and then you see the stick and it’s the one from the schoolhouse but that won’t work so you throw it out to sea for the lobsters to go get it.
The glinting of the broken pipe catches your eye.
You look at it and pick it up, and it’s the same one that he three had before and this will work, this will work just fine, and you see the one doll finished but its missing the other and you know that this will work it will have to work it can’t not work and you turn around towards the sea and the mirrors are there. There are three of them, and your reflection stares back at you from each mirror. There you are, blue eyes staring at you from each mirror, each reflection showing your blond brown blond hair. You raise a rust covered hand to your cheek, leaving behind a dark smudge on your cheek.
Three mirrors become two.
You’re still there, the pipe in your hand, and your reflection is smiling back at you as he takes the pipe in one hand and looks at your reflection. Everything is becoming hazy, and the sound of the heart beating is louder than ever, it pounds in your ears, it pounds throughout your entire body, like you’re in tune with the rest of it, and when two mirrors become one you see the rest of the dolls in the background of the mirror. Your reflection is smiling at you, and you think that he has such a nice smile before turning around to look at the pile of life size dolls you now have. But they’re all faceless, and that’s not right, because everything deserves a face, and you can name them all by their clothes, but a face that was their own would be so much better.
Your reflection steps out of the mirror.
You can hear his footsteps behind you, but you don’t turn around. You wonder for a moment if he sees what you see black hair blue eyes do red and brown make black you can’t see a voice but is it enough to know that you can hear three hearts beating and it all makes sense now before you feel a push and you look down at the pipe protruding from your stomach and you watch the blood fall from it into your hands before you feel any of the pain and you know that this is right and this is three and now you have enough to complete the dolls.
The one in white is first, and you make sure not to get any blood on the white white white of her dress as you use your blood to paint in the eyes nose and mouth, with your reflection pointing out who goes next. There’s the one with silver hair that you know and the one that you know and don’t like. There’s the one who’ll never teach you how to fish because dolls don’t learn new things. There’s the one who everyone told to wake up, and the one with the golden eyes who thought you had promise. There’s the three that turned to sand and you stand there for a little bit, dripping blood onto the pile from the tip of the pipe.
You begin to feel tired but you need to finish them all.
There’s the one with redginger hair and you’re lurching forward now and the beatbeatbeat of the hearts beating is pounding your skull and you find the one who smiles at you and makes that spot where your heart should be ache a little and you paint in his face carefully with your blood before leaning down and planting a kiss on his cheek that’s all wet with blood and tears. And then you go to the last doll in black, because the others don’t deserve faces, and you can barely see now as you paint in his face carefully before falling down to the ground and he’s holding you again and your reflection helps keep you up.
And you hear three hearts go beatbeatbeat and you know that you’re somewhere in there but everything is turning back to black and black is comforting and familiar and you let yourself go with it and there’s a door that you reach for and you’re almost there and its just a little further, only to be pulled back and you’re being stuck into those machines and you’re screaming for help as the pipe through your stomach continues to drip blood from the end of it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
SHUFFLE
"See, gunslinger, the sunset."
A voice offers smoothly from beside you, but the sun has departed already, and the western sky is filled with sullen furnace light. Down further on, by the sea, the lobstrosities have begun their hunting song.
It isn't Golgotha, where the man in black sits with you over a dimming campfire...but it may as well be the nearest thing World's End has to such a place. The graveyard was never a welcoming ground, nor has it never been a comfort to set foot in the shadow temple's shadow.
Yet here you are, crouched with the enemy on the stretch of loam between tombstones, absent of any living thing or restless spirit. Just you and this man in a black hooded robe, this man you've chased for so long.
You. But not you. This dust hardened body called 'gunslinger' is only a window for your eyes, for yours and others. You can feel their presence drifting in beside you, crowding up the headroom, familiar voices and brief flickers of visions that are theirs and not yours.
The day is over.
Some are reminded with bittersweet fondness of sunsets spent with friends, ice cream dripping between fingers.
Others are called to their hunting hours, the readiness that comes after dark.
Others still recall a thousand other memories, their meanings and sentiments all tangling into one another, crisscrossing, jumbling, fumbling. Turning dizzily in their semblance.
"You won't see another sunrise or what may seem like a very long time." The man in black warns patiently.
The experimentation is complete, leaving them speechless. The time has come. A new era has begun.
The True Utopian has risen.
Your mother takes you to your new place in the chapel, where decorations hang for all the world to see. Grace sings off to the side, heralding your awakening, and even Kadaj has taken to calling you "Mother". Yes, Mother. A new Virgin Mary, as it were, in your soft white dress. The new lamb.
Those who do not believe have been cast out and destroyed, from preachers to housewives and their children. Only those who are left, the ugly, the Splicers, the downtrodden and desperate look to you now. It's disgusting.
Sofia takes you to your new throne and lets you sit, looking out at the people who have gathered. Little Sisters, eyes glowing brightly, adorn the crowd and lie in wait, while the Big Daddies drone at the back. Riqis, eyes bright, stands near your side on the tethered string of ADAM, the newest Little Brother. It all seems so superficial, this new Utopia. It's not a Utopia at all really, but a scaffold of rotting wood created by the dreams and ideals of deranged lunatics.
"Eleanor," Sofia calls. She lifts her hand. "You've learned so much. I've given you all that we've had... They've been waiting for you, for your decree. Give them what they need. They are yours to command."
Yours.
You say nothing for the moment, instead opting to look around the church. Portraits of Jack Ryan adorn the walls, as well as the bodies of the unbelievers, their blood soaking the dark stones. Castiel's throat has been pierced by a stake and left to hang beside the bodies of Haine, Aqua, and Ciel. On the other side, Hermione, Trevor, and Gohan rest in line, their own bodies mutilated almost beyond recognition. The people in the crowd are not much better, barely resembling their former selves any longer. Matt, his skin half-hanging from his face, smirks lopsidedly at you. Rion's eyes are almost a pale grey-white from all of the ADAM he's drunk up, and now he's nothing but a walking corpse.
Utopia? No, this is nothing like what it's supposed to be.
Slowly, you stand.
"First, those who do not believe must be punished," you murmur. "All of them."
Riqis pounces first, driving his new, long needle into the face of Naoto, forcing her to the ground. Stanley Poole's shout of agony as a Big Daddy drills into his gut can be heard across the din of shrieks and screams. Sofia, your mother, your guide, grips you by the shoulders. "Eleanor, what are you doing?"
You shake her off and she stumbles to the floor. "The Rapture dream is over, Mother, and in waking, I am reborn. You've taught me that our survival is all that matters. But these people are a disgrace. They are nothing more than an infestation of ADAM and biomass, standing in a church." You smile. "You've just brought them all to a slaughter, Mother."
Grace is a flurry of movement nearby, going to Sofia's side. "What have you done? What have you done to her, Dr. Lamb?!"
The Little Sisters have begun to stab the growing number of corpses, draining them of the ADAM that is rightfully yours, rightfully the people's, and have cornered those who are left, those who are ADAM-free, into the back of the church. An Irish laugh is heard, praising the new lamb on the throne.
"Eleanor, stop this at once!" Sofa cries. Riqis comes to your side, around you, his needle menacing in her face.
You move, catlike, around the throne and to the altar, smiling. "This world is not ready for me, and yet here I am, Mother." You turn back to her. "What mercy did you show my father when he had done nothing wrong? What mercy did you show me? You've turned me into a monster, Mother." A wicked grin forms on your face. "And now you've given me my freedom. This city, this world...is about to change. And they will never see me coming."
Sofia begins to keen desperately, shouting for forgiveness, and Vexen glances at you, half-smirking. "It seems the experiment was a success, then, Dr. Lamb."
You smile. "Yes, I'd say it is."
He shuffles the cards with flying hands. The deck is huge, the designs on the back convoluted...nothing you can recognize.
"These are Tarot cards, Gunslinger- of a sort. A mixture of the standard deck to which have been added a selection of my own development." By the size of the deck...it's easy to see he's taken great liberties.
"Now watch carefully. I am going to tell your future. Seven cards must be turned, one at a time, and placed in conjunction with the others. I've not done this since the days when Gilead stood and the ladies played Points on the west lawn."
Shuffle. Shuffle. Unsettled, the whole of you crowd to listen. Your destiny. The fate of one, the fate of all.
"And I suspect I've never read a tale such as yours."
An unsettling mockery creeps into his voice.
"You, and all of yours. You are the world's last adventurer. The last crusader.
How that must please you, Roland! Yet you have no idea how close you stand to the Tower now.
How close they've been standing. Worlds turn about your head."
And while the man in black laughs, there's a high peal of laughter throbbing in your own head that sounds like Lady Beatrice at her games, and there's a tearing temptation to reach across the fire, grab him up by the robes and demand to know what he finds so funny.
"Read my fortune then." That voice which is not yours says instead, harshly.
And so it begins.
The sky is lit with a blazing red, far too intense to be the sun. Screams echo through the buildings, followed by the screech of an inhuman creature. Over an old radio, you can hear panic, people trying to raise morale to stop this latest threat. The dead, however, cannot speak, and there is a listlessness and fear in others. You're all alone, and the city will soon be nothing but ashes unless something is done.
Around the next block the light becomes almost unbearable. Wings, claws, scales, and a human shaped form. Fire washed over charred forms, you barely recognized them as human, let alone who they were. The source of the flames turns to face you, a wide, toothy smile on its face.
You trusted it, and now you pay the price.
Anger washes over you, and in your fury, you try to attack the creature. The knife you wield finds its way into the creature's heart. For the briefest moment, you can see the former innocence the creature used to have. The faintest flicker of blue crosses your vision, and the creature vanishes, leaving a great power in your hands.
What you do with it is up to you.
The first card is turned.
"The Hanged Man." The man in black pronounces, but it is not.
That is not at all what you see. The card bears no number, and the words beneath it read something altogether different.
The Dragon.
You see a green-scaled thing, a dragon eating its tail, wrapped protectively around a bright gem of a heart that has been pierced through with a sword. It appears to be sleeping, dormant in its den, clutching it's hoard through a long and unending cycle of a nap.
A tapering banner of school mottos flit like a snatch of ribbon across your mind's eye, along with a sharp flash of interest in that dragon's tightly guarded treasure...the final chapters of half a thousand storybook quests...a painful ache of respect for a beast that must be slain....a legend to be caught...and an old man's warning to never, never make deals with a dragon.
But the gunslinger says nothing.
She wakes in a flooded world. It looks a bit like Venice, but the buildings are empty and run down, the water in the streets nearly waist high. Walking is hard, though she manages well enough. She kisses the buildings as she passes, pressing her lips to the rusted doorframes and the dusty windows, leaving candy-colored prints in her wake.
Finally, she comes to a lake, or what appears to be as such. A house stands in the dead center of this dark, shining pool, and as she moves towards it, her movements cause ripples to appear, disturbing an otherwise immutable, immaculate surface. She knocks at the door twice, and it opens on silent hinges.
Empty rooms greet her, and it seems that only the occasional roach or spider are the current inhabitants. After walking through the house, dripping water from her wings and hair, she goes into the attic and looks out the window.
The city isn't flooded with water - it's flooded with sky. Stars twinkle and wink invitingly. Ever obliging, Lollipop leaps and hits liquid space, the surface of the water shattering like glass.
...And the second card is turned.
"The Sailor"
But that is also not what you see, and here your attention turns from the goading of this gunslinger's nemesis to the image on the card, placed downward and to the left of your Dragon.
Three white feathers on a starry background. Two are curled slightly inward, the third stands primly upright in the center. Their airy, weightless plumage reminds you of purity, and of innocence.
Are there messages and wishes that might yet take flight, as if on the wings of birds, away from here and across the sea?
It was your fault.
It was all your fault.
The fact that your father was dead. The fact that Cell had returned even more powerful than before. The fact that Vegeta had almost killed himself in a frenzy, and that you had a broken arm thanks to it. None of it would've happened if you'd just stopped flaunting your power against Cell and killed him when you had the chance. When you were at full power, and Cell couldn't stop you.
But you had to torture him, didn't you?
He tortured all your family and friends, made you watch helplessly as he did so, all for the sake of watching your true power explode. So no one could blame you for wanting to exploit your power over that green monster. But that was your failing. You let the power get to your head. You thought that with this newly-attained pinnacle of strength that had been building up since your childhood... that you could take anything that Cell could throw at you. Anything.
But you were blinded by power.
You wasted your time torturing Cell. You did the same exact thing he did. You pushed, and you pushed, and when he was pushed back into a corner at your complete mercy... he exploded. And he shattered your entire illusion of power.
And now he was going to obliterate everything important to you. Your friends. Your family. Your home.
"I thought Doctor Gero only meant for me to defeat the Earth," Cell spoke, staring you down with that ever-smug smirk on his face, his hands cupped to his side and charging what looked like a blue orb of pure energy. The Kamehameha, you knew. "But I know now, I was designed for much more." You weren't even paying much attention to him at this point. After all, all this was your fault. There was no point to listen to his monologuing when you had no intention to fight anymore. "Once I finish tearing this world into pieces, I'll just use Goku's Instant Transmission technique to move onto other planets!"
"That, is my destiny! I, am the universe's end!"
And you were the one responsible for handing Cell over that destiny.
So this is it. This is how it ends.
And the third card is turned.
"The Prisoner" says the man in black, indicating the card above the second.
But here there is a curious rendition of Five Blades, one broken in two and laid across its four brothers. Laurels wreath them all, another circlet, another wheel of Ka.
For the warriors, there is a heavy heaving of great shame in your chest. Victory is not without its sacrifices. And some of them will be needless, because of your own cowardice, because of betrayals. One brother will fall, get left behind, get offered up. Will stumble, and none of you will cease in your battling to catch him.
Or will yours be the broken blade? Can you forgive them? Will you play martyr?
Your eyes flicker away, briefly, but the reaction does not escape this mysterious man.
"A trifle upsetting, isn't it?" he says lightly, but seems on the verge of sniggering.
But the gunslinger still says nothing.
Its you, but its not you. The you that is seen in the mirror isn’t the same as the one you see in the other mirror. But the place is familiar, if nothing else is. Gentle breezes bring in the smell of the sea just as they drive the heat from your body. The sun is overhead, but the glare does nothing against the white of your skin. The tan that should start doesn’t begin, while the burn that should be plaguing you is nowhere to be found. The sun is harsh and cold against your skin, burning like ice instead of fire. You can see the tree nearby, three empty of people for once, and you turn to the left, reaching a hand out curiously towards the door before stopping.
The hand is wrong.
You look again to the tree, and you see people sitting there now. Three of them and you call out, they look familiar, but you don’t know. There’s the three boy you know sitting there, but its not him, its him. The girl is a mystery until she changes in the blink of an eye, red hair replaced with blonde, pink replaced by white. Its only the two of them there, and you feel like you’re missing something. Again, you have the feeling that you shouldn’t be here, that something is wrong. Again, you feel the need to open the door, to see what’s inside. Again, you turn to the door and reach a hand out, before stopping.
The hand is wrong again.
It’s the wrong hand, and you stumble, unable to find your balance as you take a step forward to open the door. On your knees, you look up, and then back over to the tree. The two you knew before have been replaced by two boys, both familiar and unfamiliar, and the sense of wrongness, of them being there is both sick and comforting. You call out again, but they don’t move, still as statues. You can see them talking, but its like your ears have been filled with three the ocean, the sound of the waves crashing and he can’t talk, so what could their conversation be? There’s another crash of the waves, and you hold your head in your hands at the headache that forms, closing your eyes just to open them again.
There’s no one on the tree now.
The door is still tempting, but its further and further away. You sit on your knees and watch as it grows smaller and smaller, and you don’t think you took a drink of that potion, but the door is gone before that thought even leaves your mind. And again, you turn to the tree, and there are three there now. Three, and your tongue feels thick in your mouth as you try to form the words, but nothing comes out. They’re wearing armor. You’ve seen it before, but you can’t place it, but your headache subsides enough that you can stand. They’re still at the tree, and the door has moved from the front of your mind to the back, and you walk to the tree. Your steps are clumsy, and again, you don’t know but three and you know one of the names. You reach a hand out to steady yourself near the tree.
The hand is wrong once more.
You reach out to the armor anyway, only to see that no one is inside. Each armor is standing on its own, while whatever was inside them is gone. You touch the smaller one first, and it crumbles to sand in your palm, the other two following suit, only to mix with the sand at the base of the tree. You try to scream, but no sound comes out as you stumble back, tripping over three the roots that grow out from the ground, shoes catching on them until you land on your back, looking up at the sky. The hands you bring to your face are covered in dirtblood and you know those are not your hands.
There’s the sound of a beating heart again.
You slowly climb to your feet, and this is familiar. There are two three black coats sitting on the tree. The red hair is a familiar red instead of the darker one before, and the blond spikes reassure you once more. You see them talking, but no words come out, and you wonder if your ears are blocked, but there’s no sound. The waves keep crashing into the sand, but they make no sound. There’s a bird flying overhead, but no seagull’s call, and you look back to the tree and the coats are still there.
Where did the bodies go?
There’s a storm rolling in, and you taste the few bitter drops of rain on your tongue as you hold out your hands that are not your hands that are your hands once more. Someone’s covered them with blood. The rain is still a few drops at most, and they mix in with the blood, diluting it, only for the hands to be covered with fresh red once more. Everything is turning dark again, like you’re putting your hood back over your head, and its almost safe and comforting as you walk slowly to the other side of the tree. The coats are there, but nothing stares out at you from them. You reach out to touch three the hoods, pushing them aside.
They’re wooden dolls.
This is wrongrightwrong. They need faces. They’re not dolls, they’re incompletes, and you need to add the faces to them. You look for the markers she was here before where are the markers and your search turns up empty. There are no markers, there is nothing, and the blood drips down out onto the sand their armor and you look down at your hands. They’re not the same anymore, with one normal and the other not. But you understand now what they need, what you need to do to fix them, and you turn to the first doll with a raised hand. The first eye should be green, but red works, red is okay and safe and the bright color is the right shade but not the right shade of the girl who was she and the eyes are in place and staring back at you.
The blood has stopped flowing.
You can’t stop now, you have to fix them, you have to fix all of them. You add in a nose, a mouth, the odd markings on the face and you have nothing for hair so you put the hood back up. You can see the same cocky smile there like usual and the beating of the heart is sounding louder than before. Then there’s the second three doll, and this one is committed to memory, but the blood on your hand is a deep red like the girl and its not right for what you need and you need the right type but there’s nowhere to get it and then you see the stick and it’s the one from the schoolhouse but that won’t work so you throw it out to sea for the lobsters to go get it.
The glinting of the broken pipe catches your eye.
You look at it and pick it up, and it’s the same one that he three had before and this will work, this will work just fine, and you see the one doll finished but its missing the other and you know that this will work it will have to work it can’t not work and you turn around towards the sea and the mirrors are there. There are three of them, and your reflection stares back at you from each mirror. There you are, blue eyes staring at you from each mirror, each reflection showing your blond brown blond hair. You raise a rust covered hand to your cheek, leaving behind a dark smudge on your cheek.
Three mirrors become two.
You’re still there, the pipe in your hand, and your reflection is smiling back at you as he takes the pipe in one hand and looks at your reflection. Everything is becoming hazy, and the sound of the heart beating is louder than ever, it pounds in your ears, it pounds throughout your entire body, like you’re in tune with the rest of it, and when two mirrors become one you see the rest of the dolls in the background of the mirror. Your reflection is smiling at you, and you think that he has such a nice smile before turning around to look at the pile of life size dolls you now have. But they’re all faceless, and that’s not right, because everything deserves a face, and you can name them all by their clothes, but a face that was their own would be so much better.
Your reflection steps out of the mirror.
You can hear his footsteps behind you, but you don’t turn around. You wonder for a moment if he sees what you see black hair blue eyes do red and brown make black you can’t see a voice but is it enough to know that you can hear three hearts beating and it all makes sense now before you feel a push and you look down at the pipe protruding from your stomach and you watch the blood fall from it into your hands before you feel any of the pain and you know that this is right and this is three and now you have enough to complete the dolls.
The one in white is first, and you make sure not to get any blood on the white white white of her dress as you use your blood to paint in the eyes nose and mouth, with your reflection pointing out who goes next. There’s the one with silver hair that you know and the one that you know and don’t like. There’s the one who’ll never teach you how to fish because dolls don’t learn new things. There’s the one who everyone told to wake up, and the one with the golden eyes who thought you had promise. There’s the three that turned to sand and you stand there for a little bit, dripping blood onto the pile from the tip of the pipe.
You begin to feel tired but you need to finish them all.
There’s the one with redginger hair and you’re lurching forward now and the beatbeatbeat of the hearts beating is pounding your skull and you find the one who smiles at you and makes that spot where your heart should be ache a little and you paint in his face carefully with your blood before leaning down and planting a kiss on his cheek that’s all wet with blood and tears. And then you go to the last doll in black, because the others don’t deserve faces, and you can barely see now as you paint in his face carefully before falling down to the ground and he’s holding you again and your reflection helps keep you up.
And you hear three hearts go beatbeatbeat and you know that you’re somewhere in there but everything is turning back to black and black is comforting and familiar and you let yourself go with it and there’s a door that you reach for and you’re almost there and its just a little further, only to be pulled back and you’re being stuck into those machines and you’re screaming for help as the pipe through your stomach continues to drip blood from the end of it.
Drip. Drip. Drip.