come_sailaway | [Open] Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

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[Open] Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This

Who: Crichton (Harvey) & You!
What: Catch-all September + Flower Event
When: September
Where: All over
Warnings: Violence (against Harvey), angst/grief, mention of pregnancy (prompt 2), inebriation/hallucination, Sobriety, breaking sobriety/alcoholism, will warn as needed

1. Some of them want to use you [Poppy Flower - Meet Harvey in your dreams]

Those poppy flowers seem to spring up all around like they have some kind of personal vendetta against him in particular. Buffet table? Mashed potatoes make a nice pillow. Pool deck? And him without his sunscreen. That's going to sting. Sometimes he's lucky enough to actually be sitting on a nice couch or something. The point is, these flowers are enforcing nap time whether he likes it or not. Come along for the ride and take a look into his nightmares. Someone is waiting to meet you there.

[OOC: I need some help with this one. Tag in and tell me where your character might have fallen asleep with him and I will do a custom dream starter for it so I'm not writing the same dream over and over. Team dreams can happen but limit to no more than 3 players in one thread (including me)]

2. Some of them want to get used by you [Angel Trumpet - Angst Option CW: pregnancy]

"Running away again, Crichton?" Aeryn Sun stands before him with her hands planted on her hips. Her sleek black hair hangs straight to the middle of her back, and her dark eyes regard him coldly. "How many more lives do you plan to ruin before you're satisfied?"

Crichton freezes in place, breath catching in his throat so hard he has to consciously force the air back out so he can utter one broken name into the empty hallway, "A-Aeryn?"

"Have you forgotten me already?" she answers cruelly. "And our unborn child? Or, did you find a replacement for us?"

"N-no," he croaks. "Don't. Please. You know it isn't like that. You know I didn't mean to--"

"Didn't mean to what, Crichton? Abandon me?"

"YOU ABANDONED ME FIRST!" He roars into the empty air. "You left! You didn't say a word about the baby! You left me!"

"It's not yours."

"It's John Crichton's!"

"It was his!"

"I know that! I..." Crichton's expression crumbles with grief, his voice cracks so much he can barely get out the words. "I know. It should have been me..." Tears roll down his cheeks as he stares into the stony visage of his--once--true love. "It should have been me."

3. Some of them want to abuse you [Hanging Vine - Comic Relief]

Crichton is on his way back to his cabin one evening with a plate full of cheese and crackers he foraged from the cheese shop. He's whistling a happy tune, looking forward to enjoying his one-man party sampler as a reward for making it through another whole week of sobriety.

Just as he rounds the corner, a hanging vine comes down from the ceiling and slaps the plate right out of his hand.

"Hey!"

Before he can stoop to clean up the mess, the plant is somehow grabbing leafy fistfuls of his cheese and shoving it into some kind of floral maw right before his eyes.

"HEY!" Crichton pulls his pistol on the plant. "Cut that out! Who do I look like to you, Seymour?!

4. Some of them want to be abused [Salvia - CW: drug-like hallucinations/inebriation/Sobriety]

He doesn't notice the Salvia growing outside his cabin door this morning. But he's starting to notice the effects. At first, he thinks he must just be a little groggier than usual. Until the hall starts to twist and turn in front of his very eyes.

"What... what the hell?" His first thought is to go right back to his cabin but he's become so disoriented he can't find his way to the door. He's grasping at the walls, sliding along them, but to his eyes, they're rippling like the disturbed surface of a pond.

He feels like he's eight hours into a twelve-hour bender. But that's impossible! He hasn't touched a damn thing for the better part of a month. He hasn't even taken an aspirin!

"Oh, God, I think I'm going to be sick."

5. Everybody's looking for something [Another angst option- [CW: breaking Sobriety] caused by Ava exposing him to purple hyacinth]

He can't take it anymore. He can't frelling take it. He has so many regrets heaped one upon the other in his mind they are threatening to topple over like a Jenga set. And it's all too damn late. What is he supposed to do? He can't go back in time. He can't go home. He can't fix any of this. And he can't seem to forget it. Not without help.

He was doing so well. He was really trying. But... today he's sat at the bar slumped over a bottle of tequila. The real stuff, not the imitation brand Johnny brought in. He's already well into the bottle, sobbing openly, hiccuping so hard his chest is sore and, still, he can't seem to make these bitter feelings go away.

Is this what it's going to feel like to die of a broken heart?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

When the flowers started popping up specifically on his body, Wayne had started avoiding other people. He didn't want to freak other people out with it after all, and it was one thing to suddenly see flowers happening on and around the ship, but it was quite another to witness them actively sprouting from a passenger like the tenacious seeds of a tomato determined to fruit. Wayne has been sprouting small orchids and little clusters of hyacinth, and picking them does nothing to stop them sprouting.

He hasn't told anyone about the tiny white flower that he coughed up this morning.

Taking naps was normal for him, part of the necessary self-care that keeps him from running himself into the ground inadvertently, so he doesn't actually realize when the sleep is coming from the very pretty group of flowers that popped up where he was hanging out at the poolside bar sipping one of the mocktails that had been getting more popular lately. His head down on his arms, Wayne snoozes...

And finds himself waking up again where he started.

[Hit at your leisure, Wayne is at least here for the Shenanigans ❤ ]

Nearby, Crichton's own mocktail tumbles from his hand to the deck as he falls into a deep poppy-induced sleep and then, begins to dream...

Of Moya.

He's in his room, a converted prison cell bathed in gold metallics. Even the shimmering blanket he pulls himself out from under is golden. But this isn't really Moya. The smell isn't right. And the gentle thrum that emanates from her hull is painfully absent within these cold walls.

He rises, and makes his way to the already open door to peer out into the organically twisting corridors that make up Moya's interior.

"What the hell is going on here?"

"You're dreaming, John." Harvey, in all his grotesque leather-clad glory, materializes beside him. "But, look alive. We aren't alone."

The room that he wakes up in is nothing that he's ever seen on the Serena, and it's certainly nothing that he's ever seen at home. There's a dull sort of consideration given to it, Wayne's hands on his hips. He's dressed not in what he fell asleep in, but the plain black leather jumpsuit that he always seemed to default to in the absence of anything else.

The sound of voices draws his attention, and he's momentarily off-put by seeing Crichton peeking out of a doorway. He thinks it's a doorway, anyway. And just beside him, someone that he's never seen before, but knows instinctively via that shared mental space is the Harvey that has caused his friend and all of them so much trouble lately.

At which point the malleability of the dream's physics makes it easy enough to just reach back, take the handle of the axe suddenly over his back (though it's now the same yellow as his guitar?) and heft it into his hands.

"Sup?"

"Wayne?" Crichton throws away his caution and steps all the way out into the corridor. But he's eying that axe nervously. "Hope that's not for me?" Even in this dreamland, he hasn't quite caught on that Harvey is visible to all parties.

It makes sense, when nobody else has thus far been able to see Harvey outside of Crichton's head, so the joking that he was the one about to get whacked both makes sense, and is maybe a little out of place.

"Not unless you give me a reason to buddy." He hasn't actually looked straight at Crichton except to say that, mostly staring down the leather-clad figment that had noticed him before his friend did.

"Hoping I don't..." He's just now realizing where Wayne's been looking for most of this conversation. Following his gaze right to Harvey. Wait a minute.

"Hold on. Can you see Tall Ugly over there?" He points right at Harvey.

The clone rolls his eyes and says to Wayne, "He's a little slow on the uptake, isn't he?"

There's an ugly, angry expression on his face that Crichton has almost certainly never seen on him before. Wayne's lip curls at the way that Harvey talks to him, as if Crichton isn't right beside him to hear. But he realizes that that's just part of what the thing does, putting down and demoralized his friend as much as it can.

"Hey, you mind if I try and hit him?" He asks, but he's already advancing, marching forward with the axe hefted and ready to swing.

Whoa. He's never seen Wayne look this pissed. As long as it's at Harvey, well, he's not going to blame him.

"Be my guest," Crichton says, manifesting himself a comically large popcorn bucket to start eating out of.

"John," Harvey says, feigning disappointment. "After all we've been through?"

"Kick his damn teeth in," Crichton says to Wayne, not even looking at Harvey.

Now, by no means has Wayne ever been a particular angry or vitriolic person. He doesn't go out of his way to get into fights, or even to make threats. But Harvey here has made his very short shit-list and now that he's got the blessing to do so, nothing is stopping him from swinging the axe into the black leather-clad shape in front of him. If he doesn't move immediately the blade is going to be buried in the trunk of his body from the side up toward the opposite side ribs.

He doesn't expect the thing to hold still or just take it by any means, but gods does he want to stomp Harvey into mush while he has the chance.

Harvey tries to sidestep the swing, but he finds himself rooted in place, literally. Strong golden roots have swarmed up his legs from the floor, holding him fast in place so that he can do little more than put his hands up in front of his face as the ax comes down and cleaves into him. But, instead of blood gushing from his head, he explodes into dozens of tiny floating heads all laughing maniacally.

And Wayne barely even reacts, save for pulling a face that would normally only be reserved for dealing with very specific monsters. He spits out a swear that, in this space, doesn't translate but sounds as if it might be accompanied by several grawlixes. The arc of the axe continues through the shape but Wayne, accustomed to combat as he'd become, only follows the motion with a pointed finger, and around the trunk of Harvey's body what seems to be a napalm-soaked rope winds and bursts into flames.

"Laugh at me again. worm-thing. I'll destroy this place just like the fucking moon."

What, he's not allowed to curse in his own nightmares? Who made that rule? Crichton shakes his head as he stuffs another handful of popcorn into his comically wide mouth.

"Eeeeey," he cheers when Wayne summons that burning rope and drops his popcorn bucket to pull a giant weenie roasting stick out of his pocket instead--with the hotdogs already on the end.

Harvey looks less than amused where he stands, bound in flaming ropes, the leather of his suit crackling and bubbling in the heat. His face is beginning to drip like melting wax. Somehow, he can still grin with his crocodile teeth. "You cannot destroy me. Not without destroying Crichton."

"Shuddup!" Crichton whaps Harvey on the head with his roasting stick. "Burn already you devil."

Either he's not allowed to swear the way that Crichton couldn't imagine him swearing, or his brain just doesn't translate Wayne's words thanks to a language barrier that can only reassert itself in such a space. It's Wayne's home language, a jagged iteration on that warbling speech more familiar to Wayne's homeworld, made unpleasant by the anger that comes with meeting Harvey face to face, even where he can't necessarily hurt it.

Even as Harvey melts down in front of him, Wayne retaliates, swinging his axe through the melting figure and splashing it across the peculiar metallic floor. The blade is bigger than he remembers, and the back end has little streaks of light that follow the path of the blade. It passes through Crichton for all that he's standing close enough to roast a snack, not touching him, but maybe blowing him back an inch with the wind off it.

"How do you know that, huh? How do you know I couldn't just powderize you and make him sneeze you out? What if I stay here and just keep melting you? Dickwad."

Even in a dream, Crichton has a certain level of self-preservation instinct, so regardless of whether the blade could hurt him, he's already stepping back. The better to watch Harvey splatter like melted candle wax splashed across the floor.

Yet, despite resembling a grocery store spill now, Harvey's smile is still as wide and wicked as ever. The goopy pieces of him slither back together, reconstituting him into one blob that slowly reshapes itself back into the form of a man.

"Don't you think that if such a thing were possible someone would have done it by now?" Harvey asks. "But, if you want to stay, let me fetch you a comfy chair...."

"N-no! Harve--!" Crichton tries to cut in, but the scene switches too fast.

Suddenly, Wayne will find himself strapped down in an odd leather chair attached to a spinning platform. Crichton is standing there beside him wearing a black and red leather Peacekeeper Officer's uniform. He looks down at himself in disgust, then his glare rises to point at the mental clone.

Harvey is over next to the controls with his hand on the dial. He says, "How's that? Nice and comfortable?"

A reconstituting goop-thing isn't new to him by any means, and fire, while being a great way to stop regeneration, is never completely foolproof, and besides, this is Crichton's demon, not something that he could just do away with in one last hurrah. As much as he wants to free him from the trauma of it, this is not the place.

But it feels good to be able to strike out nonetheless.

When the thing's 'joke' triggers something, there's only a moment in which he can react, and he looks to Crichton and the panic on his face for a clue as to what should be done, only to be locked in the most elaborate chair he's every been in, hands and legs locked into place. He yanks on his limbs, the restraints indenting his flesh, and twists his hands to attempt a Gesture that might prevent Harvey reconstituting.

"Hey. Hey, what- Hey come here and face me you coward," he snaps, wrenching hard. "Harvey!"

"Son of a bitch," Crichton turns his attention to Wayne with a look crossed somewhere between embarrassment and guilt. "I'm sorry, you don't need to see this."

He turns to Harvey, "He doesn't need to see this! Knock it off, Harvey."

"Why?" Harvey asks with a shark's grin. "Doesn't he want to see how it all began? Don't you want him to know the whole truth?"

Crichton casts his gaze down. "Not like this."

Wayne looks like he might start shouting for real, baring his teeth at Harvey and wriggling in that seat, pulling at the restraints. No, he doesn't want to see all of this, it's being forced out of Crichton's brain against his will, almost certainly to sway his opinion toward whatever Harvey's agenda in this moment is.

"What if I said I don't give a shit?" he huffs, scowling at Harvey.

"You don't care that your own friend was tortured just like this?" Harvey says with a grin. "How callous. And this is where I was born too, I thought you'd be interested."

"SHUT UP!" Crichton reaches down and yanks open those restraints. This is his brain, dammit, and he's not letting Harvey do this.

"Come on, Wayne, Let's get the hell out of here." He offers his hand to help his friend stand up out of that fucking chair.

"I don't care what you have to say about it," he argues right back, yanking on his wrist as soon as it's freed, whipping it out in front of him and snapping to try and put a hole through Harvey's head and shut him up long enough for the two of them to be able to make some distance while he reconstitutes himself. He takes the offered hand and pulls himself out of the chair, his boot coming down into sand rather than the metallic floor, sinking in just a little bit. No reaction as the sound of water and wind permeate the otherwise still enclosed space.

His hand pulls back as soon as he's steady, tucking into his pocket instead as the other hand wraps back around the handle of his axe.

Harvey's head explodes into black goo this time, and his body falls straight back with a cartoonishly loud thud.

Meanwhile, Crichton looks down in shock when he feels his boots sinking into sand. The familiar sound of waves calls to his soul like an old friend. He can almost feel the warmth of the sun on his cheek.

"Do you hear water?"

That isn't the end of Harvey. He knows it's not. But it still feels good to have dealt even an imaginary blow when he knows that the thing might ostensibly be actually present to know that Wayne doesn't, can't, hate Crichton, in light of what he knows.

The corridor is still there, but the floor is soft and shifting under their boots, the breeze is present, and it's not quite so dark anymore.

Wayne thumbs back at the body still on the ground where they'd left it. "Think we could throw him in the ocean?"

"You know what?" Crichton says with a gremlin grin, "I'm willing to find out. Don't think I've ever seen the bastard swim." Actually, can Scorpius swim? Is that suit watertight?

"You wanna grab his legs and I'll get his... shoulders." The head still has not grown back.

Wayne moves to wrap his arms around Harvey's legs to heft him up, waiting for Crichton to start moving to follow suit. At least the hall would be gone in another blink, depositing them on one of the beaches in the island chain where the landscape is mostly broken up. Up on one little bluff something squirms just out of sight.

"Alright, over here-" As he sidles toward the edge of the water to be able to swing the body into the ocean.

"This looks familair," Crichton comments. His attention briefly turns to that movement on the bluff. Hm.

"Okay, here we go. A-one, A-two"--he says as he encourages Wayne to swing the body so it will land further in the water--"bon voyage!"

As Harvey's body drifts out on the waves, Crichton does a little visualizing and, very suddenly, a bazooka gun is in his hands. But, like, an ACME Looney Tunes version.

"Let's give him a real send-off, shall we?"

"And hup!" The body splashes down and drifts out a little ways, and Wayne plants his hands on his hips as he watches it go.

The impromptu bazooka gets a dull sort of look, fully accepting of it in the moment. Perfectly fine, a pocket bazooka. "Light him up," he replies immediately, putting a pair of sunglasses on just to be able to watch the explosion go up.

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oooh new icon!

For when you gotta square up with the brain worms :]

worm chopping day

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he rolled a 4, get rekt

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let me know if you want me to walk this back

Full steam ahead my dude

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