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Futuristic ・OUROBOROS.




del.
































“Have we worked together before?”

Like a hunter sure not to startle her mark, Del stops. Stops breathing. Stops doing anything. Her eyes meet Fred’s and her pupils dilate. A predatory intellect unfolds from them. It maybe makes him feel a little bit like a witless animal. Like a goat. Or something like that.

Slowly, not even blinking, she takes the brim of his hat between her thumb and forefinger and carefully, carefully, removes it from his head. She looks into the inside of the hat, and then studies the mirror-bright baldness that’s been left behind. Or pretends to. Pretends to see or not see certain things in it. Like she’s been paid to read leaves at the bottom of a ceramic bowl.

After a few seconds she’s satisfied, and she says no with just her head somehow. Despite not moving it at all. Despite not moving her lips either. She puts the hat back on his head.

She knows him now. Ex-military, definitely. Keeps up with his personal hygiene. Not a lot of vices – too busy ever-so-solemnly providing for the few very dear to him. Children, if not some younger girlfriend maybe? Dead future but thinks his rules of engagement will save him. Usually makes responsible choices of employer, so what’s different now? Not that she gives a fuck. She could just invent that part herself.

The easiest thing in the world for her to be is bored. She’s mostly bored now. She was looking forward to a party with some real energy; this feels, so far, like any other job. And she knows it’s not. Because just look at Tasya Kuznetsova, who Del has never seen set in a more grueling mold than this. So spun out on preparation. Something is eating her. Hard and sharp teeth. The silver woman has turned to rust. Flaking away into dust and moth. Not that she had such light to her, before.

Something is very wrong. And Delphine Jonas is very intrigued.

Or would be. Could be. She sighs through the corner of her mouth, blows some hair up, she's very beautiful, who cares. She could put her head down and fall asleep in this chair.

Tasya’s assistant, ha-ha, gives her a folder and then Tasya moves her thin spindly fingers as she starts to talk.

Did she know that Tasya had a brother? Should she know for sure? She’s not sure if she and Tasya ever talked about him. Out of all the things they have talked about.

“Some of us have accepted we’ll just be empty.”

There’s a nothing cloud of cobwebs next to Del, now, dry spittled lips and unshowered, trying to offer her a cigarette. Del read her the moment she came in through the door – so scared of her own ambition that it drew everything else in towards her like a static charge. Del looks at her, puzzle from the beginning of time, undying and indifferent, doesn’t say anything, just casts a little bit of that fear on her eyelids, like winterfreeze, for later, cold savoring Satan. And then those spindly fingers operate an awkwardly tiny video screen.

There’s the man, the brother, but not either anymore, just a cave’s repeating echo, a test, a myth. He gets up and tries to kill. There’s a clanging-clunking to the solid pipes of the warehouse ceiling and it’s like scrap metal dragged down a staircase.

It makes the little hairs on the back of Del’s neck stand up. She has to put her powers of not-smiling into practice.

Well, she half-tries. And then she’s not sure why she’s trying at all. Tasya shows off her injury and it’s like, is someone about to walk in with a slice of cake and a candle? The moon on a string? She’s not sick at all. She's delighted. She could drop to her knees in appreciation of the industry so well-oiled, so continually providing of the means and materials and intelligence for these experiences, or events, or games, whatever you want to call them. The dreams.

The violence.

“...But the sooner we can begin, the better. Are there any questions?"

"Yeah, yes, Tasya. I'll speak. So..."


Only her question is lost in the sound of another’s complaint. And it’s that woman.

“No. I’m not fucking doing this shit.”

Del had thought any dreamsharer who’d worked more than five minutes on the job could have seen that black envelope fall through their mail hole and intuited from just the slightest of passing perceptions that this was going to go very badly. How much dumber of an existence could there be? A dreamsharer who could actually take a warning, ingest it, but never not too late. Never before she became an inconvenience.

And of course Oliver Brazzos would try to sand the edges off. That's his skill. He's exemplary.

“...But understand you will be leaving more than four million euros behind.”

Del could shudder at this woman and her unenjoyment and her attitude, which she would describe as tremendously shitty and hindering. Without turning around:

“Oliver Brazzos, if the girl wants to sit on the floor and itch herself, guess for shapes, pluck forget-me-nots while we watch, that’s just– that’s so great. You should let her. It’s not like she’s wasting everyone’s time. Oh.


And then she does turn around. With this face on that’s almost as charming as irascible, like a laugh of a face, this wide-ass mouth like an upside-frown, and it’s pointed right at Chelsea. Low in her voice, like it’s a secret, she says:

“It’s very stupid to ask to be wanted after you were asked here with money. It makes you stupid like a little child.”


































adriatic



mount kimbie










♡coded by uxie♡
 
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As the woman in front of him carefully removes his baseball cap from his head Fred resists his instinct to grab onto one of her wrists and shoving her off to create some space around him. He was not an ill-tempered man- far from it- but whatever mind games he was currently witnessing he wanted no part of it, let alone could not be bothered with the patience for it.

However, these people, his colleagues, were not trained soldiers or government agents. No, they were a loosely assembled group of misfits and loners all here for a paycheck. Some had discipline and some didn't. Simple. Fred's eyes studied the woman without as much as a hint of an emotion and was about to ask for his baseball cap to be returned when the briefing suddenly began, forcing him to shift his attention towards Tasya.

He read the file placed in front of him like everybody else and watched the video too. A million questions and thoughts began to process in his mind as he tried to put what he knew together one and one. Unfortunately such thoughts would have to wait momentarily as several members of the team began to chatter, with Chelsea in particular verbally opposing the job altogether;

“No, I’m not fucking doing this shit.”
"I won't stop you, but understand that you'll be leaving more than four million euros behind."
"Four million American dollars."
“It’s very stupid to ask to be wanted after you were asked here with money. It makes you stupid like a little child.”

Glancing between everyone who spoke (while also nodding lightly in response to Oliver and Cinnia), Fred cleared his throat and spoke towards Chelsea. "Lady, I don't know you too well, but the way I see it you are- like everyone else in this room- here for a reason. You knew what you signed up for when the letter came your way and you know what line of work we're in."

He paused, offering the lady holding his cap a brief glance, before continuing; "Now, I might not know each and everyone of you half as well as I'd like but we all know Tasya, her name and the reputation associated with it. She wouldn't have picked you or anyone else in here for this job if she didn't think you'd be able to keep to her standards."

"Especially when her own blood is on the line," Fred finished, his gaze wandering over to Tasya which was followed by another curt nod.
 



the nurse.





jordan auclair.



































rabbit heart
















location

the warehouse, london.






outfit

a layered, unassuming ensemble that blends into the dreary skies of london.






interactions

observin’ & reactin’.






tags

n/a.












The emergency nurse kept her distance, standing behind the occupied chairs of the other operatives. The singular earphone was still propped in her ear, classical music playing—serving as a strategy to pay careful attention to Tasya’s plan. Or rather her pleas. The fragile falsehood of poise from her unwavering voice could shatter at any moment.

Her own brother? Jordan was torn. Empathy weighed heavily in her throat—thinking of her own step-brother or even her sister in a similar situation. She would do anything for them. Yet, Tasya’s infamy wasn’t the only Kuznetsov twin that Jordan had heard about. Timofey was a dangerous man. Jordan thumbed through the hefty, well-documented dossier that Tasya had provided to each of them and her suspicions were confirmed. Was a man who had harmed many—worth risking all their lives for? A memory flitted behind her eyes.


“I refuse to help him, he is a fucking monster! I’ve seen him on the news, Hernández. He should be in prison.” Jordan stood in front of Dr Hernández, whose steady hands nursed a coffee. Jordan paced madly in the break room after hearing the man’s name over the call from the paramedics. He was a murderer. He killed multiple people for no good reason. Now he wanted help.

“Listen here, Jordan.” She knew it was serious when he used her first name, “Are you a magistrate judge?”

“No, but—“

“Who are you?”
Dr Hernández interjected.

“I know where this is—“

Who are you, Jordan?”

“A nurse.”
A sigh of defeat.

“And what do nurses do?”

”Deliver direct care to our patients.”

“Right. As healthcare professionals we help whoever is wheeled through those doors, regardless of their status in this world. I don’t care if he shot the president, you will get the emergency room prepped and ready for surgery. It isn’t our job to judge someone’s actions. We leave that to the judicial system.”

“And Jordan…you don’t have to like it. I don’t either, but we have a job to do.”



Keeping the dossier close to her chest, Jordan had decided her response to Tasya’s request. It didn’t matter if he was worth saving, he was someone’s brother and it was her job to help people. And frankly, Jordan didn’t want to be responsible for Tasya’s inevitable decline if her brother never recovers. She may of made it through the briefing, but Jordan could see that Tasya was desperate.

Now for the other kink in this plan that sent pin pricks down Jordan’s back. Limbo. Jordan should have expected this—especially considering his presentation in the video. Yet, she was hoping to avoid that place all together. She had spent enough time there. The metaphorical chains on the box shook violently as fractured fragments of her memories from her last job seeped out.

Her team unconscious in hospital beds. Her heart begun to flutter, beating faster by the second. A calendar with X’s etched into the beginning of January 2029. Her breathing quickened. A man with—

No—we aren’t doing this. Become aware of your body’s signs. Focus on your breathing.

Jordan quietly attempted to regulate her breathing. With each breath, expelling the thoughts that attempted to coil themselves around her heart.

A thankful distraction came in the form of the other operatives. The two tracksuit men made their own comments—one had grown more somber and shared words of encouragement of bringing Timofey home.

Then Chelsea stood up, Jordan’s eyes drawn to her. Jordan couldn’t deny that she would prefer Chelsea’s absence from the job due to their past. Chelsea wasn’t particularly much better than the career criminal that awaited at Tasya’s cottage. Still, the moustached man attempted to reason with her. Just let her go, Jordan thought selfishly.

A woman, who she surmised was around her age, corrected him on the amount of money they would be awarded for the job. Jordan had almost forgotten about the reward—the money not being the reason for her attendance.

Then the enigmatic woman spoke once more—the one that had caught Jordan’s attention earlier. The way she spoke was so disjointed; foreign words sewn haphazardly together but the end result was something that would prove divisive. Similar to an artistic movie, one that you would have to watch over and over to catch the little nuances before it made sense. Jordan had to purse her lips together to stifle a smile as she berated Chelsea.

A voice of reason came from the rather straight-edged man who reeked military experience with his flagpole posture.

Jordan decided against saying anything. It was best to not draw attention to herself—instead remaining a silent participant in the shadows. Just like you did before.










 









scroll








THE ARCHITECT.



TASYA.













mood

Vexed.















location

A warehouse somewhere in London.











interactions

Everyone.
















The discomfort was slow to start, a small itch at the back of her throat, an irritation arising from a lifetime of substance abuse. Discomfort was evident across her entire person - nobody wanted to be in this position. Nobody wanted to be seated before her, faced with a gargantuan task for a sum of money - but the money, such a large sum at once, had to be tempting. Tasya resisted the urge to shift, hairs rising on the back of her neck at the playback of her brother's possession. Faces of discomfort stared back at her. Tasya grinded her teeth. The nose drip was a bitch.

Amidst the chaos, Tasya aimed a leveled gaze at her... student?- mentee?- whatever Soren felt suitable as an identifier- whatever that may be, it was Tasya's biggest relief in their circumstances. At least someone was reliable. No words need be exchanged, Tasya knew that they had gotten exactly what was needed from Dr. Naciri, but was sure she'd have to bear some prodding questions as they got to work in earnest planning the architecture of the dream. So many things left unsaid. At least they took it in stride. Tasya appreciated the pragmatism.

And it seemed that Tasya was not acquainted with working in any other circumstances. The best of her work was cast from molten steel, poured into vats of acid, dripping like sweat on the back of necks - extremes. She wanted extremes. Discomfort was her expertise, she in any other instance had enjoyed making others squirm, enjoyed working under the worst of conditions, because that was her fucking skill. A piece of gutter trash clawing up through the muck, leaving black fingerprints all over everything she touched, a Houdini that made the impossible into possibility. The blonde expected doubts to be voiced, and even the anticipation of them pierced fine, pinprick holes into her endless patience. She hadn't needed to convince anybody of her skill in a long time. God, if only it were easy.

“Timosha is my friend. We'll bring him home."


It nearly made her laugh - Timosha, good Lord, had she ever heard anyone use a nickname for him? In her mind's eye she could see her brother's lip curl with distaste at the idea, pretending to dislike the feeling of fraternity, and her throat swallowed with a click, an ache in her chest. A voice of reason arose as she watched the others voice their concerns. You are not mourning him, stop acting like it. This entire fucking orchestration is to prevent that.

Dark eyes observed behind unfeeling sunglasses, assessing each and every reaction. There was no chance to respond to every word spoken into the stale warehouse air. Yanan's words were only met with a curious tilt of the head. Fausto- Christ, she almost didn't want to dignify his retorts with a response. Each word that left his mouth was just a new way for her to practice patience, to remember that he was a necessity. She only stared, blank and considering her words carefully, but none arose as her gaze landed on Chelsea. A muscle jumped from her tense jaw, tight across her throat.

"No, I’m not fucking doing this shit. You can all be suicidally stupid, but I will not be."


Lips pursed in distaste, barely a hint at the flare of anger that arose. A cycle repeated, of saliva pooling in her mouth to suck at her teeth for the last remnants of nicotine and liquor, nasal drip irritating the back of her throat. Tasya ached to throw her head back and let out a belly laugh at the pluck, the absolute fucking gall that a woman like Chelsea could have. Stupidity- did she hear herself? Had she picked up that letter, wandered in and convinced herself she had a choice? Instead, the blonde schooled her expression into an eased sense of passiveness.

There, in her chest, sat a gap. An echoing chasm between where feeling should exist entwined with reason. In that gap, a memory of a smile that took the shape of Chelsea's smile, a resemblance that resonated through and through. An answer to this very stupid predicament.

Others voiced their distaste and opinions as well before Tasya could formulate an appropriate response. Anger stewed but there was a need for rationality. This was her expertise after all. Rigid smiles and blue smoke in your face.

Oliver's assistance was well appreciated; he was ever the smooth talker, the most amicable of their bunch. But the blunt cut of Del's words were more of Tasya's flavor, a seething irritation she agreed with.

“It’s very stupid to ask to be wanted after you were asked here with money. It makes you stupid like a little child.”


(She cleared her throat to choke down a laugh.)

"Now, I might not know each and everyone of you half as well as I'd like but we all know Tasya, her name and the reputation associated with it. She wouldn't have picked you or anyone else in here for this job if she didn't think you'd be able to keep to her standards. Especially when her own blood is on the line."


That was the reminder she had needed. Her own blood. God, thankfully she had called upon some people such as Fredrik with sense. Tasya had stood statue-rigid at the head of the table as Chelsea gathered her things in a flurry, but now Pygmalion's wishes were granted as she moved back into life, slowly rounding the table to peer closer at the other woman.

"Do you hear what they're saying? Let's not make any rash decisions, Chelsea. You already made the effort to get here. I wouldn't be placing this offer on the table if I didn't think we, or you could get it done."
There it was, that Kuznetsova brand of silver tongued words, the way Tasya could peruse a person like a fucking magazine.

Tasya sighed softly, and removed her sunglasses. They were tucked safely into the breast pocket of her coat. Dark eyes watched Chelsea, unfeeling, unblinking. The resemblance to Timofey was uncanny. Twin mammals, predator animals ready to pounce at the smell of fear.
"It doesn't have to be a yes just yet, but I'm sure you've had a long journey. At least come out to the mansion, at least see the plans and structure for the mission, or see him for yourself. Come on, you can't tell me you aren't the least bit curious?"


She stepped closer, the smell of nicotine an assault. Her breath tousled the hair of the other woman's neck.
"We can talk about this, truly talk about it, later. Just let me get through this. Please, have a seat."


The chair's legs screeched against concrete floors as Tasya pulled out her seat, an echo of gentlemanly manners, before turning aptly and taking her spot at the head of the table once more. No sunglasses, no bullshit. Thin fingers slipped a silver case from her inner coat pocket, and she lit herself a new cigarette. Her voice barely raised a tick as she assessed the more silent guests of their repertoire, the less familiar of them such as Jordan, curious to know what they'd think of the insolence.

"Are there any other questions? Concerns, comments? I'd hoped we could get started sooner rather than later."




♡coded by uxie♡
 
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sasha.





































  • mood



    upside down smiley emoji
















In the moment before Chelsea protested and everyone else began speaking Sasha saw Tasya's lip curl, a ghost of a laugh unvoiced present on her face anyway. There was a part of her that hated when he called her silly little nicknames too, just like Timofey hated it. It was the parts of the twins that so badly wanted to believe their own myths, that needed to be more than human. And every time Sasha called them Tasyenka or Timosha they were reminded that he didn't buy it. A reminder that in another life he could have been their annoying older cousin for real, who knew their embarrassing baby stories and helped teach them how to drive and sent them birthday cards in the mail. Someone who knew they were just people.

Sasha sat back and let everyone else argue without comment (except to make a squinty, disapproving face when Fausto made several lewd comments about Timofey, because really?). But he otherwise sipped his tea and let Tasya handle this. Sweet talking strangers was nowhere near his wheelhouse. He was starting to feel a familiar pre-job anticipation, but also some other emotion that he couldn't name. It sat heavy and sour in the pit of his stomach.

He tried not to think of Timofey lunging for his sister.

Sasha set his tea down and reached into his pocket for his lighter. He should pay more attention to the rest of them. He'd need to figure them out enough to work with them. But in this moment he didn't particularly care about anyone who wasn't Tasya or Timofey.

The lighter was a familiar comfort in his hand. Cool and heavy, the little wheel clicked ineffectually under his thumb once, twice--and then lit, creating a warm little yellow flame. He lifted his thumb from the wheel, killing the flame, and then struck it again--once, twice--lighting on the third try once again. He wanted a cigarette, but didn't rifle through his pockets for one, instead continuing to play with the lighter. When Tasya asked if anyone else had questions, Sasha smiled thinly.

"When do we get going?"
he asked.

































Wolves



Sam Tinnesz










♡coded by uxie♡
 



chelsea.





































  • mood



    fuck this shit I'm OUT
















Chelse had been deemed a suitable enough chemist in the world of dreamsharing to never be out of work for terribly long, a new mission showing up via physical or electronic means on an almost regular basis, many of them with six figures attached to them and far more explanation than what she had been given in the little black envelope, and so it had hardly been the money that had pulled her across the pond and into the dark warehouse.The impulse to be indebted to Tasya Kuznetsova had been the catalyst for picking up this mission in particular. The itch to know what it was exactly that was pulling one of the most famed characters in dreamsharing from the mysterious ether that she had sunk into years ago had also been a significant push, and it had become obvious now that it was a miscalculated step. Her intrigue had overwritten the almost constant churning caution at the wrong moment and her still human impulse to spin a few yarns together to weave a story for the gossips that filled the industry had led her astray.

Oliver offered some platitudes, as was to be expected. He was a man of discipline— and was also just fucking old, with the endless huburis that men who outlasted those slightly less lucky than them filling him to the brim. What good was a single tale of escape when Chelsea could name a thousand and one other cases where limbo had opened its gaping maw and swallowed missions whole, leaving permanently comatose bodies to be disposed of? He tried to paint it all with a light, flowing tone, but she knew better— and honestly had hoped that more amongst the table might. His words were meaningly prattle that did nothing to assuage any of the conclusions she had drawn from watching a shade in the form of a man rise and attempt to kill someone in the waking world. Her chest was rising and falling perhaps a bit slower now that the shock of adrenaline of seeing just what trap Tasya had set for them all abated, leaving her shaking and loose-limbed from its absence.

Del, the feckless model of a bitch spoke next, words that were meant to be cutting and sharp but simply echoed her mother’s— <<What use was shoving you out in the span of ten fucking hours when they could have cut your sorry ass out and saved me the hassle? Why did I even bother when I could have pinched your nose shut when you started crying the first time?>>

At least she was being called a child, a perhaps accurate notation— one of her therapists that she had seen before being dismissed with an uncomfortable pinched look on their face had told her that her mother had stunted her emotional regulation to that of a young child or whatever regurgitated textbook bullshit they were required to say to get Chelsea out the door in fifty minutes.

She could only offer Del a sigh and an exasperated look, as if disciplining an unruly child,
“I didn’t ask to be wanted in this particular situation, I was asked here, as were you. I am refusing the offer, which I suppose you don’t have the will to live or sense of self-preservation to do.”


The shining dome spoke next, insulting Chelsea more effectively than Del by offering a “Lady,” that was not appreciated, condescending as all hell to come from a man whose name no one in the room seemed to know. She wrinkled her nose and drew her eyebrows together, offering a pinched expression and stating,
“And clearly, you have no standards if you saw that,”
she jerked her head towards the dimmed screen,
“and had no reservations. If you had blood you would do anything for, then you’d know that includes sending anyone and everyone, starting with the best, into an endless woodchipper with misguided hope that perhaps enough viscera will clog the machine and let you retrieve the dead body from within.”
She gave herself another moment to examine the man, glancing up and down as if it may jog a memory and give her insight into who this Fred was. Finding nothing, she simply shook her head pityingly and said,
“I don’t think you’ve been around long enough if you think that she,”
she glanced over at Tasya now,
“isn’t desperate enough to point her shiny reputation at us down the gangplank into shark infested waters.”


As soon as Tasya started moving, Chelsea spun on her heel, eyebrows raised high to her hairline as she was sure there was more tongue-lashing to be had. None of what anyone had said to her was necessarily wrong— Chelsea should have been intelligent enough to realize what the black envelope meant and made the correct decision to set it in the junk pile, and coming all this way to waste fuel, paper, and cigarettes was certainly not a good look. Who knew what the hell Tasya was intent on doing to get her way, and Chelsea was not interested in watching the rest of the table snicker at her anymore than they already were.

Even armed with knowledge of how deep the desperation ran, Chelsea still found herself startled, nearly dropping her jacket as her shoulders reached her ears and her eyes sprung wide. With each movement Tasya offered, Chelsea did her best to retreat into herself like the cowardly turtle she was, clutching her arm closer to herself, swinging her suitcase between the two of them as a physical shield when the other woman’s breath glazed over her skin.

The offer to sit down again was soundly rejected by the shake of her head, a trembling small voice informing the woman in an almost-pleading down, a near apology for getting her hopes up,
“My cousin has a recital in a week’s time.”
There was still no trust that this mission would not damn them and her priorities lay elsewhere, with her own blood that lived and breathed and sometimes had the same pinched look as her ex-therapists.
“I have my own blood to care for.”


Once the woman left to sit back down, Chelsea hurried the rest of the way out of the warehouse, letting out an obnoxious groan of frustration as the door closed on Sasha’s question. She gave herself a moment to gather her bearings, swinging her coat back on, pulling her fraying hair into a ponytail that somehow looked worse, and opening up her phone to see what the quickest ticket back to New York City looked like.

Another obnoxious groan left her lips as she realized that there were no more flights, at least not until the next afternoon. She would have to be here for at least the night, meaning she needed to find lodging. She pushed her head into her hands, a dull chant of,
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,”
starting up, louder and more aggressive at every beat, the heel of her hand hitting her forehead as if to rattle free a few brain cells to make her less appealing for the mission. Giving up on the situation for now, she lit another cigarette and looked up at the starless sky, the acrid smoke curling around her as her only agreeable companion.

































motion sickness.



phoebe bridgers










♡coded by uxie♡
 
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soren.
































This is the first time Soren’s seen the video.

Tasya meant to show them before. She’d said as much. But then the last few days with all the shuffling, the shaking-down of addresses, the boxcutters and permanent markers, phone calls to this Swiss bank, that airline…

Soren has heard everything, read every scrap of intelligence to have flown in across Tasya’s desk in the last week – usually because they themselves put it there. They know they’re not winging this. They wouldn’t. They’re prepared, like always. So it just hadn’t felt important before now.

And watching it, finally: it still doesn’t. Little brother gets up and pushes over the surgical table, stomps on the metal tray, okay, sure, it happened like she said it had happened. Soren had had no reason to disbelieve her. What else is there?

From where they stand, hands on the back of the last open chair, Soren’s eyes make a path around the room, surveying people’s faces. And oh. Everyone looks kind of the same. With a few exceptions: sobered, concerned. Some people are even real enough to show the barest amount of fear.

They’d almost forgot that not everybody's had six whole days to sit with all of this. But then even Tasya’s face looks fucked up and unreadable now. So there’s a moment everyone else in this room can share together. Only Soren is left out.

Soren’s been through this enough times that it’s not going to bother them. They really can’t afford–

“No, I’m not fucking doing this shit.”

The woman’s voice rings out, makes a belfry of the upper corners of the warehouse ceiling, the old exposed rebar, the pipes leading to nothing. It’s a large building.

(Chelsea Wen Ming-Zhu, chemist.)

“Don’t you want to chase that thrill?”

And the reactions are varied.

“Especially when her blood is on the line.”

They’ve seen arguments like this take place before. But they haven’t seen anyone walk out on a job just yet.

“Come on, you can’t tell me you aren’t the least bit curious?”

There is a first for everything, one might care to say.

The chemist has some cutting remonstrations ready for Tasya, something something shark-infested waters, and it’s not on her behalf, not really, but Soren can’t help but feel an anger come through, ink printing paper. Not a lot, but enough to send heat shooting to the tops of their ears. And it’s not from a place of any kind of fairness: it’s like, if only she knew how much work it’d taken them to decide this was worth doing. Why does the choice have to be hers?

They know it’s her right to leave them now, standing naked like this, clutching dignity and nothing else. It’s not unprofessional. It’s not a disparagement. It’s certainly nothing that should feel this jarring. They can just find another one, can’t they? They have enough time, don’t they?

First time this week Soren’s thought about time this way. It seemed up ‘til now that time was something that Tasya could buy to own, what with her supervillain money, import hardwood flooring, Chinese artisanal dinnerware, not to be rude.

(Chelsea’s out the door. Big sweep of emotion.)

But no, though it pains them, they know that cost is too great for any one person to pay. They will not find a group of people all so high-up on Tasya’s lists again. Only weaker and weaker material from here on. This opportunity has a shelf life. It will not return to her so quickly. It may never.

Soren’s headache beats harder than ever. How are they going to play this?

That woman, the one with the mint juul, speaks up.

“...Loves interrupting her classmates. Okay. Done with that. Tasya! He’s being guarded by metaphors down there. Stories, you know, if they have his body, not just pew-pew, boys with guns. He might have lost all his mind by now, what will to escape, you know, he might not know exactly what a sister is anymore. You might have to… give him an idea or so. That changes a lot of it, doesn’t it?”

Her and her damned smile.

Without a single word, Soren springs away from the chair, turning around and following the chemist outside.

***

It’s not a nice neighborhood. Broken glass on the ground. Paint scaling off the buildings. Sidewalks edged by little shroom caps.

Chelsea is still there under the light, on her phone. No passing cars. Where it’s not lit, you can’t really see anything. You can barely see where the sky begins, or what's a cloud.

Soren goes and stands close, not too close, but close enough to be beside her. They’re still searching for the right things to say, hunting, and maybe you would know this from looking at them, or maybe not.

In the end, their mouth runs a little ahead of their brain.

“Tasya puts a lot of faith in me.”
They’re not looking at Chelsea. Their voice is slow, even-sounding, Australian accent, unresentful. They don’t struggle with what they mean.
“I helped her out once, twice, a few months ago, and I have yet to cite any of that goodwill, for any reason. I think that surprises her. I don’t have anything to ask for, really. She privileges that. I might owe some luck to her, someday.”


They take out a pack of cigs from their jacket pocket. Tasya asked for cigarettes a few times while they were out and around, and it felt easier to oblige this if they bought some for themselves, too. Not that Soren’s ever really smoked. At parties, maybe, but not on their own. They take a cigarette out, first-ever solo, hah, bring up the little lighter they also bought, and fire it up. They inhale. It’s kind of funny. They try very very hard not to act like it’s been so long. Mostly successful.

“...I’m overworked. Each day she asks me to fill larger and larger gaps in my comprehension without offering any sort of guidance or help. She keeps me in the dark about things I’d benefit from knowing if those things embarrass her in some way. She falls asleep drunk every night. I have to go to the grocer and buy her cigarettes every morning. I pick her dirty laundry up off the floor.”


Their head is hurting bad now.

“This situation has been very hard for her to deal with. And she’s made it hard for me. She’s been very good about giving me as many obstacles as possible. But I don’t make a fuss of it. It’s what my job is, fortunately, or unfortunately. I’m here to carry the load that she can’t, which… might turn out to be all of it, in the end. You can ask her about it. She knows that as well as I do.”


They take a long drag. It helps. It makes them feel a bit dizzy. A bit like they might win this?

“I know it’s really not the job. You’re thinking about her. We’ll come to a point in the… dream, where things are irretrievable, as far as our efforts go, and for all her desperation, she’ll fail to see it. And she’ll push us so far past that point that we’ll never come back. That’s the idea, isn’t it? The nightmare of our profession.”

“Not to sound flippant. I don’t think it’s silly of you to think that way. I have yet to see exactly how far she’ll wriggle towards something she wants. So I don’t know everything. She might try. It doesn’t matter, either way.”


Soren pulls, lets it go, watches it travel up into the air, into Chelsea’s own wisp, one plus one is one, and then they’re finally looking at her.

“Because I won’t allow it.”


They stop themselves short of a cough, or a laugh, either-or.
“Mmh. Pardon me. I won’t allow it. Eleven people at risk for the life of one criminal? No. No. I’m citing my goodwill here. What's going to happen is this: there’s the slightest suggestion we’re moving towards the edge, I pull back. I say a few things. She’ll listen to me when the time comes – if she listens to anyone, she'll listen to me. I don’t challenge her on anything at all.”

“I quit making her feel big and she stops. Then we come out of it.”


They’re not even halfway through the cigarette. They breathe the night air. Feel it in their chest. It’s almost silent in the city tonight.

“Maybe you can trust that.”


A small car turns down the street and passes them, low headlights, lit interior, radio playing some recent song. Soren’s heard it before.

“You’ve come a long way to get here. From New York, right? I can only ask that you think a little longer.”


And Soren goes back inside.

***

Soren’s a little sweaty when they come back in. They’re trying to recover their nerves with as little delay as they can help. Before anyone really sees it.

They have to freak a little every fucking time they do this. Shouldn't they be done with this shit by now?

Did that work? Do I even care? I don't care.


They can hear their heartbeat. It sounds uncertain. There's a salty taste in their mouth.

It’s taken them this long but they finally take their seat, directly between Yanan and Sasha. It feels like a troubling step towards laying fully down on the warehouse floor. They take a pull of the cigarette and there’s a look between them and Tasya. They’d said something before about not really being a smoker.

Her eyes makes them even more self-conscious. They look to Yanan, then the other way, at Sasha.

“Do–”


Then back to Yanan. Their head moves in a very sudden, defensively sleepy way that they're only half-aware of. If they rest their eyelids, is it over? They try not to blink. Back to Sasha. They need another coffee.

They take the whole pack out of their pocket, shake it once, and then hold it out, saying nothing. Not needing to.

































elephant



tame impala










♡coded by uxie♡
 
Last edited:









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THE CHEMIST.



YANAN.













mood

kind of tired of it all











outfit

blue, red, white tracksuit, boots.











location

Warehouse, splendid grimy London.











interactions

Sasha, Soren, Open.
















He has lost his thing, the click-clack, the something of a thirty-year-old that one possesses when the frontal lobe has set in place fully for a few years. He can't find it in him anymore. Left is an indifferent white button down and it’s too big on him.

He watches the irritated Chelsea throw her fit, like a spoiled child, a tiny overbred dog snapping at the hand that feeds and it’s really funny because in a different year, he understands this frightening anger. In this one, he just envies her will to save her own skin. In this one he makes fun of her in his head.

Yanan isn't bitter. His beak is just a cutting edge and he gnaws on lies and truth all the same, digests and spits out their curved bones. Yanan can feel the night sweats and he is hatching something under his tracksuit; a cold or a headache. Or an egg and inside there's something forbidden.

So he decides to do what he hasn’t done in a few months: stretching his arms behind his back and leaning back in his plastic chair and he begins to think why he is here.
The truth is, he is here because he has nothing better to do. He is bored. And a bit old. He replays the video of Timofey’s inferno in his head, pulls the film through behind his eyeballs and…

How does it feel to meet family for the first time?
What is it to belong in twin flames?

Skin and bone, flesh to flesh, ear on a beating heart. It’s a man in the moon, I don’t really see the scary mask.

What does it mean to lose someone like that?

Barbaric, like a set of ribs missing and I didn’t get to see them off. You wake up and they’re gone, it’s worse than being dumped.

Fuck being dumped.
There’s dump everywhere- sometimes it’s on the street, sometimes it’s dog shit under a brand new shoe and sometimes it’s just you.


How does it feel to be stabbed?

Ornate.

Does it feel different when it’s done by a beloved?


He thinks.

I think I will.

He doesn’t try to engage in many conversations today. He hasn’t tried yet. But he will. He always does. Often he’s a bit greedy for it. Today he catches fish that fall from the sky, because London is such a wet crony. Yanan rocks his chair back and forth a bit while in thought. This person with a dark bob sits next to him now and he saw them earlier next to Tasya, on an invisible leash. He hopes they get a nice pie for whatever it is they're doing. Cherry or blueberry.

"Do–"

He doesn't hesitate for long and offers a polite nod.

"Yes."
"Thank you, kindly,"
he hums.
Cigarettes make him feel so much less miserable. Because he started when he was sixteen. He sees it as 'fond memories' but it's a joke and only he is in on it, he can stop whenever he wants to. He does many destructive things just because it’s cool. His engine is running warm slowly. He twists the Malboro Reds between his fingers and puts it in his mouth.

When the other track suit man takes one as well, he looks him up and down before he lights his cigarette. Flickers from his lighter sparkle above his hands and warmth returns to his bedridden pallor before it dies out again. The other people talk in their own groups, however no one is being loud enough so he can eavesdrop.

He looks back at the cigarette donor, then to the man.
"русский? (russian?)" He asks and blows the smoke in Sasha’s face to see if he will freak out.

"Нет, я англичанин. (No, I’m English.)"

Yanan nods slowly like he really gets it and takes a long drag.
"Did you bring more tracksuits? Wear something else tomorrow," he says in a British accent, that he has adopted half-jokingly and half unapologetically. Since he has ‘been around’ on countless programs, semesters abroad and the like, he has acquired a proper portfolio of accents he presents mostly as lame party tricks or to get on people’s nerves. The latter strategy he usually applies with Lloyd who, as a very vulnerable target, always falls for it and has to polish all the mirrors in the house for an hour to ‘calm down’.

"Why, did you only pack tracksuits? Embarrassing,"
the man says in a newscaster rp accent.
"No. I just like them," Yanan replies matter-of-factly in an Irish accent.

He turns his head and watches the dark haired stranger fumble in their pocket for something while they smoke next to them quietly and seemingly out of breath. "And you…," he checks for a name tag somewhere. This event has an unmentioned mood for name tags but no one wears any because the niche rockstars of the industry are supposed to be known.

"Are you her new project?"

Yanan looms like a storm cloud with the inner pulses of light and he picks them apart with his googly eyes.
"You look like someone who knows everyone in the room. You look particular like this," he babbles on in his wise man with a long beard staring out in the sea voice. He knows it all, has seen many things and thinks about nothing. Nothing of importance at least. He just lingers and hums. "But who are you???"

While he asks all this, Yanan wonders if tonight a burnt out flame will reignite: Tasya’s house partys. Maybe all that drinking still cures that deep seated sadness engraved in her skull. Or at least numbs that grey cherry pit where all hope used to reside. Maybe Timofey snatched it while he's ensnared in the big bad dreamcatcher, maybe it's retrievable.
If this, then this and so on.
As one does.



♡coded by uxie♡
 







Oliver Brazzos



  • .



"Yes, thank you Cinna," Oliver said, barely hiding the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. He could always count on them to an unimportant but still technically correct wisecrack. One could even argue that he deserved the increased payout given that he was actually trying to keep such a volatile team together.

Of everyone invited, Frederik and Sasha swore their fealty while a few others were entirely silent. He could write entire books about Delphine or Fausto but they were too entrenched in the dreamsharing world to turn down a mission. Ziva appeared to be on good terms with Tasya, which meant that she'd be a tacit yes. Yanan? Who could tell with him?

That left Jordan Auclair, Soren Wender, and to some extent, Cinna themself. Oliver would like to think that he knew Cinna well enough to predict their next move, but the domino effect was a powerful thing and Delphine's dissection of the chemist wasn't helping. Her inhuman understanding of others, her words that cut with such precision that she rivaled the most prestigious surgeons.

She was the searing yang to his palliative yin.

He threw a blonde look as if to say "Be nice" before Tasya interjected with her own pleas to stay. She stood nakedly, desperation leaking from her silver tongue. On lesser dreamsharers it might have worked too, but Chelsea stood firm and played into the very tantrum Delphine accused her of.

“My cousin has a recital in a week’s time. I have my own blood to care for.” She huffed as she made her exit and left the warehouse in relative silence.

Then why did you come in the first place? Oliver sighed inwardly, his hands on his hips and his lips pressed into a thin line.

Yanan was an exceptional chemist, yes. He needn't negotiate a bigger payout either because he approached dreamsharing with a different point of view than Chelsea. He was The Conductor, the mad scientist, and gregarious. Oliver could work with this which meant that the team could work with this.

He took one last glance at Jordan who had stayed silent for the majority of the meeting. Losing a chemist might have been one thing (this was hardly the first time someone deserted a gig), but nurses were worth their weight in gold. Her silence might not have been a "no," but it wasn't a "yes" either. He would need to play this slow.





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