2022-09-06 - ... And Dreams? The Dreams Are Fucked.

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : Hey when do you get off work today?

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : Morning shift, so I'm done early afternoon. What's up?

(TXT to Mikaere) Jules : Just had a bad dream. I’m fine but kinda freaked out. Work shift depends on weather, but I’ll text you after and come by?

(TXT to Jules) Mikaere : Shit, sorry. Come on over, whenever you're free. I'll have a beer and a listening ear waiting for you.

(TXT to Una Mikaere) Jules : Thanks.

As it turns out, people don’t like kayaking in the rain. Jules sticks around the shop long enough to make sure that her scheduled tour is indeed cancelled—for awhile there, it looks like the drizzle might let up, and there are die-hard Washingtonians set on the outdoors whatever the weather may be—before making her way to the marina and Mikaere’s boat.

The drizzly grey day suits her mood. She’s got a black beanie on, along with a light water-resistant jacket, and generally looks grumpy and out of sorts. Grr, argh.

Most tourists don't much like sailing in the rain, either, and the die-hards who know what they're doing? They need less help, on the whole. It makes for a shitty labor day for the 9-to-5ers, but not so bad for those who actually need to work, in the end, even if it isn't great for business.

Mikaere doesn't mind the drizzle, and is standing on the deck of his boat as Jules approaches, fiddling with one of the ropes which— it seems he's decided— just isn't sitting right. He glances over her shoulder as he catches sight of her, his cheerful grin fading to something less overtly cheerful as he catches her mood. "C'mon," he says. "It's a day for inside, yeah? C'mere."

There's a kiss for her, and a hug: see, everything's going to be ok.

Better already—well, maybe not quite, but Jules does find comfort in that reassurance, leaning her head against Mikaere’s shoulder for a moment before they head down to the cozy cabin. Not everything is awful.

“Sorry,” she says, taking responsibility for her mood. “I slept like shit, and then I didn’t go back to sleep, and then I got in a fight with Una to top it off. Probably a good thing I don’t have to play happy tour guide today.”

"Hey," he says. "Don't be sorry for that. You're here, now, and this is a safe space, where you can tell me everything— nor not!— and either way, there'll be beer and good company. Shitty days happen. Sometimes rain is even for the best, eh?"

The cabin is cozy, and Mikaere fetches two beers from the fridge and then (for good measure) opens a bag of chips as well: feast of kings.

“Thanks.” It’s for more than just the beer and chips. “It’s definitely an inside, watch movies kind of day,” Jules agrees as she reaches for the bag. She crunches her way through several chips and takes a swig of beer, letting herself settle into this space without any immediate need to tell all. It’ll come in time; she’s had half a day to stew and think about all things she could say—and all the things she could’ve said earlier that day.

“This is probably going to sound dumb,” Jules begins. “But in my Dream, I was just out of high school and going to college, and it all seemed so real. Not just, this could’ve been your life if you’d made different decisions, but this is your life. Like maybe that’s the real one, and this is the Dream.”

Mikaere sits, letting his long legs extend out beyond the little table, filling the space. He’s happy enough to let Jules take her time to come to words; and, once she’s gotten there, slow to do more than off a quiet sound of listening and interest.

“That,” he says, finally, “has got to be a fucking weird thing to wake up from. Is it lingering? That sense of real-not real?”

“Kind of.” Jules doesn’t like the answer she gives, and it shows. “Yeah.”

She makes a face and opts for another swig of beer. “It feels stupid, but I keep wondering. Just a little bit.” There’s a mute question as she looks at Mikaere, studying his expression.

"Whether it could be real?" Mikaere doesn't really need to ask that question, probably, given how intently he's been following Jules' explanation, not even pausing to sip at his beer. But he says it anyway: putting it out there, in words. "Anything's possible, right? If that is the real world, I wonder if you'll wake back up unto it at some point. Or maybe even regularly: two lives, concurrent."

Jules dips her chin in a scant nod, looking a little guilty. “How awful does that sound,” she says with some humor. “I have no desire to be eighteen again. I’ve already lived through that once, thanks very much. Not to mention, if it did go back and forth like that, how confusing that would be. I kept getting little flashes of here and now—you were there. So was Una. But neither of you knew me, and I wasn’t altogether sure I knew you either.”

Her lips twist into a wry smile. “You had no time for a college freshman. Not that I blame you. That’s a big age gap, at that age.” While Jules maintains a neutral tone, even commentary, there’s a jiggling little something that shows up in her eyes.

"Hm," is thoughtful, and maybe intended to fill space for a moment as Mikaere works his way through the logistics of what Jules has just said— though there's a wry grin for that comment about him. "Eighteen and, what, twenty-five, twenty-six? Yeah, at that age it is. Not so bad now, though, mm?" Whatever that little something is, if he's noticed it, he's not commenting.

"The idea of living out another life in your sleep, and at a different age is, frankly, kind of disturbing. And sounds exhausting. So I hope that's not what's going to happen. But it raises some interesting questions about... well. The shape of reality? Also, why take you back in time? Why not take you to a you, age twenty-seven, living whatever life you might be living had you made that decision?"

Jules’ reply isn’t verbal, coming instead as another smile, this time smirky, and a nudge of her foot against Mikaere’s leg.

“The timing of it is clearly a thing,” she determines. “Since we were just there and talking about this kind of what-if. But—I don’t know.” Now she hesitates, turning it into a moments thought over another sip of beer. “Someone or something was talking to me. Maybe just me. Another me. And it gave me options. Like…I could make everything go away. Not sure what it meant. Make this life go away? Or all the weird illusion shit that made me feel like I was going crazy? Not gonna lie—in the moment, it was pretty tempting.”

Mikaere's leg nudges back. It's not quite playing footsy under the table... but it's also not unlike it either.

"Right," he agrees, more seriously, though he pauses to take a swig at his own beer before continuing. "Or," he proposes, "it was talking to this you, via that you. I suppose it comes down to which is real. Or both, in which case..."

He tips his head to the side and wonders, "In the moment, did you think you knew what it meant? When you were tempted?"

Jules eats chips one by one as she considers the spin Mikaere puts on the problem. She’s slow to respond, and not just because she’s busy licking salt from her fingers.

“In the moment, yeah. I thought I was showing signs of my mom’s mental illness, and I just wanted to be a normal college kid.” Jules pauses. She’s compelled to offer an explanation, though even then, much remains unsaid. “As I understood it growing up, my mom has schizophrenia. It was the best explanation for what was going on, when you don’t know about everything else.”

Another pause, another few chips. “Do you think there’s a way to tell what’s real?” Dawning realization does not make for happy realization. “If it was anything else, I’d be arguing that it’s all real. Fuck.”

It's an explanation that draws a twitch of Mikaere's expression, just short of a wince: he's not going to fall into the platitudes of 'I'm sorry, that must be hard' but there's a thoughtfulness to his expression that suggests he's giving it considerable thought nonetheless. And it must be hard, after all.

"In my experience," he says, slowly, still working his way through his own thoughts let alone the words that need to go with it, "the denizens of the ārai, the Veil, don't like absolutes: they don't like true, they don't like false, they don't like real. And they don't like giving straight answers, even to simple questions. Te pohewa can be used to... look back, but that's about memories as much as anything."

It must make the pieces of Jules’ life click together in tighter formation. To judge by her own expression and its not-quite-a-smile, she expects as much.

“If you have two lives running up against each other, do you get two pohewa?” she speculates. “Or does one bleed into another? If you remember something from a Dream, does it show up in the same way? I don’t expect you to know,” Jules adds. At least she’s transitioning from a solid bad mood to one defined more by her need to know. “Just thinking out loud.”

Her kingdom for a straight answer.

It does— but Mikaere's not inclined to probe further. It's enough, just knowing this.

"It's a good question though," he says, in answer to the rest. "I'd imagine... well, your manifestation, within te pohewa isn't pre-ordained: it's all about your self-reflection. If your life changed considerably, who's to say that you wouldn't represent yourself differently? It can change within just the one life. Given how thin the bounds of reality are here, and especially within te pohewa, it'd make sense if it became... closer. More intertwined. But I've never seen it happen."

That speculative look asks the question before Jules gets the words out. That has to wait until she’s weighed it a bit further while drinking her beer.

“Can we try it?”

It's not hard to imagine that Mikaere knows this question is coming even before Jules' speculative look, let alone the actual question, verbalised as it is.

Even so, he hesitates over his answer.

"If you want," he says, carefully.

Jules raises her eyebrows.

“You think it’s a bad idea?”

"No," says Mikaere. "Not— it's a perfectly valid idea. I'm not unwilling. It's more... are you certain you want to know? Or want to deal with the not-knowing, if it is indeed unknowable?"

Her eyebrows remain up, now joined by a wry half-smile. “You think I can deal with not knowing?” Jules counters.

It makes Mikaere grin, albeit ruefully. "No," he admits.

Jules grins back before she polishes off that beer. “Neither do I.”

She tempers her response, though. “But seriously, I get what you’re saying. I’ll try to keep it in mind.”

"Okay," says Mikaere, easily enough. He offers his hand, the one that's slightly salty and chip-covered, not the one still holding on to his beer.

"Now?"

“No time like the present,” says Jules, trying to present a brave face. But when she intertwines her fingers with Mikaere’s, she squeezes tight.

Mikaere takes another long swig from his beer and then sets it down, twining his fingers around Jules'. It takes him a moment: clearing his mind, focusing. That's the moment when it ought to happen.

Instead? Nothing.

Nothing happens at all, and the tall Kiwi? He opens his mouth, eyes wide, and stares. At Jules? Past Jules.

There may even be the faintest hint of pink beneath brown-hued skin.

There’s likely some sort of lesson being delivered here about power and humility. Jules, expectant and nervous and determined, won’t be the one to deliver it, because she just starts to giggle. Her grip gives a little spasm of extra pressure.

“Or not.”

It's not quite premature ejaculation territory, but Mikaere's gaze drops anyway, and he looks— well, sheepish. Jules' giggle doesn't help (or maybe it does?); after a moment, he shakes his head, laughing ruefully.

"Okay," he says, after a moment. "Let's try that again."

Inevitably, the moment they step— mentally— onto Mikaere's manifestation of Whatipu beach, his slight embarrassment is clearly visible: the flush about the edges of the clouds, that sense of foot-shuffling and rueful dismay palpable in the breeze.

<< Okay, >> he says. (Moving on. Moving on.) << How do you want to do this? >>

This, after all, is his space... and it is less important, for this.

The exact character of Jules’ amusement clarifies in this space. Laughter is a relief, a minor distraction from the anxiety that ruffles her blue-black feathers. There’s a touch of fondness, too, that comes with observing Mikaere’s hiccup of failure. The nerves are at the forefront, though, sending her skittering to and fro. She leaves a network of avian tracks behind her on the wet sand.

<< I guess we find out what my mind looks like, >> Jules responds. Again, humor manifests as the thin veil covering her trepidation. << Here’s hoping it isn’t, like, an ugly trailer park. >>

Amusement is good; so too is fondness. Both assist in restoring Mikaere's equilibrium, allowing him to coast above the waves, his wings fluttering in the gentle, no-longer-mocking breeze.

<< It won't be, >> is sure: absolutely sure. << It'll be something meaningful, for you. >>

He hesitates a moment, then adds: << I'm going to clear away all of this; all of me. Then we can explore you. >> It could sound dirty... but it doesn't, not now.

The beach trickles away, sand grain by sand grain. The skies clear, fading away to something utterly inconsequential. Left behind? A void, empty as far as the eye can see, aside from the two creatures suspended within it.

Jules' turn.

<< What do I do? >>

Jules moves through the physical world with such confidence, but here? As the void spreads out around them? She’s scared.

It's a little eerie, it's true: even Mikaere seems a little disquieted by it.

He hesitates, hovering (because what else can he do? There's no up, no down, no ground, no sky) in place, and then suggests, << Open up your mind. Don't think: just be. >>

<< I don’t know what that means, >> comes the reply, panic rising. Immediately following, there’s a surge of self-recrimination, shaded by annoyance and embarrassment: stop it, Jules, don’t be a dumbass.

But maybe it’s that self talking-to that does it. It doesn’t materialize all at once. But gradually, the outlines of things hazily form, the blankness of the void taking on substance, thin though it may be, like fog. Jules’ own attention sharpens, and so too the shapes take on texture in this greying world of the mind. Trees like the pillars of a giant’s cathedral surround them, disappearing overhead in the mist. The trickle of water behind them resolves into an ice-blue, stone-bottomed river that plashes with the force of Jules’ recognition.

<< This is the Quinault rainforest, >> Jules observes, turning towards Mikaere. Except it isn’t Jules-the-Jay swinging around to look and explore, but Jules at eighteen. She’s slimmer, a girl who hasn’t fully grown into her body, with an openness of expression that translates into innocence.

Mikaere doesn't say anything, but his thoughts are so easy to glean, here in this liminal space where boundaries are so impossibly thin: I believe in you.

He's clearly fascinated as the details begin to emerge, propelling himself around with eager interest that means he's not looking at Jules when her self-representation changes— which means when he does glance back, in response to her comments, his expression shows that abrupt transition to surprise-tinged-with-horror-tinged-with-amusement.

<< Oh fuck, that's going to be weird, >> he says, his thoughts so easily shared: he is absolutely, without question not even remotely attracted to Jules-at-eighteen. Negative attraction.

Beat. Moving on. << It's beautiful. This place. >>

Rationally, Jules appreciates the fact that a man in his mid-thirties isn’t attracted to a girl half his age—but these things aren’t entirely rational, and it takes a few seconds for her to get there, past that initial affront and the dawning awareness that her mental manifestation has shifted. << You’re weird, >> is the semi-sulky retort.

She’s preoccupied with the unspoken question of why am I eighteen again; the misty forest comes second. It is beautiful, but she can’t begin to explore that now. Jules isn’t pleased, and that edge of panic starts to rise, made visible in the sudden quickening of the river cresting white with rapids.

<< I don’t want to be stuck like this. >> Whatever questions Jules may hold about her Dream, her take on it now is a forceful rejection. She likes her life as it is. She has no desire to turn back the clock.

<< What now? >>

<< Sorry, >> is genuinely apologetic, though... well, he can't help the hint of amusement that's layered behind it, either: teenage girls, man. Even when they're not actually teenage girls.

His mental shape hasn't changed, and so he glides above the rapids, wings setting out a slow beat that may be intended as calming: certainly, he's not panicking. Everything's fine.

<< You won't be. This is just in your mind, remember? We can step out of it anytime you want. >> What now? He hesitates over that one.

<< Show me your Dream? >> he suggests. << Conjure it up. >>

<< Whatever, Bird-Man. >>

It’s the kind of thing Jules would say regardless, but doing so in teenage form gives it a certain je ne sais quoi.

She flips her hair with one hand and a quick shake of her head that leaves her chin jutting up and her eyes narrowed in frowning concentration.

It’s not that her mental landscape dissolves. Instead, it recedes in the coastal mist, providing the bones of a stage on which the memories can play out. A set of straight saplings at the water’s edge become the lines of the shower stalls, superimposed with the ugly beige-yellow of those walls in unflattering lighting. The river, water streaming down the drain.

The soap drops; teenage voices begin their taunts.

Mikaere only grins at the taunt, amused: his mirth hovers between them, tinged with affection.

It recedes, though, as Jules sets the stage for her Dream, his focus and attention to detail collecting itself in each low movement of his wings (surely a real flying creature would need to beat their wings more rapidly... then again, a real flying creature would need far bigger wings to carry the weight of a man, even one with fins instead of legs).

<< Pause, >> he says, abruptly, watching. << Rewind. >>

It's the soap he's interested in, and though he speaks his commands 'out loud' they're not really for Jules: he can do this much himself, rewinding the 'tape' a few seconds to watch the soap, the way it flies out of Jules' hand... and the surge of power that goes with it.

It's not Jules' power.

It's not anyone's.

They can do that? They can do that.

For a moment, Jules is more interested in the mechanics of manipulating memory, what can be done in this still largely unknown domain. Just for a moment, though. The longer she watches, the more it elicits a response. The Dream’s anxiety is diluted, the memory of an emotion instead of the thing itself. Jules’ stressed nerves create their own rippling wave, one that includes a slap of anger.

<< Who’s fucking with me? I assumed it was the Veil. >>

It's not a slap of anger aimed at Mikaere, but the tall Kiwi— the fish-tailed, winged Kiwi— reacts nonetheless, with a wince that is more caution than concern. He leaves the memory stilled, hesitating over this information.

<< I don't know, >> he admits. << The Veil still makes the most sense, right? I just don't understand the why. >>

Jules, the teenaged Jules watching the memory of her own younger self, scowls at the soap. Stupid soap. Stupid Veil. Stupid Them.

<< Trying to turn me into my mom. Freaking me out and making me see things. >>

It’s too near a thing for Jules to be able to see the larger picture, the greater why that remains unanswered. So near in psychic terms that the scene blurs, washing away. The shower partitions slick off like suds, leaving behind the wood paneling of an mid-century interior. The bedroom that takes the place of the dorm bathroom contains a bed and a crib, shown from a floor-up perspective that makes everything look bigger. A coloring book and crayons lie on the beige carpet.

The young woman who sits on the bed, back against the the headboard, has hazy, indistinct features, except for her long, black hair. She’s humming, low and melodic, when the scene resolves, but tension chokes the air in this memory. In a split second, everything changes.

An ear-piercing shriek erupts from the woman on the bed. Simultaneously, she thrusts away the blanketed bundle in her lap, rough enough that there’s a heart-stopping moment where it seems like that bundle—the baby—might tumble off the bed altogether. The baby’s safe, but wailing, as a younger version of Jules’ grandmother rushes into the room.

Everything that happens next is a blur from the four year-old Jules’ perspective. There’s her mother babbling about her baby suddenly smiling at her with shark teeth as he roots for her breast. Ada’s overwhelmed (wherever Charlie was, it wasn’t at home) as she tries to make sure the baby’s safe while comforting her daughter.

(Mama, the memory whispers.)

The baby, still crying, is gently deposited in the crib so Ada can focus on trying to calm the sobbing young woman.

(Fear, thick and suffocating, laced with uncertainty. What does a child do when they can’t trust their mother? What does it do to them?)

Perspective never quite resolves. One second, it’s the reconstructed image of a girl climbing into the brown recliner beside the crib. The next, it’s seeing through her eyes, as she snakes a small hand through the slats of the crib to grasp an even smaller one.

“I’ll protect you,” she whispers to her crying baby brother, holding tight to his clinging fingers. “That’s what big sisters do.”

And Jules? She’s frozen, caught up in watching the memory she didn’t mean to initiate but is powerless to turn her attention away from.

<< Oh Jules, >> is Mikaere's comment, whispered as much as anything can be when shared mind-to-mind. His reaction is sympathetic, but more than that: there's no pity, just a deep, warm wave of presence.

He's a bystander in this experience, a conduit in the power that lets this liminal space exist but otherwise— just along for the ride, though his mental eyes are on Jules, now, watching.

<< Do you want me to turn it off? We can leave. >>

It's not a retreat. It's not running away.

<< No. >>

Jules can’t present a brave front here, despite her decision. Reliving the memory upsets her, remembering that fear and confusion, the rejection she felt but couldn’t understand. It’s shot through with bright, hot anger.

<< There’s no point if we go now, just because it’s hard. >>

Jules turns towards Mikaere, jaw set and stubborn. << The soap, it smiled at me. It’s not exactly the same, but it could’ve been pulled from my memory. Especially given how the rest of the Dream went—I haven’t shown you yet. >> She starts to concentrate, to pull them back into the other scene, but before she does, she glances back at her mother, a woman who’s barely older than she is as Jules currently appears. Her face is still indistinct, but it resolves as Jules looks at her.

It’s not Sylvia’s face. It’s Jules’, looking back at her.

<< Oh fuck off, >> Jules suddenly snarls.

Something yowly resonates, an undertone borrowed from her cougar familiar.

And then back to the Dream they go.

<< Ok, >> says Mikaere, who may not fully understand all these emotions— and really, how can he?— but who trusts Jules' decisions implicitly. There's a definite sense, though, that he doesn't really understand the reference to the soap (that'll come, give him time), though he's distracted from that line of thought, his thoughts so open and audible and present by that not-Sylvia-but-Jules— and Jules' reaction.

His approval, so fond and so admiring, resonates through the space, even as it dissolves (resolves?) back into the Dream.

<< So what was that about the soap? >> he wonders, straightening, and shifting his position to get a different perspective on the Dream: what a fascinating thing it is, to move around a memory in 3D space, outside-but-also-inside the experience.

Approval? Jules doesn’t fully understand it, but she’ll take it, and something warm radiates from her in response amidst everything else.

<< Here. >>

The soap. A quick fast forward, to the tail-end of the petty racism and Jules’ retrieval of the bar of soap. The soap with its perverse smiley face, which Jules, then and now, wants to smack into oblivion.

Press play. The Dream continues on.

<< Ugh, >> says Mikaere— well, no: not even thinks, not in words. It's just a sense of it, really, his disapproval and distaste pervading the mental link between them. Standing where he is, viewing as he is, he can see what Jules could not, in the Dream itself: human hands definitely did not make that face. One minute it's not there... the next, there it is. He doesn't comment on it, but the knowledge is shared anyway; a thoughtful thing that gets filed away, ready to be digested when the moment allows.

The Dream continues on, and Mikaere observes. There's Liz, for whom his thoughts seem cautiously approving of— and then there's the disappearing soap, which makes him hesitate, blinking.

<< Your... soap disappeared? >>

<< Beats me. >>

It’s all hard for Jules to process; she lacks the necessary distance. Her emotions are roiling, anger and dread and anticipation. This time, she knows what will happen next.

<< Maybe it was never there to begin with. My roommate disappeared, too, with all her stuff. >>

That’s next up, after the minor breakdown in the privacy of the shower.

Minor breakdown, yes— and don't think that's not awkward for Mikaere to watch, though his dominant emotion is just disgust at the situation, at those girls and their casual cruelty.

But maybe more interesting— maybe— is the voice in Jules' head, and because this is her Dream, he can hear it too.

<< So it gave you voices, >> he muses, though of course this isn't strictly news to him. << It happens again, right? We should keep going? The roommate. >>

It’s awkward for Jules, too, to have someone else watching her cry and curse when she thinks she’s alone, even if that person is Mikaere. It would be easier if her mental self-projection were a bird right now. He’d still feel that awkwardness, given the absolute transparency of her mind, but at least birds don’t have mobile expressions.

<< Yeah. We should see it all. >> As much as she may not like the idea of it—and that communicates itself clearly, alongside Jules’ determination to do this right, to do this only once.

The scene shifts to the dorm room, emptied of its second occupant. The candle becomes the focal point. Another little innocuous object where there should be none. Another power surge, but this one different than before.

A minor note of exhilaration spikes along with it, silver-bright. It catches Jules’ attention, her surprise. And her recognition.

She likes feeling powerful.

<< Fire was my first experience, both times. >>

<< Fire first, but not... not fire strongest. That's interesting. >> Mikaere's got a fondness in mind for that exhilaration, and that feeling of power: he's pleased by it, by Jules' reaction, and perhaps too by the fact that this particular display of power is hers and not put here from somewhere else. By someone else.

Though: << That candle. Is it the kind of thing you'd've had here? >>

<< No, >> she acknowledges. << I don’t know why. >> That’s true for so much of these experiences. The reasons, if there are any, hover just out of reach.

Jules watches herself smother the candle with the towel to put it out while the fire alarm blares. For this, at least, she registers an exasperated sense of amusement.

<< I don’t think so. Candles aren’t really my thing. And if I were going to break a dorm rule right away, it would be for something better. >>

<< So it was planted. >>

Mikaere lets that hang, though of course his mind is open enough that his thoughts spill free: was the Dream pushing her towards lighting it? Was the Veil, in whatever form, aiming to lure her down that path, first by agitating her and then by pushing the power through her, awakening her to it?

And, if so... why?

<< This just keeps getting weirder. There are so many little things that just... >> It's not quite 'don't add up' but there's a sense of it: the Dream is in the uncanny valley of reality, so close to being right but falling short in these tiny ways.

Without any theories of her own, Jules remains quiet, frowning. Her frustration bubbles over, though, with the continuing unanswered whys.

Meanwhile, Liz is banging on the door, first to check in and then to invite Jules to breakfast. The girl of memory is momentarily so relieved, like maybe everything will just go back to being normal. She dives right into the normal conversations about classes and majors.

Watching, Jules just frowns harder. << That comparative history of ideas thing, >> she pipes up in time. << That can’t come out of nowhere. It’s too close to so many conversations we have in Gray Harbor. Who is Liz supposed to be? >>

<< Not who, >> says Mikaere, slowly, the gears of his head rotating bit by bit as he works his way through this. << What. She's the lure: like the community of Gray Harbor. A place to belong. >>

There's a sense, now, of pallor: he's not quite gone chalky white, but there's something in that, something that lines itself in his expression, and in the thoughts that roll over each other, one by one, as they meander through this Dream— not Dreamers but tourists.

<< See? This reality has everything. You found your power; you have the possibility of community; you're getting to go to college. Maybe the bad things won't be so bad... you're better than them. Something like that. >>

<< Even though she thinks I’m kinda weird? >> Jules makes her half-joking reply before she fully registers what Mikaere’s getting at—and more precisely, how he’s reacting to it.

<< You think something here is trying to get me to stay? >> she ventures, now turning her attention to him while the scene plays out (the ghostly girl passes by; Una’s doppelgänger will shortly appear in the breakfast line). Her own alarm is starting to sound: spidey-sense. << Maybe take me out of the equation back here? >>

<< She still liked you enough to invite you for breakfast, >> Mikaere counters, with a wave of quiet amusement, though that amusement is fading fast— and especially as Jules comes to that particular conclusion.

<< I don't know, >> he admits. << It seems... unlikely? That anything would go to that much trouble for one person. Any one person, I mean— that's not a slight on you. But I wonder about it distracting you. Causing discord. I wonder— >>

There's Una, and it draws a perplexed look from the tall Kiwi, who shakes his head.

<< It's definitely raising all kinds of questions. >>

Relief. Jules isn’t that special. Nor does she want to be attracting that kind of attention from beings from the Other Side.

<< And there’s definitely things that delight in discord. >>

A pause.

<< Oh, look, you’re up next. >>

That part’s just amusing, now that she’s not living it.

<< Even in my alternate reality, I’m all about Dat Ass, >> Jules deadpans.

Mikaere acknowledges that relief, though there's a sense that there's still something on his mind, something that maybe he's not worked through enough to be able to categorise: something about why Jules, why with this, why now. The trouble is, whatever conclusion there is remains just out of reach even for his grasping thoughts.

<< Oh fuck, >> he says, deeply embarrassed by this representation of his younger self; and Jules' deadpan remark doesn't especially help. If anything, that just makes him blush.

More seriously: << I'm completely anachronistic, though. The earbuds; that wasn't a thing this long ago, right? And such a weird thing... I've never owned a pair. This Dream is bizarre. >>

<< That’s what bothers you about this whole situation? Your headphones? >> Some of this amusement compensates for how unsettling the memory truly is, flowing out like a release valve. But Dream Jules is just barely holding it together, questioning everything about herself in good Socratic fashion (except with a lot more angst and distress). The laughter can’t last.

<< At least I didn’t have to go through Rush. >>

There’s that smile again, this time in the uneaten eggs.

It’s easier for Jules to watch once the veneer of the normal washes away and her Dream self confronts whatever It is head-on in the arboretum. Her interest sharpens as the world they’re in comes alive to the senses.

<< This is where it ends, >> she says, but she might just as well have said begins.

<< No, >> says Mikaere, though he laughs too. << But it's interesting. Why put me in like that? It's just— >> It's bizarre.

It's true, of course, that his reactions are nothing to what Dream Jules has had to go through, and he's got a rising tide of sympathy there, keeping his eyes on her as she flees out to the arboretum, and he settles in to listen to what comes next.

This is where it ends— where it is supposed to end— and instead... something else happens.

The Dream fades, yes, letting the empty void return, but this time, there's another presence, too insubstantial to be physically here, but...

Burn it, tear it, open wide the doors. Beat. You still could, you know.

Electricity sparks through the air as Mikaere responds reactively: throwing lighting at the presence-that-isn't.

<< What the hell? >> Jules hisses. Her mental form shimmers, quicksilver and molten, rearranging itself. She’s not eighteen anymore, not scared witless and uncomprehending in these encounters. There’s precedent, now.

Fire bright, she streaks after the lightening, a second volley meant to barrel into this interloper with physical force. There’s no power behind except that of her own transforming body, Raven’s (or Jay’s) bulletlike blur.

<< Shit, >> says Mikaere, as his electricity sparks... into nothing. << Shit shit shit. >>

And a moment later: << Be careful. I'm 99% sure we're not in te pohewa anymore. >>

Which rather begs the question: where are they, then?

Where is it, that thing, that presence, Jules is chasing after? It seems to dip and run; first ahead of her, then behind.

Or, it suggests, all mocking laughter that echoes like thunder through the void, I could do it. Burn it all down. Why not?

A flicker of awareness is the extent of Jules’ reply—and if this is not the private mental space Mikaere has carved out for them, if some other being is leading them onwards, then how much of it does he register without his own output of energy?

Jules is far more a creature of blunt force than a creature of care.

Her own understanding of how things work has always relied far more on intuition than being taught what she can and cannot do. In this instance, necessity is the mother of invention. Jules gathers her energy about her in a thickening curtain, just as she’d do if she wanted to dull an impact out of self-protection. Then she flings it away as if it were a physical object, trying to cast it before whatever unseen thing she’s pursuing as a barrier to block its path.

<< Why? >> she demands. << What do you want? >>

It doesn't work— and also, it does.

This other presence is no physical object to be caught or stopped; if anything, it is boundless and infinite, a thought more than a being. And yet, it stills a moment, as if turning to face the onslaught of Jules, and though it is faceless and nameless, her attack at least provokes a response.

I don't know yet, it says. I want to be free. I want to dance on the ashes, and laugh on the winds. I want out. I will destroy your enemies. I will destroy you, too.

<< Well fuck,>> says Mikaere.

<< *The hell you will. >>

Provoked, Jules lashed out a second time in a second way. This time, her will shapes itself into immaterial claws intended to rip and rend. Useless, perhaps, against something that has no body, but she can’t help herself. She’s volatile in the wake of the Dream.

Another demand follows on the heels of the first.

<< Who are you? >>

Useless, yes: the being, whatever it is, simply laughs.

<< I am power, unformed, >> it says. << I am everything you fear. And I am coming. >>

And that is the moment when they slam back into their seats below deck on Wā Kāinga.

The rude jolt of reawakening leaves Jules gasping, sucking in her breath with sharp, loud inhalations. Her fingers reflexively tighten on Mikaere’s hard enough to leave half-moon indents from her short nails. Wide-eyed, she stares across the table at him.

“What the fuck was that?”

Mikaere's hand tightens around Jules', sqeezing as much to receive reassurance as to offer it.

"I have no fucking idea," he admits.

"I think it threw us into a Dream, somehow. But— I have no fucking idea what it was. Or any of it. Holy fucking shit."

“Jesus. Whatever it is, it wants to burn the world down.”

It’ll be awhile before Jules lets go. And when she does, it’s as she says, “We need something stronger than beer.”

"At least it wants to destroy our enemies, too?" Mikaere's joke falls flat, even— presumably— to his own ears: he winces. "I'm not sure that I have enemies. Do we have enemies? Fuck. This— fuck."

Their joined hands are a stabilisation, and it helps. When Jules lets go, Mikaere draws his hand back, and then lets out a rueful little sound. "Yeah. Hang on."

There's a bottle of whiskey in the little kitchen, and some... well, mugs, really. Needs must. He pours a generous measure into both, sliding one across the table towards Jules.

“I mean, if we want to get all historical big picture view, then you could say all the white colonizers, but now we’re talking about destroying the whole of society, and I don’t think we want to go there. Except that’s exactly what I think it meant. So yeah, fuck.”

Jules curls her hand around the mug when it arrives and lifts it to her lips. She only seems to remember that she doesn’t really like straight hard alcohol after the fact, once she’s sipped. Jules grimaces.

“On the bright side, at least I’m relatively sure now that this isn’t all a Dream?”

"There's that," allows Mikaere, which answers both Jules' initial comment and then the progression of it: there's an odd hue to his skin as he considers all of this, and he takes a generous sip of his drink without flinching, all the better to calm his own nerves.

(Her grimace? Well, it gets the smallest of distracted smiles.) "There's coke, if you want some?"

But: "Not just a Dream, I think. I think we fell into a Dream, during... that. In the sense that, well, it's easier for Them to communicate with us that way. But not a Dream in the sense that it's all made up, no. I think... I don't really know what I think."

“I don’t actually like Jack and coke,” Jules admits, even though this whiskey is better than Jack Daniels. “It’s just marginally more palatable if that’s what people are drinking.” Which is to say, she’ll just toss back a hearty measure and try not to taste it. The point of her suggestion was never about savoring it.

“I think we’re fucked,” she then says with false cheeriness. “Or about to be. Though I don’t know why you’d broadcast your intentions of fuckery before doing it. It’s like a villain’s rant. In the movies, you can always use those against them. Make them reveal their plans and stall for time and save the day. Is that what we’re supposed to be doing, here?”

It's a good thing that this whiskey, while certainly a few steps up from Jack Daniels, is not high end; Mikaere, though not a snob, might not be able to contain his wince. But no— he does similar, draining the entirety of his mug without blinking.

"I don't really understand why," he admits, then. "They need us— that's always been my understanding. A symbiotic relationship. Why fuck everything up like that? I suppose we can use the fact that we know this much to... I don't know. Think of a plan, maybe. I'll talk to ma. Last I mentioned anything, there were no rumblings locally, which rather suggests that this is focused here, specifically. Hopefully that's still true."

“What do you even ask, though?” Jules sounds frustrated as she considers the interior of her mug, tilting it towards her to see if there’s half a swallow left. There is. She tosses it back. “Hey, have you ever heard of something running around in Dreams threatening to destroy everything? Did you know your own mind isn’t safe? That’s nice and specific.”

Mikaere shrugs. He's calm, compared to Jules' frustrated, though there's still an edge of something. "Rumblings," he says. "Haven't we had plenty of those, lately? Even before this. It'd be the same there, if this were... not localised. So I'll ask. We'll see. Okay? And whatever happens... Gray Harbor is good at dealing with shit. We'll figure things out. We'll figure something out."

Sigh. “I hope so.”

Jules doesn’t mean to sound so dire. But it’s been a long day, and the days ahead just seem longer.