Sweet dreams are made of these...

[thespaceopera]

[ Calibration Rooms ]
( for A-M characters )

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ROOMS BY CHARACTER

A Abigail Hobbs Aiya/Gray Nightingale Adrasteius Anor'thalion Ahsoka Tano Alex Russo Allen Walker Anders Anthony Crowley Asteffiel Axel

B - D Belthazar Spellscry Beverly Crusher Bran Stark Caesar Zeppeli Cayde-6 Cheese Sandwich Clay Terran Coil Cole Davesprite Duke Pantarei

E - I Elecman.exe Elena Gilbert Elize Lutus Felix Harrowgate Fenris Finrod Haruka Tenoh/Sailor Uranus Imperator Furiosa Isabela Issac Lahey

J - M Jade Harley James Barnes/Jim James Barnes/Winter Joseph Joestar Katara Katniss Everdeen/Nova Kirito/Kazuto Kirigaya Kurt Wagner Leanne Loki Maladict(a) Max Caulfield Megaman Mordin Solus

Comments

maladict(a)

[deshabille]

[You're seated at a vanity table. It's beautiful, mahogany maybe, old wood for certain, perfectly polished with age and constant care. On top of it is a mirror, crystal-clear and ornate, its edges gilt with silver and abstract patterns somehow evocative of deep dark woods and the roundness of the full moon. In it you can see - well, not the entire room, but most of it, enough to know that it's dark in here but for guttering candles, that directly behind you is a pair of glass doors strewn wide open to the night, framed in gauzy white curtains that billow in the wind.]

[A wind which, in combination with the mirror reflections of clouds scuttling across the moon (gibbous, three-quarters, not full, for the record, and waxing - how you know this, there's no hint) and the perfectly-timed soft peals of thunder in the distance, indicates a storm is coming. Not that you can do anything about it. No, you're chained to this chair. It's going to be a rough night.]

[If you draw your intention back to your own reflection in the mirror, you'll find that what you're seeing is, in fact, not you at all. It's a girl with every appearance of youth - call her fourteen or fifteen, perhaps, at least to look at - her skin pale as milk, hair long and black as the night, dress equally dark and plush velvet with an unfortunately low neckline. She looks unthrilled to be here, but of course, since you're trapped, so is she. Nothing to be done about it.]

[Although - if you happen to look away for a moment and then look back very quickly, you might notice her position or her expression has changed slightly. But who knows? Maybe you're just imagining things. And she might look vaguely familiar to some of you, but time changes a person in serious ways, so at least to start with, it probably won't click.]

[It's not as though you're going anywhere, though; there's plenty of time to figure it out. So now your choices are very simple. You can experience the world in one of five ways: through hearing, sight, touch, taste, or smell - and believe us when we say that the difference between inhaling first or cocking your head to listen out the window first makes a big damn difference.]


( ooc ; hover over the bolded text to find warnings for each scenario. )

[electrostatics]

[ It would be a jarring experience for Elecman to look in a mirror and not see himself if not for the fact that he didn't care very much about mirrors, or other means of such identification. He knows what he is and who he is and what he looks like, so nothing else should matter.

He jangles in irritation as he realises he's chained to the chair. That's more annoying. He also doesn't notice, due to lack of reflection and general awareness, that to even fit in the chair he's taken on his other form.

But since he's a netnavi, and one that's so closely tied to sound and storms (he can hear thunder rolling in the distance - he wonders if it will rain, if the clouds outside are thick enough for rain), he tilts his head to the side to listen. ]

[deshabille]

[Though he's not focused on the mirror anymore, he might notice out of his peripheral vision that the reflection of the girl in the chair tips her head in the opposite direction from him, looking out in the direction of the window for a moment before the room - shifts, turns around as if on a lazy Susan. It's a bit of a Hollywood effect, really, like pressing a secret lever in a bookshelf to reveal another room: the chair turns, too, so that the ultimate dizzying result is the presentation of the rest of the room, which is no longer a bedroom but a bathroom.]

[There is a woman in the corner, standing over the claw-footed bathtub. She is taller, more statuesque, and less disgruntled than the girl in the mirror, but otherwise they look very similar, although her dress is a deep purple rather than pure black.]

[Somewhat predictably, there's a long line of something dark dripping from the rim of the tub onto the floor, making a thin staccato drumline in counterpoint to the thunder in the distance. After a few seconds, it becomes noticeable that the sound of blood spattering is getting louder - as, in fact, is the thunder, and the sound of the wind, and the brush of the curtains against each other as they billow.]

[What comes loudest of all is the woman's voice, silky and sweet and irritated all at once.]

Hurry up and get in. I don't have all night.

[electrostatics]

[ The spinning doesn't disorient him very much, but - is that bathtub full of blood? Really? It strikes him as a bit much.

But things are different, he supposes.

This woman wants the person he'd seen in the mirror, presumably, to get in. But from what little he'd paid attention to, the chains were binding them both there.

He tries to rise from the chair, as the sounds rise in volume. ]

[deshabille]

[Oh, and look at that - as he tries to rise, his bindings fall away, and there he goes. However, as it turns out, there's nowhere to go but straight ahead. Towards that bathtub full of blood, oh yes.]

[At least he can stop before climbing in if he wants to, although - it might be a bit strange. There's a voice that seems to be coming more or less out of his mouth, whether or not he chooses to open it himself; he can still speak, but it will come out in his voice, not this one, the sharp and pissy one, recognizable as Mal's but not as deep in pitch.]

I'm not doing this tonight. I'm doing literally anything else. Get out.

[And now you can see her, the owner of that other voice, tall and statuesque and wearing the expression that all mothers wear when confronted by their errant, disobedient children.]

You're doing it. You're doing it because you want to and you need to. Get in.

[electrostatics]

[ He bristles, at the woman before him, at her commanding voice; it wouldn't be inaccurate to say that he has bad experiences with such types of parents.

He's surprised, a little, at the fact that this seems to be Mal's - something. ]

Why? [ His voice comes out as clear; he stops, at least for the moment, delaying that experience of climbing in. ]

[deshabille]

Because you need it.

[Her lips twist, irritated - bored, too, as if she's done this so many times already and she cannot believe she's having to do it again.]

And because you want it. You want to be comfortable and full, not cranky and hungry. You want to let me take care of you. You want to do things as they ought to be done.

[The way she says it, it really does almost sound convincing.]

[electrostatics]

[ And Elecman is incredibly stubborn and contrary. It does sound convincing, but he doesn't move anyway, because he's being told to do the opposite of what he's doing. ]

Are you sure that's not what you want?

sight.

[hellismyself]

Oh, brother.

[It's amazing, Daria thinks, that this sort of thing barely fazes her anymore; after months of dealing with New Moore's unfortunate ideas about what's amusing, almost nothing surprises her about this situation. It's a new experience, of course, being held captive in such a clichéd manner. Daria has to make an effort to silence her inner monologue, keep it from veering into territory populated with serial murderers.

She doesn't struggle much once she realizes the truth of her circumstances - she's chained, she's alone, she's not going anywhere. She just sighs, loudly, and devotes her attention to studying the room, and everything in it.]

[deshabille]

[If she's watching "her" reflection, she might notice a brief, approving smirk at the outburst. That's really the only appropriate reaction, even Mal's subconscious clearly agrees on that. She'd probably agree with the serial murderers bit, too, even if it's a little more specific than that in the end.]

[What ends up happening is - dramatic, but also not; dramatic in that it happens suddenly, not because it doesn't happen with a poof or a bang or a clap of thunder. There's just, very abruptly, another young woman sitting on the edge of the vanity, legs crossed at the ankle, leaning back on her hands and regarding Daria with curiosity.]

[At first glance, she looks almost identical to the girl in the mirror. The big, obvious difference is that her black hair is cropped short and boyish, but otherwise she's the same: thin, small, pale, effortlessly graceful. She's dressed in black, but her black manifests as trousers and a long-sleeved shirt. She arches one perfect brow, quirks her lip, and eats a bite of what appears to be fruit salad from the bowl that's inexplicable in her hand.]

You didn't think it went both ways, did you?

[hellismyself]

Both ways for what?

[Great, Daria thinks, studying the other girl. Just what I needed. Vague, mysterious nonsense. Like there isn't enough of that already. She sighs again, letting her shoulders slump, an expression in response to the futility of everything.]

And who are you, anyway? What am I doing here?

[birdsbirdsbirds]

[ah. okay. that's a little too much for him.

he closes his eyes, very intently. he doesn't listen. he shuts out absolutely everything he can, because there's a horrible onslaught of moon, chains, chair, girl, silver, storm, door, dark, dreams, danger, all clamoring for his attention, and he can't handle that right now.

maybe it's just because he can't move much. he's never liked that, especially not upon his first moments of consciousness.

so, after a count (one, two, three, four...) he takes a deep breath... with the intent to focus on the smell of the room, incidentally.]

[sinuosity]

[ Nyssa comes to herself seated at a table she would never sit at, chains she would never let hold her, and a room she doesn't recognise. Of course her eyes deceive her, this is the realm of stories and dreams, and she closes them, focuses on what she can hear, desperate for the the whisper of the wind perhaps. An animal, outside. It's night time. She wants to move. ]

[deshabille]

[Though she's not focused on the mirror anymore, she might notice out of his peripheral vision that the reflection of the girl in the chair tips her head in the opposite direction from her, looking out in the direction of the window for a moment before the room - shifts, turns around as if on a lazy Susan. It's a bit of a Hollywood effect, really, like pressing a secret lever in a bookshelf to reveal another room: the chair turns, too, so that the ultimate dizzying result is the presentation of the rest of the room, which is no longer a bedroom but a bathroom.]

[There is a woman in the corner, standing over the claw-footed bathtub. She is taller, more statuesque, and less disgruntled than the girl in the mirror, but otherwise they look very similar, although her dress is a deep purple rather than pure black.]

[Somewhat predictably, there's a long line of something dark dripping from the rim of the tub onto the floor, making a thin staccato drumline in counterpoint to the thunder in the distance. After a few seconds, it becomes noticeable that the sound of blood spattering is getting louder - as, in fact, is the thunder, and the sound of the wind, and the brush of the curtains against each other as they billow.]

[What comes loudest of all is the woman's voice, silky and sweet and irritated all at once.]

Hurry up and get in. I don't have all night.