JERICHO ● SEPTEMBER 2025 EVENT/TDM

[uruz]

TDM & EVENT: JERICHO

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Prologue: New Characters

You've been plagued with a reoccuring dream, as of late. Every time you sleep, the dream returns to you.

It always begins the same way: As a breath held for too long. As a pressure at the base of your spine. A silence that presses against the skin like confession, like prophecy. A ripple moves through your bones. A tide builds and pulls at your feet, familiar by now. You dream of a black, soundless wave, thick like oil and starlight, swelling across the horizon line. You've seen the wave before, countless times, always rising. With every night, it never reaches you. You always seem to wake before it does . . . That is, until tonight.

The wave moves slow, deliberate— like something ancient and alive. And when it finally crashes, there is no harsh impact. Only warmth. Only submersion. Rather than drowning, you are being claimed with saltwater that's sweet with myrrh. The darkness embracing you pulses with desire. Then, a voice envelops you.

"Come home."
It dribbles with honey-like promise, like a truth you've always known, whispered now from within your marrow more like temptation than a request.

"You are mine. You always were."
The voice offers purpose. Worship. Belonging. And when you wake . . . You wake changed, with a mask on your face you did not choose. Elegant. Sacred. Too important to remove. You have been given a gift. A new beginning.

Welcome home, new Vessels.

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Sink Down Like Precious Stones

( content warnings: drowning, body horror )

Vessels awaken within the dreamscape as the black wave recedes from their skin like velvet falling off the bone, their masks in place over their eyes and left afloat in the watery expanse. All around them, the ocean stretches infinite and lightless— so still it mirrors the sky above, indistinguishable from the void. Far in the distance, massive obsidian walls curve inward, enclosing this vast seascape like a forgotten temple basin. And there, at the far horizon, one glow pierces the dark: a low-burning fire flickering within a half-sunken structure of impossible architecture— arched, ribbed, as though built from marble and cathedral glass.

This is a test, and it begins with belief.

Those with unwavering faith— whether in Sleep, another god, or even themselves— will find the surface beneath their feet holds firm. The sea becomes glass, and they may rise, and walk. But those adrift in doubt begin to sink. Precious stone creeps over their skin. Joints stiffen. Flesh cracks. Breath slows. It is not death, but it is close and might as well be hell. Your only salvation lies in your own conviction . . . Or the mercy of another Vessel who happens to walk.

Those who drown will not die. They will loop this moment— sinking, blackness, return, sink again— until belief takes root in some way. Alternatively, they may awaken in a later dreamspace . . . Changed.

NOTES:

• Pale white fish as well as glowing jellyfish may be encounted. The fish stare at vessels as they drown, and jellyfish may leave behind a shock that could temporarily stop the process of crystalization. But only temporarily— and their stings are excrutiating.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Magic becomes volatile— spells flicker, overcharge, or fizzle unpredictably when cast on or near the ocean.
• When you cast, your veins glow from beneath the skin, but not with light. It's writhing. Like something trapped under glass.
• When channeling magic, your mouth may fill with brine and blood.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The water responds emotionally— thrashing with fury or calming with yearning depending on the Offering's state of mind.
• The sea amplifies desire and instinct, making base emotions harder to suppress— rage, hunger, longing all churn just beneath the surface.
• The black water feels too warm, too alive, clinging to the body like memory; any stillness invites visions of Sleep's embrace, both reverent and consuming.

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You Taste Like New Flesh

( content warnings: body horror, psychological horror, compulsion, unreliable reality )

The ocean path ends at a palace carved of pearl and spun silk, impossibly perched where water meets nothingness. Whether you have traversed the black sea on trembling feet or simply awaken seated at an impossibly long table, it makes no difference. You are here now, and welcomed, suddenly in attire fit for a gala. Around this table sit countless Dream-Vessels, many silent and still, faces unreadable in the flickering candlelight wearing generic, six-eyed masks. The table stretches beyond sight, arching beneath creeping vines that twist like ancient veins overhead, blooming with strange blossoms that beat with energy. Flames dance atop dozens of candles— some burn on brass holders, others hover, like fireflies caught mid-flight, their shadows flickering and shifting with an otherworldly rhythm. Around you, phantasmal forms shimmer on pedestals: Sleep's ancient Guardians are eternalized through memorial, monstrous and magnificent, lost to time yet enshrined in reverence. On the highest pedestal stands a still living One, silent and watching the feast with somber eyes. Sleep's voice whispers in your ear, encouraging a glance to, perhaps, see what you may become.

"Feast, My Dear Vessels. Until you taste like New Flesh."

The foods before you don not come unmeddled with. Each bite pulls memories from your bones to the surface— moments buried or erased, but these are not just yours. The banquet feeds on shared history, stirring secrets tangled between you and the others here. To eat is to open a door: to risk awakening something dormant, to invite others inside your buried truths, to forge bonds or betrayals that can never be unseen.

Eton Mess: Crushed meringue, tangled cream, and berries that bleed like bruises when bitten. Sweetness melts quickly, leaving your tongue cold. As you eat, a memory rises— but you don't experience it alone. The person nearest you sees what you see, hears what you hear, feels what you felt. Together, you can alter one key detail, and that change ripples outward, shifting how you both remember the event.

Deviled Kidneys: Spiced and seared, the metallic richness clings to your mouth, as if tasting old blood. Eating summons the echo of a painful or violent memory, but your partner experiences it with you.

Roasted Lamb in Mint Sauce: The sweetness of the meat is cut by mint sharp enough to sting the throat. Your act of consumption awakens a craving, but not in you— in the Vessel sharing this dish. They feel an inexorable pull toward your memory, even without knowing what they seek. The bond persists until the craving is confronted.

Honey Scouse: A thick, golden stew heavy with warmth, but beneath the sweetness, something cloying curls around the edges. Every shared spoonful spreads a slow, creeping influence between you and your partner: intrusive visions, subtle compulsions, small lapses in agency. Neither of you can tell whose thoughts belong to whom.

Starpit Fruit: Plum-sized and faintly glowing, the juice leaves your fingertips dusted in silver, like handling starlight. When bitten, the fruit releases the memory of a forgotten wish, not to you but to the person beside you. They see it clearly— and know exactly what you once wanted most, even if you had buried it.

Marigold Brandy: A golden spirit served warm, glowing faintly as though sunlight has been trapped inside the glass. When lifted, it releases a soft, floral scent. The first sip draws you and your partner into a shared burst of joy— a memory that makes you swell with happiness. The sensation is so immediate, so electric, that when the memory breaks, your bodies ache to move, to speak, to draw more positivity to light. You may feel an irresistible pull to get up and dance on the wide palace floors, even if no music is playing . . . And if others nearby drink as well, the effect multiplies.

Saints Breath Chalice: A dark, wine-thick cordial served in tarnished silver cups etched with symbols that shift when stared at too long. The liquid smells faintly of frankincense and something sweeter— blood-warm and alive. Drinking it floods you and your partner with the overwhelming sensation of being inside someone else's celebration, a memory that belongs to neither of you: a vast mass of black, with branching antlers and six, glowing red eyes. It reaches to sink its claws into your chest as she sings: One. Beloved. We were meant to be. It is impossible to tell whether you're witnessing joy or manic worship. There is chanting you cannot understand but somehow already know, drums that sync with your heartbeat until you can feel nothing else. Your limbs begin to twitch, then sway, then move without conscious thought, drawn into a dance you do not remember learning. If more than two people drink, your movements synchronize perfectly, your breath matching theirs, until the room seems stop to watch.

The table awaits.

NOTES:

• Feasting becomes addictive. The more a character eats, the harder it is to stop. Gluttony may cause physical consequences: nosebleeds, twitching fingers, warping speech, uncontrollable confessions, or dripping nectar from their mouths.
• Those who refuse to eat at all begin to starve in a dream-sense: they lose color, smell burning, and feel the weight of Sleep's gaze. Her wrath isn't immediate— but it grows the longer you reject the feast. She takes offense.

TOKEN EFFECTS:

• Each spell cast after eating releases parasitic energy— manifesting as flowers, thorns, parasitic insects or rot— either from their own body or from someone they recently touched.
• Casting warps your limbs temporarily: too many joints, fingers curl the wrong way, nerves burn like wires.
• Touching others leaves sigils burned into their skin. These will briefly carry over into the waking world during next month's event. Runecasters will get the innate feeling that this symbol has a meaning summed up as "The Night Does Not Belong To God". How they interpret that is up to them.

OFFERING EFFECTS:

• The act of devouring awakens an overwhelming desire, often physical, but sometimes emotional or spiritual. This desire clings to another Vessel at the table, creating obsessive attachment or aggression.
• The more they eat, the more their monstrous traits subtly emerge.
• Consuming another Vessel's memory (if shared or touched) grants a brief glimpse of their deepest fear or weakness.

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There's Something In The Way You Lay

( content warnings: sexual content, voyeurism, body modification, omegaverse traits, loss of agency )

Beneath its pearlescent halls, beyond the banquet of flickering candles and dream-Vessels who eat in hollow silence, a spiral staircase winds downward. Its steps are damp and velvet-slick. The further you descend, the warmer the air becomes— humid, cloying, thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and incense. The sounds reach you first: Slaps, gasps, the wet chorus of bodies and perverse intimacy. Laughter, muffled sobs, the echo of whispered names long forgotten. At the base lies a corridor of "private" rooms. Their doors swing open with dreamlike invitation. Inside, the scenes unfold: past dream-Vessels lost in tableau— arched backs, bitten lips, mouths open in prayer or obedience. Some are alone, coiled in worship. Others tangle in groups, indistinguishable where one body ends and another begins. Vines bloom across the ceilings, watching. The walls glisten with breath. You see their faces, but you can't quite distinguish what or who they are. You may not remember choosing a role, but the dream has chosen for you. α or Ω— and with the naming, your body changes. There is no shame here, only devotion made manifest. This is how Sleep is worshipped now: through cruelty and surrender, through the giving and the taking of flesh.

NOTES

• Masks may optionally offer a sort of glamour for Vessels who wander into these chambers— they will not be able to recognize each other. How much of that, whether it be appearance, voice, and so on, is up to you.
• Past dream-Vessels perform for no one, eyes vacant, movements perfect, as if only a ghost of a memory. Player characters may interact with them and even partake in intimacy with them, but be warned: they are emotionally absent and may cause symptoms of succumbence that could be remedied with a proper, player-character tether.
• Tools hang on the walls: Rods of all sizes, slick with heat. Collars that hum with low, seductive voltage. Blindfolds that intensify physical contact, There's no need for cuffs or chains when there are vines that seem to respond to the α party's mood— tightening, flowering, or reaching for skin. You are free to come up with your own items.
• α perks:: Instinctive claiming (done through biting, rubbing, branding, etc), an almost predatory focus and obsession for those who interest them, pack gravity (the ability to attract one or more vessels at once), emitting a scent that ignites heat/rut in others, darker urges surge and a commanding voice.
Ω perks: High pain tolerance, instinctive yielding, emotional synchrony with those being watched, self-lubricating, hypersensitive, scent tracking, intense need to please or be filled emotionally, physically, and spiritually. When touched, glowing runes bloom across the skin.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Spells cast during acts of intimacy may provoke a heightened sensation of euphoria for both caster and whoever is affected by the spell.
• Magic may manifest as misty appendages— extra hands, tongues, eyes, etc.
• Divine energy becomes volatile when passed through the body— ecstasy may border on agony, or vice versa, and Tethering becomes impossibly euphoric.

OFFERING EFFECTS

• Flesh becomes malleable mid-act— bones bending, jaws unhinging, skin blooming open, etc.
• Animalistic traits emerge: tails, claws, growls, tentacles, scent glands— all begging to be used.
• Feeding and Tethering are indistinguishable— hunger becomes worship, and worship becomes need.

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I am not worthy

( content warnings: body horror, violence, gore, parasitic/invasive feeding, death )

Wherever you are, the palace begins to rot. First slowly, then all at once: vines swell with black fluid, splitting at the seams. They burst from beneath marble tiles, coil up pillars, slither across frames and vacant thrones like arteries choking a heart. The candlelight flickers. One by one, the flames throughout the palace float upward . . . And die. No smoke. No warning. Just wet silence. Then the Dream-Vessels begin to fall. They do not scream as they do. They collapse like marionettes, limbs askew. Their flesh splits open along wounds that should not exist— a rip at the neck, teeth marks prying open the ribcage, a bite that swallows half a torso. Bones jut like sculpted ivory. Entrails slither across the floor like garlands. Some burst mid-air, as if the dream demands spectacle. Others fold in on themselves until all that's left of them is a mound of flesh.

"I am not worthy."

One voice. Ten. A thousand—layered, glitching, sweaty. It echoes from the walls, the bodies, the seams in the floor. The corpses twitch in time with the chant, jerking violently. Some snap backwards, eyes wide, jaws unhinged. Others explode— blossoming in gore, raining viscera. From the heaving pile of ruined Dream-Vessels, something forms.

It lurches into being: stitched from tongues, teeth, torsos. Weeping. Wailing. Worshipping. A monstrosity of raw flesh and faith: all failures made meat. Its eyes (are they eyes?) blink out. Arms claw outwards, too many to count. Its scent is of copper, sweat, and sorrow.

When The Abomination chooses to feed, it seeks not flesh, but the softest rot inside you. An appendage uncoils from its writhing mass and unhinged jaw— veined, slick, and trembling like a violated root. It drives itself into your mouth, splitting your lips with obscene tenderness, and sinks deep into your throat, locking you still.

What it draws out is not blood. It siphons your doubts, your fears, your most secret self-hatred. Your inadequacy. Every buried shame. Your hate. Your negativity. Every flinch of unworthiness. Every moment you believed yourself unlovable, unseen, too small. It gorges on what you hide from even yourself, and the more you try to resist, the sweeter your sorrow becomes. The last thing it takes is your life force, and then your viscera, leaving you wilted and shrivled like a hollow log.

This death is violating and feels painfully slow. You're drained raw of your vitality until you're but a brittle husk that breaks to dust in the wind. It seems near impossible to destroy, always reforming into bits and pieces left smudged behind. Perhaps your best bet it to run, or attempt to wake yourself up from this nightmare.

One's voice repeats in choked sobs: I am not worthy.

NOTES:

• Wounds from the beast linger. You may wake bleeding or marked.
• If devoured, characters will awaken the following month extremely fatigued during the first 3-5 days of the month. They may also sporadically rigurgitate black sludge. Characters who die and are already in the game may requesta plot clue, that will be a vision your character will dream of before awakening.

TOKEN EFFECTS

• Magic recoils violently when used on The Abomination, backfiring with psychic screams or ripping into your flesh.
• Your hands glow uncontrollably, burning what you touch— even those you love.
• Magic becomes hungry; it demands pieces of your body to function. A tooth. A nail. A rib (and so on).

OFFERING EFFECTS

• The rage it stirs in you is monstrous. You begin to shift uncontrollably— flesh blooms, bones crack under strain.
• Your body begins moving before you decide to. Twitching toward The Abomination, and toward the scent of despair.
• During the chaos, you may develop a fixation with another Vessel's flaw. You can smell it on them. It entrances you . . . To the point that you may feel the urge to feed them to The Abomination.

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OOC NOTES

➤ Welcome to Somnia's second TDM, which doubles as our third gamewide event!

➤ This TDM is considered game canon. You are free to have your character remember as many details as possible.

➤ Only new characters are free to experiment with the Vessel options to your liking; this is a dreamscape, so multiple/different situations for you to really test which option you like most is possible. Current characters must remain as their chosen Vessel type unless you requested a switch, which can be done on the Taken page.

➤ All TDMs take place within a dreamscape, meaning characters can interact with the setting without needing to apply. Come have fun with us!

➤ Veteran players, I ask to please refrain from making post-event threads for the time being! We have some important information to take into account in next month's event when characters are slated to "wake up". At the very least, please wait for the information to be offered on the next plotting post. Thank you everyone for your patience!

➤ Please comment on the TDM's INVITE TL if you are a new player interested in joining the game, but don't yet have an invite. Current players or the mod may reach out to extend an invite. Once you've got one, please don't forget to comment on the Invite page so you may properly link it in your reserve and app.

➤ Questions? Please direct them to the designated questions comment linked below!

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toji fushiguro // jujutsu kaisen // new player

[revolts]

// the mirrored sea

Home is not a concept Toji knows. The promise of it alone curls duplicitous against his heart, no more true than the welcoming purr of a prostitute but also no less alluring. The seduction of this dream could not be more clearly a fallacy, but Toji gives himself over to it just the same. Willingly, even eagerly. What else could he possibly do? When you have nothing, when you live your life offered nothing, with hope for nothing, even an unsightly lie can consume.

It's a fun little distraction, a theme park in the far more visceral horrors of his life. That anyone or anything would gift him something beautiful, something holy is laughable. A tiny hand curls around his thumb, chubby baby fingers gripping tight. She laughs, and she says something to him. He says something back. He can't remember what they said. He can't remember how it felt. It was beautiful, it was holy. So it must be a mockery, but that, too, is excitement. Mocking him is the universe's favorite pastime, and who is he to deny them?

However erratic Toji is in behavior, however feral and violent his soul, he is, against all logic and reason, someone who is utterly secure in the world and his place in it. He knows who and what he is, and he knows the true face of the world he was born in. The sea is still beneath his feet, and he surveys the dark, unfamiliar expanse spanning out on all sides with a similar calm, almost boredom.

"If this is the afterlife, I've got some complaints," he says aloud to no one in particular, squinting at a few thrashing shapes in the water. Not his problem. He turns toward the distant light instead, figuring there's nothing better to than head to the only thing that's not more dark ocean.

// we eat and we feast: eton mess

All this food is fucked up. And not just because it's all clearly cursed and dripping with ominous, mildly cannibalistic energy. He just doesn't know what any of the fuck this is. Like sure, he's eaten kidney before, but what the fuck have they done to this kidney? Why is this meat covered in mint?? The soup is sweet? And what the fuck is an 'eton mess'? There's not a grain of rice to be seen, or even a burger or a sandwich or noodles or anything else that's actually food to Toji, just miles and miles of pretentious bullshit.

He bets the old man eats like this when he goes abroad.

Sigh.

At least the eton mess thing is visibly a dessert, so Toji picks at it directly with his fingers. Crunching into it, Toji frowns briefly, the texture truly leaving something to be desired, a burst of berry juice dribbling out of the corner of his lip—

He blinks and the strange dining hall is gone, and he is somewhere far more familiar to him.

"Ah, fuck. Not this shit again," he mutters without any particular emotion, or he would except he's a child again. He can't control it. He can never control this particular nightmare. It's been years since he had it, but it always goes the same. His breaths come too quick even as he tries to quiet them, back pressed to the wall as he listens for the skittering of the things the Zenin keep in this godforsaken pit. The berry juice dripping down his chin is blood, and he can taste it. His lip is sliced open, all the way through. It'll be like that for weeks.

'Wake up,' he thinks to himself, squeezing his eyes shut for all it matters. There's no light down here. 'Wake up, wake up, wake up!'

// and ourselves we devour: starpit fruit

The only safe food, Toji has decided, are these weird stone fruit that look like they're leaving rave dust on his fingers. Besides being strange and slightly off-putting to eat, they taste fine and haven't caused him any problems like the rest of the offerings on the table.

He saves up money to marry her. Properly. Like in the magazines. She says she doesn't want that, but she knows they're broke. She knows he has nothing, nothing to offer, nothing to give. But he'll take care of her. It'll be different. He'll be better.

He watched other people eat for a while, saw the way the drinks made them get up and dance, watched the jerky fear in the people who had the deviled kidney and the weirdness in the people partaking in the lamb or the stew.

The baby comes, and he knows exactly what to do. It's effortless. Holding him, supporting his head, soothing him, feeding him. It's never awkward, never painful. It's just life. It's messy and it's exhausting and it's so, so wonderful.

He's had enough fucked up food encounters for one day, so he sticks to just slowly, carefully eating the stone fruit, enough to look like he's busy but not enough that he makes himself sick or insane if there's a delayed reaction or something.

Their son is walking, and she's still with them. They walk down the street together, Megumi between them. One little hand in each of their own. Toji wants another one, maybe ten more. She laughs at him. Ten is a good number, he defends. maybe twenty. Thirty? It's fine, they can adopt. He never wants any less with her. He only wants more.

So far so good, at any rate.

He's strong enough to protect them. He's always there. He never lets them down. They stay together.

They stay together.

[potentialman]

It's not.

[ Megumi's a short distance away, mired in the water up to his knees. He doesn't look to the person he's answering, preoccupied as he is with trying and failing to pull one foot up, but he's marginally more informed than other people here, so...might as well, he supposes. ]

Which doesn't mean you're not dead. But not everyone here is.

[revolts]

[ the voice that answers him sounds young. there's that flat, dry affect of teenagers who think they've seen too much when the world has yet to begin to truly disappoint them. even toji remembers being that way, and he had it more shit growing up than most.

is there something familiar about the particular dryness to this stranger's voice? maybe, maybe. but he's also someone who's used to seeing ghosts.

ghosts are different from curses, you see. one can be killed, can only hurt you if you let it. the other—

toji squats down on the surface of his perfectly still sea, to better put himself at eye level with the boy who is busily not looking at him. he doesn't offer his hand, just watches, just stares, through the strange smoothness of his mask that makes them all strangers here. he barely notices it on his face. he's used to not existing. ]

Yeah? [ he asks, his pitch one of mild disinterest. ]

I'm definitely dead. Weird to hear that some of you guys might not be. You sure it's not just denial? Lots of people don't believe they're dead.

[ not that toji has spoken to a lot of dead people, but he has had to listen to a lot of anxious blathering of people he's in the middle of killing who don't believe it's over. same difference, really. ]

[potentialman]

I did consider that, yes.

[ No sorcerer gets far without rubbing shoulders with death, after all.

Megumi finally looks up, and has absolutely not anticipated the man crouching down to his level and giving him the jumpscare of a guy built like a brick shithouse suddenly in his personal space. He tamps down the urge to lean back, though, because if there's one thing having Satoru Gojo as a parental figure is good for, it's training you to not jump out of your skin at sudden invasions of your personal space. ]

There are some other things that don't really add up. I'm still not sure what it all is, but it's not the afterlife.

This part's a dream. If you're around to wake up with the rest of us, that's when it gets weird.

[revolts]

Great, [ toji mutters, not in disbelief but in a flat, wry sort resignation. like, sure. this fucked up nightmare land is the normal, less weird version of whatever the fuck is going on in his life now. his death? whatever. what else would it be? naive of him to think that dying would mean he got any kind of rest. that's his bad for thinking it, really. ]

This happen to you a lot? [ toji gestures around them at how matter of fact the kid is about this being a dream. ]

[potentialman]

Not until recently. There was a dream kind of like this one. A bunch of us woke up from that in some kind of screwed up post-apocalyptic America, instead of the places we'd fallen asleep.

[ He returns his attention to trying to reverse his sinking, although the conversation at least seems to have distracted his doubts enough to keep it from getting much worse. ]

That was a couple of months ago.

[ So if that was just another nested dream in some kind of matryoshka doll from hell, he'd really hope they'd all have woken up by now. ]

[revolts]

What are you, like... twelve? [ is toji estimating badly on purpose? well. 'on purpose' implies a level of intention he just doesn't possess 90% of the time. but one could say he's certainly not trying.

he watches the kid resume his visibly futile struggle and adds— ]

Maybe it's like quicksand and moving makes you sink faster.

[ and now back to his previous thought. ]

Isn't a few months a long time at that age? [ there's a pause, and then a new, completely unrelated thought. ]

America, huh? Wild. Think they'll let me have a gun?

at sea

[hallowedly]

( Hope is fine and cutting in the air, crisp like first snow. He catches the scent of it between the damp streaks of black mould and wetted glass hemorrhaging stray, snagged cuts where nails bite below. Whole hands, latching. The drowning young girl beneath his bridge, beneath his feet, beneath his (their) waters claws and screams, and fool, it'll only take you faster, fool, you should've never swum to light.

She's caught under, stretch of the mirror pane too long to traverse and fling herself over.

And there is no way, no time, no sliver of alternative possibility in which Seishirou might crumble the glass sheet and make it to her rescue — even if he cared to try. Doesn't, wraith-like and ink-clad like every ghost on a battlement, doing her the courtesy of watching the life extinguishing from her eyes first, then the twitch of her fingertips, then the slow, atrophied relaxation of her shivered limbs. The waters have, the waters take. No, this isn't the shape of Seishirou's game; he dares her first to break it.

Until then, he is the perfect, unflinching bystander, watching her watch him, her death inching between fits of her animal fear — until shadow descends, and it's the girl, it's Seishirou, it's Seishirou's haphazardly outstretched and cold cigarette, and it's whoever, whatever's come along for the ride. )

I don't suppose...?

( This, gaze still on the girl exhaling her bubbling last beneath the glass, the spasms of death like hawk's glaze; he inclines his cigarette in the age-old request. The true tragedy of this affair is that his lighter never made it through the unsavory business of dearly departing.

...and oh, look. The girl's quieting now. They die so young. )

[revolts]

[ seishirou is not the only one watching people struggle, watching them go under. the age makes no difference to toji. he can't save them all, probably couldn't save them in any way that matters even if he tried, and it's so much easier just not to start. it's a slippery slope, caring. one minute there's a girl smiling at you, and the next—

easier just to let bullets do the talking.

still, toji knows who and what he is, knows what kind of tar he's poured from. the stranger in want of a cigarette is made from something else. irreverence is a different beast from dispassion, and the calm, meticulously collected stranger reeks of polish, of class and etiquette. of all the curses toji has fought and all the people he has killed, the ones who stand like the rest of the world is miles beneath them have always been the fucking worst.

still, toji doesn't do anything for free. he doesn't even hate. it's too much emotion to waste on something that's not going to make his life any better.

hate was always a waste of energy in that house, a distraction. hate kept him caged like an animal, and it killed him in the end. he's learned the lesson again, for now, and he just snorts out a laugh at the ask, shrugging his broad shoulders. ]

My kid made me quit. [ he pauses, then adds— ] Fucked up to give you cigarettes but not a light.

Guess I should jot that down in the 'this is probably Hell' column.

[hallowedly]

And the tobacco's soaked.

( Let the sea rise grey and vast, let the girl sleep and sink, let man find sympathy for the devil. Let all things in this strange distortion of a pocket universe be as they should(n't).

And let Sakurazuka Seishirou, still briskly offering out his cigarette as if whatever pantheon rules this world might open its iron fist to reveal relief — whinge about the cruelty of his circumstances. Struggling with addiction is all the rage when you're a young and washed-out thing, replete with misplaced hope and ambitions of grandeur.

A decade later, it's as exhaustive as a dalliance with a ditzy socialite or a penchant for plaid. Seishirou's life, as he pockets away his cigarette, is suffering. )

You married young. ( They're of an age, he supposes, and they're studies in contrast, the watcher and the picture of Dorian Gray. And this man has a kid rambunctious enough to command the household. ) Congratulations. Only the one child?

( Beneath their feet, the girl's corpse wanders, floating, floating, sinking. )

[revolts]

[ the poor girl's corpse isn't even spared a second glance once it's no longer moving. it's none of toji's business; he doesn't even look back at the corpses he made, and she's not even that much his to claim.

toji has to wonder, as he studies the unconcerned stranger speaking to him with the kind of unaffected ease that comes only with a particular kind of madness or a particular degree of privilege, if the seas are only still for the monsters shaped like men among them. they're chatting like they've met up in a grocery store or a waiting room, like there isn't a girl's corpse beneath their feet and countless more all around them.

he shrugs. ]

Sort of. Not really. There's a girl, too.

[ that explains the whole stepdaughter whose mom ditched them, right? not that toji didn't also ditch them, but who's keeping score? certainly not megumi. ]

[hallowedly]

( There's a girl. Spoken in the way of shameful afterthoughts and illegitimate children that have wandered back in a hapless man's ill kempt garden in the way of weeds. Seishirou's sigh — a pained, metallic exhalation — may well be the urban platitude equivalent of sympathy, regret, deep comraderie or a blossoming migraine. )

I'm certain, a beauty. You must have cherished your time together. ( His smile, like crushed ice, cutting. ) They grow up so fast.

( He settles back, swaying on earnest heels; bless the sharp shrieks of his Berlutics screaming in futile rage over the ongoing mesalliance between their lacquered leathery hides and the glorified swamp they now inhabit. Seaside with no view. The River Styx, a poorer man's edition.

In the end, when he straightens to start their walk, barely waving along his newly adopted companion, it' with an air of resignation. He might be willing to tolerate the post-mortem agony that becomes saints and sinners; but he can only accept so much torture for his shoes. )

I don't suppose you've given much thought to our circumstances?

[revolts]

[ this guy sounds like one of those dolls with the pull string from when the kids were young. where each time the string was pulled, the doll would give some completely sanitized, overly upbeat pre-recorded phrase. yeah, his stepdaughter was a beauty. sure, he cherished every hazy, grief-drenched memory.

he pads after seishirou as bidden, like a stray hound you can't be certain isn't rabid, keeping several paces back as he walks but unmistakeably following, gait casual and unhurried. ]

Not really? [ he shrugs, kicking idly at the still surface of the water as he walks. ] Settled on 'probably hell', mostly. I'm definitely dead, and, well.

[ he gestures around. ]

If it's the afterlife for everyone, that would be really fucked up.

eton mess

[horologe]

One minute there is a dinner table laden high with foods as fantastical as they were improbable, and the next there is nothing. The dining hall becomes somewhere else, the air tastes dank and sour-sweet with blood and sweat and fear and even without seeing, Dave can feel how the ceiling rises high overhead, enclosed like a tomb. In this room wait things that whisper and scurry and skitter, as hungering and furious and sorrowful as the human condition bids them be, yearning to sink twisted teeth into a young boy's flesh.

It is not his memory, no, but even this feels too familiar, too terrible, too fucking shitty to let be.

This time, light blooms in the guts of this pit like a small, rectangular sun.

Ahead of the crouched boy, another one stands resolute like a barrier against the myriad curses. He grips in one hand a small, cracked phone, its screen a simple blank white that burns all the brighter in the oppressive dark of this memory. Clutched in his other hand, a sword as white as marble, as featureless as if it had been carved from it.

"I got you." Dave doesn't look back, but his words aren't for the seething dark.

[revolts]

He's had this dream too, a thousand times. Even back then, he would close his eyes and dream it while waking. That someone would find him. That someone would come, even if it meant defying the old men. That someone, anyone would look past his failures, his weakness, the curse of his very existence and forgive him for it.

And someone would. Not here, not in this pit, but someday. And through her Toji would learn that hope was the deadliest curse of them all.

"The light attracts them...!" his young boy's voice rasps out, sharp with panic. He hates how small it sounds, hates how young he was back then. It's a stupid thing to resent. It's not like he could've helped it. He hates it anyway, and he reaches for the stranger's hand to try to smother the light.

It's too real to be a dream, and the memory of the otherworldly dining hall has faded out of Toji's mind completely, slipping away like fog until he can remember nothing but this room, nothing but the family that put him here. His fear feels cleaner, simple. The anger leaves him. He is only afraid. He is just a boy, and he is only scared of a family that will not love him and the things that whisper in the dark.

There's a curse that freezes, that makes his whole body go numb and there's a curse that burns, not with fire but with a thousand tiny imperceptible cuts. There's a curse that skitters, with too many arms that all end in blades. There's one that whispers in despair, that tells him there's no point, he should just lay down, he should just let the darkness have him, that at least devoured he would have a purpose. He could be wanted. He just has to lay down quietly here.

This stranger is too strange to be a conjuring. He doesn't look like a sorcerer, doesn't feel like one. But he's not a curse either, and Toji can't fathom why he's here, or how, and all Toji knows how to do right now is fear.

[horologe]

The old phone’s light is flimsy as paper, old LED made so dreadfully small in this oppressive dark, but with the warning he still holds it out in front of him like a shield, just missing the boy’s grab by a mere fraction of an inch. Foolhardy and bold this stranger is, clad in soft reds, trailing a cape like some silly hero from a sillier story.

Dave is no hero. He has never wanted to be one, has never believed himself suited to the role no matter how many of the forces that shaped his path dubbed him as such. Hell, he doesn’t feel like one in this terrible, dark place; like the kid behind him, Dave fears. Terror buzzes under his skin like electricity, dread coils tight in his guts, it threatens to shake him apart but he stands firm. He’s gotta. Back straight and jaw clenched to keep his teeth from chattering, Dave is no fucking hero but he still turns on the phone’s flashlight to cut through the dark. Dream or not, delusion or not, he remembers what it’s like to struggle under the crushing weight of the ‘care’ of a guardian who does not love him, alone and bruised and bloody, and he cannot bring himself to leave this single boy alone for even a second.

“Good.” he intones, and his voice is so much calmer than Dave feels, and goddamn fucking idiot he is he throws the glaring spotlight of the phone up high into the air so he can take Caledfwlch in both hands.

Dave can’t see the curses like the boy can’t see them, but he can hear them well enough, can sense the irregularities well enough to figure this shit out on his own, and the thing that whispers cruelties just happens to make itself a perfect target in this game of blind whack-a-curse. He’s gone in a flurry of movement, a streak of red converging on a particular point in the pit, his blade an arc of white made stark in this lightless place and when he strikes at seemingly nothing, a shriek from an unseen throat (throats?) pierces the air.

[revolts]

The stranger isn't a sorcerer, the boy who is and isn't Fushiguro Toji (—he doesn't know that name yet, it's Zenin, Zenin, Zenin snaps at his heels with every heaving breath, as real to him as any other cursed spirit—) realizes a beat too late. He has a weapon and the will to fight, he even moves like other sorcerers do, but he can't see or sense the things that hunt them any better than a bystander off the street. His strikes are wild and blind, even when they ring true.

Toji doesn't know how the stranger got here, but he does know it's his fault. Is this a new game the old man is playing? Some new and worse punishment? The taunt of someone decent, someone to offer Toji an outstretched hand, to prove to Toji his uselessness and helplessness to the world? (—that lesson will come later, no matter what the Zenin elders do or don't do—)

Toji screams, a high and rasping sound, some desperate swell of fear and rage tearing from his throat as he launches himself forward to do something, anything. He can fight, he can keep them back. He's been fighting. He'd just been getting tired, wearing thin. Getting hurt had rattled him. He didn't know how much time had passed or how much longer he had to go, and even though he could beat the darkness back, having no cursed energy of his own meant he had no way of ridding the pit of what plagued it.

But with this stranger, maybe— Maybe they can last. Maybe he can protect them both. He doesn't feel tired anymore, he doesn't hurt. His lip is bleeding again, but he doesn't care. Zenin Toji doesn't want to be someone who leaves other people behind. (—Fushiguro Toji will shed everything, everyone, but his own self will be the first thing he abandons—)

[horologe]

Wild and blind is just about how Dave has done most of everything in his life until most recently. What’s one more stupid dance in the dark? The only difference from then and now is that there isn’t the whisper of steel to grate all upon and down his nerves, no stupid puppet limbs whipping bonelessly in the air to be his only warning to the ass-kicking he was about to get. All he gets is an unnerving susurrus in the strobing dark and a shriek to set his blood aflame.

He is terrified, but his voice still cranks up to join the kid’s in rattling defiance, a cracking, “Fuck yeah, make ‘em eat shit!

So before the nerves and the fear can lock up his useless limbs, Dave hurls himself across the space, a tangle of limbs and cloth cape and antiquated blade. He allows himself some showing off when he uses the sword like a vault, hurtling skyward in an arc where, at its zenith, he kicks up to knock the phone spinning back into the air. The effect is dizzying, awful, a wild rave effect of shitty LED light streaking around the room. Will it confuse the curses? Fuck if Dave knows, but anything is worth a shot. Fuck the dinner and the dream and the dream within a dream, he’s here now and he’s got a duty to see through.

When he lands, he whips around to place himself at the nameless boy’s side, blade up and ready to watch his back. Again, Dave bites out into the dark,

“I’ve got you!”

starpit fruit

[saudades]

[Marriage. Children. These are things Dazai has never held any interest in, desire for, and yet the nature of this space that connects what isn't meant to be connected means the intensity of that dream hits him squarely in the chest.

It's not familiar, but it is. He thinks of three glasses of whiskey in a little tucked away bar in the alleys of Yokohama, thinks of three chairs that were filled every night, night after night. Thinks of a curry restaurant and a van that didn't explode and a man with spectacles who never had anything to do with bringing a certain paramilitary organization into Japan.

Dazai nearly turns away, leaves the man to indulge in his nostalgia in peace, and yet -- he realizes something. The other man doesn't bite into the fruit like a man desperately chasing what's long since gone. He tests it carefully, gingerly, as though uncertain. He doesn't know what's happening, does he?]

I would stop eating that.

[He offers no more context than that simple warning. If he doesn't know, the ignorance is kinder.]

[revolts]

Yeah?

[ toji does pause mid-bite, all too aware that there's not a single normal offering on this table. the complete lack of effect the fruit is having on him is suspect in of itself, so it doesn't take much to warn him off it.

he does take interest in what made a perfect stranger speak up on his behalf, though, and as he turns his head to appraise the man speaking to him. ]

Am I sprouting tits or something? [ toji looks down as though to seriously check, groping himself around the pectorals to find everything more or less in order, leaving silvery handprints on the skin tight black shirt already visibly clinging to him for dear life. he shrugs. ]

It's the only one I haven't quite worked out how it fucks you. You got a guess?

the mirrored sea;

[cursedvessel]

[Without warning a hand shoots out of the water with a resounding splash, aiming in the general direction of Toji's ankle or, failing that, the edge of the glassy platform holding him up. A head of pink, formerly spiky hair breaches the surface next. Yuji sucks in a deep breath of air greedily as he scrambles to pull himself up with whatever leverage he has. The upper half of his face is covered with a dark damp blindfold plastered uncomfortably against his skin.

Once he's pulled himself up onto the platform he'll tug one end of the blindfold up, revealing one of his eyes. As uncomfortable as it is, something is telling him he doesn't want to take it off completely. Which is one of like a million things he doesn't get about this place and he's only been here five minutes. But he believes in trusting his instincts in situations like this. But really...how does Gojo-sensei live like this?]

Hey there! Sorry for dropping in so suddenly. But trust me, if you saw what was down there you wouldn't want to stay either.

[He might have nightmares about those creepy fish staring at him.]

[revolts]

[ toji's ankle does move out of reach the moment yuji grabs for it, but it's more out of reflex than anything. sorry. he doesn't actually care if some weird kid climbs him like a tree for shelter, but toji didn't make it to adulthood by not reacting to surprise grabs first and asking questions later. once the kid finishes emerging and explains himself, toji just nods as he studies the pink-headed stranger. ]

What's down there? [ he asks, not having had a chance to see himself since the sea refuses to take him. he hasn't quite worked out who the ocean tries to swallow, but his working theory is that people who suck and are terrible are generally unpalatable to it. ]

[cursedvessel]

The most soulless fish I have ever seen. They were eerily still and just...watching.

[There is definitely something wrong with those fish, but Yuji is sure he'd rather not know what.]

Also, a bunch of jellyfish. I nearly got stung twice. Like I said, be glad you're not down there and have this path...thing.

[To call it a path might be a bit generous. There's no sign of anything else holding them up but the strip of ice that's separating them from the rest of the water. Fortunately, Yuji isn't one to think too deeply about these things, especially when they seem to be working to his benefit. The assurance that the ice will hold seems to be enough belief to keep him from the water.]

starpit fruit

[sorte]

[ the fork clatters as he sees the child, walking between the two lovers. It had been quite easy to ignore up until now, so many of these strange occurrences meaning nothing. It's hard not to see who that little kid is, though, especially when he glances to his side to stare at Toji. He doesn't need to see his face with the memories to make the connection that there's a resemblance.

Aventurine stars down at the table through his eyeless mask. Behind it, he blinks once. Twice.

Without a word he picks up the fork that he dropped, going to randomly stab at some food to put on a plate that he is very hesitantly picking at. That's no rhyme or reason to his selections. He remembers something from the last time he was in Sleep's dream and asks curiously, making sute that he sees has nothing to do with what comes out of his mouth: ]

How do you feel about horse racing?

eton mess

[sadpoem]

[It's terrifying.

[What's terrifying? Whatever Toji fears. Sunny feels it beating in his heart, prying his eyelids open, making his fingers dig bluntly into the wall behind him. He stares forward, breathing fast but shallow through a tight throat. He can't speak.

['Wake up, wake up, wake up, wake up...' It hasn't worked in months.]