howtheyshine | SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

SPRING BREEAKKKKK;

He's in the dark. He's in the dark again. A pocket of alive-darkness that he can feel the edges of, he can feel the void that waits.

Well hello there, Yellowhead. We haven't been formally introduced. I'm....

Call me Carmichael.

The laugh that bubbles through the name makes Yellow's soul creep.

You're Kayne.

A silence ripples outward from the nothing-space the voice takes up, a silence deeper than the emptiness of John's unoccupied body. Yel-- Edwin, Edwin curls in on himself, tightening into a tiny knot of spectral energy.

He said the wrong thing, he said the wrong thing, he's going to get hurt--

And how, my little poppet, did you know that.

I-I...

Actually. Know what? Doesn't matter. Sorry to pull the plug on that little experiment so abruptly, but see, I made a deal with your better half--

John!

He can't stop himself. He realizes how stupid the flare of hope is a moment later, when that oppressive empty cold bleak dead cold silent dark silent dark comes creeping back up between him and the voice of Kayne.

I made a deal with him to get him back to Arthur, which means you needed to clear the way.

Of course, I can't be bothered to babysit you.

So you've got a couple of options, here, kid.

Well, two. Which is more like one. Unless you want to go back to the Dark World, in which case--

No-- No, please, I don't care what you want, I'll do it, just--

Okay, okay, Jeeee-sus, stop groveling. It took John a few good centuries to get to that point.

Yellow goes quiet, cowed.

There's this guy I want you to meet. He's like the worst version of Arthur got all the color sucked out of it and given eternal life.

Wh... What?

Well, technically you did meet him. I guess now he gets a chance to meet you, since he's so fucking eager to lick the feet of a god.

The unhinged laughter rings in Yel-- Edwin, Edwin, Edwin's ears as he feels the world get abruptly smaller and his senses get stripped back to shadows.

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The feeling of superiority settles back into the dream, smoothing out the edges where Edwin accidentally wrinkled his subconscious, and Larson turns away easily, back to focus on dream-Arthur.

"Now then. Arthur." With a lurid politeness that makes the gathered crowd titter unpleasantly, like they're laughing at a polite joke. "I believe you have something that doesn't belong to you."

The Arthur doesn't meet Larson's eyes, but even here there's a defiant edge to it. Larson recognised it, even if he didn't respect it, and for its appearance in his dream a thick, hairy-knuckled hand slips into reality from nothing and rips off what remains of Arthur's right ear, making him spit a vicious curse as he flinches away.

Edwin flinches, the sense of him in the dream does, even as he tries to keep himself focused and relaxed.

"Give him what he wants," he says, rumbling the words with a savagery he hopes covers nerves. "This won't be easy on you either way, but it could be shorter."

Arthur's response is a short, snappy, "Fuck you." Apparently heedless of the blood running down the side of his head, trickling down the shape of the scar across his throat.

And Larson just smiles wider. "I was so hoping you might say that."

He lifts one hand high, and with a smug little huff, snaps his fingers.

And the thing behind Arthur lunges - the shape of it is only visible in the way its massive hands leave visible imprints on Arthur's clothes as it grabs him, blood instantly dripping down his sleeves as he stifles a yelp of pain and is slammed down onto his knees, and Larson starts pacing closer. "You didn't strike me as someone willing to take the easy way out," Larson adds, almost fondly.

The fuck you gets another flinch, this one more personal. It's a simultaneous reminder of what this Arthur thinks of him and how alone he is here. He's not without help, a friend, he has that first contact with this timeline's John, but... it's not the same, and he's suddenly painfully homesick.

He doesn't mean to shift the landscape of the dream. But all at once the robed figures and Larson and Arthur and the Thing behind him are all on the deck of a ship surrounded by stars, the deck itself far wider than reality. As wide as it would seem from the perspective of something cat-sized.

Edwin forces himself not to panic, keeps his presence as steady and unwavering as he possibly can. It's a dream. Dreams do these things. It's normal. It's normal. He does his best to reinforce that sense without making it obtrusive.

And the change does go unnoticed; or at least, Larson clearly has more focus on Arthur than the set dressing, as he moves to stand closer to Arthur, forcing the dream puppet to crane its neck to look up at him.

"There are rituals we can use to rid you of this voice, you know," he says fondly. "Ways to separate you from your guest where you'd be perfectly sound again. Perhaps you'd even come to appreciate the gesture. Or at the very least," he adds with a chuckle, "You know what happens to those who don't."

And the Arthur is... wrong, in its articulation. It just snarls back, "I don't need or want anything from you, you fucking cultist."

It rings false, and it takes active effort on Edwin's part to not correct the dreaming. Shift things, tweak things, so that Arthur is properly himself in facing Larson. It's a dream, it's Larson's dream, the point isn't... to be real. There is no Arthur here to help. No John inside him, unseen and silent. They don't need Edwin's protection, not in this place.

"Who gives a-- a fuck what you want," Edwin hisses, trying to keep his voice hard. "You're not worthy of th... the King in Yellow."

The smug air of superiority remains in Larson's expression, but the mood chills. It's not a bad dream, not yet, but it's an offended one, a frustrated one.

(Somewhere in the real world, there's quiet footsteps, the creak of a door in the distant, echoing house.)

"You know, Arthur," Larson says stiffly, his focus back on the invisible monster. "I've only seen once or twice what that beast is capable of. Perhaps you require a demonstration."

Arthur frowns, deeper, but now the hatred is mingled with confusion, and as he goes to open his mouth to reply - he jerks forward and his head snaps back, like his neck was struck from behind, and he doesn't even get to struggle. It's like his pupils expand, covering the gold-streaked irises, covering the whites with nothing but pitch black.

"N--!"

Edwin starts forward, a breath of motion, and catches himself, shutting up as quickly as he starts to make a sound.

"Larson... wh... what is that thing?"

"I did tell you before, your majesty," he hums distractedly, "I have dealt with your kind before."

Because his eyes are locked on Arthur, the whole dream seeming to filter down on him in sharp focus. "This is the servitor I mentioned, that you and Arthur found when you tried to invade the mines. A creature to obey my every whim."

And suddenly there's a knife in Arthur's hand, as the imprints on his shirt sleeves vanish with the creature releasing it. "Something to make others obey my whim," he adds, as Arthur's hands tremble, his breath quickens to a desperate pitch, almost hyperventilating, as the simple, straight edged kitchen knife enters, with a deliberacy that could almost be called affectionate even as Arthur's voice hitches as the urge to scream is forcibly cut short, his stomach.

Edwin shudders. The awfulness of it, of the creature, of Arthur's pain, of his injury being so gently self-inflicted--he's never had occasion to throw up, but he has to wonder if feelings like these are what prompt it in humans.

Enough.

Enough.

He is a piece of the King in Yellow. Dreams are his.

On the deck, hands still wrapped around the knife, the dream-Arthur starts to laugh quietly.

The laughter is... unexpected. Not enough to shatter the dream but enough to wholly redirect it, and the focus lessens, letting the rest of the scene back in as Larson frowns in genuine, open confusion.

"And what, might I ask, is so funny?"

"You," Arthur says. He laughs again, whispery with pain. "You're a fucking joke, Larson. You think this is how I end? After everything I've been through, everything I did to survive, everything John has done to keep me safe, this?"

He draws the knife out with a slow, wet noise and lets it drop onto the deck.

"You can only control so much, Wallace."

Golden eyes lift to Larson's face, and there's an underlying whisper that sounds like John.

"At some point every creature stops being willing to serve. And then the only thing that matters is who is left to willingly help you."

That's not how that's supposed to go. Larson didn't expect that.

And part of the dream rumbles, in time with the uptick of his beating heart, his confusion.

"What...?" He almost sounds lost, confused, but then his expression hardens. "That is quite enough out of you. Now if you would be so kind-?" That's aimed at the servitor, with the full expectation, command to hurt Arthur again, sink him prone and make him bleed.

Tentacles of shadow and starlight rise around Arthur to meet the invisible limbs of the thing Larson commands. They block it, hold it back. Arthur gets to his feet--staggers to them, really, hands still clutched against his stomach.

The dream-Arthur scoffs. "You've dealt with his kind."

The venom is aimed at Yellow, and even though he orchestrates it himself it still hurts. Confusingly.

"You haven't dealt with John. Or me."

Another tremble, but it's not a bad dream, not yet. Not while Larson still believes he has the upper hand.

"Make no mistake, Arthur, I've dealt with your kind plenty of times. And it's been so rare that I've applied such a direct application of force to get them to co-operate with me. You should be flattered, really, making me break the mold like this."

But since he can do what he wants, he just draws a gun, aiming it at Arthur's head.

"It's a pity. Your repartee had finally gotten interesting."

And without hesitation, he pulls the trigger.

Edited 2024-04-08 06:05 (UTC)

The bullet goes through Larson's throat.

There's no drama to it, really. Reality just tilts slightly, the way it does in dreams, as all of this starts to feel familiar to Yellow. Not the events, but the creation of them. The ability to create them. Reality tilts, and the gun is in Arthur's hand, and the hole in Larson's throat sputters blood with every breath.

Edited 2024-04-08 06:08 (UTC)

It's the abstraction of hurt, of knowing what that sort of wound can do that makes Larson clutch at his throat, choking as he looks down in shock at the blood pouring down his chest, as his legs give out to drop him onto the deck, as he looks up at Arthur--

That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.

And with a jarring lurch, Larson wakes up.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. Larson's sudden burst to consciousness was not part of Yellow's plan either. He feels John's presence, so frustratingly close, but that means John is close. Which means Arthur is, which means Larson's version of the dream is entirely too close to potential reality. He has to do something, he has to do something--

Thoughtlessly, Edwin flings himself against the wall in Larson's mind, not sure what the metaphysical impact will do but willing to find out.

He's still shocked, frazzled by the unexpected nightmare so his defenses are reduced - but not down.

And when Edwin slams into the wall it's like a bolt of electricity through them both, lighting every nerve end on fire and Larson suddenly buckles in alarm, curling up and grabbing his head with both hands like it's going to explode if he doesn't.

It hurts. It hurts in a way that isn't pain but isn't not, something he feels in whatever dark matter makes up what he is right now.

He snarls, the noise silent outside of Larson but loud inside his head.

This time he doesn't throw himself at the barrier, quite. He doesn't try to reach for any particular sense, doesn't try to force or pry his way into the pieces of Larson's mind that those defenses safeguard. He reaches for open air the same way he reached for John, the move driven by fury and panic more than any logic. He doesn't care about seeing more of Larson's awful, twisted brain. He wants out. He wants out.

--and then he is. Somehow.

He can see Larson's bedroom. He can see the house, sense the space around him, chart the eddies of air, feel without feeling the way he could when he was in his crown on the Barge.

Yellow snarls again, victorious, and-- jerks to a halt as he tries to abandon Larson entirely.

He can't. He can see, he can be, but there's something about it that feels like a match held against wet paper, like it doesn't hurt now simply because it doesn't hurt yet.

He has roots in Larson's mind and he can't pull them up on his own.

The noise Larson makes sounds like he just got all the wind knocked out of him in one violent swoop, the instant Edwin blossoms out of him to fill the room. It's a strange existence; his shadows are still attached to Larson, an inescapable anchor to this dimension, his own existence pressed against the thinnest walls of it, present but not here. A shadow on the cave wall of human understanding.

And Larson seems... paralyzed. Trembling like he's in pain, breathing so hard he might well be hyperventilating; and with what looks like a massive effort on his part, he manages to twist around, crane his neck enough to look at what the fuck Edwin is doing.

Oh, the vicious pleasure at seeing Larson trembling on the floor. Even if he's still powerless beyond appearance, even if this means nothing real, there's such satisfaction in it after the way the man spoke to Edwin before.

When he speaks himself, his voice is unfamiliar in its reverberation. The snarling layers making Edwin feel like he could crush Larson from the inside out.

"Oh, Wallace. That looks uncomfortable."

Edited 2024-04-09 01:27 (UTC)

It's hard not to be awed by it, really, and despite the paralysing pain there is awe in his eyes. And behind that, whirring thoughts, as new schemes, new machinations on how to get power, skipping the step of proof completely with this power the King has...

Which. Hurts.

But despite that, Larson manages to shuffle, slowly and shakingly onto his hands and knees, and presses his forehead to the freezing wooden floorboards in supplication. "Y-your majesty..."

Edwin-- Yellow-- recoils from the deference, snarling again.

"Fucking stop doing that. S̸͈̪̖̳̐̈́̊̓̀̕t̶̳̂͜͝͝o̴͓̒ṕ̸̖̗̻̃̕ ̵̨̭̩̬͚̅̄̄̓̚ǐ̷̻͖̻̈͊͂̂͠ţ̵͈͔͇̱͝ͅ.̷̟͆̽͂̎ I'm not your majesty. I'm not the fucking King."

The vicious edge of that command makes him flinch, an almost electric pulse of unreality that slams against the iron wall of his guard, rattling the tenuous connection.

"But you are--" his breathing is ragged, as he tries to lift his head from the floor. "H-hurting me, sire. Your only anchor to this realm."

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howtheyshine - 2024-04-09 16:54 (UTC) - Expand

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