Difference between revisions of "Log:Broken Dolls: Mina Dreams Of Dolls"

28 July, 2017

Mina's sleep after work gets a little bit creepy. Part of Broken Dolls

Dreams

Having closed up CAT-22 and left C.B. to his writing, Mina made her way back to her apartment. It's been a long day, for the ballerina. A shift at the Collective in the morning. Dancing. Another shift. And so when she hits the pillow, it doesn't take long for her to drift off, curled up beneath the light blankets and with her body wrapped around a pillow, ice packs on her feet.

And then she... wakes right back up? The lighting is somehow off when she lifts her head from the pillow, in a way that she can't quite put her finger on at first. The room is either a little too small or a little too large, and the air seems heavy, almost hard to breathe.

From the next room, there's a tiny, whimpering sound, like a distressed kitten or child.

-> >> Mina to Here << <-==============================================

Rolled 4 Successes 
< 1 2 2 3 5 7 7 10 10 10 10 >

===============================-> >> Wits + Composure No Flags << <-

The lighting is solely provided by electrical sparks, crawling along the ceiling like absurd, lopsided centipedes.

It's not an unusual thing, for Mina's sleep to be brief, especially when it is only her in a bed. She lifts her head, and there's a narrowing of her eyes, a rubbing of them, as she tries to bring them into focus. Surely, that's the problem. Except that it's not. And that it was far too cool a day for the air to be this heavy at this late hour. Lips purse, press. And when she puts her finger on what is wrong, at least with the lighting? There is one word that spills from her lips.

"Fuck."

Still, the succuflower slips the bed, listening for that sound. Watching.

The whimpering continues, working itself up into a genuine wail. There's something... really off about that too, though. Most humans know what it sounds like when another human -- especially a small human -- is crying. And this isn't ... quite.

Across the ceiling, the electrical currents that spark and spike start to resolve themselves into long, steel spiderweb-like tendrils, pressing into the walls, breaking the drywall, cracking the studs. Fortunately -- maybe -- there don't seem to be electrical spiders to go with those webby tendrils.

-> >> Mina to Here << <-==============================================

Rolled 1 Success 
< 1 1 2 2 6 7 9 >

=================================-> >> Wits + Empathy No Flags << <-

While Mina may be lacking in particularly strong maternal instincts, at least when it comes to human creatures, she knows in her lizardbrain what that should sound like. And it doesn't. It's off, and wrong, and it sends a shiver through her. But it doesn't stop her. Blue eyes lift to the ceiling, and she watches. Observes. And...swears again. Dreaming, awake, she's not sure which one she'd rather this be. "Who the fuck is there?," she finally calls out, that voice carrying. Wavering, but still carrying, as she slowly moves for the next room. Her dance studio, albiet makeshift.

As soon as the dance studio becomes visible through the doorway, the door hanging halfway open, there's... a pile of spare parts? in the middle of the floor? Did Mina create a junkyard in the middle of her dance studio? And it's from that pile of spare parts that the sound appears to be coming.

Or, more precisely, from something in the middle of that pile of spare parts.

Sprockets. Gears. Fingers. Toes. An eyeball rolls down the pile of parts and spins across the floor toward Mina, bouncing off her toe.

"Mmmmmmmmaaaaaaaaaa," bleats the ... something... under the blanket in the middle of the pile. It's a very lonely sound, threaded through with heart-rending pangs of loneliness. It's so sad. So lonely.

She most certainly did not leave spare parts in the middle of the bedroom-turned-dance studio. Mina doesn't even wear anything but her ballet shoes on this floor. Or drink water in here, for fear of havign to replace the floors that she spent the last of her savings on. So when she sees a pile of things in the center of the floor, she goes from tense to on High Alert.

Why the hell hasn't she bought herself a firearm, yet? Or at least a damned baseball bat? That's....definitely something that Mina needs to remedy, and quickly. And when the eyeball rolls towards her foot, bouncing off her big toe - bleeding, from practice. Toenail in the process of healing from the last time she lost it, she lets out an utterly femme sound of being grossed out - kicking it back across the room. "No, no fucking way," she hisses out beneath her breath. "Wrong apartment, creepo."

"Mmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa," keens the small lump of blanket -- no larger than toddler, perhaps, or a Corgi. Its back -- or shoulders -- hitches in sobs, and it slowly turns its head toward her -- slowly -- and then cranks its head all the way around, as if the middle of her floor has been taken over by a body-part-gathering toddler-corgi-owl hybrid.

The head keeps turning, and turning, the blanket twisting and falling away, and as what should be its face comes into view, there is nothing.

Nothing.

A void.

Except for the rows and rows of teeth that hinge open like a snake ready to swallow an egg, a split-second before the ... thing... launches itself at her, flying quite literally directly at her face with those rows and rows of teeth yawning open, shrieking 'MMmmmaAAAaaAaaaaa!'

The sound echoes in her ears still when Mina sits up abruptly in her bed just before those teeth close over her head, alone in a silent apartment with only the ticking of pipes and the slow creak of the house settling to keep her company, if she can even hear any of that past the thunderous pounding of her heart and the ringing of blood in her ears.

What. The. Actual. Fuck. Things have gone from creepy to fucking Stephen King and del Toro having an acid trip baby together. Mina's already backing up when the ...thing starts turning its head towards her. It's not that nice of an apartment. She doesn't really need to live here, right, if it's haunted by some doll from Hell? Right? Right.

Of course, making a slow retreat in dreams doesn't always work. And while she's taking steps backwards? The dancer is going no where at all. It feels like the room is stretching out further and further, the faster she tries to back up.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGHH!" is not a delicate sound at all, coming from the succuflower, with that voice that caries so well, so wonderfully. A scream that is more soundless, in the waking world, as she jots up in the bed. Digging nails into her own palms, hard enough to bleed. Deafened, by the sound of her own racing heart and frantic breathing.