Night █.█ - December 26th, 2022
PARTICIPANT: Unreality Researcher Jennifer Williams
ESTIMATED DEGREE OF RECALL: LOW
DREAM SUMMARY: Williams is running through a snowstorm, holding a snow scraper covered in blood. She is running away from a frozen lake with two indistinct figures; she reports she "felt bad" for them and did not want to "hurt their feelings."
After two hours of running, she approaches the Site. She says the stars are visible behind it, which were "so bright they woke [her] up."
Williams crawls up the snowbank, the last of the evergreens giving away. Exposed to the elements, she ducks low to the snow, pushing her body into the fresh cavities. She stumbles, her wool hood obscuring some of her vision, then rolls down the hill with a yelp.
She sits up, gasping for air. The lake and the deer are now far behind her, and before her is a collection of locations — disembodied, like movie sets.
The nearest one is a large holly bush, cut open in the middle like a shoebox. It would provide some comfort and protection from the snow storm. The stars shined through the brown sky and down onto the bush; this indicated to her that she was meant to go there.
Despite that, she still scans the horizon. Behind the bush was the Site. It looks similar to a cathedral, with four arching spires, miniature "Ts" mounted on their tops. The castle shape folds inwards to the center, obscuring futuristic hallways; the containment units. And past all that is the office of Alex Thorley, blissfully unaware.
The cut-up scene before her does not deter her yet. She follows the light from the stars into the holly bush, pushing away the holly as she climbs into the stump of the bark.
She warms her mitted hands with quick, sharp breaths, rubbing them together as she looks left to right. She doesn't understand how Thorley could just stand out there for as long as they did. She feels like she is dying.
There is a rustling up above. Williams gasps quietly, perking her head up to look; as she does this, an unusually large stain-glass cicada rapidly retreats from her vision, pulling its neck around the corner of the holly bush and disappearing.
Williams: B-Bastard.
Williams places her hand where the cicada was, and tries to use the bark to lift herself up. She knocks her head against the top of the holly bush's interior, and falls back down with a grunt. She rubs her forehead, and does not notice as a packet of pills falls into her lap.
She opens her eyes, and looks down at her lap. The pills are a yellow-orange, and wrapped in a transparent grey plastic. On the end of the bag are holly leaves and a stem.
Williams: …Oohhh. Of course.
Upon further inspection, about half of the holly bush leaves appear to contain these pills. She has no idea how she missed this. Come on, Jennifer. She leans down, pulling on the edges of the bag slowly.
Williams: Come on, Jane…
It snaps open, and she scrambles to keep the pills from falling into the dirt and snow. The bag contains three pills, she picks up one between her fingers.
Williams: You can see stuff that I can't.
Jane's eyes slowly open.
Williams lifts the pill above her head and drops it into her mouth. She shivers, making a sound of disgust as she swallows.
Williams: I never understood why these had to taste like cough drops. Maybe when you make the next batch, you can make them taste a biiiiit better? It doesn't have to be a candy tablet, but, come on.
She slowly stands, watching above her to make sure she doesn't crash into the ceiling again. She slides out of the holly bush, covering her face as harsh winds blow snow beneath her hood.
The lights of the stars are no longer shining on her, instead faced towards the Site.
The stars illuminate images of an old man's head, a young man's skin, a glowing, genderless spirit, and a swarm of either locust or cicadas or both, interlaced and shifting like the Northern Lights.
The red and green splashes out against the brown sky, reflecting on the snow like a VHS filter. Williams stands still, watching them wash against the Site in awe.
They bounce on the iron "Ts" and shine back into themselves, producing a star-shaped fractal pattern. The miasma has obscured whatever meaning the cathedral once possessed — it has now been eaten whole by "the Site," though, Williams ponders how much difference there is between them.
It's confusing these days.
Jane's eyes dart around, taking in the situation. She's more used to this. It's not that special.
She walks down the fractured path outlined in the snow, entering the curtain of starlight. She stares up at the rooms and walls in the air, panting, her breath coming out in small bursts.
Williams: That's so fucking cool. Is this how you all see the world?
Williams steps closer, the Site looming above her.
Williams: Well, I mean, those of you who can actually see the world. Is this what it's like?
She puts her hands in her pockets, the images in the sky briefly separating. The locust cicadas beat their wings, making the stars twinkle. She gasps, the scene reflected across her eyes and face.
Williams: I feel it… kicking in. Hey, Jane.
She looks down into the snow. It shifts, as if someone is beginning to dig themselves out of it. She clutches her head.
Williams: I love you. Be safe.
The snow is bitter on my body, but pushing out from under it is a breeze. It's looser around me than it was around her, owing to our different bodily compositions, so to speak. I look out from beneath her wool hood, her skin, her eyes, and the path becomes fairly clear.
I could see why she thought it was disjointed. It's not quite what I'm used to either.
In front of me is a carved out riverbank between some disparate scenes, but I can tell vaguely where it wants me to go.
Snow scraper in hand, I walk forward towards the Site. There is no door, but there is an opening — where its outer wall would be, there's a hole leading inside. I stand still to analyze it, because I know once I'm inside, I won't have the luxury of seeing all the carved out spots.
From just my brief analysis, I can tell it's mostly empty. There's a church inside. Dozens of hallways filled with lead-lined containment chambers on either sides. Thorley's office. A chancel in the church.
I look down at my feet. The threshold is a single, blurry line. Traversing these purgatorial states between locales is always disorientating, no matter how experienced you are. I put one foot over the line and peek my head through; now I'm coming in through the wall, like a ghost.
Alright, second foot it is.
I break on through to the other side, and step firmly into the Site. Recall: Containment and research, highly classified tactical project, theological in nature. Funny. I'm real sorry, Jennifer, I hope this doesn't hurt. I love you so much.
Her body lurches a little bit to the right, and when I glance over I see a pretty straight shot between here and Thorley's office. Just two turns, I think.
Thanks Jen!
I walk down the hallway and watch the grey concrete become yellow wood. Weird, I don't remember anything in the Site looking like this. To be fair, I've only been here as long as Jen has been assigned for, but it's a weird feeling. It's so unfamiliar.
It feels like there's a steam building. I feel the pressure in my nose. Actually, the more I walk, I think the colder it's getting… it's coming from the floor. There's lots of damage here, like the building's been lacerated from the inside out; the snow under the floorboards meeting the inner heat is making a strange effect on the air.
I see a grey metal door embedded in the wood in front of me. I reach my hand out, take the nob — oh. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight," I say aloud. I pull open the door, and
Interviewed: Unreality Liaison Alex Thorley
Interviewer: Unreality Researcher Jane Goe
<Begin Log>
Goe enters tentatively through the back of the room. She climbs the stairs to the chancel, and begins deconstructing the altar, taking the photograph down from the easel first.
Despite the weather, she is dressed in a black suit, black dress pants, dress shoes, a dress hat, dress gloves, and a dress tie, all also black. She does not seem to be cold.
Thorley: I know Jennifer.
Goe pauses, turning slowly to face Thorley.
Thorley: I know she isn't dead because we went to Burger King together a few times. If this is a dream, then it's a metaphor?
Both sit in silence as she continues to deconstruct the items on the chancel. She lays the objects flat at the edge of the stage in a row; from left to right, it is the book, the easel, the portrait — now blank — and the disembodied picture of Jennifer Williams. It appears to be imprinted on the stage itself.
Goe: It's more of a question, I think. What do you want, Alex?
Thorley: What? I'm sorry, I didn't want to bother you.
Goe: You're not bothering me.
Thorley: Well, your tone, I thought I was—
Goe: I'm sorry to cut you off, Alex, but I am asking a question. What do you want?
Thorley sits in silence, looking at their feet. They begin kicking back and forth again, making slightly off-beat thumping noises as they do so. The lights of the stars are temporarily obscured by white, fluffy clouds.
It begins to snow. The stars come out again.
Thorley: A Rubik's Cube. A bigger fish tank. Another burger, I think. Oh, some fish, and some more fish I can eat too. Those are two separate things. And…
The wind howls softly. Goe crosses her arms, leaning against the casket. Her eyes are furrowed wisely and patiently.
Thorley: …A cat.
Goe: That's all?
Thorley: Oh, well, yeah.
Goe: You don't want a lot.
Thorley: Not really, I guess.
Goe: Why do you want a cat and some fish?
Thorley opens their mouth to answer the question, then closes, and thinks, looking back at their feet. They briefly turn their head up to look at her.
Thorley: Are you asking for a deeper reason?
She nods. Thorley looks back down at their feet.
Thorley: Can I sleep on it?
Goe: Surely.
Thorley: Thanks. Night.
Goe: Goodnight. I’ll see you in 33 years?
Thorley: What?
Goe: Oh. Nevermind, you haven’t heard. Well, night.
She begins taking the casket down, carrying it away from the chancel. After some time, she returns through the entrance, and slides the disembodied photograph back onto its canvas. She picks the book up under one arm, and the easel under the other, then leaves the photograph there. She leaves the same way they came.
<End Log>
Closing Statement: This is the Thorley that Jen is more used to. The other two are interesting. I'm not sure which one I like more, hahaha.
I sit in the hallway and flip through the book. The project is going well. I forgot that tonight was, well, that night. The timing is so precise, I think it's impossible to get it right on purpose, honestly.
But, like, fine. I'll do it over and over and over again if I have to. It's my job.
I'm a bit shocked they don't know yet, though. Alex will, hopefully, be taking over for me not that far into the future. Jen is going to transfer back to Memetics, and I can't keep this going by myself.
That being said, I've found what I'm looking for. The བར་དོ་ཐོས་གྲོལ details some psycho-dramatic practices I can use to move on, but I'm not intent on moving on just yet. I'm going to be skipping forward a bit, right into the bits about the hostility of the subconscious. Sadly, not only is mine physical, but it's shared, and very, very hostile. But for the next part of the ritual? That's what I'll need.
Deep breaths.
PARTICIPANT: Unreality Researcher Jane Goe
RATIONAL ALIGNMENT: B=Y
DESCRIPTION: Goe enters a space which is not black, but the former occupier of the space has been evicted. Beside her, his head pokes through a hole between planes — he is a giant stain-glass cicada, with the mandibles and eyes of an old man.
His cicada pieces are around four years old, while his man parts appear to be in his late eighties. Extending from his chitin chin is a white beard, which curls inward at the bottom.
His whole body flutters and shudders, like his epidermis has been replaced with thousands of little wings.
He's barely holding it together.
Goe turns away from the sight with a worried frown. Thirty three years ago, he would not have been able to push out like this. Push in like this, more like. It's why Christmas came back for as long as it did — spilling out everywhere, like a sloshing slop from its holes.
At the opposite end of the space, her goal. There are seven Lions remaining. They are magnificent, made of classic bronze and shaped like oblong, inner-facing claws.
The Lions' faces are contorted in rage; they cannot move to protect their fallen comrades, who are eaten whole by smaller cicadas, their wings being painted with differing patterns: left, Mary; center, Jesus; right, Peter.
They cannot move because they are supplanted in place around a man, their lion roots protruding into his brain. He is big, like the old man, but he is a young man.
He has long hair of many colors, falling out in some places, but the patches are healthy, and have little curls. His face is too soft, it needs to harden to fight, but his features are beautiful, a dark masculinity across his cheekbones and chin.
His exposed brains are grey and green, and they shimmer with thousands and thousands of years of knowledge.
Goe's goal here is simple. She walks forward, touches his brain gently, and he lets out a small smile. The old man groans impatiently behind her, but she ignores it, moving away from the young man to to the first fallen Lion.
She strokes its mane gently with her snow scraper, peeling the little cicadas off in droves. When they touch the ground, no matter how gently, they explode into shimmering fractal patterns, like little stars.
Each little bump makes the space less black, and more a dull brown, like a dream.
She combs the Lion's mane over and over, until the cicadas are gone and its half-eaten face is exposed. It can still grimace, but it will be sometime until it can reboot.
There's a zipping sound; she turns, and sees the old man's head has retracted into its hole.
She nods in determination at this, and moves to the second fallen Lion, snow scraper at the ready. These cicadas, with their Peter patterns, are more agile and intelligent — they scream in voices she knows to get her to stop. It almost works.
Goe: Stop that.
The cicadas continue to beg, wriggling on the Lion with scrutiny and ichor. They cannot burrow into its metal husk, but they try and they try.
Cicada One: Please, Jane, stop! Please! We love you! We want to be with you!
Cicada Two: Please! In the other land there are bigger worser things! We can't go back!
Cicada Three: This is my Jerusalem! This is the land I was promised!
She begins crushing them with the back of the snow scraper, thick thuds as she swings back and forth. They release little snippets of starlight, which she flips the scraper around to brush onto the brown beneath.
The second Lion is freed in time, its damage less severe than the first. She almost thinks she sees it smile, so she cautiously smiles back.
The old man is moaning in agony, now, his forehead and eyes vivisected across the spinning hole. He stares at her, pleading, a stare so hard and ancient that she can feel it in the back of her head. She refuses to turn.
Goe, speaking to the young man: Injecting is a tricky process, especially when it's done improperly like this. You holding up okay?
She crosses him, quickly making work of the next Lion. The young man tries to nod, his expression ragged and his breath unpleasant. She's glad he's holding out, but she needs to work faster. She finally glances back at the old man, and they make eye contact; she is relived to see how pathetic he appears.
The next Lions are made quick work of, the glittering insects crushed under her boots. They will need time to reboot, so for now, she will remain.
The old man, his head pushing desperately against the hole in the brownness: You are still my child. You all are. Can't you see what you're doing to me? You're hurting me. Aren't you my child?
Goe feels a twinge of familiarity, and guilt. Something about the iron "Ts" above the cathedral— no! She can't let a connection form. She can't let him anchor himself any further.
The old man: They celebrate my birth. The birth of man. The birth of my son. The birth of man. They celebrate me! Us!
Goe turns to stare at him, his wings erupting from beneath his skin. It becomes a blizzard of buzzing and singing, but she can hear him just fine.
The old man: You are selfish! Prideful! Selfish! You will repent! You will be in me until you love me, as I will be in you! You will repent!
Goe is crying now, but she doesn't understand why.
The young man: BEGONE!
Suddenly, all that the old man is, and all he ate, and all that wasn't supposed to be his, is gone. The brown supersedes into wind and snow. The Lions roar in tune with the wind around her, and she gasps, clutching her head—
I've got you, Jane. I love you.
— a snow scraper peels against her eyes—
— the snow—
— a song from another world—
— the snow—
— like static—
— is gone.
Jane is sleeping in the back of my head, and I'm covered in vomit. Sorry if I still sound like her, switching like this is really difficult.
I wish I could know what she saw in there. But all I know is, as the snow is receding, a sort of mental fog is coming in. Christmas won't make it past Christmas.
But the snow is receding. The snowstorm is ending, and I can see the Site light up in red and green. It's beautiful. I'm going to limp myself and Jane back inside, and we're going to celebrate one last Christmas — at least, until 33 years from now.
Okay. Alex, I hope you're hearing this. Either Alex. Any Alex. We love you a lot, buddy, hold on tight. You're gonna blow them all away tomorrow.