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Log Title:Bonnie’s Kiss

Log Setting: Playground
A smallish playground, almost entirely dominated by things made of wood. A wooden castle is here, a wooden pirate ship. All large, with swings and ladders and secret places to hide in. A swingset, and a jungle gym is on the other side, near the large pit of sand with discarded trucks and buckets.

The place is ringed with huge trees, almost the width of redwoods, which have cracked the concrete in places, as if they grew up overnight. In a circle grows a small patch of pumpkins, and the grass is almost knee high. In an arc, like a rainbow, is a patch of beautiful flowers of all kinds. Roses and vines twine up the swingset. Apples litter the ground, having dropped from above.. and when you look above, you see all kinds of fruit growing up there. Peaches, apples, lemons... strange.

Log Cast:
Bonnie
Trace
Jean-Batiste
Ryan Bordreaux
Rumour
Sevrin

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"So they're not really brother and sister, then," Batiste murmurs, nodding a little. "Jason says they've known eachother forever, but when I asked Rosie, she said only a year or two, I think..." He frowns - just more confusion to add to the pile - then sighs, and shifts his shoulder against the support post. "Yeah?" he murmurs, and glances at the overcast sky. "I don't think they like rain, much, myself."

Bonnie sits on the swings, oblivious to the rain, her hushed voice at turns teasing and coaxing, then ironic and biting as she talks with Batiste. Shaking her head, she murmers. "Oh, that's where you're wrong. They love the rain. They are the cause of it, after all. Dragon's tears," she nods, lashs blinking for the first time, her owlish gaze returning right after. "Its true. New Orlean's has truly gained their ire, to have them crying so often."

Jean-Batiste leans up against one of the supporting posts of the swingset, on the opposite side from where Bonnie swings, looking alternately moody, wary, suspicious, and merely thoughtful. "Yeah?" he repeats, glancing skyward for a second again, then shrugging a little. "Wouldn't the rain drown their fire, though? Don't see why they'd cry over New Orleans more than any other city..." He works his bare feet deeper into the grass, studying the tangled, trampled blades.

From far off you might see him; the blue hair makes Trace ever simple to spot, even on a gloomy day like this one. He is drenched through and through, but smiling, skipping, pouncing at puddles in the path and being in general childlike. His rain-darkened jeans are streaked with new colors, and a purple smudge on his cheek is starting to run and trickle down towards his chin. He doesn't see either of you yet, but makes his way carelessly towards his former home with dreamy oblivion.

Bonnie's head turns, the sounds of splashing drawing her attention from the sky, her voice hinting at laughter. "Only the oldest of all dragons actually breath fire," she murmers. "And those are most often off guarding their treasures. New Orleans...is a city full of sorrow. Tragedy around every corner. Children go missing all the time, and no one cares. Monsters lurk just out of sight, and there are no knights to go vanquish them. They gather in the bayou, and dance with the ghosts. If you listen, you can hear them crying," as she swings her head back, her solumn gaze resting again on Batiste. "Indeed...it is a city of nightmares. Don't you find it so?"

Jean-Batiste listens to Bonnie's words with a subdued version of a child's fascination with stories, even macabre ones. He shrugs at the end of it, a little dispassionate, and murmurs, "All cities are full of nightmares. The world is full of nightmares. It's just a matter of staying away from them when you can. New Orleans..." He shrugs, half-wanting to disagree with Bonnie just for the childish pleasure of disagreeing, half-wanting to agree out of hometown loyalty. "New Orleans, I guess it could be something special." Jean-Batiste stops there, and turns to look over his shoulder in the direction Bonnie looked earlier. He squints through the rain, mood lightening a little in hopefulness. "Trace? Hey, Trace, that you?" he calls, waving his hand a bit to get his friend's attention. "Over here..."

Trace had stooped to pluck up a violet out of the shiny grass, but stops mid-crouch and looks up at the voice, a smile lighting easily onto his face. He bounds over, or starts to, but pulls into a clumsy, skidding halt when he sees Bonnie. A small frown touches his lips for a moment, not aimed at her exactly, just thinking hard. Thinking back. "Have I seen you?" he murmurs softly, but soon the frown evaporates into something once again content as he walks over to Batiste, his soaked sneakers making lovely squish sounds, and smiles up at his friend. "Hi.”

Bonnie's lips twitch slightly, gazing at Trace as he joins the tableaux at the swing set, her voice a low rasp in the darkness. "Of course you've seen me," she murmers. "In your nightmares and your dreams," her own gaze slides over Trace's slight form, resting overlong on the bruises on his arms. "I'm the stuff that makes you shiver in your sleep. We're good friends, you and I."

Jean-Batiste straightens up from his lean and wraps an arm around the younger boy's shoulders, drawing him in for a damp, affectionate, protective hug. "Hey..." he murmurs softly, ruffling a few blue braids just for the sake of ruffling them. He watches Bonnie again, then, leaving his arm draped around Trace unless his friend moves away. (His boots and flannels are underneath the wooden castle, out of the rain, by the way.) His face ages as a frown again furrows it. He asks Bonnie, "D'you always talk like that?" as if she was talking calmly of the way ants squirm when their legs are pulled off.

Bonnie lifts her shoulders, shrugging dramatically. "Shall I talk of something else, then?" she murmers. "Pretend to be something I'm not? Chase after shadows, when I know what the shadows hold? You tell me, kind Sir...what shall we talk of, this night, under the dragon's tears, in a park alive with magic?

"Oh..?" Trace blinks at her, and purses his lips, but finally sputters the laugh he was trying to hold back. "Yeah, it's like I had this nightmare about this fat lady, and I like had to keep feeding her this lard stuff... That was you?!" He giggles some more, then composes himself and nuzzles some heavy, damp braids ag ainst Batiste's nuzzling hand before looking up at Bonnie when she speaks again. His question is abrupt, tinged with a grin. "So why aren't dragon's tears salty, huh?" Yep, gothgirls gotta work to paint their spooky dilusions around him.

Jean-Batiste's mood lightens a little with Trace's presence, the moodiness changing itself into protectiveness. He rubs his rainslicked face, shivering mildly as a breeze gusts through the playground, then grins and holds his tongue out as well, trying to catch a few drops. He stops a couple seconds later, and looks back at Bonnie. "So what's with this playground, anyways? Why d'you figure it's magic? Just because of those weird trees? I wonder why someone from Tulane hasn't tried to figure out what's up with them, anyways. Or maybe it's some grad student's thesis."

Bonnie loops her arms around the chains, leaning forward and held in place by her elbows, her hands outstretched, palm up, catching the rain in her hand. "Because dragon's tears are made of something else," she whispers, lifting her head up to catch raindrops on her cheeks and lashs. "Something far more rare and precious than salt and water." As if everyone knew that. "Tell me," as she swings her gaze towards Batiste, "Would you really want to the magic destroyed by science? Wouldn't you rather enjoy the mystery? Of course its magic that brings the trees...its what brings the children and the laughter and the nightmares. All of it mixed together."

Trace looks over at her and grins, with more respect now. "Yeah..." he murmurs, glancing quickly about the little playground haven briefly before settling his hazelbright gaze on Bonnie once more. "Yeah, I believe you. I believe there's magic here. I didn't have no place to stay, and I was so tired, and.. sick, and I just had nowhere coz the place I'd been stayin' got taken over..." Something distant and conspiratorial creeps into his eyes, like telling a secret. "But there was this.. girl. This little girl who didn't speak to me, not once, but waved for me to follow, and I ran after her such a long ways, and I found here, and she crawled into my fort, and I crawled after, but I got inside it and she was gone." He breaks into a wondering grin, and just nods matter-of-factly. "This place is magic."

Bonnie's unblinking umber eyes rest on Trace for an eternity, nary a smile at his resitation following...but there is little doubt that she believes everyword. Weird fuck that she is, after all. "There are many places like this," she murmers. "Full of magic, if only you stop, listen, and believe..." her gaze turns back towards Batiste. "Some will never understand," mocking sympathy laces her murmers. "They are too careful of being made the fool. It is the fool who sees past his nose," back to Trace, an almost smile coming to her lips. "I offered you candy once...and you ran away. I'll offer it again, this once. Hungry?"

Jean-Batiste turns a little and looks at Trace, eyes widened in curiousity and surprise. "That's how you found the fort?" he murmurs wonderingly. "You never told me that." He looks like he's about to mope for a minute , then just muses a little, looking towards the dense clump of bushes. A sidelong glance is given to Bonnie, frown returning. Defensive. When she offers Trace candy, the look flares into full-blown wariness, and he tightens his arm around his blue-haired friend, backing up. "Fuck that," he utters, shaking his head curt ly. A rather irrational reaction, that.

"You never asked me," Trace reminds his friend with a tiny smile, but then Bonnie offers her 'candy' for the second time, and it's just the trigger the blue-haired boy needs to remember that day long ago when Amy had dragged him away from this spooky woman. He steps a little closer to his Protector out of instinct, slender white fingers curling gently around Batiste's wrist. "Why do y'wanna give me stuff?" He purses his lips concernedly, leaning his head back a little for added support from his head as he still peers back at Bonnie and points out, "Nobody gives nothin' without wantin' back, less they love you, and we're strangers, you'n I..." A little smirk. "No matter how many nightmares I may dream."

Bonnie sighs dramatically, the chains of the swing rattling as she shakes her head, filled with sorrow. "Because I am so vastly misunderstood," she murmers, a hint of amusement back in her tone. Lifting rustybloody colored fingers to her lips, she blows a kiss towards Trace, lips curving gently in her first honest smile in eons...gods...sometimes smiles are just not pleasant! "Don't you want to see the dragons?" she whispers, her voice becoming lower, ignoring Batiste completely. "Dragons and unicorns, and candy canes?" Evident from her tone is a scoffing of such sugary delights. "Fly with me," she indicates the swing beside her, then begins to pump her legs, swing up and up, closer to the sky.

You feel your perceptions change...

Trace gasps, and flinches back, clinging tightly to Batiste for a moment. "I... no!" But it's not something you can push away, and he trembles a moment as memories tumble back to him, and finally his fingers unclench some and he very slowly, shyly, turns..

Bonnie’s Fae Desc:
A tall, gangly form, all elbows and knees, with a head of inky black hair that has been cropped close to the head, save for a sooty lock that hangs over her forhead, the sluagh before you seldom smiles, if ever. Indeed, laughter is left for others, cries the expression that lingers on her narrow face, within the depths of owlish umber eyes.

Clad in the formal attire of a bygone era, she wears legclinging pantaloons that clasp just beneath her knees, soot and ink smeered tights covering chicken thin legs. A fancy topcoat is faintly pinstriped, with white ruffles appearing around her boney wrists, the color of silken clouds. She moves in silence, finding comfort in the shadows.

Jean-Batiste's jaw sets, and the wariness settles to a cold, dull sheen in his eyes that makes him look older than his years. "C'mon, we're leaving," he says to Trace, looking back at his friend, reaching for his wrist to tug him earnestly towards the wooden castle. When trouble - or potential trouble - rears its head, Batiste's definately the flight over fight type.

Trace winces again as he looks upon Bonnie, as one seeing something expected but not hoped for. "I.. I d'wanna fly with you," he insists with a futile sigh. "Batiste.." He looks up at the older boy pleadingly, and then gets tugged along, so he follows, still in a sort of shock, as though he could blink it away. "Batiste... Somewhere safe, okay? She-she scares me. I've never seen one like her." Heglances briefly over his shoulder, unapologetic for his rudeness.

Ryan Bordreaux and Rumour step in from the park.

Ryan’s Desc:
Ryan's a tall young man, standing about 6'1" and weighing in around a hundred and ninety pounds. Some sort of athlete, perhaps - his build is too powerful for a dancer, too graceful for a mere gym-body. His hair is a warm, tawny brown, once clipped short in the back and left a little longer on top, now outgrown and shaggy. The classic brown puppy eyes are his, though not in the usual melting, gentle way - his are forlorn and haunted, prone to sudden jags of snappish anger.

He wears an unmarked black T-shirt tucked into a faded pair of jeans held up with a leather belt. Stained brown leather workboots protect his feet. A leather school jacket is worn, patterned in green and black, the school emblem reading 'Sacred Heart'. On one sleeve is an embroidered scroll saying 'Ryan', the m atching scroll upon the other reading 'Football'. Worn on a black cord around his neck is a tiny ring of interlinking gold and silver vines.

Jean-Batiste's grip on Trace's wrist is tight, though it's not meant to be cruel. It's probably a little tighter than he means it to be, nerves twitching with adrenaline. He heads to the wooden castle, stepping into his unlaced boots, not wasting time to lace them up. He's slinging his flannels over his shoulder when Bonnie speaks, and turns back to glare at her, retorting eloquently, "Fuck you. All of you, you're all-" He stops, dizzied, and his fingers tighten on Trace's wrist a little more. He pales, and shivers weakly, head botwing, fingers digging into the inner corners of his eyes. "Not again..." It's a weak, hopeless plea that barely carries a couple feet.

Rumour is stock on Ryan's side,currently, staring with a glazed look right at his ear.

Ryan Bordreaux walks through the park entrance with Rumour clung to his side and his arm draped casually over her shoulder as he escorts her through the trees grinning from ear to ear, "Well thank you kindly Miss, I do try to be a gentleman from time to time." Heading over towards the swings he's surprised to see people here this time of night, well until he notices who they are and then it's not so surprising, though he arches an eyebrow a little quizzically at what's being said.

Bonnie continues to swing, the chains squeeking loudly in the dark, heading higher and higher, a pleasant little smile coming to her lips as she turns, her attention divided between the two boys who sprint towards the wooden fort and the sky up above. Evidently Jean-Batiste's hopeless little plea is music to her ears, because the grim little smile on her lips simply grows a notch. Good god, is she in danger of laughing? Certainly n ot. Well...prolly not

Trace gasps, looks to Bonnie with widening hazel eyes, and then flings his arms around Batiste protectively. "What'd you do to him, what'd you do..?!" he demands shrilly, looking up at Batiste. "What's she doing?" It's not supposed to *hurt*, in his knowledge of matters, so surely she's done something entirely different and sinister to his friend. "Batiste, is she hurting you?" he doesn't notice the two new arrivals just yet, very intent on his friend.

Rumour says, "Sunnnnnnnnnshine, lollypops an.. hey ryyyanhow'dIgeupounhe-ahaga'ihn?""

Bonnie's fingers seem to...grow, elongated on the swings until they weave in and out of the chain itself, her smile a toothless grin that is more a hungry maw. Thinner than she first appeared, the shadows themselves dance around her, bathing her in comfort, two yellow eyes glowing in darkness, malevolent eyes that gaze upon the two boys, soaking in their confusion, and reveling in the unexpected treat of Jean-Batiste's fear.

Bonnie gazes over at the pair near the castle with an expression of supreme innocence, her umber eyes widening at Trace's accusation. Rolling her shoulders in a little shrug, noting visually the distance between the swings and the castle, thus between her and the boys. Clearly, she's done nothing at all to the pair, although she seems highly amused by their antics.

Bonnie's shoulders don't only roll when she shrugs them, but her shoulder blades roll back, clearly visible beneath her jacket, pushing back against the cloth like demon's wings aching to be released. As her eyes open in false innocence, they open...and open...and open farther, until they are near bugging out of their sockets. Her legs swoosh through the air, cutting through the rain with a rustling like bat's wings.

Ryan Bordreaux casts a sideways glance at Bonnie and the arches an eyebrow even more quizzically, "Hmm," is all he says at first, "Sounds like people are takin' things without me again." Grinning he keeps Rumour tucked in against his side and heads over to the two boys, "Hey hey, what's shakin'? The two of you havin' problems again? Man you guys are always doin' somethin' weird."

Rumour whines, "Wanna go howwme, leeme dowwwn"

Ryan Bordreaux frowns a little and drops to one knee so he can let Rumour down onto the ground, "Sure darlin', hmm you gonna be OK to get home on ya own?"

Rumour blows a kiss, and half runs, half stumbles over her feet away.

Jean-Batiste shivers again, and makes some sort of wounded animal sound in his throat, a whimper or moan or sob swallowed down and choked off. He carefully draws his fingers away from his eyes, as if they might fall out of his skull of he's not careful, then slowly, so slowly, looks up at Bonnie. "I remember you," he s ays evenly. Coldly. The steadiness of his voice frays after those four syllables, though. "You...just leave us alone." He starts towards the playground exit, not noticing Ryan until he turns and nearly walks into the young man. "Ryan," he says dumbly. "Ryan, get out of here. You need to leave now." He sounds like he believes Ryan's in grave mortal danger, eyes wide and pleading.

Rumour has left.

Ryan Bordreaux watches Rumour a little confused for a moment and just shakes his head with a bemused smile on his face, "Even at that age women still make no sense..." His words fall away when Jean turns to speak to him and he frowns rather confused, "An' you ain't makin' much sense either buddy." He looks over at Trace smirks, "What's goin' on? This some sorta joke or somethin'?" He turns his attention to Jean again though not before first sparing Bonnie another glance and he smiles once more, "What's the problem? Why do I need to get out for? I just got here."

Bonnie sighs dramatically, turning her head to gaze up towards the clouded sky, her murmed words nearly lost by the skeaking of the chains on the swing. "Bad trip," she murmers. "I imagine they can be rather dangerous in this condition, Sir." Although she doesn't seem to be particularly concerned.

Jean-Batiste is not looking well at all. Very pale, very skittish, eyes jumping around all over the place for no apparent reason at times. Terrified, and not particularly sane. He keeps his fingers locked around Trace's wrist and actually tries to push Ryan towards the exit as well, though it's likely futile. "Ryan, just...just -go-. -Please-, just, I can't explain, just we need to -leave-, we need to get out of here. Please don't stay." The last three words are a rather pitiful plea, desperate.

Trace is looking none too calm himself. "Jest, jest it ain't safe, c'mon.." He had released Batiste when the older boy started to move again, away from the playground, and now he tugs once at Ryan's arm as he passes before moving close to Batiste's side again, watchful and alarmed. "Come with us, if ya like.." Then he's talking to his friend in blonde braids, leaning close to murmur urgently, "Let's go try'n find Jason, he'll know what to do..."

Bonnie uncurls one hand from where it grips the swings, turning her gaze back to the trio of boys, waggling her fingers at them flirtatiously. "Y'all come back now, ya hear?" she murmers, mangling the southern accent, lips curved in a bemused smile. "Watch what ya eat now. Might give ya indigestion." Bonnie's fingers are covered with rust, dripping in the rain, like bloody droplets falling on the mud below, turning her unblinking gaze to stare at both Jean-Batiste and Trace, giving them a full toothless smile. Creepy before, amidst the onslot of dreams and nightmares...she is one of the creepycrawlies that hide und er the bed, waiting for little boys to fall asleep so she can crawl out and eat them!

Ryan Bordreaux arches an eyebrow between the two and chuckles a little, "Really? But I like playin' with fire you two should know that by now." He glances back over at Bonnie and he grins even more, "I don't see nothin' that dangerous, what's the problem? You guys bin poppin' things again?"

Jean-Batiste shakes his head helplessly, swallowing hard. "Nothing he could do, he couldn't help last time, just sit with me until I was okay again, until it went away..." His eyes suddenly go -wide-, and he rushes out, "Oh my god, the-" and stops just as quickly, deciding not to say it. "Oh, Jesus, we -need- to get inside, we've gotta go." He tries to push Ryan along again, his voice cracking when he raises it. "Ryan, just...fuck! Just -listen- to us, please! Come with us, you can't -stay- here!" He starts stumbling towards

Trace gives an exasperated sigh, his stomach churning despite not even having had the chance to disobey Bonnie yet. "If yer gonna be dumb and believe her about the trippin', then fuck you, I ain't dropped shit. Now I gotta get him someplace safe, with or without ya.." He squeezes Batiste's hand a little, but it might n ot be noticable, considering the force with which the older boy is already gripping. He follows, and only spares Bonnie one final, unnerved backward glance before racing with Batiste towards the street.

Bonnie leans forward, dragging her feet in the mud, slipping to her feet to watch after the pair, clicking her tongue against the top of her mouth, a gentle tsking sound. "Like so many...paralized by terror," she shakes her head, whispering as she takes a step closer. "I had such hopes..." she spreads her hands with an other sigh. "Shoo away, children. Run away while you still can."

Bonnie's tongue moves in the darkness of her mouth, snakelike, terrifying, obviously aware of and resigned to such. Spreading her hands, her laughter of earlier has faded, simply...watching without blinking, glowing yellow eyes having faded into a dark, inky blackness, completely devoid of expression.

Ryan Bordreaux seems really caught now, to stay and see whats so dangerous about some waifish looking woman or find out what has got Trace and Batiste so worked up, "Well sure OK," he says at last as he starts to follow the nervous pair away, "If ya both that freaked out, OK, OK." He turns his face briefly back over to look at Bonnie again and as he does his cheeks dimple up into a grin and he waves, "See ya later, ya seem to have turned me friends into panicked rats so I gotta go. I look forward to runnin' into ya sometime," he laughs, "Any woman that can put the fear of God into someone like that must be doin' somethin' right." Turning his attention back to the others he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and disappears with the others, "Man what has gotten into you two?"

Jean-Batiste stumbles over his untied bootlaces, nearly trips, and catches himself on a tree. He looks back over his shoulder, towards Bonnie, then wrenches his gaze away and hurries even faster out of the park.

Trace stumbles a little too, as Batiste does, because their hands are still firmly gripped. Once he's out of earshot, he starts agreeing with Batiste; even though he actually has no idea what the blonde boy is talking about, he *thinks* he does, and agrees fearfully, "She was one crazy bitch. Oh my god, did you see her? Did you see her *hands*, all twisting, and the shadows all around? Oh god... she was so scary.." He trails off and bites his lip before murmuring, "We'll go to Walker's house. It's safe there. I promise." But the funny thing is, up until now, the *playground* had been a safe place, a magic safe haven.

Bonnie steps out from the playground.

Bonnie slips silently from the playground, wrapped in a cloak of solitude, skirting the lights as she makes her way from the now silent playground.

Ryan Bordreaux reaches out and grasps the back of Batiste's jacket collar to freeze him in his tracks, "OK, OK, lets stop with the Simpson's halloween special and stop gibberin' so much will ya? Now what the fuck is up with the pair of you two? For fuck sake it was just some weird lookin' chick that probably ain't deci ded if she's goth or punk." He looks the pair of you up and down and scratches his head, "I think the two of you have been hittin' the acid a little too hard..." His words trail off as he listens to Trace start mumbling and he suddenly seems a bit more attentive, "Hmm I think the three of us should go somewhere an' have a chat after all."

Jean-Batiste rambles - babbles, really - as he hurries towards the street. "She was there, the first time, when Jason was there, too, she dislocated her shoulders and laughed. I don't know what it is, I don't know what she is, but we need to get home if the hellhound's out here, if it finds us-" He stops short when Ryan grabs his collar, making a little choking sound as he stumbles to a halt. He whirls around and grabs at Ryan's wrist, face hysterical as he tries to break free. "Don't touch me, let me -go-!" He looks crazy enough, right now, to try and -bite- Ryan if he doesn't release him.

"Will you shut up about the acid, already?" Trace mutters through clenched teeth. "I barely drop, okay? I haven't in a week... You jest, you can't understand, she's a monster, okay? A monster with shadoweyes and scary rust claws. We jest, we-we gotta get to Walker's. We can calm down there." Batiste's sudden outburst and threat to Ryan really surprises him, and he almost lets go of his friend's hand to give him all the space he needs right now, but decides against it at the last moment and holds tighter. "Batiste! Batiste, please..." he insists plaintively. "It's okay... I'll make everything okay when we get home, okay?" He reaches forward very tentatively and careful fingertips try to lightly brush Batiste's cheek, as though to smooth some of the sanity back into his expression. "I'll make it okay."

Ryan Bordreaux lets go alright and gives the smaller boy a bit of a shove as he does, "Then stop freakin' out all the time. Ya ain't gonna get nowhere if ya keep freakin' out all the time so settle down or I'll pop one on ya hysterical jaw. That's what ya s'posed ta do with panicked people ya know?" Letting his hands drop to his sides he glances between Trace and Batiste and grins, "Yeah now that sounds like a good idea don't ya think? Bein' calm is a good thing."

Sevrin has arrived.

Sevrin walks down from the street, hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched high, head down. The works. He walks along the sidewalk in the direction of the playground. If he notices the fighting kids, it isn't enough to get him to stop or look up or do his civic duty and call the po-lice on obvious drug offenders. Nope. He's caught up in his own little world, paying attention to nothing but his own two feet and the direction in which they move.

Jean-Batiste stumbles back when he's shoved, and clutches both hands to Trace's, glaring at Ryan with a wild eyed, panicky stare. "Freaking out? Freaking -out-? -You- fucking have this happen to you, and see how stable -you- are! When's the last time -you- got..." He falters, looking to Trace, blinking rapidly. When he speaks again, his voice is back to its usual soft, mumbled tone. "Fine, just... let's go. It's too crazy out here..." He starts stumbling for the street again, muttering to himself about hellhounds.

Ryan Bord reaux doesn't seem to hear Batiste or Trace any more because his eyes seem to be peering through the gloom as they come to rest on someone walking by. He blinks his eyes again to make sure maybe he's not hallucinating and then when Sevrin doesn't disappear they narrow on him, "Excuse me," is all he says and nothing else in the universe seems to matter. Heading towards the older man says rather loudly, "Oy, you... Me an' you need to have a little bit of a talk don't ya think? Catch up on what's new." As he walks his fingers curl up into fists and a stupid grin splits his lips, "Me an' you really don't talk as much as we should after all."

Sevrin does look up now. His walk slows to a halt and he turns to look at the lumbering football jockey heading his way. Thin shoulders shrug just slightly at the boy's words, coupled with a response, "Why do we need to speak, Ryan? What new is there that we need to discuss?" He glances back toward the playground and sighs under his breath, "You ask, you tell, we'll see."

Trace clings to Batiste’s hand the entire walk home, with no show of self-consciousness to be seen, and his breathing has already calmed some the closer he gets to Walker's home. His steps are brisk, purposeful, and he races for the door once the grey house comes into view.

Home. Batiste retangles his fingers around yours, realizing in the process how tightly he was clinging to you, and lets go with a start, whispering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you..." He wrings his hands as he looks over the street one last time before dashing up the patio with a thumpstumbletrip and helping you push the door open, trying to get you inside before him. Batiste, Fearless Protector From Hellhounds? Yeah, -right-. He closes the door and locks every available lock on the door with trembling fingers, then leans back against the reassuringly stable wood and digs his thumb and forefinger into the inner corners of his eyes again, moaning.

Trace sighs and moves to sag against your chest, closing his eyes tight from everything. "Batiste. I don't... understand all this. I jest don't.." He curls his arms around you for a brief, tight, reassuring hug before pulling back just enough to peer up at you and whisper, "I never seen you so scared, Batiste. Never... " His eyes are confused, frustrated that he isn't sure how to sooth you. "Batiste? Fix with me..." He sighs and lays his head to your chest again. "It'll.. calm you. Smooths away fear.. pain... everything 'cept what's warm. You want to? You could jest... be numb with me 'til this all goes away.."

Jean-Batiste clings to you, trembling, seeming so small and confused and lost. He releases you only reluctantly, wild eyes locked on yours like some sort of lifeline. "She was there, the first time...the first time this happened. They gave me hot chocolate, and everything went wrong - Rosie was there, too! She was, I remember that! And...Bonnie danced, she dislocated her shoulders and danced around, and they all just smiled and laughed when I was scared and confused and th en, the last time, it was Rosie, and they all laughed when the hellhound chased me...it ate me, Trace. It swallowed me whole, I was in its stomac h, it felt like forever..." The words keep coming, runaway and whispery, as if he can share them with you fast enough, they'll all make sense and somehow, you'll understand. He pauses to look at you, defeated and frustrated. "I'm going crazy. I can feel it in my head. I can remember forgetting all this, I can remember telling myself it was just a dream, but then it happens and I remember it all again..." He hugs his arms around himself and squeezes his eyes shut. "O-okay. Okay."

"I always forget too," Trace sighs. "You're not crazy. But it *feels* that way, when you lose it." Maybe he doesn't understand completely, in that respect, because it's the opposite for you. But he continues, "When you don't got it, it's like... it whispers to you sometimes, confuses you. But then it all comes clear again, and you're *there*, and it's all... kind of scary and sudden." He sighs and steps back, clasping both of your hands in his and tugging you with him as he takes backwards steps towards the stairs. "I have an idea. For when we forget. C'mon, everything's upstairs." His hand is damp and trembly in yours, even if his voice is forcedly steady and strong, as though he's trying to be the level-headed one for once, no matter how badly suited he is for the job.

Jean-Batiste follows after you, trying not to think about any of it, or how even the safety of Walker's home is touched and altered by the Dreaming, the effort leaving him passive and silent. He follows you up the stairs like a toy on a chain - when the top is reached, he brings your hand up, and nuzzles his cheek into the sweaty, trembling palm, closing his eyes. "I just...don't understand...I don't know what's happening to me," he whispers, shivering once before standing still again. His eyes open, and he just looks at you, the rabid panic and wildness of before dulled with defeat and overwhelming confusion. It doesn't make sense. There's nothing he knows of that could explain any of this, nothing at all. Except the word 'magic'...but what's magic, anyways?

"I'll explain," Trace promises softly. "I don't know it all like Jason, but I'll explain all I know. I just... I need to calm down first. And you too. Come on." He retrieves his hand to ruffle your braids gently, then reaches out a hand to sweep up the strap of his canvas bag and sling it over one shoulder before carefully taking your hand again and leading you on towards the bean bags. "And if I do, you gotta tell me more about the monster, and the inside of its belly, and how it got you. But... after. Okay?" He opens the bag and rummages through it. First he comes up with his sketchpad and a pen, which he flips through for a moment before coming to an empty page and tearing it out. Then he rips the paper in half, and considers, looking down at the pen. "We oughta... write something. Explaining to ourselves, when we forget, you know? And we both oughta sign it, so like... well... because we *can't* be nuts, if we dream the same thing, you know? We can't."

Jean-Batiste stumbles on his unlaced boots, and finally thinks to step out of them, leaving them about halfway to the beanbags. He shucks off his wet T-shirt, leaving it on the floor, and pulls on his relatively dry flannel, offering the other one up to you as he flumps down into the beanbag. "It was a hellhound, Trace. I mean, I mean...right out of Dungeons and Dragons. It..." He trails off, and hugs himself, curling into the beanbag and nuzzling his cheek against the side. "Okay. Okay. We can do that, maybe if we both sign it..." He closes his eyes, sighing, then pushes himself into a sitting position. "We...each write something, too?"

Trace nods faintly, solemnly, as he uncaps the pen and considers. "But we can't... write nuthin' bout people specifically, 'cept maybe that spooky bitch coz I don't care 'bout her, but like, you can't... write that Jason's a fox. You can't. We know he is, but they just, they don't like it when you have proof about who they are deep down. It's just... wrong. S'why my old friends sometimes got upset, when I tried to draw 'em..." Finally he just purses his lips, grips the pen tighter, then hunches down and starts to scribble something onto his half of the paper. Then he scribbles it on yours. After a minute or two, he hands them both to you. Scrawled on both papers is the following passage: "Because we are human, and because we are sane, we forget what we dream. We are human, but others are not, and have shared their magic with us. We've seen what's Different. We are sober, we are certain, and we have shared it all together." He has held off his signature, waiting for your addition.

"Bonnie," Batiste whispers, as if saying it louder could summon her. "Her name was Bonnie. Write it, write that, too - no, no! I'll write it, so it's both of us..." He sits up, wringing his hands together as he watches you scribble, hanging on every scratch of pen against paper, watching the words form. He carefully takes the paper when you finish, and reads it over. His eyes darken, and he has to swallow a couple of times, then looks up at you and smiles falteringly. "You're a poet. See? Read that to yourself, it's poetry." He takes the pen when he can, and adds beneath it, his normal script gone spidery with shaking hands. 'We _weren't_ tripping. It _wasn't_ a dream. You-' He stops, and erases the last 'You', then writes beneath it, 'It was Bonnie. She said she was Jason's 'great friend'.' The underlines are thick, three or four feverish lines each. He adds his signature, leaving plenty of room for yours as well.

Trace watches you closely at first, but he can't just *wait*, so as you work on your passage he quickly starts setting up. He busies himself getting the candle lit and steadily burning, untying the spike itself from his calf, and just setting everything out. That's as far as he gets, however, setting the syringe and tie down on the wooden floor as he crawls over to peek down at your passage to see if it's done. "Are you going to say anything about - about, y'know, the hellhound or, um. Nevermind." Isn't it best to forget all that once the magic's crept away? He takes the pen back and scrawls his name beneath yours, a jagged "Trace Anderson" rattled out of clenched fingers.

Confusion hits Batiste's face like an anvil, and he looks from the note to you with dark, muddied eyes. "I...thought...no. No, I don't want to write about it, Not yet. Maybe...if I start believing...I will, but...I thought you meant...you wanted to hear about it, hear me talk about it, not write about it..." He stands up suddenly, and carries the note over to a spot near his backpack, where it will be seen again in the next few hours, but won't be stumbled upon or trampled underfoot. He pats it down, making sure it's going to stay, then returns to the beanbag and curls up towards you, eyes focussed on your works with more intensity than he's ever eyed them before. "Would you...do me first?" he asks, barely loud enough to be heard. "But only if you'll clean it out, between. If you don't want to, you have to go first." Ever stubborn about that, he is.

"Yeah... yeah, I planned on it," Trace assures you softly, simply tucking his own copy of the note away in his pocket and reaching out to squeeze your shoulder gently. "You first. I'll get the bleach. I brought it in from the fort..." He releases your shoulder and rises, moving to the terrible shrieking drawer and easing it open gently as possible, wincing at the noise it makes despite his care. He lugs out the bleach and settles back down next to you, and immediately goes to work prepping the first needle, quiet and intent on the task. It's not until the carefully held spoon is just starting to simmer, and he's reaching for the needle to stir it, that he peeks over at you and murmurs with a little grin, "Better be ready to scoot on over 'n make room f'me on that bean bag once'm all fuzzywarm too, though."

Jean-Batiste stays absolutely silent, attention riveted upon you and the spoon's precious contents. When you look over at him, his round, solemn eyes are fixated on yours, looking at you like he really could see right into your soul. He smiles a little, a tiny but heartfelt expression, and replies, "Better believe I will. We'll lay here and forget it all and it'll feel so good..." His eyelids get a little lazy, just thinking about it. He sits up suddenly at the sound of the knock, terror flaring weakly into his eyes again. The hellhound's at the door! No, no. It couldn't be. It must be someone trying to get in through all the locks. Maybe it's Walker, or maybe it's Jason, or... "I'll be right back," he promises in a whisper, and scurries down the staircase, unbuttoned flannel fluttering behind him.

Starlight is still outside.

The door is unlocked in about five different places, from the sounds of it. Slowly, suspiciously. Click. Twist. Slide. Chink. Finally, it's opened only an inch or two, and Batiste's very solemn, very wary face peeks out through the crack. "Hello...?"

Starlight is standing there looking pathetic, really. As the door opens, the kid steps back and his eyes drop away. "Hi. Um. Is, uh," he stammers. quietly. Looks to the street, "Is Walker here?" There.

Jean-Batiste blinks several times at Star, as if the words he was stammering made no sense whatsoever. Then he opens the door a little wider - though only a little - and peers past the youth to the street, watching it very suspiciously. He's looking a little disheveled tonight, eyes wild and confused. "Star, hey..." he finally murmurs, licking his bottom lip several times. "No, he's out at rehearsal, he's been so busy...You...needed to talk to him about something?" He doesn't seem so much to be keeping Star out by not inviting him in, as hiding -himself- behind the nice solid door.

Starlight looks back up at JB and then down. "I just wanted to," he begins, quietly, then pauses and glances back to the street. "I just wanted to see if he was here." The boy pushes one hand through his hair, then pulls it all to one side and tips his head down a little. "I just wanted to talk to him, but if he's not here, then," he feels uncomfortable, or something.

Jean-Batiste licks his bottom lip again, and looks over his shoulder towards the staircase, then turns his jittery attention back on Star. "No, he's not home, haven't seen him since yesterday morning..." he murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. He looks past Star again, scanning the street, looking for who knows -what-. "You want me to...leave a message? Or...what? He said he ought to be around for a while tomorrow night, he's got an afternoon rehearsal tomorrow, if I remember it right..." For some reason that sparks some uneasy, bitter giggling that goes on for some time.

Starlight frowns and shakes his head, "I'll just stop by some other time." His dark orbs narrow, to little slits as he turns himself around and makes to leave. "Thanks," is muttered, the 'for nothing' left unsaid but lingering. The child's head turns to the left, then the right and he begins, with caution, to step away from the saftey of the structure.

From upstairs, Trace calls down somewhat impatiently, with something like a shrill, on-edge grin in his voice, "Comin', Batiste? Yers is done, n' m'gonna take it if ya don't hurry yer ass up." An empty threat, that. It's obvious just by his voice, which is just as typically transparant as the boy's expressions and body language.

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