12072/15 Fears: Beneath the Skin

15 Fears: Beneath the Skin
Date of Scene:	18 July 2022
Location:	Lydia's Apartment
Synopsis:	Lydia is visited by a nightmare where she is given the choice of safety in the depths of the Earth or in the confines of flesh. She chooses the latter and is given some new perspective on what mediums art can take.
Cast of Characters:	Lydia Dietrich, Chas Chandler

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Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    It's a little after five in the morning, and Lydia has been looking at herself in the bathroom mirror for the past few minutes, examining the threads of red twining their way through the gold of her irises. She'd been going through her daily routine for bed, brushing her hair out and binding it back in a ponytail so it doesn't get tangled when she's asleep, brushing her teeth, that sort of thing. She used to perform skin care, but it turns out that one of the advantages of being a vampire is to have perpetually flawless skin.

    Are those red threads thicker? She peers closer. They seem to be. Once again she wonders if having the Predator eat the love and empathy in her heart was a mistake. Jon and Cael seemed to think so. Clarice did as well, but didn't seem to be as bothered by the result. Did she even care what they think anymore?

    She has to think about this question for a bit. She respects their opinion, sure, but did she /care/? Or is she just acting, like how she is when she's with anybody else. If she /pretends/ to care and act like she /does/ what difference does it make that her heart is cold? At least it doesn't hurt, she concludes. Not the way it would if her heart was whole, and if anything, that pain would be unbearable.

    She nods, as she finishes up getting ready for bed. Yes, she did the right thing, she concludes. Nobody should feel that kind of pain. She still has a strong moral center and one doesn't need love or empathy to follow it.

    Turning out all the lights she makes her way to bed. She makes sure that the light blocking curtains on her window is shut to prevent the day's light from leaking in and settles into bed. Yes. The right thing to do, she thinks as she drifts off to sleep. Otherwise she'd be able to feel the loneliness that comes from sleeping in an empty bed.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Another result of being a vampire is the lack of dreams in their slumber. Whether this is an advantage or a curse is still up for debate among their kind. Lydia might have her own opinion on the matter after this day though.

    The dream starts as soon as her body drops into the torpor of the grave. She finds herself in a cave. Darkness surrounds her and the air is heavy, close, and tight around her. She should be able to see, shouldn't she? How did she get here? Where -is- here? Questions linger in the dark and silence is her only current answer.

    A voice, barely audible even with her heightened hearing, floats on the air. "L..." What it says is hard to make out? Is it an admonition? An invitiation? A greeting? Her name? "Lydia..." More of it hovers and floats in the dark. Definitely her name. There are few words that match the same configuration of sounds that her name makes in English. But the voice is unfamiliar and hollow sounding in its softness.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    The thing about dreams is that sometimes you don't know that you're dreaming. When Lydia becomes aware of her surroundings there's a brief moment of panic and confusion when she finds herself in complete darkness. Where is she? What is going on? How did she get here? All good questions and ones that she has no answer to. It doesn't even occur to her that her ectoplasm should be lighting up the cavern.

    Then the voice comes, and she strains to hear it. "Hello?" she calls out to the darkness. Putting her hands out before her she cautiously makes her way towards the voice, putting one foot cautiously in front of each other. Then she can tell that the voice is calling her name. "Yes? Hello! I'm Lydia! Where are you?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    "...Lydia..." the voice calls from somewhere deeper in the dark. It sounds pleading. Lydia's hands find a wall not far from one side. It has some give to it and is slick with some sort of fluid that is not blood from the smell of it. The corridor doesn't allow for much movement beyond putting one foot in front of the other as she progresses toward the sound of her name.

    Continuing on the path leads to the corridor getting smaller, tighter, the soft walls pressing against the vampires shoudlers, more of that viscous fluid coating her arms as it secretes from the confines. "...Lydia..." calls the pleading voice again. It's closer now. But still seems a ways off. Another facet of the walls comes to Lydia's attention, a pulsing feeling under the surface of the walls.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    "I'm coming!" Lydia shouts back, stumbling forward. She finds that her breath is coming quicker in the thick, humid air. It doesn't occur to her to question the fact that she has to breathe. She's had to breathe for most of her life, why not now? "I'm coming!" she repeats. Of course she's coming. Somebody needs help. She helps people. That's what good people do and she's still good, right?

    When her hand touches the slimy wall, she recoils in disgust. She lifts her fingers to her nose to try to figure out what it is. It isn't blood, that's for sure. Hesitantly, she puts her hand on the wall again, letting it lead her to the voice. It's better than stumbling around in the dark.

    "...Lydia..." the voice calls again, and she answers, "Hold on! I'm coming!" She pushes forwards until her hand touches the wall on the other side of her. She pauses for a moment, feeling her heartbeat increase. She's going to press on, she tells herself. This is what good people do.

    It isn't until the walls close in about her and hugs her shoulders does she finally come to a full stop, trying to quell the rising panic within her. 'The walls are alive!' her brain tells her when she feels the rhythmic pulsing in the walls. 'The walls are alive and you're going to be swallowed!' For the first time she questions exactly how good she really is.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The walls constrict around Lydia more tightly as she stops; threatening to close in around her if she doesn't move or turn. The walls ripple, more of that slime pouring off of the walls as if aggitated by the obstruction stopping in its midst. Not much further in the corridor is a small figure.

    The source of the pleading voice. It's small, possibly a child, wearing a dark colored smock and little else. The child's back is turned to Lydia, only showing long dark and curly hair, coated in dirt and grime, and a pair dirty pale shoulders hunched in on itself. They shake as if in the midst of sobs. "...Lydia... please... help me..." the child says. "It's... so dark... I can't... please..."

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    "Oh God," Lydia croaks as she's pressed in on all sides. She really /is/ being swallowed. Panic begins to fill her as her mind conjures up images as to what manner of creature she might be lodged in. Something nameless with tentacles and needle like teeth.

    It takes everything she has to push forward, away from the closing walls, towards the sound of the voice. She wants to turn and run back but there's no guarantee that that way lay freedom.

    "I'm coming..." she repeats. It's so hard to breathe. The air is so stifling and thick, it's almost like suffocating. Something in the back of her mind tells her that this shouldn't bother her at all, but it's overridden by her gasping breaths.

    Finally she comes to the girl. It doesn't occur to her to question how she can see her when its pitch black. Dreams don't always make sense and the logic of the nightmare dictates that she can. So she can. "I'm here," she breathes, stumbling to the girl, stooping to scoop her up in her arms. It's to reassure the girl, and not herself, right? "I'm here."

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Turning the child around shows Lydia just what she's managed to find. It is a girl, in her pre-adolescent years, with fine features and pale alabaster skin. She's covered in grime and filth, dried patches of that same slime that covers Lydia are smudged over her fragile form. In fact, she looks vaguely like a very youngLydia in all but one respect. Where Lydia had red and gold eyes... the child has none. Just strips of pale skin where the eyes should be. "...Lydia..." the child says, her body shaking, not with sobs. With laughter. The child's mouth is twisted into a rictus smile. "I don't want to leave... we want you to stay deep inside..."

    The walls of their confines ripple and pulse with excitment as the close in tighter, the exit and entrance of the flesh prison closing up entirely, leaving Lydia with this deep child. "You have a choice to make Lydia... stay with me here in the darkness... in the deepness... in the safety of being crushed... or choose the path of my associate..."

    Again the walls pulse and ripple around them and a gurgling, bubbling noise sounds from the fleshy walls themselves.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    A gasp escapes Lydia when she turns the child around and sees her eyes. And when she talks.... when she smiles.... Lydia just drops her and backs away as quickly as she can, pressing herself into the wall.

    "No," she gasps, "I don't want to be in here." Leaning against the wall was a mistake. The slime covers her back and its flesh gives as if it was going to suck her in. She lets out a small yelp and scrambles forward. "There has to be a way out!" she cries, panicked. Desperately searching the walls, but finding no exit she cries again, "There /has/ to be a way out!"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Another voice, deep and guttleral answers her from the flesh walls itself. "Oh but there is..." it says with a throaty voice. "You shape and mold the flesh of spirits everyday... would it be too much of a stretch to do it to the flesh of other creatures? Like this one?" There are gurgling and popping sounds coming from the walls as they undulate in sickening fashion.

    The eyeless childlike Lydia keeps it's predetory smile fixed in place as it approaches slowly. After all, there is no escape in this small, deep prison as the confines shrink and close in more and more. The hot, stifling air growing even closer, the ability to breathe growing more and more difficult with each second. "No way out of the depths unless you can dig your way out of it. Can you dig your way out, Lydia? Or will you join me and get crushed as your existence is snuffed out?" she asks, her filthy body twisting and contorting as the flesh-walls warp around her body.

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    "I..." Lydia begins to protest, her chest heaving as she tries to breathe. "I can't..." Panicking she turns away from the child the one that's /so happy/ to stay here and be crushed and digested, and slams her hands into the walls.

    "Yes.... dig..." They say she can escape if she digs her way out. In her panicked state she doesn't think to question these voices, or to question these circumstances. It's been so long since she's dreamed she can't help but fall all the way into it.

    "Dig..." she says, desperately jamming her fingers into the walls, trying to find purchase there. Trying to pierce the flesh and rend it aside. If she doesn't, that'll be the end of her. The end of /everything/.

Chas Chandler has posed:
    Lydia's hands sink into the fleshy walls and she feels the connection there. It's not so different from what she does with the ectoplasm she controls. It's a pliable and manipulatable resource. Shaping flesh would be so easy, wouldn't it? The pulpy meat squishes and sucks on her wrists as she goes further and further into it. The eyeless creature of the deeps behind her continues to laugh its tinny laugh as she is drawn into the flesh wall.

    It pulses and gurgles around her body but it's not constricting like the cave with the child. It's... warm... and comforting... and feels like an extension of herself.

    "Isn't this nice?" the deep rumbling voice says all around her. "One with the meat. That's all they are, isn't it? Piles of meat that can be adjusted, sculpte, molded into what you want... just like this... always like this..." She's drawn along in the fleshy wall until a small window opens and she can see her bedroom, with her sleeping form on the bed. "That's all we want to do" the Flesh says in its deep rumble of a voice. "We want to help you reach your potential and in doing so, offer that same potential to others. Show them what they can be with a just a little bit of effort. Is that so bad?"

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    At first it's difficult. Lydia has to get her fingers into the flesh and rip it apart in chunks. She's able to make a hole in the flesh just big enough for her to squeeze into, which she does, desperate for freedom. But as she goes along, she starts /feeling/ the flesh around her. Like her ectoplasm.

    For the first time she notices it's absence. The near constant tingly feeling of it on her flesh has been replaced by something warm and just as comfortable. It's like... if she just /reaches/ out to touch her power, it touches the warmth of flesh, instead of the cold of the grave. It's less unpleasant than she thought.

    Listening to that voice... it's wrong, but what it's telling her isn't untrue. She reaches out with her hand and instead of digging her fingers into the flesh of her prison she concentrates... /feels/ the meat, and parts the muscle and flesh leaving a hole. A feral grin splits her lips and she concentrates harder, widening the hole until she's left herself a small cave, large enough for her to stand in.

    Somewhere she knows she should be horrified by this. /Disgusted/ at it and the implications. But, honestly? The Predator revels in the feel of rending flesh apart. Back when the Urean Brood came to take Agnes she had fought against them ruthlessly, and it felt /good/ to tear the Brood limb from limb. It never gave her pause then, why should it now? It's not like this flesh /people/.

    Holding her arm out she walks forward with confidence, cleaving the flesh away from her until she sees herself sleeping in bed. She balks for a bit at the sight, when it dawns on her... "This is a dream." It felt so /real/.

    But the power the Flesh offers... she wouldn't have to use it to rend people apart. She could use it to heal them. She could even give Jon his arm back. She lets out a chuckle at the thought, wouldn't he be impressed? Grateful, even.

    "The others seem to think that you're bent on destroying reality," she says, addressing the Flesh at last. "If this is all that you want, how can I trust you? How can I get the others to trust me?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The flesh around her squelches and bubbles before the words come in its same deep, throaty tone. To your original point, yes. We are lost amongst the void. Touching upon the dreams of those who have felt our ilk is our only current means of communication. You touched on The One Alone, in doing so it allowed me to find you. To find one who understood what it is to have vision."

    There is a wet popping sound lingering under the words. "There is beauty in flesh. I am an artist. The destruction of all things would render me without a canvas. Without paint. Without purpose. You are not so disimilar. Our medium is not so disimilar. Too Close I Cannot Breathe touched upon your fear... I, -Viscera-, touched upon what you are."

Lydia Dietrich has posed:
    Lydia is silent for a while, mulling over Viscera's words. They've got a point. What use would be the universe to them if they destroyed it? Besides, if things get dire, she could leash an Old One. After all, if Jon could leash the Ceaseless Watcher so can she.

    "Very well," Lydia says, coming to a conclusion. "I accept." She tilts her head curiously and steps towards her sleeping form. "What happens now?"

Chas Chandler has posed:
    The walls of the cave ripple and pulse for several moments at Lydia's acceptance and then they close in on her. Constricting tighter and tigher and tighter; there is the sudden realization that they might just suffocate her. Snuff out her life even as she sleep. A little more and she'll burst into pieces...

    She wakes in her bed. The sun is setting and darkness is falling over the city. In her mind the last vestiges of a message whisper in that low, guttural tone. "I look forward to seeing what masterpieces you can create with your new art. You have vision, I encourage you to use it."

    Upon looking in the mirror, the gold is completely gone from her eyes. All that is there now is a deep crimson: the color of fresh meat.