7483/Purple Haze

Purple Haze
Date of Scene:	22 August 2021
Location:	2D - Terry's Apartment
Synopsis:	Flights of Fancy are shot down by the deadliest weapon known to man: Motherly disapproval.
Cast of Characters:	Kian, Terry O'Neil

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Kian has posed:
    Normally, Kían would just be taking a flight, but today's flight actually had a purpose beyond exercising.
    Terry's apartment window is too small, but then, most rooms and their associated openings are.  He's just glad it's open, and drops through like a sparrow passing through a chain-link fence, neatly and quickly folding his wings as he stands up to his full height.
    What there is of it, anyway.
    "Terry tenár'h?"  He's quiet, on the off-chance that his friend is actually sleeping, although he fears to think what his dreams must be like while his mind is so completely out of whack.  Maybe it's a good thing his world hasn't any experience with magic.
    He carefully walks a little further into the room.  It's small, smaller than he likes, but there are more important things at hand.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "…who's that?" Vorpal's voice comes from the vicinity of the couch.  He is not immediately visible because… well, parts of him are phasing in and out of visibility at an intermittent rate.  Now his stripes are gone, now his grin, now all of him, now none of him.  He's curled up on the couch, one hand grasping a mug that no longer has any coffee.  It does very little for him, anyways.
    "Are you coming for tea?  The Hatter's out.  I keep trying to find him, but I think he's hidden behind mirrors on the other side.  He's very rude like that."
    When he doesn't work overtime to focus, he is pretty much completely high.

Kian has posed:
    "Ai, c'Rhys'yw…."  Kian steps into view, looking at least a little worried.  "It iss Kían," he says, coming closer, and very gingerly taking the coffee cup away.
    He kneels down next to the couch, not making physical contact yet, because this is something that needs to be prepared for.  Instead, he's prepared in case Terry makes a grab for him, so that his own mind doesn't get blown into the universe next door.  "Other than a new grasp on reality, do you need anythin', tenár'h?  Water, somethin' to eat?" he offers.  It's a little wilder than he thought it would be.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "Nah, I'm okay," the Cheshire answers with a lazy grin, "if I get hungry I just need to say something incredibly boastful and then serve myself up some humble pie, and I won't even need to spend a dime."  That isn't really how it works… here.  In Wonderland, it makes perfect sense.
    He does make a grab for Kian, but his coordination is such that he almost ends up falling off the couch.  "How do you manage to move like that while standing completely still?  Have you been taking lessons from Robin?"

Kian has posed:
    Kían sighs softly.  "I think your brain needs a break," says the birdman, who hadn't moved at all.  "I can not take all the crazy away, but I can share it wit' you, take on some of it myself, let you think a little clearer for a while.  I think maybe you need that.  I haf not had min'flight since before I lef' my world, but I know how to deal wit' a certain amoun' of hallucinatin'.  It will probably be good for bot' of us."
    He leans forward a little.  "But only if you understan' what I wan' to do, tenár'h, an' will let me."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "I… oh, okay!  Sure.  You want a little ride on the glitter express.  That's totally fine, I've got plenty of seats.  Anyone can sit in me.  On me.  You know what I mean."
    He leans forward and reaches out to pull Kian over.  "You've just got to join in the party, David Bowie just dropped by and things are about to get wild…."
    A hand reaches over to grab Kian's shoulder and pull him onto the couch.

      "And there's no earthly way of knowing
      Which direction we are going
      There's no knowing where we're rowing
      Or which way the river's flowing—"

    Contact.

Kian has posed:
    And takeoff.
    Kían had been preparing for the physical contact, so it's not as intense as it might have been.  Rather than dive right in, he carefully clambers atop Terry, so that they're pretty much nose to nose, and gets comfortable.  "You do haf very pretty eyes," he says aloud, slips closer for a kiss before Terry can reply, and opens his mind.  {Oh…}
    What he is not doing, is trying to impose any sort of order.  Order would probably not help the situation anyway.  All Kían is doing, is dividing the load.  Sharing the wild ride so that it's less wild for Terry, gives him a chance to string a semicoherent thought or two together… and a bit of manageable fun for himself.
    {And who or what is a 'day-fid-boh-wee'?}

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    The kiss is spectacular—or at least that is what it seems like to Terry.  Everything seems spectacular right now, especially the floating island that is populated by a variegated and multicolored vegetation.  Luminous figures move between the foliage, but they are very hard to make out.
    "Oh, you simply must meet him.  He passed away a few years ago but he was a great musician.  Him turning up here might mean he's a hallucination of mine.  Or that he's one of the Fae.  Both are equally plausible."
    He grabs Kian by the hand and glides (yes, glides) down a hill, towards what appears to be an amphitheater with an acoustic shell, but as they get closer it turns out that it is an actual, enormous shell, with figures traipsing across the scenery.  One figure in particular is in the middle of what one might call the stage, clad in brilliant gold and crimson and reflecting a spotlight that doesn't exist.
    "I think we got here early enough to get great seats!"
    There are, literally, no seats.  Beings are sitting down on the grass, and it is a confusing and motley crowd—over here, a vanilla elf is setting down a picnic basket next to a woman in a space uniform, and animated rocks pile one on top of the other to be able to see over tree-like creatures, glowing sentient colors and the more ordinary unicorns.

Kian has posed:
    Kían allows himself to be pulled into the dreamscape; dreaming together is common enougn among the birdfolk, although the beings encountered are more varied than he's used to.
    Still, it's a dream, he can handle that.  He settles in for the show—more incomprehensible Earth music, but he's learning that it has its own charm—and curls a wing around Terry's shoulder.
    The colors of his wings are… not different, just more intense.  The yellows have shifted towards gold.  The cream is a purer white.  The subtle reds are more sharp.  Even the browns are richer somehow.
    "Is this a vision of your Wonderland, tenár'h?"  It's the nature of dreams—the contact is mental, so Kían's not held back by his incomplete English.
    And so much for merely halving the hallucinations… instead, Kían has just decided to go all-in and enjoy it.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    "This?  Oh, no.  This is too tame for Wonderland," Vorpal says as he settles down, guiding Kian to sit by him on the grass.  "This… is something.  I don't know what it is. I stopped questioning a long time ago…."
    The figure onstage seems to be growing taller and taller by the second, until he is a towering giant, easily surpassing the gigantic mollusc.
    "He was a big star back on Earth, too," the Cheshire adds by way of explanation.  Which might be why the man seems to be glowing even more now, as music starts to play from gods-know-where, accompanying a very distinctive voice singing about men from the stars.
    There is a strange sound, like tinkling of metal on metal, but it quickly is drowned out by the singing.
    That's when Kian might notice that they're not on terra firma anymore, but some sort of stellar gas surrounding he amphitheater, which is now floating in space.

Kian has posed:
    "Oooh…."  It's been a while since Kian has been able to enjoy flight in zero G.  It was, in fact, one of the things he'd been looking forward to on his flight to the homeworld.
    Well, better late than never.
    "I don't think you've ever seen sky-dancing," he says, scooping up Terry without warning and lifting into the air in a slow spiral, "and I'm sure you've never been sky-dancing…."
    Partially due to the lack of gravity, partially to the unfamiliar music, the swoops and swirls and aerial pirouettes and other aerobatics that Kian carries Terry through are slower than they might otherwise be—a sense of that comes through the mental link—but they are in a way stately and graceful.  Ballroom dancing in three dimensions.
    "They say the best sky-dancers are good qihár players," he comments obliquely, then glances around in some confusion.  "Is that ringing part of the music?  It doesn't seem to fit…."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry giggles, finding the aerial dancing entertaining and exilarating.  "No, I can't fly, so I've never been… but I'm flying now!"
    There is a brief moment where the scenery alters itself, and Vorpal seems to be wearing something golden and Kian is clad in a deeper blue… but it is only a moment, before the Cheshire's attention is diverted to the sound.
    "Wait… what sound?"
    Tinkle tinkle tinkle.  Metal on metal.  Tiny metal things swinging.  And then there is the creaking of wood.
    "Wait… what is that?"
    The next words seem to come from outside of the world itself, like some magnificent cosmic presence booming itself into existence ex nihilo.
    "Terry! …Kian?  Are you alright?"
    It's a booming, stentorean voice. or at least, that's what it seems like, from within the strange inner world of Terry O'Neil.

Kian has posed:
    Consider it a testament to Akiár sensibilities, perhaps, that the dream-flight doesn't simply come to a crashing halt.  Rather, all of a sudden, the ground is just there, as if it had snuck up from below in case it was needed.  And as always, the touchdown is gentle.
    That's better than can be said for Kían himself, who tries to pull himself back to reality rather too quickly, slides off Terry, and lands face-down on the floor.  "Ai, qokh."
    Usually the birdman's movements are small, compact and graceful.  Right now, not so much.  Eventually, he manages to get up into a stable-enough kneeling position.  "Akh… h'sorét, Ágata Téri'chal, hyw'takh… nnh!" he starts, addressing a spot about thirty degrees radially left of where she actually is.  He blinks a couple times and looks more or less in her direction—he's only off by a few degrees to the right now, like he's talking to someone right behind her shoulder.  "H'sorét," he repeats, continuing as he gets unsteadily to his feet, "h'lok an siq'yw."
    The kitchen is closer than the bathroom, and in very short order Kían is splashing his face with cold water, trying to force himself back to some semblance of reality.

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Terry's landing is not dissimilar to Kian, except that there is no effort to stop himself from faceplanting.  Thud.  Fortunately the topple is slow enough that there is no permanent damage done.
    "Mmm!" is the muffled answer, the Cheshire Cat staying facedown, his tail occasionally twitching this way and that.
    Agatha takes all of this in, and then a hand goes up to rub her forehead.  Her other arm is supporting a tall bag of what appears to be groceries.  "…have you guys been smoking—no, don't tell me.  You're all adults and can make your own decisions."
    She is using That Tone.  You know the one, one of the many weapons in the formidable maternal arsenal that indicates that, although she will respect her adult offspring's ability to make choices, she doesn't necessarily consider them to be particularly wise.  It is the tone that makes a simple, off-hand remark suddenly acquire the density of a white dwarf and cause many sleepless nights in the intended child's life, puzzling exactly what was meant, how it applied to the situation, and what they could do to never let it happen again.
    But at the moment, Terry is gathering pixies.
    "Momssnotwhat ooo think!" he says, trying to sound coherent and not helping his case in the least.
    The willowy woman turns her attention to Kian, with a puzzled expression, although there is something about her expression that speaks volumes about the hopelessness of hoping for coherence with the bird man, considering his initial greeting.

Kian has posed:
    Kian leans on the edge of the sink and takes a couple deep breaths.  He doesn't look sick, but he still looks a little groggy.  "Forgif, plis," he says, managing to make it back to English, but not all the way to his hard-earned semi-fluency.  "I wass hel-pin' Teri tenár'h wit' hiss recofery.  Iss… it wass more intenss than I haf ex-pec'."
    Congratulations, Vorpal, you blew a year and a half of ESL out of Kian's head with just a few minutes of cat brain.
    The birdman gets into the freezer for a couple ice cubes and returns to the living room, sitting rather than perching on the end of the couch.  He does not help Terry off the floor—right now, touching him would be a bad idea.  Instead, he rubs the ice over his forehead, trying to force himself back into the here and now.  "The effec's of hiss healin'," he tries to explain, without looking up, "haf lef' him… nnh.  More weird than hiss normal weird."
    He manages to look up, sees what must be described as a universal Disapproving Mom look, and sinks his forehead back down to the waiting ice.  "I am try to he'p manage after-effec's.  But Téri'ki… nnh… Teri's min' iss like ki'takár.  Iss more than I ex-pec'."
    He looks down at Terry, who may or may not have determined which way is 'up' yet.  Good luck with that.  "But iss… nnh… it wass fun, at leas'."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    The corner of Agatha's lip twitches a slight amount.  Kian's salvation is assured by the words that come out of her mouth next:
    "Well.  It's not the first time I've been told by someone that Terry turned out to be more than they could handle.  Although they were usually wearing a wimple and a scapular at the time."
    It dawns on the woman that Kian is probably completely clueless as to what she might have said, and thus she elaborates: "Terry's teachers.  At school."
    She walks over to the kitchen to set the grocary bag down with a rustle of brown paper.  "I've brought some things since he's home-bound, but I am not entirely sure what to do.  I spent his entire adolescence hoping he wouldn't dig too deep into that, it never occurred to me he would become one."
    "Hahaha mooom…" Terry says, from his prone position, his tail twitches, "…it's true though.  I am the perfect drug.  The perfect drug.  The perfect drug…." There was an attempt at melody there, but it fails completely.
    Agatha glances at Kian, "Is it safe to move him?  Gar told me about the injuries but that they were healed, but he didn't mention whether or not he needed to… not move."  She pauses, considering.
    "I should have brought bandages, then you might have been able to immobilize him."

Kian has posed:
    "Yis, he can be move, but I can not touch him wit'out fallin' into hiss min' again.  I do not know what he hass tol' you about me.  I am touch telepat' wit' humans.  Normal telepat' wit' my own people.  I am sorry, Ágata Téri'chal, but if I try to he'p move him, I will become as… as… as not-normal as he iss right now."
    He watches Terry on the floor… and really, can't help but smile.  Granted, the bird is still a little stoned himself.
    "But the wors' of his injuries iss… nnh… are behin' him now.  He iss needin' res', no more, I thin'… nnh… think."
    He shakes his head, and can't help but laugh again.  "You mean he wass… was like thiss even before he became a cat?  An' I thought my chal'yw… nnh, my paren's had enough wit' me an' my sister an' brother."

Terry O'Neil has posed:
    Agatha ponders this briefly, and comes to the conclusion that two people acting like Terry is one too many.  "I'll move him," she says, sliding her purse off her shoulders and setting it down on the couch, "Once you've come down enough, you can help me cook.  I think a good, homemade meal is what you boys might need right now."
    No, chicken is not on the menu, Terry has warned Agatha enough, at least.  "I'll move him to the bed," she says, walking over to the prone Cheshire and reaching down to slowly haul him up by the arms.  "He was very much like this before being a cat.  I could tell you stories."
    Terry then laughs at something only he can hear.
    She raises an eyebrow and a look of mischief not too unlike that of Terry's, but more restrained, comes across her face.  "In fact, I believe I will tell you some of them while you get your feet under you."
    "Moooom!" is the Cheshire's faint protest.
    "Come on.  Let me tell you about the time Terry decided he was tired of having red hair and tried to dye his hair black.  With the cheapest dye he could buy.  I have pictures."
    Because our brave new digital age has made it so that embarrassing pictures are no longer just part of a mother's arsenal of embarrassment—they have been adapted for mobile warfare.
    As he is hauled and directed to the room, Terry is clearly aware enough to at least be able to react to what is being said:
    "…I fought my way back from death for this?"