By the hands of the Gods, you have been plucked from your time and from your world, dropped into the box.
Only the box is a world of its own.
We are a mass crossover based on the concept of Pandora's Box. Characters from nearly any fandom can be played here. Because of the endless character possibilities, we are canon only here at Pandora. Take a peek at our rules and plot information before starting your new life in Pandora.
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Complete [M] A Short History Lesson

Palmer

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Eventually the war memories end as well, but they don't wind down to nothing the way the last set did. Instead things switch over to Pandora. Suddenly not being tied up. Meeting Eddie for the first time--telepath, think normal thoughts, make yourself an ally. A job, an apartment. Daniel, a teenager from a nightmare world. Burke, who the monster decided makes good target practice for reasons of its own. Ryoma, his next-door neighbor, who is friend to all cats and seems to think Palmer keeps snakes. Kevin, who manages to be Palmer's opposite in the opposite direction of Eddie . . .

But then the dream goes from quick acknowledgements of the many people he met since last he dreamed and becomes a confused mess of the stuff he's felt guilty about while here. It starts with thoughts he's had, especially-dreamlike wisps of hunting and darkly amusing visions of people being served up as meals. Consideration of what nonhumans would taste like. The irrational desire to infect his friends so they'll never want him dead just for what he is.

It's the next thing that is likely to get to Edgar, though, and that's a memory of the stream. Of very pragmatic thoughts about how people would notice him coming back without the other man and how creating a new Thing would cause far more problems than it solved. Of having genuinely kind thoughts about a small animal he'd caught and then gulping it down with barely a pause in between. Of looking over at Eddie and making himself look away again, because he doesn't want to eat anyone and if he did he wouldn't start with such a tiny morsel.

Some small bit of Palmer's mind struggles against the next part of the dream, knowing that his friend is watching and not wanting him to see, but the dream doesn't want to obey. Hopefully said friend will see where this is going and redirect things before he has to experience his own death from Palmer's point of view.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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It's Complicated w/ Palmer
It's all like sitting through Grandma's picture slides, all gooey and kind pictures of life's better times passing like faces on a sidewalk.

If Edgar could laugh he would have at that think normal thoughts thing. Palmer was paranoid from the very start, wasn't he? Like a bored guy in a classroom hoping he didn't happen to be seated near anyone that could tell he was thinking vividly about things he shouldn't. It was endearing, but really exposed the ungentle nature of their beginnings. Cizko wanted a dealer to mooch off of, and Palmer just didn't want to be found out.

He judges the hell out of these fools passing by. Lean and skinny, short and pissy, even glaring harshly at his own figure with disdain despite the kindness he's supposed to feel. Otherwise he recognizes no one except... was that the guy he met at the bar? Looking scared? Oh Palmsy, you sneaky devil!

Edgar's proud of Palmer, knowing so many people with such positive feelings coming forward out of it. He was almost jealous in a way, feeling like he was destined to cause nothing but trouble with every new face he could give a name.

Fuck, he even screwed up this one as the dream faded in to remind him. He feels the deja'vu coming on, things in almost the same place but not quite. A field, peaceful and chirpy. A creature is eaten, a small man is leered at. He looks tasty, and not in the way he knows himself to be. He was prey, because he never made a reason to be more.

Edgar's heart started to race again. Regret wasn't in his vocabulary, sorry was something he never felt. And here he was, burning with hatred at himself for screwing something else up when it would've been good... would it have? The real Edgar wants to scream at this, pain struggling in his neck at the strain of keeping himself still and quiet. He hates it so fucking much! How he wants to know what it would've been like if he had just calmed the fuck down for once! How he wants to shake Palmer awake and just stop feeling this way.

Then the vision faltered. At first Cizko thought he was losing his concentration too much, but the empathy struck him like a cry for help. Palmer wasn't ready to relive this next part.

No. Edgar wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready to face the consequences again. He wasn't ready to see the face he had to look at in the mirror on the worst nights, sober.

As a wave of tranquility targeted Palmer's mind to ease the spirit, Cizko, hazily drifting between reality and that dream, held his head in shame. He excused it to himself as his somatics, his hand motions that helped him focus his powers. But as much as he ignored it, it was only self pity driving the act. This was supposed to have been fun, why did it have to hurt so much?

He was supposed to be untouchable.
 
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Palmer

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Palmer's mind grasps the tranquility like the lifeline that it is. Just in time, too, the flavor of Eddie's corpse is already beginning to slip into the dream. Probably not something that Eddie would ever have wanted to know, that, especially since Palmer can't help registering it as delicious.

With tranquility returned, however, his dream veers off down the stream and into the tiny minds of fish and frogs. For some time he just floats there, enjoying the water, before there's another shift and this cycle of dreaming ends. The real Palmer sighs a little in his sleep.

It's a while this time before the dreaming starts up again, giving the other time to see him roll over a few times. Eventually he's right next to Cizko, seeming to find a weird kind of sanctuary next to the friend he once devoured. His subconscious is still aware enough to keep from reaching out, though: he's well aware of what that could lead to.

One more cycle of dreams begins, and this time he finally starts getting the bizarre mix of imagery that's more typical of dreaming. Flying down an endless staircase and talking with a giant carrot. Riding a zebra to the Statue of Liberty. Watching demons clip a hedge with a live beaver. Shit like that.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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It's Complicated w/ Palmer
Cizko knows the taste of his own blood. He's been beat and bludgeoned and fucked up enough to know what its like, and how good it feels to taste that coppery tinge. It's such a familiar thing that at first he thought he'd bit his tongue in his panic, but that empathic tinge tells him that what he's tasting isn't quite the same.

It's... weird that someone else knows what his blood tastes like. Not bad. It shouldn't feel good. But he finds comfort in it. Maybe it's the twisted thing about finding your friend delicious and being able to refrain from eating them again. That was trust. So was him letting Cizko in his mind again.

So was that way he got closer.

At first Edgar tried to move away and give the man his space, but the point of this wasn't just trying to get more comfortable. It was trying to be close. Which was... nice. Certain that the man should still be out cold, Edgar considered reaching out himself to offer reassurance, just a touch to the arm or shoulder, just a small thing to remind him... no.

He didn't.

Because his subconscious is also well aware of what that could lead to, even if he himself isn't. Because the forefront of his mind cursed him for even entertaining the thought.

Instead he faded back to be greeted into a slew of Dali-esque imagery. The surreal fade-in of a mind at play provided a beautiful distraction. Here Palms was, dreaming finally like a normal man. That was pretty nice to Cizko, and the general neutrality of the feelings were satisfying enough. Minds still linked, Cizko finally allowed himself one nice thing.

He removed his jacket, bunched it all up as a makeshift pillow, and laid the hell down, despite the protests in his own mind. He just wanted to have sanctuary, too.
 
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The blood was good. The flesh was better. Palmer still prefers his friend alive to either, though, so even in his sleep he keeps his hands to himself. Instead there's a happy little sigh as he finally enters a more normal dreamscape. Incoherent and insane and incredibly relaxing.

After another few minutes of normally abnormal dreams he tires of watching a turnip argue with an elephant in a small apartment in Milwaukee and before long his thoughts take him back to Antarctica. He's sitting at the edge of a deep hole in the ice; in the hole is a flying saucer. Next to him is a smaller, rectangular hole that feels like the place he belongs somehow. He crawls into it, lets the snow cover him. His mind is trying to come up with an explanation for the fact that he's managed to sleep at all, much less this long, and the ice is what it's come up with. He's dreaming about sleeping, or as close to sleeping as he can naturally come.

To a normal human the cold would be unspeakable, but filtered through the mind of a creature than can freeze solid for 100,000 years and come out fighting it's really quite nice. Not so different from being curled up in bed, really, save that part of his mind still expects it to be unpleasant. He can feel his fingers going stiff, then his toes. His ears and nose go numb, his cheeks hurt, but the sensations aren't bad anymore. They're a relief if anything, because they mean no one has found him. No one will burn him.

Of course someone is right there with him in the real world, but Eddie is an actual friend. Eddie is trustworthy. Eddie, after all, knows just what will happen otherwise. For a moment the dream tries to head back in that direction, but already this sleep cycle is ending.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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That sigh was echoed as Cizko happily let the next wave hit him.

Eddie was pretty familiar with ice, too. Having spent an evening frozen solid from the waist down while a crazy guy fed his ice-trapped wife soup... super familiar. This ice didn't feel nearly as bad as that thanks to the mind being bound to apply a certain comfort to these kinds of things. Whereas the reality would've been dick-shrinkingly godawful, this was like laying in bed while the AC blew on a fall day. A cold comfort, tingling, then a deathly stillness.

How fucking depressing.

Cizko felt those feelings of safety and seclusion coming from Palmer and it was damn unfortunate to think that being frozen solid might be one of Palmer's greatest escapes. Wouldn't he want to live? To thrive and see life? But when all your most recent memories of warmth and living things involve watching parts of you burn to death- okay, maybe Cizko could understand a smidge.

Just as he understands the vague subconscious threat of him getting eaten again. He can't help a little laugh to himself, almost flattered that Palmer can't seem to get enough of wandering to that memory of his taste. Even Cizko himself can't help it sometimes when he remembers the way those meaty little vines felt. Ugh, weird thoughts. Why couldn't the alien have assimilated a woman and make this less awkward to enjoy?

As the cold seizes the head and the mind-vision fades to black like the loss of consciousness to being iced, again Cizko's eyes take in the room around them again. His hands were folded across his chest as he stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Like cracks in ice, almost. With a blank, tired expression, his eyes wandered until they fell on Palmer again.

And he kinda just watched as he waited for whatever was next.
 
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It's definitely sad that freezing solid is a happy thought to the being that thinks of itself as Palmer. But then it's the closest Palmer could get to sleeping without Eddie's help, so maybe it isn't a great surprise. Especially considering those alternatives.

The next round of dreams starts with the ice and snow again before shifting into a dog-dream of running and then a Palmer-dream of kennels. Of watching the dogthing burn, and even though it gave him a fear of dogs he will never entirely shake it's also the closest thing this Palmer has to a father. His first waking in this life and it was to trying to extinguish the fire before the dogthing was too burned, but without it being suspicious. From there the dream flicks to Bennings, then Norris, before the station melts into a more prosaic dream.

This one is the standard 'naked at school/work/whatever' dream, except that Palmer's body is different under his clothes. Scales and spikes and tentacles abound. His digits are long spikes, his privates a tentacle, his chest leather. People run and hide from him, and he feels both sad and incredibly hungry. The hunt for those people he likes the least soon begins.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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There was a lot to unpack without really knowing what was coming out of the box. Faces and places flew by, feelings of fear and disjointed camaraderie flooded the heart, wanting to save that which would expose and anguishing over the ones who were too dumb to be saveable at all. It was a mixed bag and though Cizko absorbed what he could, there were so many questions that were going to need to be asked some day...

Then, Eddie could happily parse this next scene!

Ah the typical naked dream, stressful reflection of being bare in front of peers. Standard! The spikes and scales were a lot cooler than the usual human nakedness, though, and knowing Palms he didn't have a need for-

Edgar couldn't help but feel his face flush a little at that ah, nice unit.

He felt the meaning of this one as a whole, that sadness and ultimate giving in to hunger probably referring to Palmer's want to be accepted for his whole self and perceived acceptance that these fools wouldn't give it. It reminded Cizko of his version of the dream, where he would shrink so small that he had to dodge everyone's feet as they couldn't hear him calling to look down...

Eddie silently cheered Palmer's revenge on, feeling it harmless in a dream and hopefully therapeutic to the monster man when he woke. It was sure as hell therapy for the psychic. More of that favorite color of his, more satisfying crunches and tears... yet, he found himself paying more attention to the undertone he thought he felt. Cizko knew, and wanted Palmer to know very deeply to the point of nearly (but not quite) incepting the dream, that out of all these cowards and weaklings running away, there was at least one person who do the opposite.

Not that the sentiment was bad itself or anything, but dear Dr. Psycho cringed at himself for feeling so cheesy.
 
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Before long dream-Palmer is a hybrid mess of creatures, twice human size at least, and is gnawing happily at a femur. Palmerthing looks up with a whine, almost able to hear Edgar's thought, then seems to shrug and goes back to feeding. The bone crunches and Palmerthing licks at the broken end in search of marrow.

Once all the marrow has been devoured, Palmerthing pulls itself to its feet and stalks off down the corridor. Said corridor seems to be uncertain if it wants to be a high school or an Army base, so it's running a mix of both at the moment. Palmerthing snaps up a man in uniform and shakes him violently, enjoying the blood.

The dream changes once again and now it's something truly alien. The Thing doesn't dream, but this is what it would dream about if it did: spreading all over the world, what it's like to infect someone new, the sensation of having bits of yourself split off. The complete disregard for what the shell that is Palmer thinks, aside from the most basic practical requirements of staying sane and not dying. The detached enjoyment of being Palmer that makes it willing to stand aside.

There's something especially pleasant about the dream of infecting. It's nothing sexual, not in the human way at least, but it's very satisfying. This is what he's supposed to be doing, what he's made for, and he's kept himself from infecting anything without immediately eating it his entire time in Pandora. Watching part of himself take over a dream-person scratches an itch he hasn't even been aware of until now.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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Sharing this experience as a only slightly abnormal human is absolutely incredible. It was less like experiencing an alien lifeform and more like feeling every movement and every spark in every single cell of the body. That infectious empathy, it almost felt like a siren's call trying to convince him that this was divinity. This was the only church, and this mental handshake was a passionate preacher's gospel.

This kind of stuff may not have been truly sexual by normal human thought, but something about it was deeply passionate to Cizko's only slightly abnormal human mind. Violence was the holy house this man found his soul in, and the desire to conquer. These feelings are what bonded with the sensations offered by Palmer's deeper instincts. His attention not on the endless fission and replication of the monster's matter but the absolute destruction of everything else until only one being remained in control of it all (as far as his understanding of the monster went). It wasn't just terrifying or awe-inspiring, it was fucking sexy.

If Cizko was a truly religious man, and what a terror that thought was, this scene could've been told in a very popular book as a man's first meeting with his god.

But Cizko was not a religious man. So he saw this moment as a tease of a power far outside his grasp. A power he dreamed of someday having himself. A power he was cozied up next to in a dusty bed, giving the gift of sleep. A power that, if he were a man honest with himself, he wanted to keep safe and happy by every ounce of his ability, that made him happy in the most beyond friendly of ways.

Holy shit, was this not just a rollercoaster of a night.
 
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The dream of a world where all living things are its children is indeed a glorious temptation, but fear of being found out and destroyed mixes with not wanting to hurt the shell's friends and ruin the fun to keep the thought from turning into action. Splitting apart would bring about the same outcome, as would changing individuals. Still, it wants to change someone. It doesn't want to be entirely alone, if only because it's mimicking a human and humans can't stand being alone.

The shell isn't alone, though. The shell has friends. Thus the Thing retreats back into that shell, leaving Palmer with a confused mix of emotions. It's a messy attempt at translating what the monster felt, hints of half a dozen feelings mixed together. Hungry-lonely-aroused-pleased-curious-wistful-bitter . . .

One more shift of the dream and he's sitting at a table. On one half is a feast fit for a king, while the other contains cages. He looks at what appears to be an entire roasted deer, then turns to the other side and sees Eddie himself staring back at him. The dream of his friend is huddled in a cage too small for even his size, and despite himself Palmer reaches forward. A feast lays before him and it's not even mildly of interest compared to people in cages.

Some tiny sliver of his mind can understand this. Cooked food is practically indigestible to the new him, of course he isn't going to pay attention to it. Most of him, however, is far too busy babbling in horror and self-hatred as he watches his own fingers reach into the little cage and begin to burrow into his friend's skin. His other hand reaches into the cage next to dream-Eddie's and does the same to someone else the waking Palmer knows and likes.

It's a terribly long time before the dream-people are used up. He watches the desiccated remains crumble with a satisfied sigh he can't prevent himself from expressing. Then he drags forward two more cages and starts all over again.
 
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Edgar Cizko

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Looking into the eyes of yet another dream-version of himself, a small tinge of disgust hits Edgar's chest. It's not for the feeding, it's not for the way his corpse looks all dried up like a mummy and crumbles away, it's because this portrayal is a massive insult!

Looking at himself giving those big scared eyes like a fucking kitten in a bag, soundlessly screaming for mercy among all the other shades of past and present. Is this a hint of how Palmer really saw him? As something weak and small and easily caged? As anything less than worthy of sitting at that goddamned table with him?

Cizko had known cages. He knew prison. He knew being trapped when that green-haired psychotic wannabe mime stuffed him in a hole for months when he wasn't being tortured. The sight of himself in a cage...

Rage burning in the back of his mind, barely reigned in at the reminder that this was someone he cared about and hardly their fault, his powers flared. This kind of trick he was trying to pull was on the difficult side without astral projection. Still, Edgar always claimed himself a master at his craft, like hell he'd let anything stop him once he started. Like dropping a marionette puppet on a stage and watching from Palmer's eyes as he tried to control it, Cizko summoned another image of himself into this wet-dream nightmare mash.

It faded in at the table, opposite of the feasting creature, with a plate already loaded up with some of that incredible meal. The form this body took faded from a nicely dressed and alive Edgar to shriveled and mummy-like, to scratched and bloody and missing an arm as the powers bounced off Palmer's own amalgamated perceptions of the man to create this ghost. He picked up a chunk with his hands and ripped into that red-seared flesh like a beast, smiling tauntingly at his friend as he chewed with blood dripping from the corner of his mouth and staining the nooks and crannies of his teeth in coagulated chunks despite the food being cooked.

"Could've at least offered me dinner before showing me a good time," his unfocused voice teased coyly as what was on his plate began to pool in red, and the meat still there began to twitch and move as if breathing.

And, almost like a challenge, Cizko kept eating it with full eye-contact at Palmer (and subsequently himself which was... weird.)

Outside the dream, Cizko had sat up again, feeling his anger trying to move him to some sort of action. But hazy between the dream and reality, he holds back anything because the last thing you want to do is startle someone having a dream that just involved eating you. So as the dream-self glared at the feasting King, his reality stared a furious hole into the sleeping beauty.
 
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It’s not how Palmer sees his friend, it’s how he fears seeing him. Which makes it a huge relief to have the man join him at the table, even while the dream of him blows away in a phantom wind. Pretty sure that ain’t anybody’s idea of a good time, man.” He chuckles slightly, though, because if anyone would defy that expectation it would be Eddie.

He looks around the table and sighs. None of the normal food really does anything for him anymore, even the stuff he used to love. Maybe the cake, a little, but if chocolate cake is only a little interesting then his days of enjoying normal food are just about over. He knew it was coming, his desire to eat normally has been ebbing since he was changed and this dream is just his fucked-up way of admitting it, but it’s still kind of sickening to look between Eddie and what he’s eating and want to have Eddie more.

Speaking of which, the next cage holds Eddie again. Palmer, still half-trapped in the nightmare, looks from the ‘real’ Edgar to the facsimile shaking the bars with helpless apology before a clawed hand snaps out and digs deep into living flesh.
 
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And defy he did. "Oh, Palms, don't you get me by now?"

It was a tease of course. Cizko didn't enjoy experiencing death, and pain had to dealt under certain circumstances in certain ways for him to really enjoy taking it, but the good time was there. Even if it was being done to himself, this kind of thing he was sharing with Palmer let him wreak havoc and draw blood and pain in such ecstatic ways. Despite technically being a passenger it was enough and he wanted more all the same. Even having it done to himself made it cathartic in a few ways.

What he didn't want more of was seeing himself in a goddamned cage.

The anger at this image continued to boil
him so hot that his blood felt like it threatened to burst from his skin. Soon enough, egged on by Cizko's selfish modification of the dream and his emotions leaking in through it, each cage held a ghost of him, even the ones that had been emptied. And each ghost wore a look of absolutely fury.

The prime ghost slammed a fist on the table, a fracture in the action also seeing that same hand pierce the living meat violently with a knife like a lenticular image. He didn't take the apology in that look, he demanded reparation,

"Is this nice to you? Does it feel good," he growled, spitting blood, "Preying on me like one of your store mice?

"I am a man!" he declared, nearly climbing on the table with all the clumsy sluggishness of a dream and the strange perspective, deep set with the intent to fight with that knife tight in his grip. "If you are going to dream about eating me, you are fucking going to eat me like one!"

A part of Eddie at this point realized he was supposed to be helping get out of the nightmare, not taunt it further on. But he was so upset by this depiction, so slighted by the image no matter if it was just a fear, he was obligated to set the record straight.

When he died, he died on his own terms.
 
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Dream-Palmer's eyes snap to the free Edgar, cold dead things quite unlike human eyes. The cages disappear, the normal food disappears, and in some ways Palmer disappears.

Palmerthing smiles a horrible fanged smile and licks its lips. Here in the dream it's far more aware than Palmer would be; it's used to working in the background of the mind. "Cizko. We're very fond of you, you know. The shell considers you his best friend. The shell is terrified of hurting you again. The core has eaten you and found you good. The core wants another taste." Tentacles unfurl, each bearing a hollow needle tip for impaling and draining blood. They snap back and forth, a threat display that is one last gasp of Palmer trying to make Edgar back down. Palmerthing is eager, but Palmer is more horrified than ever.

"It feels good and it feels terrible. If you don't want to be caged, though? Well, that I can do." The Thing is beginning to drool, saliva spilling from between its fangs. "Stand and face your death, my friend. My prey. Oh how I will savor you." Its tongue darts out and licks its lips again. "It will hurt him, you know. Hurt the shell that cares so much about you for some foolish reason. In the end that's only a shell, though, and this is only a dream. He will recover."

The tentacles snap forward again, aiming for Edgar's arteries and veins. Palmerthing is quite literally bloodthirsty.
 
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The monster awakens and Edgar can feel it all. He feels the utter disregard for everything outside of self and the ceaseless hunger that would consume all reality if it could get its maw so massive. This creature courses through his synapses, staring down the ghost puppet with absolute control of the moment. No plan could crack it, not power could stop it- here, once again, the monster was all and every. It knew how to fold this landscape to its advantage and fuck it all if Cizko didn't let it.

All he ever did was feed the beast.

The puppet, fueled by Cizko's pride, lurched towards those dangerous proboscis-tipped blades like he could do something about it. Just as hopelessly, the blades made their marks-

Jesu fucking Christ why the fuck did it hurt?!

Dizzied by the blurry mixture of agonizing sting in his arms and neck and the head-rolling satisfaction of absorbing the thick warm blood, Cizko was jarred into the waking world violently. The empathic side-effect of the connection had been twisted against him, and with his mind still linked to Palmer's he could feel everything even without actively being present in the dream. His nerves sang out in a dreadful wave as his body fought between signals of blood loss despite nothing being hurt.

Instinctively finally pushing out a wave of calm to Palmer as he personally freaked the fuck out, Cizko started to really understand the error of his antagonism. Repeatedly he made Palmer suffer for his pride, it was so fucking unfair! Not having to reach far for it he went for Palmer's shoulder with the intent to wake him and stopped short... Maybe it was the false light-headedness closing his vision off, maybe it was out of apology for the stress, but instead of jostling Palmer awake, Cizko gently put his hand on that shoulder. With the last of his awareness, he sent a wave of no simulated emotions, but his emotions. The positive ones, all the care, the friendship, all that good shit and even feelings Cizko had yet to figure out himself.

That was the end of the line. The bond severed, hopefully affording Palms one last cycle of good dreams, and he gently collapsed on the spot. Unaware of how he ended up basically holding the other man and too blacked out to care, he muttered "Sweet dreams."

and lost consciousness.
 
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Palmer

The Thing
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39/~0
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Thing
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Palmerthing feeds, tentacles working their way in deeper until the dream-Eddie is nothing but a hollow skin. The skin is gnawed on, long fangs shredding it in a wonderfully satisfying manner.

Just as it swallows the last of the skin it feels that wave of calm crash into its eager hunger, evening things out. Palmer returns, the dreamscape melts and he finds himself in a cloud of happy thoughts and psychedelia. He's flying, music is playing, everything is fine.

After what seems like an endless, timeless time spent floating in the clouds his dream starts to break up for the last time and he opens his eyes. For a moment his feelings are overlaid with strange and alien feelings, ones that are in some ways more genuine than he will ever be capable of again. For all that Palmer's feelings are real, he can never forget that the instincts lurk beneath them. Here is bone-deep caring and friendship and stifled attraction--attraction that he can only return in the most horrific of ways.

He doesn't remember all of his dreams, but he remembers what it was like to be stripped down to something more feral than he's ever been in waking life. More feral even than at home, when survival instincts meant that talking was at least an option. Not one he ever got a chance to use, but one he would have been willing to accept. No, that was instinct without anything but mimicry of emotion. That was the disease given voice, and it cared about nothing. Palmer is very glad that he had a flying dream in between times, because Cizko is asleep next to him and he's not sure if it would have bothered to keep him sane if it meant not having such a tasty breakfast.

When Edgar wakes up it will be to Palmer smiling at him in a slightly rueful way. "Hey there, Eddie. You, uh, you doin' okay? I'm pretty sure that was the real you, but you were breathing when I woke up so it can't have done too much damage." He runs a hand through his hair, which curls itself around his fingers like tiny tentacles. "I hope it wasn't too painful." He perks up a bit. "I do feel like I got good sleep, for whatever that's worth? And I did dream of flying, that was nice. Feel like there was other stuff, too, but I can't really remember."
 
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Edgar Cizko

DC Universe
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241
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44
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Alpha Male
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Human, extremely meta
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3ft9in - 114cm
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Professor at Schola Praeditos
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It's Complicated w/ Palmer
As if to add insult to injury, Cizko had himself some dreams too.

The final pains, the feeling of a sated appetite and being drain of all life, run through again and again like a hourglass ever turning. Those moments burned into his nerve endings and synapses like a permanent marker on skin. And when he was finally free from the 30th or so repeat, he woke up with the worst hangover of his life.

Startled by being so fucking close to Palmer he pushed himself up through the intense pain in his temples and put a helluva distance between them. He held his head, grumbling at Palms, "Yeah sorry, I got more than a little ahead of myself there."

He let out a laugh at his own joke, only to double over with the pain. "That wasn't supposed to be the real me but shit did it feel like I got the hell beat outta me."

Despite the ringing ache blinding him, he still listened with a blind sense of satisfaction that Palmer's happy little tone was because of him. That was fucking swell! The mission was accomplished, and hopefully they both got their little violence things worked well and good enough to last them a little bit. If he ever got the dumb idea to try this again, he really hoped it would be a lot fucking easier.

"Anytime, Palms," Cizko moaned painfully as he flopped back down, ultimately too exhausted to try and uphold his manly distance. He watches the hair twirling with a tired hypnotized gaze through eyes half-open. "Your head is crazy. Like, you had a deep philosophical conversation with a fucking carrot. It was fun." A smile broke across his face. "I enjoyed it, all of it. I like the way it made me feel, all gooey and monstery, do all hippies feel like that?" Another painful laugh left him.

It was borderline divine everything he got to experience. It left that twisty gross excited feeling in his gut just thinking back on the pure limitless power he got to hold. Even if it was by proxy, even if it wasn't even real, fuck that was a rush. But looking now at that soft stupid smile on the other guy's face, he was just happy to be the reason for it.

"If I ever see myself in a cage again, though, I'm gonna wake you up with an airhorn."
 
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Palmer

The Thing
Posts
569
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39/~0
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Male-ish
Species
Thing
Height
6'1"
Occupation
Mechanic, Last Chance Fixers
Relationship Status
Really Fucking Weird
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link
Organizer
link
Directory
link
Character Development
link
"Sorry about that. Uh, both the cage and the beating the Hell out of you." He looks Eddie up and down, checking for actual bruises. "I can't really see you in a cage. Certainly not for long. I just know all too well that if I really wanted to I could catch you and fucking eat you."

He laughs at the description of that dream. "That sounds a lot like a normally surreal dream, nice." He stretches. "I'd like to do it again too. Preferably without draining you of all your fucking blood, even if it was only in a dream. Especially since it's so fucking tasty." He shudders. God, that really is a horrible thought, and yet the feeling of blood cells being absorbed and converted can't really be translated as anything else. Palmer can feel what his cells are doing in an utterly inhuman way, being a hive mind of sorts is very useful like that.

He considers Eddie for a moment. "You really liked all of it, huh? Even . . . well, I suppose you were seeing it from my point of view. Feeling it, too, right? So it makes sense that you would enjoy getting those aches and pains more than you normally might." His hand runs through his hair again. "I did love dreaming of flight. Not that I couldn't probably do it in real life, but humans are heavy and awkward and it isn't really worth it."

He gets out of bed at this point, stretching again and mimicking a yawn out of habit. "I'll have to get pajamas or something if we plan to do this again. Which we probably will eventually, since we both seem to have really enjoyed it."
 
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Edgar Cizko

DC Universe
Posts
241
Age
44
Gender
Alpha Male
Species
Human, extremely meta
Height
3ft9in - 114cm
Occupation
Professor at Schola Praeditos
Relationship Status
It's Complicated w/ Palmer
His tired eyes followed Palmer's movements with a careful study as the rest of him was too tired to do much else. There was something really nice about that stretch, probably in that it reminded Edgar how fucking exhausted he was.

Edgar took over the bed as soon as Palmer left, resting his weary body in the kinda gross but kinda relaxing warmth left over. He let out a big sigh and turned on his side, resting his head on his fist in his best glamour-shot pose, teasing Palmer with a sultry tone, "Oh I can't wait to spend another night with you, big guy!"

He managed to knock out a dramatic wink before falling again to his back with a big gut laugh, wincing less and less as his body recovered from the stress. He huffed a happy breath there as he stared at the ceiling with a beaming smile. "I like the violence, man. My chicken soup for the soul. Even if I'm watching you tear me limb from limb I just want to feel that power! A shrink would probably call me out like crazy for that but what the hell would they know about me."

As he spoke his eyes came to a leer at the closet. "And I told ya you needed more clothes."
 
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Can whoever's been messing with the furniture in my apartment please stop? And also maybe stop breaking in every day to do it? I'm not mad, but it's kind of frustrating to have to rearrange it every day...
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