WHO? midnighter thingpuncher & YOU.
WHAT? Fucked up dreams with a fucked up guy.
WHEN? Dec 12-23
ANYTHING ELSE? Warnings for mentions of experimentation on children, kidnapping of children, surgical horror, and things surrounding that... stuff.

The halls of the alien spaceship are dingy and rusted. Everything is bleak and poorly constructed, dimly lit and broken. A departure from BASE, it seems rather derelict, and painfully empty. Barely any sound echoes through its long, empty corridors, beyond the muffled hum of far off engines.

It stays like that a long time.

Finally, a nose, an ecstacy of fumbling, and one of the rusted wall panels rips itself from the inside. A teenager stumbles out, breathing harshly. He's deeply battered, one sclera filled with blood, the other eye puffy and purple. Bruises run all along what can be seen of his body, followed often by stitch marks signifying some recent surgical procedure.

He looks up at you for a long time without saying anything, his brows knit with concentration. Finally, weakly, "we can escape together."

There's something terrible happening in downtown San Francisco. Or maybe it's Oakland. Or Baltimore. Opal City, or Brooklyn. Somehow, it's all these cities, and none of them.

The unmistakable thing is skyscraper-sized beast making its way through the streets, crushing cars and toppling buildings without apparent effort. Covered in scales, eyes glowing red, it's some sort of larger-than-life dinosaur, and bullets bounce right off its skin.

From your vantage on a rooftop, you can see its path of destruction, and how it's clearly heading for you. Luckily, there's a man next to you, and even if he's wearing a rather strange outfit, he doesn't seem at all alarmed. If anything, he seems excited.

"You stay put, okay?" He stands, and in his right hand he's holding... a crowbar. He's going to fight the monster with a crowbar. "I've got this."

It's a normal day in an American city-- somewhere sunny by the harbor. The landmarks are mismatched, yes, but it's clearly America, clearly summer, clearly tourist season. People walk by happily, dating or taking out children, hanging out with friends or watching street performers. Local businesses sell their wares, and you can faintly smell popcorn...

Until a flash of electricity blinds everyone. A crash, and a group of men and women holding futuristic weapons stands in the middle of this idyllic scene, ski masks pulled over their faces to hide their identity. "Everybody stop!" One of them, a woman who has obviously positioned herself as the leader, shouts, "Not that you could move if you tried! You're all caught in the blast radius of our psycho-kinetic scatter guns! The local government has four hours to pay a ransom before we-"

"Shut up." They're not the only ones in a mask. A man, dressed a little out of place with the scenery, walks toward them. "That's not going to happen. I know how this fight ends. I've already played this fight out in my head a hundred times. It ends with me washing bits of you off me and your hostages going home happy. That is, if you don't surrender. You have ten seconds."

The leader shoots her gun at the masked man. He dodges so quickly it doesn't look like he moved.

He's smiling. "Eight..."

This... isn't going well.

It's all men's speed dating in a normal looking, if rather large, cafe. Everyone is wearing black. Midnighter is wearing white. Why didn't he get the memo? Was there a memo? Or maybe everyone just knew, don't wear white to speed dating, wear black, maybe that's just something every normal person knows? Does wearing white mean something? Has is he given off the wrong signals, here? The last few people he talked to certainly seemed... uninterested. Well, no, he held their interest, it was just in a 'oh god, this freak, get me away from him' sort of way.

So, normal.

There is a sense of anxiety, of not fitting in, that permeates this dream.

The little clock dings, and you're the next person to be shuffled over to Midnighter's table. Dressed in white, wearing shaded sunglasses, he's... as he normally is. Though his discomfort bleeds into the landscape of the dream, he himself seems calmly detached, collected.

At least, you know, visually.

"You can call me M."

Or maybe you're not asleep when Midnighter is. Maybe you're lucky enough to stay out of his dreams. Maybe you just find him slumped over in a hallway, or in one of the library chairs, sleeping and quietly twitching. Every once and a while, he whispers a word or two, usually something like, "stop," or, "Andrew."

It might be a good idea to wake him up. Or, you know, try.