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etrayamemes2025-05-30 09:20 am
etrayamods) wrote in etrayamemes2025-05-30 09:20 am
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TDM 008
content warnings for this TDM include: gambling references, mild horror themes and suggestive content  ⏵ arrival⏴ Arrival does not happen as Aurora usually plans for it. Newcomers generally find themselves waking up within the hospital, are given a brief overview of their situation, and sent on their way. Now? They wake up immersed in a game within The Gold Saucer. But it doesn't quite feel like a game: whether it's snowy mountains, riding a chocobo as you listened to the wind quickly pass by your ears, or in the middle of a battle with a beast, it feels utterly real. It's only after the game concludes - either by winning or losing - that you find yourself back in the main game area. A bot, dressed as personnel in this lavish playground, approaches each arrival with an earpiece allowing them to communicate with those in their same situation. It also serves to inform them of their goal: collect enough gold saucer points (or GP) by playing the games to acquire a card fashioned to their own likeness from the game counter. Then, they must trade it for someone else's. Seems simple enough, right? Hopefully the cards aren't too expensive...  ⏵ the gold saucer ⏴ The Gold Saucer is an ode to the very idea of fun. It’s huge, labyrinthine, colorful, and lively. Everywhere you look, there’s something to do. At the same time, it’s also impossible to tell what time it is. There are no windows to the outside, there are no clocks. This place is beyond such a thing. There are games everywhere you look, ranging from the pseudo-gambling to sports to pixelated video games in cabinets. Yet no matter which boxing game, pinball machine, or skeeball machine you look at, the same creatures and themes arrive. Cactuars, chocobos, the fiercest Behemoth, the cuddliest Moogle… For those from the realms of Final Fantasy, this will feel natural- homey even. Everyone else will simply understand that there is a fairly strong central theme here about magic, machines, and monsters. It’s hard to tell how long you spend here, and it seems to sit outside of the very concept of time. Still, there are many restaurants, lounges, and vending machines. There are shops and costume rentals. There are even little pharmacies with headache remedies if the partying gets out of hand. And when you grow tired, there is a hotel- though it is made up like a haunted house, you can count on getting some semi-restful sleep.  ⏵ playtime ⏴ At first, stepping through to play any of these games may make participants wonder if they have been teleported somewhere else entirely. But on closer inspection, all the skies above are merely well-constructed interiors with painted ceilings. After all, it always seems to be daytime during these games. Snowboarding - Race to the bottom of the mountain, but avoid obstacles and complete as many tricks as possible! Chocobo Racing- Race on Chocobo-back around a treacherous outdoors race track which can either be taking place in a desert, a swampy forest, or upon an island beach. Work in tandem with your rented bird and against your competition by throwing hazards in their way or utilizing buffs garnered on the track. Different colored birds will yield different advantages. Yellow - Good All Rounder Red - Fast, but hard to steer Blue - Slower, but very easy to steer. Much easier to pick up items from them. Green- Resilient against traps and sabotage Colosseum Battle- Face off against the fiercest beasts around. Pair up with friends or rivals to Collaborate or Compete to do the most damage and deliver the final blow. These battles are synced to the comparative power of the one entering the competition. We wouldn’t want anyone to get hurt unnecessarily, after all. And indeed, no one will get seriously, gruesomely, or permanently injured in these battles. Those without fighting capabilities can rent weapons outfitted Materia to assist them in their trial. These will allow anyone to cast spells, though not guarantee any better wielding of weapons. There are a hundred rounds, starting with fairly simple Spriggans, ranging all the way up to blood-thirsty Behemoths to challenge even the most battle-hardened hero. Leap of Faith- Players are presented with an obstacle course that stretches a hundred feet into the air upon floating platforms and islands. Both are held aloft by magical crystals. Powers are entirely nerfed, though falling and hitting the ground is strangely painless. Those who collect the most silver and gold statuettes of cactuars placed at random throughout the course will be awarded proportionate GP; though there is a bonus for those that reach the very top first. Triple Triad- Everywhere you look, people are playing this game on little 3 by 3 boards, or any surface with enough space. You will be given a loaner deck to play with. Are you clever enough to defeat your fellows. Fashion Report- Theobold, familiar to some, stands by himself in a little booth with a dressing room and an incredibly expansive walk-in closet. He is a robot of distinguished fashion and strong opinions on those fashions. Do you dare subject yourself to his scrutiny? Come prepare in his wondrous closets to make the best outfit for the chance to win a prize. Please submit your fashion here! There are Arcade Machines and activities galore. If you can think of it, it’s probably there- Just with that Final Fantasy pastiche on it, of course.  ⏵ the beehive lounge ⏴ There are other places to eat at the Gold Saucer, but the vending machines and cafés all pale in comparison to the dinners at the Beehive. For all the rave reviews, there is a dress code at the Beehive, and this is literal. If you step inside and are not currently wearing a dress, you will be ushered into a sideroom and appropriately made over. However, this is only for those trying to go in through the normal doors. Around the side there happens to be an employee entrance, manned by a bot. He will only allow those in who seem like they intend to work— and therefore must be wearing at least one piece of the Bunnysuit Collection to trick the guard. Once you are made over or have snuck in, you are free to relax inside with drinks, dine on a fine meal, watch the dancers, or participate yourself if you feel brave enough. Why would anyone ever dance here? Well, that’s simple. It pays really well. So if you’re sick of games, or terrible at them— you can always come dance for a shift. Though, don't get any unseemly ideas about freeing yourself of your clothing, this isn't that kind of establishment!  ⏵ haunted house ⏴ When you grow too weary or drunk from a day of games, you may be directed to somewhere a little quieter to sleep. Up the elevator, and through the doors reveals a modest walk through some woods until a quaint, victorian hotel appears. It is always nighttime here, and the stars and moon twinkle above. The receptionist, a bot in a rather bedraggled-looking chocobo mascot costume checks you in and shows you to your room. You can sleep here, especially if you can tolerate the hokey haunted decorations strung up around the place. Though sometimes, late at night, there will come a vigorous thumping on the door to startle sleeping patrons awake- Only for the culprit to vanish and be impossible to locate.  ⏵ ticket counter ⏴ The prize counter is manned by a bot and has a sign posted overhead. Most prizes will be handed over inside an appropriately sized wrapped box, as the contents are a mystery.
This TDM may be treated as a mini-Mission. Time will not pass inside of it in relation to the world outside - meaning, this can be happening at any time between late May into early July! This Gold Saucer is a bit of a mix between that of FF7's and FF14's, but it also has some things that neither have as well. Any inaccuracies are entirely intentional, aimed to make this rest within a space of uncanny valley for those who are familiar. While otherwise being a bit of a chaotic fantastical funhouse for everyone else! If there is something unlisted, chances are it will exist if it is in either of the other versions of the Gold Saucer. Characters already in game are welcome to post to the TDM, too! Please mark them as current characters in your header. Threads can be kept as game canon as long as both characters get into the game! Please direct all questions to our mod queries comment! |
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He does smile and shake his head at the 'funfetti' comment though, because she's right there too, the bruises do turn all sorts of interesting colors as they heal, and when he's got bruises from Blockbuster those are inherently going to run the whole gamut, but he shrugs off the suggestion of finding ice.
"I'm alright, but remind me that it was my choice if you have to roll me out of bed in the morning because I'm too sore to move."
Turning toward her, hesitating just a moment as if he's considering the impulse that does cross his mind, and ultimately deciding to go forward with it, he reaches out both hands toward her, offering this time in a way where she has plenty of opportunity to think about it without the urgency of a potential tangle high up in the air. If that actually takes anything away from the significance of it. In any case he's not going to press the issue, all he intends to do is take both of her hands in his own to give them a gentle squeeze, if she accepts it.
"I'm sorry. I just... don't want to make this difficult for you." His lips twitch into a slightly rueful smile. "It's not fair that it's so easy for me."
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She doesn't move closer. Doesn't reach out her hands,
or move them at all, from still holding her towel.
(It's like, at the beginning, with the other!Dick, except she doesn't have Dick to go home to after it,
stuck in the weird deja vu of it all. Except. There is no Dick to go home to.
And this is him now. Again.)
"Dick. It's just a bed. It's fine."
Yes, she can hear herself as she says it. Hear a half dozen other words, across those miles and years, that all alluded to the same fact, as though it wasn't a mutually understood, and sometimes mutually bulwarked, fabrication. But it is. Too. It's just a bed. And they both need to sleep. These missions don't slow down for any of the shocks or horrors (or surprises) they decide to throw out. And he's already gone through so much today, back home, and being pulled into this place, without a normal 'welcoming' stop by Aurora. (Which she still hasn't worked out the why of that has happened, again, either.)
"Just get some sleep." She turns back toward the bathroom to return the towel. (Or, maybe it's because she's not certain she wants to watch if his expression falls?) "Tomorrow will probably have a whole new list of mission things we're either required or 'encouraged' to do."
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Except possibly digging him into a hole that he definitely doesn't need on top of every other challenge he's got in front of him. He'll pass.
His expression doesn't fall as much as it shifts into acceptance, even if he did try to push the issue it wouldn't get anyone anywhere, and they'll both be better off for sleeping on all of this first. Just giving it time to settle has to be the best approach, as hard as it is for him to not do something. She knows how restless he can get.
"I'll try."
As if that's going to be hard. The real challenge is sliding onto one side of the bed, stretched out on his back, and closing his eyes without slipping toward unconsciousness. He absolutely could have slept on the floor, or in a chair, pretty much wherever he could close his eyes for a few minutes.
But he won't. Not until Barbara's made it back to the bed and settled herself in at least.
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Which means there isn't another option.
Barbara hung up the towel for her drying hair on one of the hooks, avoiding catching her face in the mirror as she did. She knows what she'd find there. Which is also fine. Everything will be. Mostly, if she doesn't replay the words she'd turned from. The awkwardness and earnestness, sincerity and empathetic concern, there. It's not like she needs more proof that Dick is who says he is, excepting that ... he just keeps being himself.
Barbara's fingertips caught the small switch, turning off the bathroom light, before she slipped back out that door. There's nothing else to do but take her own advice, too. Divest herself of the all-too-pink robe over this be-ribboned nightgown, which at least doesn't come with more sleeves, given she has to open up more of the blanket to get her feet and the rest of the nightgown in without it getting the expanse of fabric caught or twisted about.
She knows better than to think Dick is asleep yet.
He's too still, and his breathing is too measured.
But at least he is lying down, and he's not just watching her currently. Which thinking only gives her the urge to look over at him more, herself, and instead she reaches out for the switch on the lamp on her side of the bed. Inky darkness suddenly swallows the room, and she settles back. Curling up on her side and into her pillow, facing toward the lamp. The strange dichotomy of place and time, and company, makes her think of something—someone else— and she hopes that Haley is fine back home in this unexpected absence.
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But Dick does, eventually, drift off, despite the sheer volume of thoughts racing through his head and the impossible-to-ignore familiarity of Barbara tucked in beside him, close enough to hear her breathing, even when she's turned away from him. And as difficult as things have been, and how drastically different this is from anything he could have possibly expected to find himself in, it's that familiarity that gets him in the end. It's only when he's asleep that he curls toward her, not spreading out over that empty space between them but orienting toward her all the same, because that's what he always does.
No amount of banging on the door is going to wake him up either. As long as no one barges in he's staying very solidly unconscious, the only thing that would likely rouse him at this point is picking up on a high alert from her, and if all this place wants to do is spook them a little... well, it's not going to have much of an effect on him.
At least it won't be one of those 'sleeping for two days' situations. Maybe just a full night and then some.
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But Barbara is steadfast in focusing on trying to sleep, and if two or three questions she hasn't asked yet come to mind, she doesn't think about asking them. She turns them over in her thoughts, like something she could manipulate with her hands, but she doesn't break the silence. She knows Dick needs the rest—the same as she can tell he's fighting his own restlessness with everything, against everything, to get there—and she knows today has been stressful enough. So, no. It's not easy, and at some point, she does turn on her back, arms crossed over her stomach under the blankets, but sleep comes. Slowly, nebulously.
Somewhere, just as she's finally slipping off, some part of her knows,
it's not the silence, but the sound of Dick breathing, that makes her able to.
Which, perhaps, makes it all the more ironic when it is the thing that drags her back upward from the depths, too. Soft and slow and deep. Somewhere just above her, against the curve of her forehead. Soft and slow and deep. Shifting the hair that's fallen over the side of her face, so that it tickles the rise of her cheek and the edge of her jaw. Soft and slow and deep. As she realizes it's the movement beneath her other cheek, too.
Barbara's not entirely awake, but she's not asleep enough to not work out that equation—as her eyes slit open just barely, just enough to verify, even in the pitch dark of the night, yes, she is somehow curled up against Dick's chest, as well as the rest of him—and the next sound is her own soft huff.
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This is home, no matter where he is.
It's not a stifling sort of grasp though, he's not clinging, just holding. Eventually there might be some subconscious, affectionate nuzzling against her hair or her cheek or her shoulder, wherever his face happens to be, as he slides a little closer toward consciousness, but it's very unlikely that he's going to be the first one to wake up this time.
As if he's ever eager to drag himself out of bed when Barbara is with him.
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With evaporating ease, that she knows was there when she was asleep, because she can feel it as everything else spills like ink into that restful nebulousness. She should move. Which somehow, is right when Dick buries his face into her hair, in her skin. Soft lips, and warm breath, and a night's slight prickle of stubble. Not quite a kiss. As if some part of him had heard her thoughts. If she thought it ached a second ago, the surprise, the warmth, the tenderness—a million million memories of seconds just like it, and the dizzy swoop of a want, a longing, a sadness she's kept so tightly tied down for months—causes her to shiver before she can even think to tamp it down.
Her skin prickling as the thing inside her chest expanded like a bruise.
Babs' eyes close, partly. Summoning sense, like some sword against the darkness, against the tiny voice saying how easy it would be just to let herself fall back asleep, not know, pretend and let herself have this until morning, until daylight. But she can't. And even if she could? She can't with him. Never with him. (He's too important. The most important person in her life, in her heart.)
Babs' voice is calm when she speaks,
at least that's what she tells herself,
but that might not entirely be true.
"Dick."
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"Mmm?"
He's all loose, relaxed limbs and sleepy warmth of his own already, but whatever she needs he'll give it to her, unquestioning. But as far as he's concerned this is almost as close to perfect as it gets, and he's not expecting it to be anything other than what it is— a shared reassurance, comforting, an intimacy that's as simple as an enveloping hug. And don't they both deserve that?
If she moves away he won't try to pull her back. But he won't pull away himself, he only just decided, once and for all, with her help, that he wasn't going to swing away, not this time.
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She doesn't care if he decides to be sarcastic or serious or shocked about it, as she's probably hitting sore muscles, even if it's not the worst of the worst spots or related to actualizer muscles that are standing in for those other worst ones. If she has to be even half-awake with this sudden revelation, it's only fair that he is, too.
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Not a literal one anyway. He's pretty sure that he wouldn't have migrated over to her side of the bed, generally when he's tired and he finally sleeps there's very little tossing and turning, but he can't completely rule it out. Or, possibly, she could have rolled over and gotten scooped up in his arms, because that's what he would do when he's asleep and she's (at least from his perspective) moving in toward him.
He's pulling back that arm so that he can rub his palm over his face anyway, still sleepy and muffled, but he's awake now, if still too tangled in the blankets and a bit underneath her, he's not trying to extricate himself yet.
"Sorry. Do I need to move?"
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Maybe not the question either, if it's the most apparent and easiest assumption he can make. She's not sure he's wrong to ask it. She's not sure why she hadn't just gently extricated herself from his arms and shifted slow as she could not to wake him while doing so, to let him sleep, let him even begin to heal up. For all that, she made sure to poke her somewhere kind; she knows she's lying on patches of color bruising, too.
She turns her head, chin settling light against his chest, and somehow, she doesn't have any words. Does she want him to move? Is there even enough bed on that side for him to move? Are they in the middle or more on one side? She hadn't thought to figure out any of that and hadn't thought of anything but him, below her and around her.
There's a sigh out her nose, which is probably hard to distinguish in emotion.
But she hasn't moved, and she's staring at him through the darkness.
What was the point of waking him if she had no words?
A faint frown there, more frustrated at herself than him.
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The sigh, and the lack of movement on her part, tell him what he needs to know, and extrapolating from that he thinks he's imagining exactly the cant of her eyebrows, the press of her lips, a conflict in her eyes. The harder part is knowing what's the right thing to do when she's grappling with complicated feelings that he really has no basis for himself, as much as he can try to put himself in her shoes and think about what it would be like if their positions were reversed.
His own sigh is softer, not frustrated with either her or himself, just at this whole situation, no one had any control over that, and all he can do here is what feels right. Which is reaching out with his free hand to brush the back of his fingers lightly across her jaw and cheek, gentle and affectionate, brief enough that he hopes it won't cause her a whole new flutter of indecision.
"Wherever you want to be, Babs, you'll always have a place right here."
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But. No. No, she doesn't want that memory,
Or the reminder of each counted day,
and she squeezes her eyes shut.
Her jaw knits and unknits, and she opens her eyes, pushing for something that considers itself a fully coherent sentence. Then, she chooses something from ten feet over. And maybe it does divert, but it doesn't entirely change the topic. (And she still hasn't moved away.) Chin still steady, but light, so it's not digging in. "Why did you say earlier you think this is easier for you?"
Of course, she'd been turning over the exact words and the look on his face before she turned away, before she and sleep had finally found each other. Other people had hazy recollections of the words they said, that others said, but Barbara never did. And she could replay a memory a million times, from across all her years, without a touch of degradation. She may have turned away, but hadn't missed either.
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The question isn't exactly a difficult one. He knows why he said it, and it seems plenty obvious, but he's admittedly reluctant to actually talk about it. He's already all too aware of what feels like a wedge between them that just wasn't there before, and he's already got so many pressing emotions that thinking about it makes his chest feel tight, as if he's having to literally hold too much in, putting a spotlight on it can't make it any better.
But she wants to know, and he has no unselfish reason to deny her.
"Because I lost over a year of time and you're the only one who remembers it." He sighs, gentle, his fingers brushing through her hair at the side of her face, sweeping it behind her before his hand settles back against his own side. "It's not easy for me, knowing that, but it has to be harder for you."
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"Not the first time we've been there."
Both of the other times weren't anything like this, and they'd ended up nothing like this during or after each. One was a death that wasn't, and the other was a brain injury. But. In brass facts, and not genesis-proceeding events, they all ended with him not knowing what had gone on in
herthe family's lives for an extended period each way.It's not the same thing. Barbara probably should not tell him about his future. It's not just here but there, too. It's like the loss of two different years for. Not that he won't have the one back home at some point, he doesn't have it right now.
Her head tilts as another unexpected thought follows it, making her blink in the dark—
making her wonder why they hadn't considered it the other way months and months ago.
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"No, but..."
He exhales a slow, heavier breath, his chest rising and falling with it, and he does close his eyes for a few seconds. A part of him doesn't want to sleep, no matter how thoroughly exhausted he is, as if that would make any difference as far as whether he would wake up here or somewhere else, or gain or lose any more memories. From what he understands people can appear and disappear at any moment, without any warning, but it seems unlikely that he would be subjected to that so soon.
"It's never been easy," he finally sighs, tipping his head down just a fraction to brush a light, brief kiss to Barbara's forehead. Gentle, affectionate, more emotional than he really intended it to be, but nothing with any awkward intent. Honestly he's too tired to teasingly flirt anyway, this is all raw and honest.
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She knows it's more than that (she's more than that), she knows she's being short with herself, but then Dick's moving before she can try to untangle that one, too, and suddenly his lips are brushing her skin, and it takes everything in her to swallow the urge that pushes directly up. The one that almost has, instinct and bone-deep repetition at its best, screaming to tilt her head up and catch his lips. But she doesn't. Which feels more like catching glass in her teeth when her mouth presses a line.
"I was just thinking—" You know. Before he put his mouth against her skin and made her skin feel equally warm and cold in a strange succession that rooted itself on a slide between her chest and her stomach. "—We didn't do this. Last time. When he—or, you?—" A hand raises and she brushes her forehead, as much annoyed at uncertain proper noun-antecedents as her skin still feels half electric. "Pronouns are going to get real weird."
How is she even supposed to know which one sounds right?
Or feels right? Or isn't it offensive to him, too?
Twelve hours in is barely the time.
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He can wish that it was that simple.
He's close to saying so, though he shouldn't. He wants to ask what they did do, though he doesn't know that he needs that knowledge kicking around in the back of his mind. It definitely wouldn't help to hear that all of this was easier before, if it was, and that against everything he feels deep down to his soul that there's always going to be that span of time wedged between them, a crack in a foundation that he's taken for granted too many times before. He won't let himself think like that, he can't.
But that he's unsettled in obvious, he's never been good at trying to swallow back emotions. The best he can really aim for now is not stumbling into saying something that's going to end with her pulling away from him again.
"A lot of things have happened here since then, and not just between us either." When he's tipping his face back down to hers, meeting her eyes this close, there's a familiar rush of warm anticipation, he wants to kiss her but he can't. Shouldn't. "I'd be kind of surprised if it wasn't different now."
Apologizing for not remembering, for not being exactly the way she remembers him last, would be ridiculous, but he almost feels like he should.
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And god if that's not part of why some part of her has the wherewithal to look at his eyes this close in the dark, reflective only now and then, and not blue in this inky deepness, and end up turning her head, putting her cheek back against his skin.
"—but I didn't mean that." That was ... its own box, which could sit somewhere, over there, off the bed, until morning, unless he absolutely needs to pick at it right now. "The older you, we did come in together. But he bounced up ahead of me about a month, one night, not long before he left. We went to bed one night—everything normal, or as normal as everything ever gets around here—and when I woke up to this deeply unfamiliar slightly longer hair and beard?"
"I may have decked you with a pillow." Beat.
A scrunch of her nose. "While falling off the bed."
Only realizing it was still him in the middle of that fall.
(She's diverting but only briefly. It was a little comedic after the fact.)
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But it is a little comedic, yes.
"A beard, huh?" He's not sure what circumstances would have led to that, he's generally very particular about shaving, as she knows better than anyone. He reaches up, reflexively rubbing at his chin, considering. "Did it look good?"
It would be hard to deny curiosity, about things that may or may not be coming ahead of him, but yeah, he knows the protocol, as well as the general uselessness of trying to base what will or won't happen on a multiverse that spirals out into countless different directions at every moment. Barbara wouldn't even know for sure, since that was ahead of her too.
"IF you want to smack me around with a pillow just for old times' sake that's fine, just don't be offended if I sleep through it."
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Nudge, nudge, wink, wink. Laugh at me, so you're laughing with me.
Always so good at it. Producing that kind of light and laughter from anything.
(Always so good at making her laugh even when she didn't want to. Every time.)
"I believe you called it 'distinguished' every time Damian threatened to shave you in your sleep." That's light, but it wasn't his question either. It was her opinion on it, and she hadn't really. Oh, she had. But not really. "To me, it was just ... you. I've seen you in every manner of way since I was barely old enough to balance on a banister. Short shorts, and pixie boots, and tight curls. Wavy. The blue disco monstrosity." Light. Not insulting. Maybe because it's the four words before. "Bald."
Ric Grayson's choices weren't Dick's,
but it'd still been his face, his head, his body.
Her brow knitted slightly. She didn't think there was a way he could show up not like that.
Or did that make her hypocritical for all the right now seconds?
For the confusion about a loss that wasn't "lost."
"We didn't do—" Babs doesn't quite know what to call it. "—'this.' I don't know if it was because we went to bed and woke up in the same place. Or that it felt like no time had been missing at all." Between them, at least not really. A month back home wasn't the same as a year. The hours of one night fast asleep in Etraya weren't the same as months. But that feels hypocritical. He'd still been ahead, and he hadn't...
Mybe it's just that he's that much better than her.
(He's always been better than her.
Better than everyone around him.
Wait until the JLA says it, too.)
Was she trying to say that? Imply that?
Now that she'd said it, she didn't know.
Which somehow felt worse.
She curled up, just a little bit, frowning,
head ducking a little more toward her own shoulder.
For a second, it had made sense, but saying it lost it.