The scenery within this new (perhaps not quite) foreign subconscious is a confused jumble, as if its unsuspecting creator cannot quite decide just where to be — a snowy mountainside has burst up from beneath the streets of a staircase city set into the rise of sheer, seaside cliff. The pieces are whole, details sharp and clear on narrow, towering buildings all crammed close together and rocky outcroppings with their blankets of heavy snow (still falling, as it is, in weird pockets only over corresponding ground).

But these little scenes are shattered among each other, shifting constantly, uncertain as the blank, white sky above, which reflects a dull grey in the ocean below. Where these two endless, colorless stretches of space reach to meet on the horizon, they blend seamlessly, as if meeting the edge of this conflicting reality might be as easy as setting sail for the fragile inner boundary of the eggshell shape it almost appears to be locked within.

Bright and cold, the silence falls as heavy as the inclement weather, in each vacuum of space that covers the mountainside, doing its best to muffle the staccato beat of his boots on uneven pavement broken over icy faces of stone and the competing race of his heart, now trying its hardest to burst clear out of his chest. (And in a dream, who's to say it mightn't?) With his rifle hugged tight against his back by its strap, where it beats a solid rap against his shoulder blades, a sharp reprimand for every stumble, a lone soldier in drab blue is fighting a very literal uphill battle.

The uniform he wears obscures all of him but the lower half of the pale, strained expression writ across his face, solemn as he barrels up the insurmountable slope in leaps and bounds, shadows chasing behind as he rounds a street corner onto another craggy patch of open ground. Snow kicks up in misty clouds around his ankles as he stumbles, but doesn't stop, always only one step ahead of his pursuers.

They're monsters, or maybe only the distant memory of a child's imagining of such, solid enough as they crumble up out of the earth in his wake. But they fade to dust as phantoms while he manages still to evade the catch of claws and snapping jaws at the heels of his badly scuffed black boots, the shirttail tucked under his belts. Shameful as it is not to stand and fight, outpacing them is this dream's objective, instead, and he can't seem to stop his feet from moving on, hands scrabbling at each new hold to pull himself higher.

At least not on his own.

Zack's strength of mind hasn't been at its peak lately, which may explain his absence from the consciousness of others.

As it was, the former SOLDIER was secluded in a web of emerald wisps and crystals, cocooned in the center by an even thicker web and two white wings surrounding his form. His eyes were closed, head bowed, the rest of his body also concealed by the maze of webs. So he... hasn't been able to meld himself entirely cohesive yet, but he's getting there. There's no telling what the rest of his body looks like, trapped in that mess.

If you dare to approach, he'll glance up briefly, quietly. He's studying you, wanting to know the reasons why you would come deep into the Lifestream like this, to talk to a forgotten, deceased SOLDIER.

And he'll welcome the company.

Near the north pole of planet Mercury, there are signs of life, all enclosed in a thin, transparent dome that still allows a clear view of the heavens. Inside, the air is clean and breathable, and even stirs itself in artificial breezes.

The entire city is a mass of blue crystal, luminous with the glow of thousands of solar trees both within and without, their blue cels attached to silvery branches and trunks. It makes a striking contrast, and the structures provide the city's energy, veritable solar power farms, bustling and thriving like the city itself. . Everywhere, the roads lead inward towards a palace, attention drawn to it by its height, taller than any nearby building.

The lush sound of splashing water comes from a clear, ornamental pool in the entryway. Tropical fish swim contentedly there, glimmers of golden koi amid and around the stems of water lilies. There is greenery, too, and flowers provide a seasoning of color. Overhead, the ceiling is dizzyingly high, adding to the sense of open space.

Seated at the edge of the pool, dressed in an elegant gown and with the sigil of her planet showing proudly on her forehead, is the Princess Mercury, now queen of her reborn kingdom. She plays a simple, longing melody on the harp she holds in her lap.

The Grid looks the same day after day, cycle after cycle. Sleek black roads and buildings with glowing lines of energy to decorate them. TRON City is at the heart of the Grid. The skyline doesn't quite go on forever, broken up by the mountains of the Outlands. To the far distance is the Portal - the way out of the Grid. Only one person ever used it: Kevin Flynn. The Creator. Then, his son, Sam Flynn.

Quorra is standing in the roads of the city, looking up at the rain that seems to always fall. She's out of the Grid now. Free to explore the User world. In her dreams, she always returns to the city. She can't tell if it's before or after CLU took over, but it's always empty. Alone in a ghost city. Maybe it's because she's the only remaining ISO.

She sighs and leans against one of the railings of the road.

[ Peter has no idea how he ended up here, on a couch, listening to a bunch of middle aged women and a few other assorted people talk about Pride and Prejudice. He lost count of how many times he was nearly force fed a cookie by some woman claiming that he's too skinny, and this is starting to feel like all those dreams about showing up to class without any pants on.

He's barely said anything about the book since showing up, instead opting to just sort of listen, and nod every once in awhile. It's easier to just agree with everyone than to pretend he cares about a rich guy marrying some poor guy's daughter. Great, it's heartfelt and mooshy, he gets it.

Running a hand down his face, he flips through the book again for what feels like the hundredth time, stopping on some page to skim through a paragraph, while another woman starts to talk about the historical ramifications of things that Peter chooses to ignore. At this point, he's pretty sure he's forgotten why he even agreed to this in the first place. ]

So what do you think about the book? [ And it's the first question actually directed at him. Oh yeah, this is exactly like those pantsless dreams he used to have, and now he's just... at a total loss for words. ]

[Welcome to London, circa 1851. This man's dreams are one of drunken debauchery, circuses, burlesque houses - and who knows? But, there is a darker element on these streets. But, they shift to something darker; in his dreams he can walk a street without anyone looking at that holy symbol on his arm or on his shoulder. There aren't any Akuma to stop him or for him to hunt down and bring salvation to. However, he is chasing ... someone. A shadowy figure.

Keep in mind that if you do happen to try and get his attention, he might just turn around and shoot.]

[Duffy is moving around the modest, country kitchen efficiently and with ease. It's a familiar space for him, and when he turns towards you you'll notice he's missing his left arm from just above his elbow. He doesn't let it hold him back though, as he smiles softly and turns on the stove. He's humming Pour Some Sugar on Me as he works. He seems to be cooking bacon and eggs for an army.]

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