Marsha
Snugged in his comfortable bed, Vance is curled up in his light grey comfortable that kept him warm and made him feel safe. It was stuffed with downy feathers with a cover that felt smooth and almost silky. He always liked how it felt cool when he crawls into bed before it warms up from his body temperature. The knitted cover on his pillow is snugged and it had a faint flowery smell that helps him relax.

He laid on his side hugging the pillow in his face while he breathed quietly, his chest rise and fell as he is sound asleep.

In another place in his dreams, Vance would find himself standing alone with two dark figures that happen to be his parents. They were pressuring him with their relentless badgering about having perfect grades, taking on a role as being another of their business companions and helping their family grow in power. He looked incredibly annoyed, unnerved by their voices and feeling oppressed. Vance stood next to his mother dressed in a suit with his hair short and fixed perfectly. He was just an ornament hiding his real emotions behind a mask just to not embarrass her in front of her friends. A pawn, a robot, a puppet ornament in a social gathering where he didn't want to belong.
Mary
Far away in another room, Uriel blinks slowly. 

They're being talked at, they think. The counselor is making eye contact with them and moving their mouth, but the words don't seem to enter their ears. Instead, a faint warbling permeates the sound around Uriel. 

"Oh," Uriel says out-loud. Due to the counselor's expression, it was most likely the first thing they've said in a while. (Not that they would know— what really is time, anyway?) 

"I think I'm going to fall asleep." It's the last thing they say, before the unceremoniously pass out. 

Uriel finds themselves in a familiar darkness, a place they've known so long it's almost like home. A pair of strings, glowing bright gold, lace themselves around Uriel's wrist and tug them closer, as if to say "Come here! Watch this!"

Without much of a choice, Uriel follows. 

*I wonder what dream was strong enough to pull me into it...* Uriel muses.
Marsha
Uriel would find themselves blinded by the bright light before appearing in a social gathering that appeared to be a party. It look like a fancy place for the wealthy to come enjoy themselves. They stood on a red carpet with Victorian floral print with no sign of blemishes. Beside them is a large table of refreshments of small sandwiches, seafood, snails delicacy and other variants. There was a crystal chandelier standing above the crowd of fancy dressed people dancing beneath it. Uriel could see white clothed tables where others are dining further away from the empty space in the middle of the room. There was occassional laughter, a lot of talking and outgoing music playing in the background. "My good sir, is he really your son?" There was a conversation happening by an earshot from Uriel. "The only resemblance I can tell is that you both have similar eyes." It was a much older gentleman wearing a suit and a pair of glasses. The other man had slick, dark brown hair with deep blue set of eyes and is clean shaven. Italian. He looks very Italian. "He is my son believe it or not," The other said, clearing his voice. "Often I wonder if he really is..." Vance could hear this as he is being brought along by his mother, who had medium golden blond hair and skyblue eyes with porcelain skin. She was beautiful dressed in her snow white dress and wide brim hat. Vance on the other hand had normal, humanish ears and dressed in a suit while he showed no expression. "You better not mess this one up, Vance," She quietly hissed at him. Her sharp painted nails digging into his arm as she brings him to her group of friends.
Mary
It's easy to see who's dream it is, once Uriel's pulled into it. 

They push through swarms of faceless dancers, who disappear into fog with even the lightest touch. As they walk towards the center of the dream, their clothes start to fade into a formal suit, with a purple button up and a lilac in the breast pocket. 

*There's the epicenter.* It's a boy with pointed ears, being flanked by two older people — parents, most likely. 

As they approach, the voices of the parents grow louder and louder, echoing through the hall and back into Uriel's ears. They try to cover their ears to preserve the boy's privacy, but the voices cut through their hands.
Marsha
"I don't understand why you have to be born looking like someone else's child," She said, her tone stinging in disgust. "Its all thanks to you why they think I had an affair with another man. Now, please make it up by being well behaved." When they now take part of the group, his mother is busy chattering away with her companions. While he stood there with a bored look, he could not help but turn to stare at Uriel's direction. Unlike everyone else, this one appeared different and they are also covering their ears. "Who are you?" He asked, his voice deep and cutting.
Mary
As Vance focuses on the one real element in the dream, everything seems to distort— as if viewing everything through a funhouse mirror, the people begin to break down into swirls and shapes. 

Except for Uriel, of course. They're the only clear person in the room. 
As they reach the epicenter of the dream, they pause. 

"Would you like a better dream? One not filled with such pain?"
Marsha
Suspicious, he takes in the features of the stranger to remember later. "You didn't answer my question." Now his full focus is on them.
Mary
"I'm a dream-weaver. Your dream knocked me unconscious, and brought my heart here unwillingly. You'll meet me eventually, which is where I'll introduce myself more formally." Uriel bows their head slightly, as if to apologize for their intrusion. 

They begin to move their hands, and the dream around them starts to shift. Strings grow from Uriel's hands, and the strings uproot the people glaring at Vance. 

The shadows of their face change. Instead of mocking, whispering to each other, smiles of adoration grace their face. 

"Is this better?" Uriel asks.
Marsha
Upon seeing the smiles of adoration grace, it made him give them a deadpan face. "I... Think I rather wake up than to see this..." It was something he is not use to seeing such a cheesy scene weaved by the hands of another stranger. "Go awake up. Its time for you to go before you start pissing me off." Now Vance is ushering poor Uriel away with a strong intent to chase them off.
Mary
"I-I *Can't*. Not until your dream ends." Uriel shows Vance the bright gold yarn tied around their wrist, leading into Vance's heart. 

"I thought easing your woes might help you wake up, but what people want continues to elude me... I don't understand you, or anyone else." 

They pull on some other strings, and the scene dies. The joyful music, once loud and exuberant, stops with a halt as the musicians fade into oblivion. 

It's just darkness.
Marsha
".................." This was a good time for him to wake up. This is just another dream that he'd always dealt with each day. Vance grabs onto the golden string to try tug onto it.
Mary
"Wait—!" As Vance tugs on the string, Uriel falls flat on their face. 

"If you really want to get this over with, then you're going to need to let a dream reach it's conclusion, or else we'll be stuck here until dawn." Uriel stammers, as they cradle their bleeding nose.
Marsha
His eyes widens slightly when Uriel goes scorpion on the floor with their face touching it with a wack! "A conclusion, eh?" He gave them a dull look as he gave the golden string another tug. "Its just going to continue coming back in different scenes until I finally find some sort of peace with this old crap." And he gave it another tug again but a little harder this time. "So... You're some invader dream pervert?" He gestures at them while he stood ahead of the other.
Mary
Uriel blinks slowly. 
"I'm not any of those things... Well, maybe the first one is." They stagger to their face, wiping more blood off of their face. 

"Oh, are you going to attack me now?If I sustain injuries in a dream, I feel the physical affects in the real world, unlike you. So... Please don't." 

They continue looking at Vance, but don't make any move to either attack or defend.

"I'm also completely incapable of self defense, so..." Uriel adds, trailing off awkwardly at the end.
Marsha
"Is this a trick question or an invitation to have your ass beaten back to reality?" He asked, not breaking his gaze from the other as he tugged at the golden string. There a moment thinking whether he should bully this person in his dream? Are they really real? "What happens if I cut off your braid?" This was a curious question.
Mary
"Oh, well... No one's ever done that, but it'd probably cut off, and I'd be upset." Uriel threads their hands through their braid, toying with the pale white stands. 

"But... Uh, you don't even have a knife with you. I guess I could give you one with my dream-weaving, but..." 

They put a hand to their chin. "Oh... I could do that for myself, then." Uriel looks at Vance, and stammers. "Not that I would do that, but I think it might be ill-advised to attack me." 

Uriel starts to pull the ground up, and the black void the two are standing in turns grey, then white, then a light shade of blue. Around them, a beautiful flower garden erupts from the ground, and Uriel takes a seat at a little porcelain table. There, they sip from a beautifully dainty teacup. 

"Why don't you relax? It might be better than being on the defensive."
Marsha
His guard remains up as he watches Uriel literally manipulate the surroundings to make a fantastical flower garden. When seeing the dainty cup it reminded him of the set his mom had back at the smancy house. Ugh! Subconsciously, he is now straining the golden thread bitterly when he gave a huff for a response to Uriel. "Can you just flutter awake or harass some other poor sod?"
Mary
"I told you, I'm stuck here until you manage to end the dream." Uriel sips a cup of tea. 

"It was actually really inconvenient— I was in the middle of a meeting when you pulled me in. I wonder where my body is right now, actually." They wonder to themselves, but seemingly take no issue with the fact that their body could be anywhere. 

"But, if you want to speed up the process... Maybe a nap would help you end your REM sleep. I'll make sure no nightmares interfere with you while you do so." 

The area turns into yarn temporarily, and spools of thread begin to knit themselves by the 'river ', forming a mattress and a comforter. As the objects are formed, the yarn knits itself tighter and tighter, until the threads can no longer be seen and the area looks normal. 

"Would you like a song while you sleep?"
Marsha
"No," He says sternly, giving them a deadpan expression. "Fine, if its going to help boot your pale ass out of my space so be it.." His tone went bitter. He's just going to go nap with a serious frown to ignore the other person. Vance likes to sleep with no disturbance or anyone invading his space. Now this is something that he has to tolerate now.
Mary
From out of the haze, birds form and begin to let out a beautiful, almost ethereal melody. Uriel raises their voice, and begins to sing an old childhood song. 

As Vance drifts off to sleep, more instruments start to chime in— a harp, a piano, the faint reverb of Uriel's voice.
Marsha
He felt his eyebrow twitched. "Can you be quiet?" Vance didn't mean for him to sing and pull off Beauty And The Beast musical while he's trying to rest up.
Mary
Uriel laughs to themselves, a light thing prematurely cut off as the sound *Disappears*— like if someone pressed the mute button on a television.
Marsha
Soon as silence hits, Vance soon falls asleep curled up in his blankets with his back facing Uriel. All he wanted is peace and quiet while he regenerates his energy for his new job.
Mary
The light filtering through his eyelids disappears, as Vance enters a dreamless, perfect sleep. The golden string is cut, and Uriel is thrusted out of the boy's dreamscape. 

Uriel opens their eyes, and feels a sticky substance drip from their nose. They blink twice, regaining consciousness, and find themselves in their bed.

"Oh," They simply say.
Andrew
The classrooms are empty for only a few hours each day - when normal residents have already finished their classes, and those few who are only awake at night have yet to arrive.

Which is to say, around late afternoon and early evening.

The last sunlight filters in through the windows, the blinding sun on the horizon just outside. They're difficult to look at, and elicit an involuntary squinting from anyone happening to cast a glimpse their way.

Oliver thinks they're the worst, because looking at them at this hour is part of his job. A part he prefers to outsource when possible. Fewer and fewer people seem to be interested in taking up janitorial work, though. He doesn't really wonder why. It never occurred to him that he should.

Still, he has a new "Recruit", so to speak. From the note left on his desk, it was one 'Vance Blackburn', who had been told to meet him in the ground floor classroom at 5 PM.

So that's where he is. The ground floor classroom, at 5 PM sharp. Getting no work done, and growing increasingly impatient.
Marsha
Vance opens the door to peer in before kicking it open before shoving his hands into his hoody pockets. Walking in with a deadpan look at the Oliver guy that he heard off from the meeting. "Vance Blackburn, on the ready to get the job done," He says nonchalantly. Yeah, he's already not liking the old fart but he doesn't mention it. The reason why he's here is to build up a resume, get to know the schoolgrounds better and also get some payment.
Andrew
Oliver sighs. One look at the young Mr. Blackburn tells him that they won't like each other. He quickly stops himself and realizes that he thinks that about everyone he meets, then moves on.

He clears his throat and gets straight to business. He's already behind schedule. "I'm going to assume you know nothing unless you demonstrate otherwise," He says tersely. "Your pay is 50 Krona per hour. You're here for an hour starting off, which means you get off at 6. While you're here, I don't want to hear you complaining. You asked to be here."

He fetches a blue cloth, a red cloth, and an anonymous spray bottle. "Spray exactly once on the red cloth, then wipe the window with it. Use the blue cloth to dry. Never spray the window directly. Never spray your skin. Never spray the blue cloth. Never let the cloth touch the nozzle when you spray. Am I clear?"
Marsha
Vance was silent as he focuses intensively on Oliver like he's a target on kill as he listens to his instructions. Life lessons and doing the job correctly is what he takes seriously. He was on guard, taking in every word until the man stops. "Spray exactly once on the red cloth, then wipe the window with it. Use the blue cloth to dry. Never spray the window directly. Never spray your skin. Never spray the blue cloth. Never let the cloth touch the nozzle when you spray." He repeated after him, planting this to his memory. "Got it."
Andrew
"We'll be going through as much as we can manage in this hour. I know from experience I work faster than you do. Get to work."

Oliver's voice was impatient and strict, the kind of voice you hear from a school principal on the visit before getting expelled, when good will is no longer on the table. Like every day, he had had a very long day.

He turned his back to Vance and began cleaning the tables and chairs. He didn't *Look* That fast by a rough estimation, in spite of his confidence.

Meanwhile, the classroom had four windows to go through along the western wall. Shouldn't be much.
Marsha
Without saying a word, Vance takes the red to spray it before wiping the window to make sure to cause some annoying squeaking sounds. Then used the blue cloth to dry it. When he glance back at the old man, he takes notice that he is going a bit slow. "What next?" He asks, his tone serious.
Andrew
Oliver looks up, but doesn't stop working. "You do the same for the next three windows. Is that *Hard?*"

In spite of looking like he's not moving too quickly at any individual point in time, Oliver has been through about two thirds of the tables in the time it's taken Vance to clean one window. He wasn't kidding.

"I hope you won't keep asking dumb questions the entire time."
Marsha
He doesn't wait to listen to Oliver's last retorted comment with his back already turned to him. Vance repeat the process cleaning the other windows following instructions. He wasn't rushing his job but making sure he goes at a decent pace cleaning the glass. From his point of view, time didn't go slow but rather fast for him. Vance examine the windows to make sure it is clean with no dirt or streaks. "................" And he glance over at the old janitor. "Now what?"
Andrew
By the time Vance looked back, the room was spotless. All of it. Oliver had been waiting for a good 5 minutes at least. "You're finally done," He sighed. "Let's move. We've got a lot more to do."

He had already pushed the cart close to the door and wedged it open, so all that was left was to head out into the hall and toward the elevator. "The elevator isn't big enough to fit both us and the supplies," He explained, "So we're sending the cart by the elevator and then taking the stairs. You can go to the stairs directly, if you want. I don't care."

As they approached the stairs, he stopped. "It's the first room to your left once you're up there. Don't start working without me in the room, I still don't trust you to not do something stupid."
Marsha
Vance followed along listening quietly while the janitor is using his time to explain the tasks. He nods and push the door open to go take a walk up the stairs. Of course, what else is he suppose to say to an older adult? *'Oh, alright, yeah, whatever,?'* He wouldn't say that but with the constant nagging and bitching from his parents had taught him keep quiet and just go along with it. He'll go to the stairs directly since its probably a fun time to go take a short cut up there using his Kintetic Flow Motion to zip up there. First room to his left, check. Not work without him? Well, if he is able to clean tables fast it shouldn't take his old ass long to arrive. He'll just wait up there listening to some music from his phone.
Andrew
Oliver arrives as fast as the elevator permits him - which is to say, fast enough, but not for Oliver.

They manage to get through the first room and two more before the hour is up and Vance is off-duty. It goes off relatively uneventfully once the routine has settled itself and all Oliver has to say is where they're going next.

Oliver's first impression of Vance seems to have been, so far, proven wrong. There hadn't been any arguing or complaining, and the task was simple enough. When he goes back and looks, he only finds a few spots on the windows that weren't cleaned properly. A decent job.

Vance had earned his wage, however small it may be.
Mary
Uriel blinks twice at the door in front of them, looking down at their paper to check the room number. 

Yes, this was the correct place. Uriel's counselor, speaking *Off the record* As he put it, said enrolling Uriel in a self-defense course was "A high priority" After they entered his room with a black eye. 

Uriel figured attending would be a good show of compliance at this new place. At the very least, they might learn a bit more about the facilities around them. 

They knock twice, and drink the rest of their caffeinated drink while they wait.
Elizabeth
Vizhkir had been studying in his room, enjoying the quietness and peace of the textbook and lack of other human contact. He had been told earlier via email by a counselor that he had recommended a student to him for self defense training. How someone was able to obtain knowlage on his mastery over material arts was beyond him but he was happy to help. 

A knock stired him from his books. A second knock put him in motion as he rose from his chair and opened the door. 

Uriel would have been met with the broad and bare white chest of a much taller man. A pair of sea green eyes seemed to pierce their soul as the shirtless man stood there, one arm propped against the doorframe and the other hidden behind the door itself. 

"Da?" Came the deep and silky smooth voice of Vizhkir. Though spoken in his native tounge of russian the universal message of 'Yes' could be conveyed by his simatainusly emotionless and yet questioning expression.
Mary
"You're—" Uriel yawns. "You're known for your skill in martial arts, yes? Viz-h-kir, right?" Uriel sounds out the syllables slowly, extending a hand towards the man. 

"I am Uriel. I was recommended to you because I keep getting into fights, and I am, to quote, 'pathetically bad at defending myself'." They bow their head slightly. 

"Nice to meet you."
Elizabeth
"I suppose so" He said taking the smaller hand in his own for a slightly overly strong shake. "And you pronounce it Vizhkir." He explained, understanding he had a strange name. 

"Ahh. So you are my student." He said, scratching his jaw, "I wasn't expecting you so soon." He muttered opening the door the rest of the way. "Come it"

Vizhkir's room was very tidy, everything seemed in place and freshly cleaned though he had picked up when he had woken up this morning.
Mary
Uriel looked up at the instructor, finally registering the sheer amount of bulk he had. They blink twice, staring directly at Vizhkir's muscles. 

"Woah." They mutter, before yawning again. 

Uriel peers around the room. 

"Very tidy," They say. "But don't you get cold with so little blankets? I wouldn't be surprised if the cold gave you bad dreams." 

Uriel's room was not a *Mess* Per se, but with so little hours of the day conscious, they had a hard time maintaining an immaculate place. Their room screamed coziness, in contrast to how tidy this place was.
Elizabeth
The Russian cocked his eye brows at the smaller person's seeming astonishment at his rather muscular form. It seemed like a lot of people took interest in it. 

"Thank you. I don't normally get cold. I am well fortified agasint it. But in case I do I keep an extra blanket in my footlocker."

" My dreams are... Well. Hard to say." He added cryptically. In truth he often dreamt of being reunited with his father, or childhood memories. 

"So tell me, how do you keep getting into fights?"
Mary
Uriel tips their head to the side, deep in thought. 

"Well... It's a little strange. I don't really react when people get mad at me, but instead of that de-escalating things, it just makes them more mad." 

Uriel sighs, looking deflated. "I don't really know how to deal with people, honestly." 

They point at their face. "I got this black eye when someone cut me in line, and I politely informed them of their transgression. For some reason, though, they got more mad because it that." 

They pause, crossing their arms worriedly.

"And another time, I was telling someone that they shouldn't try and pull a string connecting us, because it would hurt me, and they ended up giving me a bleeding nose." 

Uriel nervously threads their hands through their braid. "It seems like no matter how hard I try, I really can't avoid these confrontations. So learning some self defense seems like the better course of action."
Elizabeth
"Pulling a sting connecting you?" Asked the Russian confusedly as he continued to examine the other person. 

"I will teach you how to protect yourself and others. But my methods are almost entirely hands on. There is no book for Systma." He explained slowly. Pointing to the lone chair in his room he motioned for Uriel to sit. 

"Before we begin however, it important to know the history of Systma. To know the history is to help it become part of you, a key aspect of this combat form. Systma is a defensive style of combat, something that a man of your sature requires. Luckily for you, you need not be the most in shape nor the most strong for this technique. It relies on your opponent's weight and attacks." He said. He cracked his neck and sat on his foot locker after dragging it to be in front of his classmate. "Modern systema history begins with the Soviet Union's Spetznaz groups. Though an umbrella term in your language it means 'Special purpose force'. Spetznaz operators are expected to be the best of the best of Russian troops and so they needed to know many CQB combat styles. Adapted from ancient Coassak styles of combat Systema was refined." He explained, stopping to take a sip of water before continuing, "It is said that the only way to learn Systema is to experience it first hand. To feel it's effects and to lose by the hand of a master of the form. So, just as my father taught me I will teach you." 

He rose from his seat and pushed it back to where it was, "I want you to attack me. Throw in everything you have, try your hardest to land a hit. Only then will you see the use of sysetma"
Mary
Urself blinks ones, than once again. 

"Oh... Um, alright?" They say, yawning. "That part about the history seemed rather interesting, but I don't believe I can deliver on anything quite as spectacular. My only form of self-defense is more of an emergency counter measure, so I've never done anything like this..."

As they wind up for a hit, Vizhkir is struck by how *Sluggish* It is, even compared against your average, run-of-the-hill human— and for most superhumans? Forget it. 

One *Whole second*, and they start throwing their punch.
Elizabeth
Vizhkir was truly and utterly suprised at how absoulty ***Fucking*** Slow this kid was. It was with zero effort that Vizhkir grabbed their arm and flung it back at them, resulting in them literally punching theirself in the face. 

"Okay okay stop. We need to work on your reaction time before we start combat training." He said pinching the bridge of his nose after feeling was was essetionally a mosquito bite to him after another hit had landed on his stomach, which to be fair probably would have hurt his 'attacker' more than it hurt him. 

"Now, I don't want to hurt you. But it might be the only way to learn. After all if you can dodge a wrench you can dodge anything" 

And with that he threw his own punch. He wasn't aiming for Ureil but instead off to the left of his head just an inch or three from their ear to gauge their reaction speed. He didn't hold out hope.
Mary
Vizhkir throws a punch. As expected Uriel stays perfectly still, their sleepy, half lidded eyes only looking back at Vizhkir's in confusion when it's evident the punch isn't aiming to hit them. 

"Oh. I was too late that time... I didn't even manage to move out of the way. Why didn't you hit me, though?" Uriel blinks, almost owlishly at the Russian. 

"I've always had a slow reaction time, though. Don't blame yourself if you can't do anything about it— it has to do with my powers, apparently." Uriel yawned again, almost like punctuation.