July 17, 2015:

Dreamraker and the Kingpin of Crime cross paths again and engage in an astral negotiation that eventually shifts to the physical realm when Wilson Fisk pays a visit to Lynette Shackleford's apartment. (Backdated slightly from the 18th)

The Dreaming, Lynette Shackleford's Apartment


NPCs: None.



Mood Music: [*\# None.]

Fade In…


High above Manhattan, the Dreamraker floats amidst a backdrop of glimmering stars. The moon is larger than it should be, it's cool light casting the raven-haired avatar in a wash of icy blue. Far below, the city that never sleeps drones onward, dreams and nightmares playing out in small windows far below.

"Ronnie, where aaaaare you?" The Dreamraker's voice casts out into the sky, a sing-song call that goes unanswered. Soon, the moon begins turning a blood red, growing in size and detail. Pockets of craters begin filling with red, the liquid of life dribbling out and falling down upon the city below. Each droplet of blood finds its way into the active dreams and nightmares of the five boroughs, like little calling cards that invade the worlds they pass into. Here, in the world of dreams, she was a Goddess.

Eyes turn red, the pupils filling with blood as the frown takes her face. "Well then. I see you are avoiding me, Ronnie dear. That is quite alright." Dreamraker spreads her arms, and tendrils of black fabric begin growing out of the dark purple latex encasing her slender limbs, blowing in a fresh wind that sweeps over the city and sends her black cape flying out behind her. "I don't need you and your little scamps to find what I want."

Blood red eyes sweep around the city as yet more blood dribbles from the moon, finding other dreams and nightmares.

"I shall seek out the large man myself."

Meanwhile, in a small studio apartment somewhere in Queens, Lynette Shackleford tosses and turns. Her fingers grasp the sheets while music blares from a turntable against the wall.




"Sir?" Wesley slips his phone away as he turns towards his employer with a bemused expression.

Wilson Fisk looks from paperwork to Wesley with a minutely arched brow.

"Does the name 'Lynette Shackleford' mean anything to you?"

Fisk's brow continues to rise.


A black limo winds through Queens, gentle waves and whale songs permeating its interior. Wilson Fisk sits at the very rear of the vehicle, flanked by three men in black turtlenecks and black masks, with black guns laid across their laps or behind their heels. He breathes in deep, rhythmic pulses as he sleeps. Dreams.


A purple and black figure stretched and twisted to nightmarish proportions by the vagaries of the dreaming mind burns brightly in his subconscious, a beacon to an intelligence he still isn't entirely certain exists as such.

Meanwhile, in a corner of the Dream lit primarily by howling sirens and muzzle flashes, the Kingpin sits behind his desk, endlessly tracing over purple and black lines even as he hands down a steady stream of orders to a parade of lieutenants. The beating heart of a body long since claimed by a myriad of cancer, he is almost too massive to be contained by his desk— by his office, even, for all its luxurious sprawl. Even here, the lamps cast meek light at best, leaving shadows - none greater than the Kingpin's - to play across the wall at all hours.

His phone rings; it is nearly microscopic as he fishes it from his jacket pocket and holds it to his ear.

"Sir, a Ms…" the next sounds out of Wesley's mouth are almost entirely incomprehensible, existing in a language that Fisk has only ever heard in his worst childhood dreams, "is on her way to see you? Should I send her in when she arrives?"

The Kingpin looks up from his drawing.


A droplet of blood falls through an open window, landing upon the massive hand as it claims its tiny cell phone. The blood is thicker than it should be, something unnatural to be sure.

Above, cast against the red moonlight, Dreamraker turns her eyes upon a limousine traveling through Queens. Like a hawk, her eyes peer down and through the glossy window, into which the scene plays out before her. A quiet gasp escapes her lips, and for a moment, the wind high in the sky rages around her, before settling down into something acrid. Heat falls over the city, casting an unnatural warmth into every dreamscape the oneiropath can see.

"What are you looking for?" she whispers behind a bemused grin.

Moments later, a tall woman steps through the door into Fisk's office. A pencil skirt in black, a low cut purple blouse, with matching purple heels and the slightest glimmer of pantyhose. Raven hair is pinned up professionally, and beneath her arm, she carries with her what appears to be a large portfolio brief. She glances back toward the suit who had escorted her in, offering the man a twirl of her fingers in farewell, before clicking forward with measured steps toward the massive desk, and the Kingpin who sits behind it.

The woman opens her mouth as if to speak, when she catches sight of the ring upon Fisk's finger. Ruby lips remain parted for a moment, while a flood of memory comes to her.

The grand parade. The lifeless bodies, wrapped up in human packaging, and there, the man before her, holding his love.

"I remember you now," she breathes, and gently leans forward to set her portfolio brief down upon the desk before him. With a whimsical grin, she rights herself and gestures toward the brief. "Go on. Open it."

Contained within are a collection of drawings, each of them depicting Fisk's journey through the cojoined nightmare she's put him and countless others through. One drawing, in particular, depicts the woman Fisk loves, holding the Kingpin's severed head in one arm, and a vinyl record in the other. The cover art is mildly obscured, but a closer inspection reveals it to be the title, 'The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway' by Genesis.



There's a spot of blood marring the otherwise pristine golden surface of the ring.

Fisk shifts an analytical glare from the woman at the door to his ring, then back to the woman. His hands almost envelop the desk as he begins to fold them— only to have her portfolio set on top of them.

"Do you?" She feels familiar, but doesn't look it; thus, the hostility in his tone despite his trying to place her. After setting the portfolio on the desk, he cracks it and begins leafing through. "Would that I could…"

He's kicking a boy to death as his father screams at him.

"… say…"

Crushing Superman's hand before the eyes of the world.

"… the…"

Raging impotently in the darkness of a cocoon.

"… same…"

Struggling to negotiate a mountain of corpses to claim vengeance after seeing his wife's slaughtered body.

The breath leaves the Kingpin's towering form as he reaches the picture of himself and his wife, filling the room with a soft and shaken hiss.


Wilson Fisk's breathing begins to grow erratic. His right hand twitches against his thigh. A low moan escapes his lips.

The men surrounding him exchange uncertain looks, but their instructions were clear; they do not attempt to wake him.


The Kingpin mops sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, then slowly exhales and folds his hands atop the pictures. "My vividly imaginative intruder, intruder, I presume," he rumbles with eyes set squarely on hers. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this time?"


"You've been dreaming of me, haven't you?"

The whimsical tone seems dashed when the woman claims the chair opposite Fisk's desk, crossing her legs and folding her hands over a knee. Her next words come professionally, in spite of the content itself. "My name is Dreamraker. I control this." She gestures. "All of this. While it is a very large place, and it can seem difficult to grasp at times, there is… ample time in this world. Anythjng can happen."

The woman smiles and leans forward just an inch.


Raven hair then grows out, the mascara from her face becomes something a bit more theatric, and her professional clothing transforms into something Fisk would be far more familiar with. The surroundings change simultaneously, adopting themselves into a large waiting room of sorts. Flourescent lift casts a harsh light, and the two find themselves sitting opposite each other on uncomfortable chairs. The one beneath Fisk is larger, of course, and though it creaks beneath his weight, it does not break.

There are others here, as well. Avatars of the sleeping in Queens, or simple machinations of the dream master's creation, it is unclear. Yet they all seem bored to tears, waiting for a thing that is altogether inevitable.

"You are unique, Mister Fisk," she declares, while leering at him from across the waiting room. "Your savagery. I was surprised by it! So savage, you and the others, that I was…"

She grinds her teeth, and with it, an unnerving sound comes from a long hallway behind the door leading out of the waiting room. A soft, yellow light glows from the other side, growing ever brighter as that something approaches.

"… unable… to maintain it."

The waiting room rumbles and vibrates for a moment, until the Dreamraker seems to cool off.

"You've been dreaming of me, which means that there's something you want of me. Tell me; do you want to resume the experience that was so rudely cut short?" She gestures toward the door, smiling in a menacing way. "I would be… most happy to oblige."


Lynette grins in her sleep, but it soon becomes something more of a grimace. They are coming for her; she can feel it in her sleep, if only from the proximity of her sleeping counterpart. Her chin twitches, and she curls the sheets up tightly around herself, before she begins humming along to the music.


The yellow light grows brighter, and the unnerving sounds with it become strangely melodic, mirroring the humming of the dream master as she sleeps.


"'Dreamraker'," Fisk repeats. His tone screams that he is utterly unimpressed; the great beads of sweat continuing to collect in the lines and folds of his face suggest something else entirely.

"'Any— '"

The office disappears.

"'— thing, hm?"

Fisk pauses, narrows his eyes and scans the surroundings with gradually mounting unease. The office, the city… they were his, even if they stood on ground that this woman supposedly controls. Owns.

The dark Armani that blended almost seamlessly into the spinning shadows of his office has taken on a garish, navy tint under the harsh fluorescents and while he's still a towering, massive specimen of a man… his bulk doesn't dominate the waiting room the way it did his office.

Mostly, he's just a very, very large man perched awkwardly atop a 'large' chair that isn't quite large enough not to leave him looking silly. Eventually, his wary gaze returns to Dreamraker as he listens to her speak and tries not to let his tension show.

"Don't be— ridiculous," is his immediate response to her offer, interrupted by a slight hitch when the world vibrates. "Oh, I've dreamed of you, yes, but…"

His eyes drift towards the door as he speaks and his words just drift away once he's staring at it.

"… I've other… ideas…"

The wrathful edge bleeds out of his voice as the light grows increasingly bright and blots out his thoughts.

"… plans… business…"


The limousine parks. Its doors open.

Combat boots hit the pavement.


The Kingpin's chair lets out a long, low sigh as he slooooooowly stands.

"I've— I've no need for your witchcraft…" he insists, voice distant as his eyes remain transfixed by the light and his breathing falls in time with the unearthly melody. "… save… for what I… dictate…"


"Anything," the woman confirms, with a particular smugness.

The sound is soon joined by an undercurrent of whale song. The light mounts in intensity; now two blinding beams of white shoot forth from the window in the door, casting an oddly shaped rectangle upon the opposing wall. When Fisk rises, so does the Dreamraker, only her motions are far less mundane. She nearly glides to her feet, as if the laws of gravity simply don't apply to her in this place.

"Yes," she croons against the sounds that come from beyond the door. "You are a man of business. Where I, rather, am a woman of… many things. I suppose you might call me -" She pauses, crooking her neck to the side.

The wall begins to sizzle where that blinding light strikes.

"- an artist?"

The Dreamraker makes a sudden gesture, and the door blasts open. What happens next is entirely un-climactic. The deafening sound fades, so much that all ambient noise seems sucked into a vacuum. Even the breathing of those in the room becomes muted; only a quiet, unsettling noise from two golden globes, floating into the room, fills the air.

"You are a powerful man, but you dictate nothing here," she explains. The raven haired goddess now bears the visage of an emaciated, small young girl, dressed in white, with stringy gray hair falling down over her caved in cheeks. The voice, however, is the same.

"It's my power you want, isn't it?" the girl asks. "There is a cost for this, you know. I don't work for free." She points at the golden globes, which float over toward one of the others waiting here. They surround a young man with red hair, and he opens his mouth as if to scream, but the scream never comes. A deafening buzz pairs the young man's sudden transformation into white light, a noise that blots out everything else, but there is no echo or reverberation when the noise ceases, and the man is simply gone. Erased from existence.

"What would you dictate, Mister Fisk?" The lily-white Lilith turns toward the large man, gesture towards him. The globes begin to follow. "What price would you pay to have me at your side?"


The record ends, the needle scratching against an endless groove. Lynette stirs and rises from her bed, padding across the room with lidded, absent eyes. The nightgown drapes along the floor, where bare feet brush against a pack of discarded cigarettes. Next to the turntable, there is an exacto blade, a straw, and a small pile of cocaine.

The sleepwalking woman looks absently from the drugs to the turntable, as if she wasn't able to quite make up her mind.



It doesn't take the men long to retrieve and set up the wheelchair stashed in the limo's trunk because they've practiced the maneuver a dozen times. It's such a simple thing, in theory, but the Kingpin insisted they practice anyway. Time is of the essence, and 'simple' is not the same thing as easy.

Not once several hundred pounds of solid, sleeping muscle enter the equation.

Once everyone is situated, the men advance on the building: two push forward to take point while the third hangs back, pushing the chair along as quickly as physics will allow.


Fisk freezes and twists away from the two white beams lancing through the window with a clipped groan of discomfort. After a beat or two, he tries - strains, really - to turn his head and brave the brilliance, only to turn away so forcefully that he staggers backwards a couple of steps, trips over his own feet, and ends up on his ass, all while Dreamraker explains the way that things work in her world. Panting, he looks up at her with a mixture of anger, shock, and a smaller, but no less evident - certainly not to her, here - touch of fear.

"I— I am not a man who believes in free labor…" Fisk does remember the last time he stuttered; it was many years ago. and he curses himself for it now, even if he can't stop himself. "You— you are correct, but I do not— would not— expect— "


Lynette's doorknob shudders and clatters a couple times before door just creaks open. The other point man rushes past the picker to herd Lynette towards a wall by jamming the barrel of his rifle against her sternum. The third pushes his wheelchair just past the threshold and shuts the door as the others attempt to get her under control.

The unconscious Fisk's moans are incessant by now, his face is drenched with sweat, and the man behind the wheelchair can hear his heart pounding. Now that they're in, he doesn't wait any longer: he pulls a little injection kit from his pocket, uses a little patch from within to briskly swab Fisk's neck, then sucks in a breath and jams the needle home.


"— for you to give your services… for nothing…" Fisk swallows, white light still stinging his eyes and the buzzing he's unable to speak over jabbing his ears. The waiting room begins to shrink away from him, as if either he or it are racing away from the other, but this doesn't dampen the light or the buzz in the slightest. Nor does it stop him from struggling to strike a deal in a world where he holds absolutely none of the cards. "We— we can negotiate— will— negotiate, Ms. Dreamraker…"


Wilson Fisk's eyes snap open and a gasp bursts from his lips. For a few seconds, he pants rapidly, desperately— and then his breathing begins to settle as he realizes where he really is. After pushing out one last, slow breath while his underling removes the syringe, he braces against the chair, rises, and adjusts his black suit.

"My name is Wilson Fisk," he begins once he's sure that she's conscious and focused on him. "I control this." He gestures. "All of this. It is a very large place, difficult to grasp— and our time in it is often, tragically, quite limited. Anthing can happen." He smooths his hands down his front while the man behind him draws a pistol and takes aim.

"Anything. I believe we were negotiating…?"



A wicked grin spreads across the Dreamraker's face when the large man sputters and stutters. She raises her arms high, soundless against the throbbing noise, and the golden globes close in.


Barely aware of what is happening, Lynette is easily moved against a wall, offering little in the form of complaint save for a couple of unpleasant grunts.


A cacophony of unpleasant noises begin to pierce the dreamscape, like pinpricks of dischordant memory. Broken glass, the screaming of a tortured cat. An infant crying, the sounds of Broadway during the lunch rush.

Dreamraker can feel the world rushing away from Fisk as his mind leaves the dreamscape, and she rears her neck back to let loose a ferocious scream of anger. Chunks of plaster and steel fall from the walls and the ceiling, letting the light of a thousand thoughts stream inward.


Lynette lets loose a shrill, terrified scream, and her eyes bat open fully. She looks from side to side, shrinking away from the men with guns until she's flat against the wall, framed by a bookshelf to her left and a rumbling, busted up old A/C unit in the wall to her right.

Chest heaving, her hazel-green eyes fall upon the towering Kingpin of Crime. The terrified expression settles into acceptance. She can see what's happening here, and as the man quotes her very words with small modifications, she begins to smirk.

"Yes," answers the Scot. "I believe we were."

Her eyes glance first toward the man with a pistol trained upon her. They focus, and a snarl forms on her face.

The man's eyes roll back, and he drops to the floor, asleep.

Her eyes then move next to the point man, and the same thing happens.

"I can dance all night, Mister Fisk. Tell me what you have in mind?"


Fisk doesn't flinch as his men begin to drop. In fact, as he stares into her snarl, he makes a show of calmly reaching up to adjust his tie while the third man maintains a distant aim, but takes a fruitless step away from Lynette.

Fisk keeps his hands very close to the gimmicked diamond pin attached to his tie as he adjusts. He's invested in showing confidence now that they're on more agreeable territory, but clearly, Lynette has a few more tricks up her sleeve than anticipated; confident or no, he's not an idiot.

"'What do I have in mind'," he repeats. "You invaded my psyche. Rifled through my subconscious and sought to make a mockery of it. You've exposed yourself to certain truths that would - on their own, divorced from your other sins - surely spell your doom, were it not for the way that you came to know them. I have had a great many things in mind for you over these last months, Ms. Shackleford." Though his tone is largely calm, a few notes of frustration slip in here and there, especially when he mentions 'months'. He is not a man who likes to be kept waiting— not when his pride, and more are involved.

"It is to your credit and incredible fortune that the one I'm most interested in tonight involves making you…" His eyes pointedly roam around his surroundings while he folds his hands in front of himself. "… considerably more comfortable than you presently are. Your power is impressive, and your skill in wielding it appears to be quite adequate indeed; I would have you put them towards…" His eyes rest on the pile of cocaine as his eyebrow arches.

"… more ''subtantial'' ends. What was it you hoped to gain by intruding in my mind that night? Our minds."

The third man is the recipient of a wink, a seductive grin, and a little waggle of her fingers as he steps back. He, however, remains standing.

Eyes back to Fisk, the smirking gradually removes itself from Lynette's expression. Normally, she finds herself to be rather fearless around lesser beings, but the way this man speaks… well. Suffice it to say, it cuts through a few things. Namely, her fearless, sociopathic urges. The offer put forth has her lifting her eyebrows, and she looks away from the man's deceptively bland eyes - she, after all, knows his savagery well enough now - and glances about her place. It's small. Cramped, messy. To be truthful, it's never quite bothered her either, and yet, a carrot dangled is just that.

"Don't worry, luv." She's looking at the third henchman now. "Blokes are just sleeping." A momentarily distracted measure, followed by a rueful grin. "And quite enjoying themselves, I might add."

Should one care to look, the pair of downed henchmen have developed, well, a somewhat embarrassing 'elevation' within their briefs.

The question, however, is not ignored. Lynette's eyes drift toward the cocaine along with Wilson's, then back to the Kingpin's eyes with the question posed. A hand rises, the cuff of her nightgown brushed against her nose. It still itches, from the Hollywood she'd banged out before entering sleep.

"Fun," she answers blandly. "Most of the lot out there are boring as fuck, but every once in a while…" Her eyes glimmer. "Every once in a while you run across something quite fascinating. I must say, your paw was a right bastart, it's no wonder you dream about him so much."

There is a moment where she recognizes that it may have not been a wise idea, bringing up the man's father like that. More striking to Lynette, however, is the fact that she gives a damn. Typically, she wouldn't have held her words in such regard.

"I do what I please, Mister Fisk," she states bluntly. "That being said, I would enjoy a fair compensation in exchange for a few concessions. I would imagine that keeping out of your dreams might be one of them." She sucks on her teeth, for it was so tempting to invade again. He held such a wealth of savagery. The nightmares she could conjure with such a palette at her disposal…

"Happy accident, Mister Fisk," she concludes. "Happy… fucking… accident. Now." She leans to the side, resting her elbow upon the A/C unit and tossing her hair with a free hand. "Back to this, uh, 'negotiating'."

And then, she just smiles sweetly at him, waiting to hear his terms.


Fisk registers the fading of Lynette's smirk. There isn't much of an outward reaction, but his own posture grows a little less tense once he's a bit more assured that Lynette won't just buck. He might be able to resist her enchantment long enough to seize or gas her… but the truth is, he's depending on presentation as much as preparation to protect himself at this point.

"So they are," he tonelessly agrees after a glance towards one of the guards.

After that, he just listens; he did ask a question, after all. The answer is, now that he has actually seen her in the flesh, not a surprising one; it, too, fails to draw much of a reaction. At first.

And then she says something that causes him to cross most of the distance between them in just a few surprisingly swift steps as his eyes narrow in a heated glare.

You can probably guess which thing it was.

"You are tapdancing on ice, Ms. Shackleford," he tersely reminds her as his hands shift to his sides. Still, he continues to

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