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He checked his dying phone: 3:41 AM. His body was tired after a long day of helping refurbish half of someone's room on the second floor--and he wasn't a complainer, it was Good Work after all--but he was resentful towards himself that somehow the ache in his bones wasn't enough to push him to sleep. Would it even be deep enough? Could he avoid the same nightmares that had refreshed ever since he saw those red eyes again, or was he doomed to have fitful bouts of rest until he was too tired to remember them anymore?

Grumbling, Dawson rolled out of the mattress-bean bag chair he had made for his bed that evening. The basement rooms were utterly spartan, but they invited a sort of creative impulse from the desperate. What can be made for shelves, what can be substituted for light, what can be arranged for this or that that the people above take for granted? It certainly got cool enough, even in the summer; he had to blearily blink and shuffle his way through a floor mostly covered in blankets. Maybe a little bit of work on that runic lantern would help settle his racing mind.

But as he picked up the uruz to set into the carved niche, something broke the hollow, underground silence. Dawson froze, wondering if he was hearing things, but no: definitely a voice. He peaked his head out the door, but he still couldn't make out the words.

Whatever instinct was supposed to warn him against following strange noises hadn't woken up, but he did have enough sense to stick his phone in his pajama pocket just in case. Carrying the still unlit lantern, Dawson shambled forward through the dark with his other hand on the wall, well used to the lack of light down there. He squinted as he hit the stairwell, ascending and calling out in a sandpapery voice, "Hello...?"

Had there always been a room there? He was still half asleep and couldn't quite remember. But he did know that the ominous feeling was definitely not the usual atmosphere, sarcastic tweets aside. Had he accidentally stepped into the next door neighbor's room? No, he distinctly remembered climbing those stairs...Unless this was a vivid dream??

No, couldn't be. He could practically feel Syn bristling at the dark power pulsing here.

The blue light made him less squinty and more wary. Humming to himself to break the eerie silence, Dawson took a step forward.

Speak my true name.

The Moon froze and immediately went to full alert. Voices in your head other than a weapon weren't good news. And yet, despite the odd question, he did feel an answer bubbling up, and before he could stop himself, Dawson found himself moving closer to the sword.

"Caliburn...?"

He didn't know where the name had come from, nor how it was familiar, and maybe he should have been more alert because this stretched beyond simple monsters in simple heads. Hands should not hurt, air should not rend like nails, forgotten lanterns should not fall noiseless. But then, quite shortly after that, Dawson didn't know anything; sleep was only natural, after all.

- - -

He woke up with a sputtering gasp and tasted sand. Gasping and choking in surprise, he kicked more up as he wiped at his mouth and spat. The sun burned his eyelids, and his skin prickled as if he had lain there for some time, and--wait, sun? sand? What??

"Wha...???" Eyes narrowed to slits, Dawson covered his face and tried to come back to full consciousness.

As he struggled to sit up, the new itch settling in him had the Moon hunter unconsciously scratching at his chest, aware and yet not wholly aware yet of what was new. Blurry figures eventually righted themselves into a beach patrol, and he felt a new layer of self-consciousness settle on him as he wiped sand off his lips.

And then the voice rang out clear as day in his head. Both Dawson and Syntyche froze, and his weapon's claws seemed to sink into his mind, grounding herself as well as claiming him.

< I am his protector. >

"Jesus Christ..." Dawson rubbed at his head with a grimace. "What happened?" He didn't do the mental speech so well and still talked aloud to his weapon rather than think. Pictures were faster for him in the headspace, and right now it was a confused mess pulsing dark blue with vague memories.

Okay. Weird room, blue light, beach coma (???), and no real response about it. He probably looked like he had gotten some pre-'Murica Day festivities and ended up outside, especially if anyone knew anything remotely about red-blooded, bald eagle gened Dawson.

But there was one person who looked just a bit too long, and that was enough for him to fixate on. Because if there was anything Dawson looked for when he was confused, it was for a person of even the most remotest authority--and sometimes that equated to someone staring too long. And then bolting as soon as he started making his way towards them. Tiny bit suspicious, that.

"Gah-damn--hold up!" Dawson called after, forcing himself to run when jogging didn't cut it. "Where you--hey, I need some info here, pal!" Did they know something? Maybe they were just incredibly shy, he'd certainly seen the sort. But Dawson was just a teensy bit desperate for some answers, because The Unknown was a little too much to handle right now. Better apologies over nothing than a missed opportunity.

He pushed his speed and tried to reach out and touch his target, grasp at their clothing even. "Bruh, don' rush! You know what's been happenin', huh? You know somethin'? 'Cause I'm goddamn lost right now n' need some help."

Normally Dawson would have had the grace to look embarrassed, showing up in the girl's bathroom like that. But Moon tasks had so often sent him to any and every bathroom that eventually the gender binary had faded away. He did, however, switch up his nicknames appropriately.

Well, first he caught his breath. Then he spoke up.

"Didn' mean t'scare ya, hun," Dawson apologized, holding his hands up in peace. "Instinct kinda kicks in t'chase; blame my partner, she's the real hunter here. But, uh, what you observin' exactly? 'Cuz right now I'm registerin' somethin' like a eight on the what the s**t scale, 'cuz m'not real clear on what experience tha' was yet." Assuming they were even on the same page...Did people take polls on drunk off their a** experiences? He wouldn't be surprised at this point.

Observing him? He frowned at the stall door. "First time I e'er blacked out onta the beach like that," Dawson replied. "Or, uh, met some weird voice thing...You don' gotta hide y'know, honey, I know that stall smells like s**t. Hell, I still gotta clean it later." He put some pep in his voice. "Promise I don' bite."

(That was Maebe's job.)

Dawson had the grace to look guilty when she pointed that out, after making a very different face for being clonked by a toilet roll. "Sawry, ma'am. I-I kinda panicked," he apologized as he picked it up, already making a note to replace it somewhere else. Littering was Bad. "Like I said, never had this happen before. But the truth'd be real nice, yeah."