#pluttskutt

Possible Trigger Warnings: abuse, captivity, child trauma, coercion, cosmic horror, cults, death, dehumanization, emotional manipulation, existential dread, forced divinity, grief, identity erasure, mind control, parental trauma, psychological control, reality distortion, religious imagery, ritual violence, spiritual exploitation, weaponization of trauma

Earth — Dream Destination: Cappadocia, Turkey

Beneath the quiet dust of Cappadocia’s honeycomb rock formations, Bianca senses the residue of forgotten gods. The ancient cave dwellings and underground cities are a perfect reflection of her internal world: labyrinthine, buried in secrets, and shaped by survival.

The whispering caverns beneath Derinkuyu resemble her own descent into the dreamscape with Sephiroth. It represents where the deeper one walks, the closer one gets to rebirth or ruin. Cappadocia’s alien topography feels like the husk of a world already half-devoured, which suits Bianca’s instinct to exist in the margins between decay and becoming.

The Göreme Open-Air Museum’s preserved ruins offer not only beauty but a paradox she relishes: ancient sanctity, now desecrated by time. She wanders through the scorched frescoes of saints and angels, laughing softly to herself as she compares them to her own broken wings and corrupted grace. At this point in her arc, the contrast isn’t painful. It’s delicious. She imagines placing one of her children within the sanctified arches, claiming divine space not with purity but with the twisted offspring of her own guilt and fallen love.

At night, with the stars above and soft wind carving into rock, Bianca feels closest to the cosmos. She can stare out across the barren stone valleys and imagine herself as a god-thing overlooking her own Promised Land. The region is quiet enough to let her commune those who were called this place home. Earth’s dead are mute, but their absence makes room for her own voice. Here, she is alone with her power, her silence, and her chosen fate.

Earth — Nightmare Destination: Tokyo Disneyland, Japan

Bright lights. Manufactured joy. Crowds. Tokyo Disneyland is a carefully choreographed mockery of chaos: one that Bianca finds viscerally repulsive. The forced cheerfulness and commercialized fantasy echo the Shinra dreamscape that once broke her mind.

She sees smiling children holding plastic swords and princess dresses, and her stomach turns at the hollow mimicry of heroism and royalty. It is the illusion of innocence without the shadow of consequence, a place where no one has ever bled for their kingdom, as she and her children have.

The park’s orchestration — rides on a schedule, fireworks at 9:00, and mascots waving at meet and greets — feels like spiritual captivity. Bianca, who bends time and space, loathes being funneled into lines and ushered through an experience like cattle. The rules, the smiling staff, and the perky background music that loops endlessly? Each detail is an assault on her instincts. The control is insidious. Not the tyranny of Diana, Hojo, or Shinra, but something worse. It's the tyranny of happiness without understanding pain.

Her corruption and cosmic energy also sit poorly in the places like Disneyland. The park is too clean, too perfect, and too closed. Her powers itch beneath her skin, while her wings twitch against her trench coat.

If she were to unleash herself here, it would be a massacre: not because she wants to but because the very structure of this place denies the existence of beings like her. Tokyo Disneyland doesn’t just reject Bianca. It erases her and forces villains like her into what she feels are caricatures of their real selves. That, she cannot abide.

The Planet (Gaia) — Dream Destination: Forgotten Capital (City of the Ancients)

Bianca finds an eerie sense of home in the Forgotten Capital. The entire city feels like a planetary scar: sacred, quiet, and thrumming with the songs of the dead. Here, the voices of the Cetra still sing within the stone, and she walks their pathways as an invader. The spiral architecture, echoing out from the central altar, is reminiscent of the portal loops and dream-geometry in her own spatial magic.

The iridescent shells and coral-like structures feel like remnants of a drowned cosmos. She watches the Lifestream pulse faintly beneath the crystal water, and for once, she doesn’t hear the souls inside scream.

She imagines birthing one of her children here — perhaps Lucien in another life — and roosting upon the sacred altar where Aerith once died. Not in mockery, but reclamation. She is not desecrating the Cetra’s memory. She is giving it purpose through her corrupted divinity.

Sephiroth, too, lingers here: not in body (no that's North) but in scent and dream. This is the place where his legend turned and the Planetary Defenders finally realize exactly what they are dealing with even if they had a clue before. This is where the murder of Aerith became myth. Bianca finds that delicious.

It is not grief that saturates the stone, but potential. The kind of silence that comes before a god speaks. The kind of place where time folds in on itself and prophecy births monsters. On the Planet? The Forgotten Capital is her cathedral.

The Planet (Gaia) — Nightmare Destination: Kalm

There is something revolting to Bianca about Kalm. It isn’t the people, or the architecture, or even the Shinra-infused gossip that hangs in the air. It’s the smallness. The reduction of life to farming, trade and hearth.

Kalm is the antithesis of her being: slow, sturdy, and unchanging. A place where trauma is wrapped in folklore and grief is worn like an old sweater. These people bury their dead and keep moving. There’s no sacred wound here. No rupture for her to crawl into and twist for her goals.

Bianca cannot abide towns that reject the inevitable. In Kalm, no one would understand what it means to become a goddess or to die screaming at the edge of a dream. Her wings itch with irrelevance. During the Meteorfall Crisis, even Sephiroth is reduced to nothing more than a bedtime horror story here: a name said to scare children away from the mines. She passes unnoticed, unneeded, and unseen. And that kind of invisibility? It wounds her deeper than any blade.

Most damning of all, Kalm is stable. Its rhythm dulls her senses. Her powers falter in its calm, its clean streets and cloying hearthfires. There is no infection here. No fissures in reality. No cosmic desperation. Just people who are content to live and die in obscurity.

Kalm forces her to consider a life without legend, without trauma, and without rebirth. And that, for Bianca Moore, is the ultimate nightmare.

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