logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: october 9-17.
content: the hallucinations begin...
warnings: psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

it's probably something that shouldn't be said out loud

October 9 feels like a normal day at first, save for the red lighthouse beam cutting through the darkness overhead. You know by now—or you've heard—that the lighthouse is only active during ferry arrivals and events... And there's definitely no ferry docked at the, er. Beach. The town is quiet, the forest spirits behave business-as-usual, Rastus doesn't know what's up. Whatever's going on, you'll have to figure it out for yourself.

And you will, though the hallucinations are subtle at first: objects moving when they shouldn't, people's proportions looking just a bit off, voices in an empty room, and so on. Is it just your mind playing tricks in the darkness? Might be! Will did warn you all about the effects of living without a sun and a proper day/night cycle.

As the days go on, the hallucinations are harder to ignore, no matter how much you may wish to wave them off as flukes. What's wrong with everyone's faces? When did all the howling start? Who do you hold onto when the world drops out from under you? And those hands...

While you might know it can't be real, it certainly feels real. But at least it can't last forever!

...Right?

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He had been about to ask, but then the soldier clarifies what sort of chair - sort of. A chair that fries brains doesn't make much sense to him, but Soldat is right that it doesn't sound pleasant either, so with a shrug, he finally pushes himself up to his feet and takes his lantern in hand, and takes a few long strides to follow along with Soldat.

"I'm sorry," he says, quiet. However it is that the man had to experience such a thing, whether personally or having to witness others in it, it's a horrifying thought, even if he's picturing it wrong.

Picturing it doesn't last long anyway because his gaze is soon directed to those hands again. How they operate both their legs, and lurk at the corners of his vision with their crude weapons. They're whispering amongst themselves, too. Questioning which one is the monster. Wondering if perhaps they both are, in their own ways.

Soldat is in the lead, and Rosinante trails a half-step behind, but the world changes abruptly so that he's seeing the world from the height of a child, barely to the other man's knees. He's injured and cold and starving and so very small, and the sheer vertigo of the transition causes him to stumble and drop to the ground again with a gasp.

"Yes. I kept seeing the Chair. The one that wiped me before every mission. Or handlers, actual handlers with actual punishments, actual technicians trying to do experiments." It shakes its head, hard and sharp, as if shaking that away. "And these Words, in Russian, one at a time. I don't know what they are, but they felt dangerous, and each time one more came it got worse. I didn't want to find out what would happen when they finished."

Hmmm...

[There's a dark line she feels forming on the back of her hand. Black paint swirling and curling and coiling. Erasing her and what she is slowly...slowly.]

But you know something? Even if someone said they wanted me, they wouldn't ever stay.

The Soldier hitches its shoulders in a shrug, has more of the cigarette. "It is what it is. And it's not really here, so at least nobody's brains are in any actual danger. Even hallucinating being in it didn't--"

The sound of someone Rosinante's size falling down makes it break off and turn. Ah, hell. (Poor guy. Yeah. I wish I could drag everyone in this dumb town to Crowley for a fix.) Cigarette in its fingers, it drops slowly to a crouch and asks carefully: "What happened. What do you see."

I'm sorry, Mary. That sounds pretty awful.

[Nobody ever actually said they wanted the Soldier around-- except after it died, here. The thought of one of the people here that promised to care about it, any of them, suddenly deciding to leave... yeah. Pretty awful.]

Can I help.

"Nothing new, I just fell. It's normal. I'm clumsy like that."

It's much easier to talk about than what he didn't quite see but certainly did experience for a moment there. Everything feels the right size now that he's been jarred back into reality, so he shakes his head and stands again to continue walking.

[The tone of voice has an obvious effect on him. Not that Remington drops the axe, but he flinches, hesitating, the stance becoming more defensive than anything else, like he's using it to shield himself instead of present it as an actual weapon.

What is clearly meant to be a weapon. He looks anywhere--everywhere--except for her face, and stammers impossibly, shaking his head.]

It's not...I can't...this isn't so...so s-s-simple.

[It's fortunate that Remington manages to steady himself. He chokes down a gulp of air as he looks at the individual he's suddenly invaded the space of, and then points a shaking finger to the tree line.]

You...you can't see...? Oh, oh my god.

[It's finally happened. He's snapped. He's absolutely crazy. He looks like he could crumble in a helpless heap of self-pity at any second.]

(Yeah, like we believe that, pal. It doesn't matter. He knows whatever it was, wasn't real. He doesn't have to tell us.)

The Soldier doesn't offer him a hand up, but does keep to whatever pace Rosinante sets. "You should stay near other people," it suggests. "Talk to them whenever you see something. Even if it doesn't make things stop, it can at least be a distraction, right? We can go back to the Invincible."

What're you doing in front of it?

[It's a defiant question that doesn't demand an answer so much as an action. The moment Masaomi is assured that this guy is a real person like the rest of them, he shoves away, gives himself a moment to breathe and recollect his composure.]

I may be paranoid, but some dude stalking through the forest after me ain't helping, y'know?!

It is, in fact.

[She keeps the tone up, her eyes locked on him. It's two feet to the left now, and she doesn't dare move more than an inch or two each time.]

All you have to do is set it down and take a step back. You're more than capable.

"There's speakers hooked up around town, so we ought to be able to get some..." She's lost in this thought until he continues on, and looks almost surprised at the suggestion. Taking things one point at a time, it would seem. She nods, stepping in and kicking her boots off in impressive time.

"Probably getting to be the time to take a torch for the house, next time we're out. Towels and blankets'll do fine for now."

It's a shockingly endearing little gesture, all said. Only because he's ordinarily so void of such things, but it's refreshing. Cute. Expecting he wouldn't want attention called to it (and that he must be spent), she makes the merciful choice to leave it without verbal acknowledgement. The smile can't be helped.

She gestures, urging him to lay down, and steps slowly toward the door.

"Good night. Call, if you need anything."

"Sit," it says, guiding her to the couch, and dropping the nearest throw blanket or whatever from the couch over her shoulders. The Soldier shouldn't be giving orders to a handler, but Misty only barely counts, and it's a nice order, anyway. "I know where everything is. I'll get you whatever you need while you warm up." And then maybe they can talk about music more, instead of other things. Maybe she'll forget.

[ peter's tired.

it's not his first experience with hallucinations, with illusions, but it's the first time, he thinks, that they've gone on so long. they'd started off as voices, always just round another corner. he'd heard gwen, and mj—. kraven, too, saying that they're not merely hallucinations, that they're visions. warnings of the future and though he knows that's not true, not when one of the voices is gwen, there's still that what-if at the back of his thoughts every time he thinks he hears mj calling for him.

he thought he'd be better at ignoring it.

he'd tried sleeping, tried burying his head in his pillow and just closing his eyes to the world, but that hadn't helped — he still heard them, and he still felt the hands. he heard, too, other people in the invincible with their own hallucinations, and he's not sure if that's the worst part. he should be able to do something, there should someway to stop this—.

every so often, there's what feels like ants dancing across his skull, sudden and short lived, and it fades, always, into a slight ringing in his ears. it's nothing he's not used to — his spider-sense, intermittently warning him of dangers, but each and every time, there's nothing there, and he—

what good is he, if he can't trust his spider-sense? the jury's out on whether it's reacting to something, or whether it's just another part of the hallucinations, but what it does mean is that his head hurts. a constant, dull ache, one that he should be used to by now, but—.

(would the store have aspirin? tylenol? is it even worth it, when those supplies would be better saved for an emergency?)

he stands at the foot of the stairs leading up into the invincible, just for a moment. there's a boy, a teenager, maybe early twenties, taking one bottle, then two, then three, and peter finds himself, quite suddenly (is it sudden?) thinking of harry.

one step, then two. his hand on the door, then peter's hand on his wrist, and: ] Is that— [ a breath of a pause; peter lets go of bruce's wrist, quickly, like he's only just realised he'd grasped it, and pinches the bridge of his nose. ]

Is that really going to help?

She'd come looking for him, choosing not to think too much about the fact that she was going out of her way to do something nice. Something she could excuse when it came to Mary or even Hope, but that required a little more (or in this case, stubbornly less) thought when she did it for Tinman.

It was the decent thing to do, she'd told herself as she'd slathered damper with butter before practically soaking it in maple syrup. It cost her nothing to make extra food when she was about to feed herself and she had a pretty good idea that if it weren't for those occasions where she made him eat, he was still punishing himself by going without food as much as possible.

There was a flicker of surprise in her expression when she spotted him sitting by the bonfire. His appearance far more polished than what she was used to seeing and she wondered at first if one of the other people he'd mentioned had started hounding him about personal grooming. Something he'd never get from her with her choppily cut hair that always looked like it had been combed with her fingers and nothing more.

"Didn't think you owned a brush." Dropping onto the log beside him and passing over the chunks of damper wrapped in foil.

Scarlett had fared far better than most since the hallucinations had begun. For all that she'd hated about The Elder repeatedly messing with her head, he had prepared her for times like this. She'd played her very own game of 'real or not real' since the impossible visions had begun and while she couldn't say the experience in those first few days had been pleasant, she'd hardly suffered the way that many others had. Come day seven, however?

There was only so much hiding in her room that she could stomach, especially after years of constantly being on the move and while closed doors might have allowed her to deal with the onslaught of unreal images in private? She'd thought better of staying there after very nearly skewering somebody with her Katana.

Scarlett stalked through the town at a brisk pace, like she could possibly leave the ghosts that seemed to chase her in her dust. The crisp night air - though she'd lost sense of time long before the hallucinations had started - helping to focus her thoughts, even if it couldn't stop her from recoiling from hands that she couldn't see. While others clung to each other in the hopes of getting through it, Scarlett sought solitude instead. Refusing to allow others to see even a moment of weakness, lest they some day use it against her.

His words cut through her focus, making her flinch and her hands curl into fists. A muscle in her jaw jumping as she forces herself to slow to a stop.

"Right now? The fact you think I need protecting." Her voice strained despite the fact that her words are laced with heavy sarcasm.

It was just a question, man. I'm looking for any other explanation that isn't that I'm going out of my head.

( can you blame him, really? )

My apologies. I haven't smoked anything either. I am clean as a bell.

The smile earns a brief little glower, mostly out of embarrassment, but that doesn't last long. She's been kind, and it's nice when she smiles, anyway. Much better than the alternative. So it says in her wake, "Okay. Thanks." Probability of actually calling her for anything is like 9% or something, but it's a nice thought.

No matter how safe she is or how grateful it is to her, though, it can't actually start settling in and divesting of some of the wet clothes (and the boots; sleeping in boots sucks) until the door is safely shut behind her.

"Of course I own a brush," the Sergeant says, looking both vaguely offended and a little amused. There's stress in his expression, but not as much as there could be, and the fact that Scarlett can see all three emotions at once there probably means something. "You can't have this much hair and not have a hairbrush. Jesus. What's that?"

He accepts the package and starts unwrapping curiously without necessarily waiting for an answer. "Aw, you made me breakfast. Thanks, doll." And there's your confirmation, Scar: you've got the Sergeant today.

"Everyone does sometime," the Soldier says, stopping beside her when she does. There's no Brooklyn this time, and its emotions are back to being subtle-to-barely-there, but it's also probably the least jumpy person in Beacon at the moment. Which is probably weird, given who this is, and what she might have seen out of it for the past almost week of time if she'd spotted it around or in its (extremely) brief visits to check on her. "But I could just give you company instead, if you'd rather. That seems to help, too."

[it’s as he’s coming back, after an especially weird day. He thought he’d venture further than he ended up going— but it was one of those days where Will’s warning rings especially true. Which is frustrating to him. But referring to the clock, it’s close enough that he could justify a nap or something like it.

Maybe meditation, then nap.

But as he comes up to where he’s hidden the entrance to his actual hideout, he notices that it’s been left open. He may be slightly off kilter, but that is the sort of rookie mistake that he’s completely certain he’s been trained out of.

He frowns, and then quietly re-opens the door, and closes it with a quiet click.

He can leave his lantern at the top of the stairs, to get some sort of stealth going. Or he could count on brawling it out. Depending on who it was, he was certain he could take almost everyone with minimal noise. Minimal fighting. But it’s going to be annoying to find a new spot, which is the most distressing part of this whole planning phase as he works through all the logical next steps.

Until he gets to the bottom of the stairs and it’s time to confront the intruder.]

What are you doing?

[once he would’ve just attacked.

But he’s not going to let himself backslide that far.]

[at least it was an honest answer. He didn’t necessarily want to think about what he might appear as. He didn’t want to think too much about his own hallucinations, either. It’s enough to him to know that they’re more intense than usual. That crowbars still hurts even when the sensation is just a phantom.

That he still hates the Joker— and that he seriously wasn’t sure if he could keep his promise if they ever actually met again. Last time, he’d been too caught up in revenge on Bruce to seal the deal. But time makes you older, wiser. And death is about what the joke deserves.

But there’s something approaching concern in his face, since he notices those changes.

Metas.]

Heard on good authority that talking it out helps. In whatever way you can manage.

[because he’s not stupid enough to think they were on anything approaching good terms for a conversation like this. But, hey. Options are limited.]

BEGINNING.

[ it's a welcome relief to be able to walk outside again without the stench of the once-blooming flowers invading her senses. elektra doesn't venture out to socialize too often; she's out today to replenish some of her supplies and maybe check in on a few people. on her way to the store, something darts across her field of vision, and she'd typically ignore it, dismiss it as a spirit. except that it doesn't leave her peripheral, no matter how far she moves into town. and whenever she tries to turn to catch who or what's following her, no one's there.

she's near the bonfire when she starts to hear things in addition to what she sees - footsteps and the cracking of twigs beneath their feet, laughter, and finally and most frighteningly, a whisper in her ear, drawing out her name.

she whirls around again, a strike aimed at the throat of her would-be stalker, but the hit lands on nothing. her face falls into an expression of bewilderment and terror, eyes darting around to try and spot whoever it was that she could have sworn was just there. ]

MIDDLE.

[ sleep offers no relief. when she closes her eyes, the voices become louder; stick and her father and a female voice, completely unfamiliar to her, but she feels like she knows it all the same. she's huddled in a seat by the bonfire, staring into it with an alert and frightened gaze, trying not to close her eyes.

eventually the exhaustion gets the better of her and her eyes slide shut, the tension seeping from her shoulders. but before too long (it could be a few seconds or a few minutes), they snap back open and she leaps up as a hand winds around her ankle, kicking at it as it grips tight. ]

Get off. Don't touch me.

WILDCARD

[ if you'd like to do something separate from what i've outlined, go nuts and i'll roll with it! i can be reached via PMs or we can hash things out in her plotting comment. ]

Edited 2019-10-14 15:21 (UTC)

Crowley scoffs. He's not apologizing to the town. He's not doing what Aziraphale did. Apologizing to the angel is hard enough, and Crowley doesn't normally do hard, not when he doesn't have to.

"We'll plan better next time," he says. "Be smarter. As best we can, anyway."

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EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

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—middle.

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elektra natchios | daredevil | ota

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