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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Ambrose Spellman, at your service.

( he pauses to add a very distinguished boy before breaking into a laugh. )

Ambrose is fine. And you are, my friend?

Yes.

( yes, that's right. this is not real and he repeats that mantra over and over again before blowing out a breath and looking up at grizz. )

Very vivid hallucinations but yes, they aren't real.

( he rubs at his face. )

Not that that stop me from feeling like they are all too real.

It'll be fine, it needs to steep. What do you mean Soldier's not-- What is 325570...

[ He racks his brain for the rest but he's not entirely sure. ]

--Never mind. Could you kindly explain what is going on?

[ Riku typically has more sense than to wander off, least of all beyond the known paths of Beacon. Nevertheless, he's out here, torchless and alone, chasing the imagined shadow of something personal enough to throw that tempered caution to the wind.

Distance and speed have Riku vanishing from sight with little more than the occasional call to guide Bruce. When only one of them can see what he pursues, there's no immediate sign to indicate why Riku has stopped when at last the dim gleam of his lantern and the pale halo of his silver hair emerge in a clearing.

The frost has his breath gusting from him in a visible plume, has pebbled his skin all up his arms; he'll cool faster now that he's stopped, now that his desperate sprint through the woods has warmed him enough to sweat.

Unmoved by the cold, Riku's right hand reaches slowly out to touch the empty space. The tilt to his head suggests that whatever he's looking at is a good head shorter than him, his reach not far, like he stands close enough to suggest familiarity.

Then something knocks him onto his back, making his breath fly from his lungs in a surprised rush. Sitting up, he fires off: ]

Hey! What's the big idea?

[ He sees the other boy turn away and that doesn't seem right. No matter what happened, Sora wasn't the type who turned his back on his friends. Riku, who had done so much to wrong him and everyone else they knew, intimately understood how forgiving, how kind Sora was.

If ever his friends saw Sora's back, he was defending them.

His eyes search the dark, trying to understand, hanging on the silence in the wake of his outburst like he's looking for what to say.

And then he senses it, a (familiar) equilibrium of light and shadow, but it's more the presence that registers and Riku turns his head around sharply. ]

Who's there?

Aziraphale.

[ He reaches out a hand to shake Ambrose's. He is delightful. ]

Just the one name.

[ To clarify. He lost the title awhile ago. ]

Just one name, hmm? Like Prince? Cher?

( how very artistic of you, aziraphale. )

What sort of a name is Aziraphale?

[ a bone saw. well, that tracks with the missing arm and the replacement prosthetic. but she hadn't heard it or seen it, like he hadn't heard or seen what she had. ]

Yeah, I'd want to get knives out if I heard that, too.

[ the voice whispers her name again, louder this time. a hand ghosts over her shoulder, its touch featherlight. she shuts her eyes again. ]

I wasn't seeing. I was hearing.

[Thank fuck for orders, couched politely or not. That makes this a little easier. Not less nerve-wracking, but still easier. He drops his hands and stares at the floor, not quite Soldier-like mission-report posture but close.

Have some really unexpected and possibly disturbing info about your housemate, angel:]

There's. Kinda. Two of us in here. Fuck, that sounds bad. We've been callin' me Sergeant, because that's my rank. From World War II. Also the only damn thing I remember about myself besides my serial number and a couple memories from the war.

The other one's the Soldier, because that's what it's been called for seventy years or some shit, and it's twitchy about actual names. That's the one you guys know and tip-toe around. It's not. Talking to me right now, I think that Word really freaked it out and I don't fuckin'. Know why.

[And he's kind of worried about that. He really thought telling Aziraphale would send it surging back up from to stop him.]

Oh, I don't think I've met Prince or Cher yet. Are they here as well?

[ Sorry Ambrose, he doesn't even know who the Beatles are, this is a lot to expect. ]

--And it's, um, biblical. I suppose.

Suits him well enough. Rosinante does tend toward generosity and kindness as appropriate, but when it comes to facing the possible end of cigarettes, he's all in favor of drawing the line there.

"Not much," he admits. "Nobody's really sat down and told me anything in detail, just that it's got magic, and technology like the tablets is ubiquitous. And apparently humans are the only sapient race. I think I met a couple others here who said they were from New York. Definitely met some from America but even people who said that was their kingdom had different accents between them."

[The footfalls stop, an abrupt kind of silence that comes after a heavy snap- the crunch of leaves and twigs underfoot. It isn't much, but it gives Bruce the opening he needs to close the distance.

He could try to negotiate.
It wouldn't be the first attempt Bruce has made to talk someone down. If you know what's good for you, you will let me go. And it wouldn't be the first time it was doomed to failure. He's meant to be learning from his mistakes. Bruce wants to be an optimist. He wants to believe that the people around him, even in their darkest moments, will be able to see the way forward with clarity and to make better, wiser decisions. But he knows first hand that it just isn't that simple. How many times had Alfred tried to take the wheel? Or Jim Gordon, or Selina? How many times have they tried to save him from himself? And how many times did he sputter with anger when they kept him from his worst nature? From what he wanted?

Riku pauses visibly. Bruce sees it in the moment that he turns to look behind him, a sharp, sudden awareness. His breath misting in the air. Riku isn't dressed for the cold; if he keeps exerting himself like this out here, his health will be affected- as a bare minimum.

If he were younger, if he was the person he'd been before the bridges blew, his voice would have called out across the space. He would have said 'It isn't real. You're hallucinating.' But what is reality? Isn't the way he must be feeling, the reaction it solicits- isn't that real?

It makes the decision for him. Bruce doesn't slow. He reaches for the grappling gun at his side instead and fires- catching Riku's ankle with it and pulling it taut- dropping him to the ground.]

( it doesn't occur to her, though it most certainly resonates with him. it's not really that he disbelieved her, it is more a matter of hearing not being quite the same as living it. not the same as holding her as she died, feeling her bleed out in his arms. he believed but it wasn't quite as real until he feels the reality of the scar under his hand. it's horrific to think about her dying, even knowing the fact that she's here proves she had. doesn't seem to matter that both of them are dead, now, it still leaves a hollow ache in his chest to have the unshakeable reminder.

the only problem with his suggestion is that Matt has to pull away from her to get one. he slips his hand from underneath hers and squeezes, gingerly. ) I'm not going far. ( if she listens, he only goes a few steps away, to the cabinet she has dug into herself on occasion. the best blindfold he has available is just a pillowcase, though it should still do the trick. he's back in less than a minute, sitting next to her on the bed. )

Lift your head up for me, sweetheart. ( if she can do that much, he can slip the fabric behind her head and tie it off. )

( oh dear, ambrose feels faint. he might have to sit down for this one. )

I...don't think they're here, no. I hope not. There haven't been any excellent concerts so I doubt they're here.

( and if they were, he's mad that he's missed out. )

Biblical? I've only skimmed through that book. So many words.

I, uh--

[Quentin takes a quick step back, putting some space between them and between Riku's hand reaching out, clearing his throat and stuffing both of his hands in to his pockets as if that's going to take the attention away from his neck.]

I was just taking a walk? And I thought I saw-- I heard. But, uh, it's all a little confusing? Maybe I swallowed a bug? Yeah, uh, yeah I think that's it. I swallowed a bug and it... it flew down wrong?

[Lies, and his eyes slide off to the side, watching Alice beckon him with a curl of her small hand. Or at least he thinks it's Alice, since he can only make out the hand and nothing else in the darkness, but that's alright. He just has to follow her, right? Find out what she knows.

Or he doesn't, because she might just be something his mind has made up. Because of the stress and the dark and the fucking ferry going under and maybe, maybe, maybe it's just his ordinary brain breaking in the worst possible time.

Quentin's eyes flick back to Riku after a very long period of silence, and he's holding himself to still. So quiet, a neutral kind of apathy forced on to his face and he makes himself smile - wholly fake and terrified, heart pounding in fear and his hands are shaking too hard to hold on to anything, except inside his pockets where he can fist his hands in to the fabric and hold on rightly.]

It's just a walk? I just wanted to see the river?

[ No sooner than Riku is back on his feet from being knocked onto his tailbone by hallucinated hands, a presence draws near, there's a sound, one Riku can't really place-

And then something bites into the ankle of his boot and drops him to the ground again. Riku can't help the grunt the impact kicks loose from his throat. There's a question in it, more surprise than pain.

Sora is walking away.
Why would he push him away?
The reach of his arm towards Sora's retreating back is raw instinct.
Don't bother. Your voice can no longer reach him where he is.

What Riku controls better is the urge to call out after empty air, when he remembers how little it mattered. For whatever reason, Sora can't hear him, deal with that later, but it'll amount to nothing if he doesn't get him back to Beacon, where it's safer.

As for this..? Swinging his attention back around to his ankle caught in that painful clutch, wariness gives way to anger like a switch carelessly flipped. ]

That was the wrong choice!

[ There's a tether shining in a taut straight line under the light of his lantern, Riku follows it, when the arm that had reached out across empty space sweeps back in the other direction. What gathers in his gloved palm curdles like a stormcloud, a ripple of black shot through with dark violet, launched out blindly in the direction of the grappling hook's cable.

Whoever it is - whatever it is, he thinks has this coming. ]

Oh.

[ Well, that's extremely concerning. He furrows his brows. ]

I did think your accent had changed a little.

[ Yes Aziraphale, that's the big takeaway. ]

Does this happen a lot? Do you remember what the word is?

[ Oh good, so he won't notice that Aziraphale isn't even in the bible by name. Rude, leaving him out like that. ]

Yes, so very many.

--Are you feeling alright, Ambrose?

[ His hand draws back as Quentin backs away. That could have been enough, a line drawn and Riku reminded to respect the distance, but the magician proves better at tutting than he is at lying. Riku would cross his arms if flexibility wasn't currently limited and he unwilling to expose his vulnerability.

That look of dissatisfaction and skepticism ebbs away the longer Quentin's attention drifts. He realizes, in those long moments that pass, that he's looking at something, nothing he himself can see, but he can see the tension drawn so taut in him he shakes. Can see that terror has seized his pupils.

He yet sees how the darkness in his heart is eating away at him, you can sense it. You can feel it.

Riku jerks his shoulder away from the sensation of gloved fingers settling there, masks the motion by turning so only one side faces Quentin. ]

The only ones visiting the river have a death wish. It's not safe when you're seeing things.

[ It's pointed, the observation Riku makes, and when he hears that voice again, he shuts his eyes with a small frown.

He welcomes it, did you not hear him? Soon he will fall into darkness. A fitting end for such a fool. ]

Shut up.

[ He exhales. ]

Not you. Sorry.

Besides the fact that I'm hallucinating and you don't know who Prince is?

( was that a hallucination too? )

I'm fine and dandy. But, I don't know if that'll be the answer when your face starts melting.

It's in Russian. I don't speak Russian right now. That's Soldier. I could repeat it but I'll get it wrong and--

[And the thought makes him want to flinch.]

--and I don't think I want to say it.

[He gives Aziraphale a sidelong look, nervous.]

It's not... dangerous. I mean, I'm not, and the Soldier's not. Not because of this. I don't usually do this, come out and interact with people. It was just scared it'd shoot someone cuz of these hallucinations. And I'm a little less likely to do that.

I've done that, too. Heard things.

[It finally risks a glance up at her face, taking in her stance and expression. Less risk of attack now, at least.]

Usually both. You okay now?

[Or better, anyway.]

[The line connects, winds itself three times around the narrow juncture of Riku's ankle, around the clasps of his boot, and he can almost feel the way he lands- hard. His entire body. It works- not because he's managed to get him on the ground, but because Riku finally stops looking ahead. Whatever he's been chasing seems to move out of sight, become indistinct or perhaps dissolve entirely.

But catching his attention was only half the battle. He has to keep it.

Bruce carries his lantern very deliberately when he's walking into town square; this is another matter entirely. When he pulls the mask over his face he pulls one over the light as well, wrapping layer upon layer around a cage he's made, to protect the lantern's flame and stability. It allows him to be mostly invisible and Bruce wears it fastened to his hip, just behind him. This requires him to be careful about who and what he engages with. How he does it. But it leaves both hands free and also makes it difficult to reach for any outside force.

He has seconds, really, to make the decision, and it's practice that allows him to do so without haste. Bruce clips the other end of the line to a nearby tree, to keep him anchored, and he begins to approach from the side. It's the only reason that whatever Riku throws back at him misses- it follows a trajectory Bruce had adjusted and then departed from. It doesn't matter, he can't see what was thrown. A weapon? Magic? It comes so close that Bruce can feel the breeze rustle the high collar of his shirt.

His eyes widen.

Instead of freezing in place Bruce presses himself flat to another tree, looking up at the branches (too thin) and then the branches of the next tree over (maybe.)]

It's dangerous to go any further.

[One hand goes back to his belt, fingers sliding a small, oblong piece from a narrow pouch.]

Turn back towards town.

[This makes Crowley raise an eyebrow]

They're the eyes of a demon, angel.

Yes. But they're yours.

[ Does he think Aziraphale is lying? ]

And if you think about it, everything of yours is that of a demon's.

Crowley likes that. The human soldier person likes him better as something other than a handler. They're friends and that---well, it's nice. Crowley doesn't have a lot of friends, he never did. Human friendships never lasted, and he always shied away from them.

"You'll like London, when we get back. Keep you safe, away from the lot that did this to you. Aziraphale will show you his bookshop---that's a bore, but he loves it. Good place to have a glass of wine."

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EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

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