EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

[inthenightmods]

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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Comments

[lunchbreaks]

[ He definitely goes to start making coffee for Bucky, who he is increasingly worried over. ]

Perhaps you should have a lie-down after this.

[worthallthis]

[The Sergeant makes a sound that could be construed as amusement. Pained amusement, but still.]

That's your answer to everything, ain't it.

[lunchbreaks]

No, that's Crowley's answer to everything. Mine is food, but I don't think that will work for you.

[worthallthis]

Food always works. I'd rather eat than sleep any day.

[He runs both hands through his hair, trying to settle it back into place after his scare.]

Misty's been teaching me to cook, you know. I made Crowley a fuckin'. Grilled cheese sandwich. He liked it, too.

[This may possibly be an attempt at changing the subject from Aziraphale asking about what exactly is going on.]

[lunchbreaks]

I never really understood why you grill cheese. Is that an American thing? I do quite like toasted sandwiches, perhaps with some meat. Oh, or cucumbers... but not toasted...

[ It's working. ]

[worthallthis]

[The Sergeant actually gives a little wheezing laugh at the irony.]

That's what I thought it was when Misty first said that's what we were making. Couldn't figure out how to make cheese grill without it melting. It's what you said, a toasted sandwich made with cheese, and other stuff.

[(See, maybe you're not that out of touch after all, pal.) Still no response from the back of his brain, which really is starting to get concerning.]

[lunchbreaks]

There's always bread cheese. I do love a good bread cheese, particularly the way they used to-- the way they put jam on it up north and eat it with thick bread for breakfast. Delicious.

[ Whoops, does Bucky know he's 6000? Better keep that under wraps. ]

[worthallthis]

[Bread cheese. It's not like "grilled cheese sandwich" is really any better, but it just sounds ridiculous. The Sergeant drops his head into his hands, still laughing, though it's a rough sound like he hasn't done a lot of it recently.]

Yeah. Yeah, that. Sounds great.

[And it kind of does! Jam on grilled cheese might be something to experiment with! But it's just so dumb-sounding he can't help but laugh weakly. Into his hands. Okay, and a lot of that is stress finding an awkward outlet, but still. (Better than hitting things, right?)

And no, he doesn't know you're 6000 years old, Aziraphale. Just older than you look, but then again, so is he.]

[lunchbreaks]

I... I'm not sure what's so funny.

[ He blinks owlishly, as if missing a joke, but he goes to prepare coffee anyway.

Does it seem familiar, having someone to grind the beans by crank? Hardly anyone does it anymore. ]

[worthallthis]

It's not. It's not, really. Sorry.

[He takes a breath, makes himself slow down and cut it out. It did help, a little, though. He doesn't feel quite as much like he wants to break the coffee table in half just to try and pull the Soldier back out again.

The sound of the coffee prep is, in fact, soothing for no reason he understands, but which he's not going to question. That helps, too.]

[lunchbreaks]

[ Maybe it's the sound, or perhaps it might be the smell. Aziraphale has herbs sprouting in cups, waiting to take root in order to be placed into Misty's garden. Or perhaps just into pots, to be taking up less space.

There are certain spices about, and remnants of the scent of things having been cooked. He's been getting better at it lately. ]

No need to apologize.

[ He goes to heat up some water. ]

[worthallthis]

[All of it. This place is more "home" than anywhere he can remember. So why does he still feel like he should be on edge? Check the exits one more time? Verify the knife under the couch cushions is still there? Ugh. It's exhausting.]

Can I help with that?

[Might as well. He'd rather learn how to make the stuff, himself, anyway. The Soldier would like that, right?]

[lunchbreaks]

It's alright. Just needs to be heated, steeped and filtered.

[ He goes to get the filters.

It is dark, French-pressed tasting this way. But, you know. No coffee machine. ]

[worthallthis]

[At the very least, he watches, eyes following Aziraphale around the kitchen. (What if I told him. Huh? Would that make you talk to me?) He's not sure he can... but hell. Maybe he can work out a way. Aziraphale's a technician (Sort of.). Maybe he'd be able to... help somehow.

The thought makes him shudder, dredges up hallucinated half-memories of what actual technicians did to the Soldier, memories of the table with straps, the needles and lights. Technicians don't help. For a moment, the angel doesn't look like himself, but a short man with round glasses, not fixing coffee but filling syringes, and he has to put his head back down in his hands again until he can control his breathing.]

Not real. Not fuckin' real.

[lunchbreaks]

Soldier, dear?

What are you seeing?

[ He puts down everything at once to go attend to Bucky, not sure if it has anything to do with him or not, or if this is at all any help. ]

[worthallthis]

Sergeant. Fuckin'. Sergeant, okay. Serial number 32557038. Soldier's not talkin' to me right now.

[It comes out muffled by hands, flesh and metal, before he can let his fucking brain trip him up again. He shudders, suppressing the irrational and ridiculous urge to get up and hide behind the couch. The plates in his arm ripple and grate on each other with mental discomfort made noisily physical.

Right on that fun little confession's heels is the slightly more normal plead:]

Please don't ruin the coffee just for me. That's gonna be the only good thing about today.

[lunchbreaks]

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?

[worthallthis]

[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.]

[lunchbreaks]

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?

[worthallthis]

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.

[lunchbreaks]

Neither of you are dangerous?

[ Why the hell does Aziraphale not believe a word of that. ]

--Would it help? If I... looked through your memories. There are many bright ones.

[worthallthis]

[Hence the clarification "not because of this". They're both dangerous... but not because they're two bits broken off the same whole. He twitches back, even though Aziraphale hadn't actually reached for him.]

No. Not without the Soldier agreeing, and it's not talking right now.

[The Soldier is technically the mission head on this thing they call living. The Sergeant's had a lot less consciousness time, and even if he's the one who feels more mature sometimes, he's not doing something like that alone. He does eye Aziraphale warily, though, and asks, almost unwillingly,]

Bright ones?

[lunchbreaks]

Your life can't have been all terrible, dear.

Someone must have cared for you quite a deal, once. I can feel it...

But perhaps .... it is trickier, since you are both ... present.

[worthallthis]

[Considering they'd both pretty much assumed their previous life was all terrible, that's. Unexpected. And hard to believe, to be honest. He keeps watching Aziraphale sidelong, looking for some kind of lie, and asks hesitantly,]

You can... feel it?

[lunchbreaks]

I feel... love, and happiness.

[ And good things, naturally. ]