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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[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.

[ 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?

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.

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.

[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?

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.

[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?

I feel... love, and happiness.

[ And good things, naturally. ]

Is that an angel thing?

[What a weird thing to just "feel". It's one thing to accurate guess people's emotional state based on visual and audible cues... but feeling it directly? The thought occurs to him:]

Does that mean you. Uh. Feel the other stuff, too?

[Is having him around basically a big black hole of unhappy emotions...? That's an unpleasant thought.]

Yes, I think so. You should ask Crowley if he feels the negative emotions. I think he might feel sins.

[ He pauses. ]

--Wait, how long have you known?

Crowley told us he was a demon after the failed mission. It wasn't hard to work out you, after that.

[He shrugs a little, awkwardly.]

Had to ask him what a demon even was. I don't remember much more about angels. It doesn't matter to us, really.

Oh.

He told me he didn't want to tell anyone.

[ He frowns, exasperated. Whatever Bucky, it's not your fault, you don't have to deal with this. ]

We were exchanging questions. I'd ask something he didn't want to answer, and he'd ask something I didn't want to answer. And when he put the wine back in the bottle, I knew something had to be funny.

[Hey, look, he's got his pronouns back in order. It's hard to keep track when you're technically two people.]

Of course he did.

[ Dumb. Dumb dumb. ]

Well, yes, I actually do want to tell people.

So it's all right that we worked it out.

[That's a relief. They'd both been hiding it ~~not that well~~, and Aziraphale did seem surprised, and all.]

I'll ask the Soldier about... everything. Once it's back to talking to me again instead of hiding. I don't know how long that's going to take, though.

That's alright. I'm sure if anyone knows how to talk to the Soldier, it would be you.

[ And yes, he knows its preferred pronoun is it, but he just can't bear to categorize a human as an it. A they, definitely. So he just. Tries to keep it to the name. ]

Considering we're both stuck in the same head, you'd think that.

[Someone should absolutely introduce the Soldier to the idea of "they" as a pronoun. Might actually be a decent compromise.]

How long does the coffee need to steep for?

[He can smell it. It smells like he imagines heaven ought to smell like.]

Should be about ready. It'll be kind of dark, I think.

Bitter. But should suffice.

[ He pours it out into two little mugs. ]

You let me know if you need it more bitter.

[The Sergeant does a good impression of not being impatient and greedy. It's Soldier-practice with expression control.]

Dark is fine. Bitter's even better. I think.

[He accepts the mug immediately, at least, and the smell right under his nose is almost good enough. If it tastes anything like it smells, it's going to be perfect.]

[ Aziraphale helps himself to some. It's not bad. Not great. Not smooth. But it'll suffice. ]

Would you like some biscuits as well? Or-- cookies.

[It's better than coffee brewed over a campfire on the front. And the Sergeant actually kind of remembers that taste, suddenly. This is definitely better. For his first coffee in seventy years, it's amazing.

He looks somewhere between relieved and maybe a little rapturous.]

This is good. This is fine.

Oh. I'm glad.

[ But he does go to get some manner of snacks to feed Sergeant. He's a growing boy, he needs it! ]

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EVENT LOG: BURY A FRIEND

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