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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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."

The Soldier stands up to Scarlett for you, Crowley. That's love, right there. This, though, is a much safer topic. "I haven't ever been to a bookshop. That I remember. Why is it a bore?"

"Books!" Crowley says, as if that explains everything about why a bookshop is a bore. "And believe me, he'll tell you about how he organizes them, which is not very well at all, mind."

He looks over to the human soldier person. "Though, the London we're from is going to be a bit different than what you're used to. If I'm guessing from your Sergeant person in your head, you're from about sixty--almost seventy years in our past."

"I died in 2014, Crowley," the Soldier says, sounding amused. "I think I'll manage. Hold on, let me get the door." It steps ahead to do just that, holding open the Invincible door for Crowley, offering its metal arm as support for those few last steps.

"How?" Crowley asks, stopping before he steps inside of the Invincible. "You were in the second World War. I know it, I know what you said. There's no way you could've been there then and dead in 2014. That's impossible."

"Either I don't age, or it was being in cryofreeze for years at a time," the Soldier shrugs. It's had this conversation before, so at least it's thought about it already, and knows what to say. "I don't know for sure which it is, since I don't remember. But I'm sure that my handlers kept getting older each time I came out of the ice, and I didn't. It's just one of those things I know without knowing how."

"I'll hope that it's because you don't age," Crowley says. "Rather have you around a bit longer than just a few years."

He steps up the stairs into the Invincible. His leg aches. It's ached for the last few weeks. He's never had an ache like this before.

"Do you think you'll age here? That we'll all...age here?"

"If we manage to stop the world-eater things. Two years isn't long enough to show aging." It considers, holding its metal arm steady to help Crowley make it up the steps. "We're dead, though. And our bodies reform if our lanterns go out. So it's possible we may not."

That makes Crowley feel a bit better. Thinking that even if they did manage to stop whatever was happening here, that he'd only have a mere thirty or forty years would be devastating. He'd talked to Aziraphale about the possibility of aging and it had stuck with him what they would do if they only had a little bit of time left----and thirty or forty years was certainly only a little bit of time.

"I suppose we'll see, if we don't get out of this place first," he says. "I still say our best bet is that waterway."

"Not until we've rebuilt the dock, and see what happens with next month's supply," the Soldier says, leading Crowley to one of the tables. "And I'm sure it won't be that easy, anyway. Sit, get off your leg. I'll get you something."

Crowley complies. He wants to be difficult, but he's been off his leg for the past week and while he is loathe to admit it, it's helped. He's never going to hear the end of it from Aziraphale if staying off the leg actually does help it.

"We could just build a boat," he says. "Something big enough for three or four of us," he says. "No one else has to be part of it."

The Soldier pauses to think that over. It doesn't... like that idea, honestly. Crowley is its friend, but so is Scarlett. And what about Misty, Eleven, and Scarlett? And the others, left behind without someone like the Soldier to protect them? Crowley isn't a handler, so it doesn't have to go along with it. (But I don't really want to watch him sail away, either. I really don't think either of them know how to build a boat, pal. They'll be doing more sinking than sailing.)

Fair point. "Do you know how to build a boat?"

Crowley looks almost offended by the suggestion. "I've been around people building boats. Been on Earth a long time, I've seen a lot of boat-building."

That is, roughly translated: No.

"We could also try flying. Getting a few torches out of that big bonfire, going out as far as we can. Seeing what's out there."

"How far can you fly?" The Soldier picks up moving again and heads to the bar. It'll give in and let Crowley have some booze, this once. Crowley's probably going to have a shitty next few days, it can be nice.

"Not farther than I can see," Crowley says. "But I once flew 40 days and 40 nights without stopping, so as long as we can get me light, I can get us out there."

And there was a lot of water that time, too.

"That's a lot of flying. Maybe once you're healthy again," the Soldier suggests, returning with a glass and a bottle of something low-ish alcohol content and high flavor (based on scent, anyway), setting them on Crowley's table. "How much can you carry?"

"Not as much as Aziraphale," he replies, reaching for the bottle. "But I could definitely carry a person. Maybe a few things. Get us some distance away."

Flying. Without needing a jet or anything. The Soldier can't even imagine it, but it definitely wants to try it. Maybe not to leave exactly... it's not sure it really even wants to leave behind its other friends. But to see what it's like. "You should try it first," it suggests. Casually. "A test flight. To make sure nothing goes wrong because of this place messing with your powers."

And obviously a good test subject would be the Soldier, right? It's heavy and durable, and knows how to fall if it comes to that.

Crowley considers this as he takes a sip of the drink. It's not nearly as alcoholic as he'd like after seeing a vision of Hastur, but it'll do for the moment.

"Could do," he says. "Take a shot out over the water, see how far we can get before we need to turn back."

Of course he'd be taking the human soldier person. There aren't a lot of people in this town he could stomach for five minutes, let alone carry on any sort of a journey.

Sorry, Crowley, the high-content stuff gets saved for emergencies and cleaning wounds. At least when the Soldier is bartending (if it can even be called that when it consists of grabbing a bottle and foisting it on someone else). "Once the hallucinations stop," it says. "They have to stop sometime, right?"

"Maybe," Crowley says, his voice sounding like he isn't certain of anything. "Unless the person causing these hallucinations wants them to last until we all go mad."

He takes another drink.

"Too late," the Soldier says, easing into the seat opposite Crowley at his table. "I already lost that battle when I started bickering with myself." (We don't bicker. Sergeant. Are you kidding me. Yes, we do. I heckle you, there's a difference.)

Crowley shrugs. "You're not that crazy. I bicker with myself all the time." He doesn't have a separate voice in his head when he does, but it doesn't seem that mad to Crowley.

"We've got to stop the Lighthouse Keeper from doing this to us, though," Crowley says. "One way or another."

That sounds ominous. Better head that off before he gets too ahead of himself. "Crowley. Before you do anything rash. Let me talk to the spirit I met. He may have more answers than we do, and he seemed. Eager to help." If he can work out a way to ask that the spirit will understand.

Crowley doesn't trust the spirits, but what the human soldier person has said recently has changed Crowley's mind somewhat. He lets out an annoyed sigh.

"Oh, all right," he says. "But if it doesn't give you any useful information, we should start figuring out a way to get to that Lighthouse Keeper."

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