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

[worthallthis]

"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.

[sauntered_downward]

"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.

[worthallthis]

"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?"

[sauntered_downward]

"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."

[worthallthis]

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.

[sauntered_downward]

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.

[worthallthis]

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?"

[sauntered_downward]

"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.

[worthallthis]

"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.)

[sauntered_downward]

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."

[worthallthis]

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.

[sauntered_downward]

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."

[worthallthis]

"I'll bribe it with coffee," the Soldier suggests. "Especially since it's been so long. It. Wouldn't be safe, to visit during all this. But the spirit asked me to come back soon."

Deflecting from the Lighthouse Keeper thing, or trying to. Considering how many people died the last time someone tried that.

[sauntered_downward]

"Do spirits like coffee?" Crowley asks, looking equal parts disturbed and interested. "Something to think about, at least."

[worthallthis]

"I don't know, but it's worth a try. Aziraphale keeps feeding the ones in the church and the library. So we know they eat." It gives Crowley a bland look. "You should have told me I could have that coffee sooner. I had to put up with Aziraphale's fussing to have my first coffee since the war."

It's teasing. Mostly, anyway.

[sauntered_downward]

"You hadn't had coffee before?" Crowley says. "Oh, thats right. Protein packs and water or whatever they feed their Assets. Can't have the fun things like coffee and alcohol."

Which, to be clear, are basically what Crowley runs on.

"What other things do you need to experience, now that you're free of your old role? Coffee----you tried the ice cream stand yet?"

[worthallthis]

And tubes. It's had that kind of utterly dehumanizing feeding before, too. The ice cream hadn't been a whole lot better than the taste of that, though. It hadn't been able to choose a flavor, and so just took whatever the vendor gave it, and it had been... not a great flavor. "Once. It was. Unfortunate. Coffee is much better."

[sauntered_downward]

"Eh, you can go with Aziraphale or me next time, we'll miracle it into a decent flavor," he says. "The ones they have there are rubbish. It's like someone read a wikipedia article on ice cream and picked a random list of flavors to choose. Blue cheese ice cream? Who would even think to do that, really?"

He takes another drink.

"Music?"

[worthallthis]

Well, that is neatly distracting from horrible ice cream flavors. In a potentially nice way. The Soldier's gaze actually sharpens right on Crowley's sunglasses, precision focus. "What? About music?"

[sauntered_downward]

"You heard any music since you left----" He gestures a bit with his glass. "You know, all that. Do you remember music?"

[worthallthis]

There it is, that inexplicable longing associated with music. Not even coffee or cigarettes had that kind of unsubstantiated pull. The Soldier actually looks a little distressed-- not afraid, obviously, but unhappy, entirely because it doesn't remember music. How did Crowley even know? (Demonic temptation? Fuck. Maybe. That would tempt us a lot.)

"No," the Soldier finally says. "I don't. I want to. I feel like I should. Misty has some, on a discman. But the headphones were too wet to listen."

[sauntered_downward]

Crowey fishes in his pocket, pulling out his mobile. He flips through a few songs before ending up with Don't Stop Me Now, by Queen, of course. He doesn't have wifi in this place, but his mobile has all of his favorite songs already downloaded. The song fills the room.

"Bit of a limited selection, I'm afraid. All of my music turns to Queen after a fortnight. But I've got all of the hits on here."

[worthallthis]

The Soldier's eyes snap wide. The flesh hand makes an abortive gesture in the direction of the source of the sound, a little wordless noise of surprise popping out out of its mouth. Plates ripple in its metal arm, but not loudly, more like a purr.

That is. That is.

Fucking amazing.

Crowley is graced by the biggest smile the Soldier has made in his presence yet, though it's focused mainly on his cell phone. There may even be finger-tapping, because that melody is extremely catchy. "What is that. Queen."

[sauntered_downward]

Crowley grins back. Yeah, that's right. Queen invokes the best smiles.

"Only the best band your lot has ever come up with," Crowley says, holding up his mobile, where a picture of the band graces the mp3 that he's downloaded. He points to the lead singer. "Freddie Mercury. Where I got my username. Top notch. Saw him at Live Aid, absolutely stellar performance. I was up front."

[worthallthis]

The Soldier only half-listens to that, though it does duck its head to look at the image. Most of its considerable amount of attention, freed up from having that considerable amount of attention on fear, is now directed at the music with an intense kind of focus. Melody that's fun, rhythm that makes all the pieces of the Soldier want to move, harmonies that match up perfectly, lyrics about-- about god knows what but it doesn't actually care (Who the fuck is Lady Godiva?), and what the hell instruments even are those in the background.

"I fucking love it." The Soldier wants it. All the time. How can it get that from the phone to its tablet.