logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: LIGHT UP THE NIGHT

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: LIGHT UP THE NIGHT

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: november 5-7.
content: use that bonfire!
warnings: n/a. please cw tags appropriately.

maybe we can bring back the light

Shortly after Robin's network post, a magnificent display of fireworks will start to launch from the lighthouse! They're odd-looking, though, given that they glow but don't cast light. But still cool to watch! The best place to view the show is at the beach, but some of the bigger explosions can be seen just over the treetops from town, and they can certainly be heard from all over Beacon. Exciting! Maybe! Robin sure thinks so! The fireworks will continue for a couple of hours before a very colorful grand finale, after which the lighthouse beam will shine red again for the duration of the event.

Meanwhile, back in town, Rastus has set up a magnificent display of his own. Torches are set up in a wide circle around the bonfire (which looks a bit less bright, given how many torches he's pulled from it), ready for the taking. You don't even have to talk to him first! He's lingering nearby, though, and... has looked more excited about things in the past. This is gonna be a bookkeeping nightmare, he can tell.

In any case, the torches are free for the taking, but do remember to report any torch movement to the event header on the item requests page. Don't let Rastus's fears become reality!

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"Back home, I ate the calm-calm fruit," he explains, as he glances toward the stained glass, admiring how the colors filter through the panes. Stunning. A shame it's so terrifying to Soldat, who must have lost people - or himself - in bombs and gunfire. It reminds him of the medics again, Gene and Wade - the latter in particular, whose fate had been sealed by one, but Gene hadn't fared well in the shells and explosives either.

"It rewrote my lineage factor. Gave me the ability to manipulate sound. Or to silence it, anyway."

"Useful."

The flickers of destructive memory let up enough to give it a real, complete memory, of during the hallucinations. Finding Rosinante crouched over the ruins of the boathouse, completely silent. It had thought that was part of the hallucinations, at the time, but... maybe not.

"But I can hear you now."

"We're inside something like a bubble. Sound can't go through it. We can hear each other since we're both inside, but we can't hear anything out there, and anyone out there wouldn't be able to hear us in here. Barrier's right about where the doors and walls are. It's not the only thing I can do, but it's the most useful for a situation like this one."

Been a while since he had a smoke, and it's a relief to know now that he'll be able to request more soon so long as the newest batch doesn't destroy their new ferry. He takes a moment to unscrew his lantern and light a cigarette on the exposed flame, then has a deep breath.

"Want one?"

That does make sense. Enough that it can stop asking questions about it, since it's probably some kind of magic, if it came from a fruit.

And the offer of the cigarette is an even better distraction. "Yes. Please. You are a fuckin' saint," the Soldier says, only a little shakily, and heaves itself up onto the pew instead of sitting on the damn floor.

He withdraws a cigarette from the pack and lights it, then holds it out to take while he seals the lantern back up. The claim of "saint" earns him a brief odd look, but he lets it go. One of those words that has deeply different connotations between worlds, and Soldat can surely be excused for that.

"Just keeping an eye out," he says with a shrug. "Gotta watch each other's backs here." It's been a long time since he had recruits to look after, and he never cared for it anyway. Thankfully his title of Commander was primarily a formality and only briefly literal truth before Sengoku made sure his career became, and remained, solo work as the Fleet Admiral's preferred spy.

The Soldier accepts gratefully, using the metal hand just in case: though the plates are shivering a little, the internal structures are sound, and so the whole limb isn't trembling. The first drag already makes it feel better.

Them. Makes them feel better. That's right, supposed to not be an "it" anymore. After a second, they agree wearily, "Yeah, we do. I'm trying, too. Apparently not so well, if things are exploding, though." Feels like a fucking idiot now, it's not like anyone else freaked out, but there's not much to be done about it. Fear isn't rational. It knows this. They know this.

"It's all right. Just try and focus on what's here, in the present."

Never mind caring for others, really - it's advice he's been told before to keep himself from slipping into places he doesn't want to be. Advice he relied on as a lifeline as a child, and still sometimes has to return to even now to keep the ghosts at bay.

It's been a little while since he's been in the church. He doesn't come often, not having any real attachment to any sort of worship, but it's a nice building in its own right. Rebuilt after whatever had happened to it, it functions as yet another sign of their stubborn persistence in the darkness.

"Did you follow any kind of religion at home?" he asks.

The Soldier shakes their head, keeping their gaze focused narrowly on the cigarette, for now. "If I did. I don't remember." Which doesn't bother it very much, to be honest, though now it's a little curious. Religion isn't something they've ever really thought about much. Rosinante gets a glance, though, before looking back at the cigarette and having another puff. "Did you?"

"No. Never saw much point in it. Couldn't figure out which gods are made up by men and which might be real. All seemed about the same to me."

But he doesn't judge those who do. Sometimes it just makes him wonder if he's missing out on something he should have learned about as a child.

"I believe in people, though. Humanity as a whole can do so much together. There's something that unites us all, across seas and maybe across worlds, too." It's a modest sort of spirituality, but it's all he really needs. It gives him hope.

It's a nice thought. Naive, but nice. "I would never have believed that. In my life. Ever. All the people I knew were evil." Maybe there were good people Before HYDRA, but the only one the Soldier remembers is Steve, and him only in snatches.

The Soldier is trying to make the cigarette last, but it's hard when it does really help with the background buzz and shudders of the disjointed flashbacks. So it has another drag, thinks of Misty, and Crowley, and even Rosinante here sharing a cigarette and some much-needed silence... admits, "It's a little easier, here. Maybe."

"Simpler, with fewer people," he agrees. "And we all have death in common, for what that's worth. I've known evil, don't get me wrong. But not everyone is like that."

In fact, he's content to pass off the evil he's seen as something minor. He doesn't really want to elaborate. The kind of cruelty people are capable of is deeply horrifying, as personal experience has taught him. But the good in most people goes beyond that. And whether good or evil, people are variable, creative, and capable of so much. It fills him with awe, and it keeps him pushing forward even when things get dark.

Maybe that's why people like churches. They're a good space for quiet contemplation.

"My experience is skewed," the Soldier allows. "Trying to learn differently. Hasn't been bad." Hard, but not bad. There's so many people here they'd call "good", or at least "not bad".

It has... they have... another puff on the cigarette, and ask, "Tell me about some of your good people? From your home." The lights are still changing outside, but between the talk and the smoke, it's getting a little better in its brain. Slowly. More distraction is obviously needed.

Law, he wants to say. Almost says, as he feels his heart ache in his chest. Hopefully the boy has moved on with his newfound health and freedom. Maybe he'll be a famous doctor some day, now. But if not, that's okay too.

"My father," he says instead, for he has already decided to tell these people that the Fleet Admiral was his father and will remain consistent in that lie. "Fleet Admiral of the Marines for much of my life. Busy man, with a lot of pressure and a lot of hard decisions to make. He's the wisest person I've met and everything he does is with the aim of keeping the world stable and safe for innocent people."

And has Sengoku made poor calls? Sure, in his opinion. He disagrees with some of his actions. But maintaining justice isn't easy and ultimately, people have prospered under Sengoku's leadership of the Marines. He's well-respected by everyone who isn't part of that criminal element they're always struggling against.

"Others, too, in the Marines. People I've trained with and worked under. We're all devoted to that same cause of serving justice as best we can."

Someone in authority is one of Rosinante's good people. That's unexpected. It's strangely uncomfortable to consider, that someone who gives orders-- someone who isn't in Beacon, and thus in a category all their own-- who isn't a completely awful person. The Soldier tries to imagine working under a handler like that, in life, and struggles with it. Maybe it would be like Inspector Javert, a little, only Javert might disapprove of all the killing, so that wouldn't work, either. (And of course, Misty doesn't count, being only a handler on technicality.)

"What hard decisions?" it asks after a moment of silence, digesting the thought process and frowning softly, and another smoke.

"The sorts of things any leader has to decide. When multiple kingdoms have problems with raiders and pirates, who do you prioritize protecting? How many men do you send? How do you let your only son enlist, knowing that out there in the world, Marines die every day?"

Not that he thinks that was even Sengoku's hardest decision to make. He's only one person, after all. Countless lives rest on his shoulders. Entire kingdoms. Flevance, wiped off the map because they couldn't, or didn't, help except to safeguard the royal family while its people were slaughtered.

But those kinds of decisions aren't ones he can offer insight on. Surely there was a reason.

"Protecting." The Soldier has two very different concepts of that: protection means keep people alive, when the mission is to protect, or when it's the Sergeant talking; protection means killing someone (or killing thousands) to "save" millions, when in the mouth of a handler. If Rosinante's father-commander was a good person, then it was probably the former, right? He would have to be.

The Soldier shakes itself a little. "You enlisted. On purpose. Are you glad you did?"

"I am."

What the hell else would he have done? His life was never going to be a normal one. Besides, Sengoku had been proud, even if he'd worried deep inside. Up until Rosinante met Law, he hadn't really pictured doing anything else. And in those last few weeks, he hadn't put much time to thinking about future career moves when they would have been spending every day just trying to survive on the run. Doesn't much matter now, though.

"I looked up to my old man so I always had it in my head that I'd follow in his footsteps. Anything to make the world a better place for those who can't defend themselves."

"What all did you do there. In the Marines." Because that doesn't admittedly sound much like HYDRA. Even his definition of "protection" didn't seem to care a whole lot about making the world better for the defenseless. It seems more like what the army was doing in the war. Maybe. What little bit they remember about the war. They're... curious.

What didn't they do, really? He's never had to explain the entire organization to someone before. Most here just nod and shrug and compare it to their own world's military forces without question. At home, everyone knows what they do, naturally. He's never had to put together a thirty second speech. But he knows all the facts well and answers quickly despite that initial second of surprise at even being asked.

"We're the World Government military branch," he says as he takes his cigarette between his fingers and watches the stars. "Main task is to ensure peace and stability. Pirates are vicious and abundant, always trying to steal cargo or hold entire cities for ransom. Kidnapping, murdering, human trafficking, whatever turns a profit, they'll try it. Some are just out there to cause chaos and violence for the hell of it, and some are a lot more organized. We exist to protect the civilians from all that so they can live their lives."

And it feels like an uphill battle sometimes, he won't deny it. When pirates get organized into entire armadas, or build underground black market networks like the one his brother ran, it's less like fighting wild animals and more like waging war. But if they didn't do it, if they just let pirates stomp all over whoever they liked for the sake of profit and anarchy, he can't even imagine the kind of hell the world would become.

The Soldier nods slowly. Doesn't sound like the army or HYDRA... well, the Marines don't, anyway. The pirates sound a little more familiar. "The ones who kept me. HYDRA. I think they were like your pirates. The organized kind. Weren't very interested in letting civilians live their lives." It frowns, thinking hard, and comes up with, "Wanted to run them. I think."

"Hydra's a mythological monster, isn't it?" he asks, turning his head toward Soldat. "Can't remember what that is. But - I guess it's not important. They held you prisoner?"

He has so many questions, but one at a time.

"They made me." Or this version of it, anyway. There was a Before... but Before doesn't matter as much right now. It stares hard at the cigarette. "Gave me orders, missions, put me back in cryofreeze after."

"Sorry," he says, for he can't imagine that experience was a pleasant one. Even if at the time Soldat might not have questioned it, for if that's how he was born and all he knew, then perhaps it was tolerable then. It sounds like things must have changed at some point.

"What kinds of missions?"

Has anyone... actually apologized for HYDRA before? It seems counter-productive. HYDRA isn't sorry, so why would anyone else being sorry have anything to do with it? The Soldier decides not to wrestle with that, and just gives the answer to Rosinante's question instead. "Assassinate, hunt down deserters, retrieve items. Sometimes protect important members of HYDRA. Train others I think." That one is less protocol-certainty, and more know-but-don't-remember. The Soldier has another long pull from the cigarette, which is almost gone, dammit. "Mostly assassinate, though."

If it wasn't for his previous comment about this organization being essentially an underground criminal network for some tyrannical purpose, none of that would be troubling. Even assassins have a necessary role to play, at times. Rosinante doesn't much like killing, but pacifism just isn't realistic. It falls in the realm of idealism and he has to stay rooted in what's practical.

So it's not the job that's the problem, it's the purpose. He keeps his eyes on the stars and toys with his cigarette between his fingers. "And did you serve them willingly? Would you now, if you weren't here?"

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