logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DREAMERS)

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DREAMERS)

characters: all characters that signed up as a dreamer for the event.
location: dreamland feat. beacon of the past.
date/time: november 16-29.
content: the dreamers investigate beacon as it once was.
warnings: psychological/existential horror. further cws will arise depending on the location; mods will cw tags appropriately, and you will too!

say your prayers, little one.

Hello, dreamers. Welcome to Beacon.

Below, each group has a toplevel ready and waiting for the investigation to begin. Feel free to tag in however to establish a tag order, and mod responses will begin once each character has tagged in. If you need a refresher on how the event will work, give the OOC info another read!

As for those of you in the ~~sin bin~~ opt out area...

The Beacon of the past isn't all too different from the Beacon of the present, frankly, except for a few notable exceptions. For one, it's far better lit: daylight leaves everything feels a lot brighter and more sensible than eternal night does. Several advertisements for community theater in the Invincible are hung up (Tryouts for the Ice Man Cometh! Cometh try your luck!) and minor lost and found posters are tacked to a community bulletin board nearby. Oh, and a merry little tune is playing on loop from a record player set up outside the Invincible.

It's cheerful, if not a little off-putting. But the signs of life are clear, even if the forest still looks darkly oppressive over yonder.

Additionally, since investigation threads 1) rely on mod responses, and 2) will likely move on the slow side given the nature of the event/size of the groups, if you would like to have your characters "mingle" in their assigned location, please feel free to write your own toplevels! We ask that you post them as separate toplevels not in response to the mod toplevels (so our inboxes don't get super flooded/we don't accidentally miss stuff). Remember that groups may only interact with each other during the event, but you're welcome to assume timey-wimey shenanigans to excuse why your characters are mingling instead of searching for clues—they do have two weeks in this dream, technically, and dreams are not always linear. If your investigation thread has not yet progressed to a point in which you've got enough of a handle on the setting to write a separate mingle starter, ask the mod you're working with! We'll fill you in on some OOC details so you can mingle accordingly while still allowing for characters to discover those details ICly in the investigation thread.

If you're still jonesing for more threading action during the event, we encourage you to check out the TDM!

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If it was a trap, it seems like a waste to use it on just the three of us.

[He has to pitch his voice low as a matter of practicality- because the trap door comes open despite any and all attempts to have taken place before now. And because in the event that they can interact with whoever is below, the cause of the small cough, he doesn't want to give away the element of surprise.

Bruce lifts a finger to his lips, a universal signal for quiet as he looks up at Peter and a newly approached Villanelle- before he begins to descend. He does intend to head west and follow the voice, but he's also going to take any tools that look like they could be used as a weapon, tucking them into each pocket. The temptation to bring a candle, to have a light in the dark, is a powerful thing. But it also promises to give away their presence inside the tunnel. It will make them vulnerable.

His gaze lifts once more, to the top of the stairs. And he whispers very quietly.]

We should anchor the door open. Just in case.

[ peter gives the shelf a cursory glance: taking any of the tools as a weapon isn't a thought that seems to occur to him (or: it does, but if it comes to it, he'd rather rely on something a little more discreet).

he does, however, inhale as bruce raises a finger to his lips in an effort to shush the two of them. for now, bruce has a point, though it's not because of him that peter remains quiet — it'll be a different story, undoubtedly, when they finally hit the end of the tunnel but for now—

well, he's not wrong.

peter huffs a breath and heads back up the stairs, waving a hand over his shoulder dismissively. ]

I've got it.

[ there's not a whole lot in the church that can be used as a prop short of the candles and the bibles, so he opts for the latter over the former. they're more for decoration than anything else; he shoots a cursory glance back down the stairs before opting to help the trapdoor stay open with the aid of some webfluid (don't say he never does anything for anyone, alright). the books can be moved, but good luck shifting the webbing before it dissolves.

once that's done, he pads back down the stairs and joins back up with bruce and villanelle; a moment passes.

he looks at villanelle, then he looks at bruce.

look, just because being silent is a good idea, it doesn't mean he's not going to struggle with it. ]

[Villanelle doesn't care much about alerting the voice, mainly because she doesn't believe they'll ever catch up with it - everything so far has been in some kind of past tense, except the slimy walls, that had been unsettlingly present. She wants answers, if they find any, they might need some light to read them by.

If they do catch up with the mystery person, well, she's at the back of the line, it'll have to waste time attacking the other two before it can reach her. Plenty of time to prepare. Decision made, she reaches for a candle. The wax that had dripped down to the base had stuck it to the shelf. She pulls harder until it comes free with a faint snap. She shrugs sheepishly at the other two, an apology for the noise.

She rests her weight forward, on the balls of her feet. Anticipation tightens her muscles, she wants to chivvy them along, but she holds her tongue. Keep silent, right. But this is fun, isn't it? She's not the only one intrigued? Her eyes shine in the flickering light. She waits until the last moment, when the other two have turned away, before her hand flicks out to the shelf again and a screwdriver disappears up her sleeve.]

[Nothing comes toward him, and there's no sound of movement outside of their own. It's so quiet that even when they stay silent, their every action seems to echo. This place feels...not wrong, exactly, but there's an odd feeling in the air.

It's claustrophobic down here. Heavy.

If, or when, they choose to follow the sound of the voice, they come across what appears to be a person...wearing a sheet. They just stand there, silent, head bowed slightly forward as if in prayer. It would be more weird than unsettling, but they can see more sheet-covered humanoid shapes past this one. And more...and more, until they clog up the entire tunnel, leaving no space between the bodies, like sardines crammed inside a can.]

[The change in atmosphere is palpable. Bruce doesn't expect for a moment that his two companions would leave him to explore this space on his own- if not for his sake then as a matter of curiosity. They hadn't hesitated to seek the bell ringer after all, and Beacon has no shortage of mysteries that its residents have been agonizing over. Besides, Bruce has more than enough self-awareness to know he has no business faulting others for the pursuit of knowledge. Truth be told he finds it to be a comforting thought. The last thing they need is a town full of people willing to jump to conclusions, fueled by impulse.

Peter disappears for a moment, presumably to brace the trap door as asked, and Villanelle isn't immediately at his back. But Bruce is aware of them on his periphery as they begin to find one another inside the tunnel. The ceiling and the walls close in around them and the sense of claustrophobia grows the further they go.

And then there's a shape. A person inside a sheet.
Then more than one person inside a sheet.

Bruce pauses visibly, coming to a mute standstill within the tunnel. And then he very slowly extends one hand, reaching for one sheet with two fingers. His intention is to graze it first, to be sure he can touch it. And then if he can, to slowly draw the cloth down.]

Who wants to let these guys know that insurance claims masquerading as hauntings never work out? [ peter half-mutters, half-whispers. it's directed more towards villanelle than to bruce, although he's not entirely convinced either of them will appreciate the remark. it's hard to deny that the image of many sheet-clad figures is unsettling, and peter's struck by the thought that if he had a choice — although technically, he does — he'd much rather be on the ceiling than down on the ground with them.

he's not quite sure if it's the mass of bodies or the general cramped nature of the tunnel that contributes to the change in atmosphere, though truthfully he's not sure the details of that really matter. he'd move to pull a sheet off a figure himself, but bruce has apparently already got that covered, so he watches and waits, attention split between bruce and the seemingly endless figures stretching off into the tunnel.

he'd ask where they came from, but it's not a question that'd have an answer, not yet. the one thought that does occur to him is that: when they're brought back to life, they emerge from the trapdoor, and aren't dead bodies ordinarily covered with sheets?

or, you know, children playing at being ghosts, but that doesn't seem the likeliest of options given the situation. ]

[Ghosts. Ghosts. She doesn't like ghosts. Her list of fears is short, it starts and ends at 'g'. The dead should stay dead. They shouldn't be given the chance to revisit horrors on the living. They had their chance.

The oppressive silence weighs down on the backs of her hands, the planes of her shoulders, the base of her spine. The air grows thick with it. Makes her antsy, nervous, foolish.

Bruce reaches for the sheet, and a judder of nerves runs through her at the thought of what might be under it. She doesn't want to see, doesn't want to know. Her drive for answers is paling at the thought of dead faces under white sheets. Dead eyes, ever watching.]

You need dead people for a haunting, right?

[Lets call it a moment of insanity, she'd certainly never admit to feeling something very like terror. She steps forward, almost knocking Peter's shoulder as she comes face-to-sheet with one of the ghosts. A split second, then the screwdriver shaft is slipping, cold, between her fingers. The handle solid in her palm. Her fingers close, her hand comes up, elbow bending, weight moving forward, then she lunges forward, her arm out straight, the screwdriver headed for where the ghostly form's neck should be. Her left arm flicks out behind and above her head, a counterbalance, holding the candle clear. Shadows careen wildly across the tunnel walls, the flame flickering, guttering, then going out.]

[Bruce reaches the figure first. The cloth is tangible, rustling at his touch. The figure beneath it doesn't move. When he starts to draw the cloth away, there's a sickening, halfway-wet sound, like a bandage being pulled from raw, bloody skin. There's a mild amount of resistance, but not the sort of resistance that comes from anything behind held. It just seems...stuck, slightly. Just barely.

And then Villanelle pounces, and the pointed end of the screwdriver jabs through the cloth, into the figure's would-be neck. There's a grotesque sound, like tearing, maybe, like puncturing a filled canvas bag.

And then, in the near-dark, the figure melts beneath the cloth. Something thick and hot and foul and dark pours onto their feet, covering the area.]

[He has two immediate thoughts: that Villanelle is not who she has been pretending to be, with that response and that precision. And that she's going to get them killed.

Bruce can feel the movement before it happens and it splits his attention in a strange way- distending the moment and stretching time out around them. The decision she makes to rush forward changes the flow of the air in this space, a signal that prickles at the nape of his neck before she has the chance to appear in his periphery, let alone to charge forward. But there are also the details from these last moments before. The resistance of the cloth as he begins to draw it away, the texture of it in his fingers, the stillness of the shape. There's something profoundly inhuman about it that keeps his weight on the balls of his feet, that keeps his knees from straightening, that keeps his limbs loose enough for a fluid response.

It's a screwdriver she uses and Bruce doesn't stiffen immediately, because that tendency to freeze is something he's trained himself out of. He backs up suddenly instead- is two paces away as the figure begins to melt. What are the odds, he thinks, that it's the same liquid that had oozed from the church's walls upstairs? Bruce has experienced plenty of synchronicities in his life thus far, it's the reason he doesn't believe this is a coincidence. One hand goes out blind, in Peter's direction- a telegraph of his urgency.] Go, go.

[He doesn't stop moving.]

It's the floor- clear the area-

[ you need dead people for a haunting, villanelle says, and she knocks his shoulder as the intention behind the words register just a fraction too late. ]

—Stop!

[ he reaches forward to pull villanelle backwards, away from the figures in the sheets, but he hadn't been expecting her to do that. the screwdriver goes through the sheet then whatever's below; the sound manages to be horrifying in its own way, but that's not what has his attention. the liquid that pours out and onto the ground manages to smell hot and acrid; the familiar and sharp, sudden flare of pain at the base of his skull that informs him that everything is not, in fact, good decides to inform him that everything is not, in fact, good, and— thanks, right? so much for an early warning system.

it all feels like it happens in slow motion: bruce's arm shoots out towards him but peter's goes towards villanelle. he doesn't stop to consider if he's faster or stronger than her: with exceptions, generally of the costumed variety, peter's wholly used to being the strongest person in any given room. it's something he tempers occasionally with thought and occasionally without; it's something otto hadn't known when he'd taken his peter's body, when he'd punched mac gargan and—

well, things had happened with mac's jaw.

unless she manages to move out of his way, his fingers will curl around her wrist, just tight enough that she won't be able to pull her hand free. with his other hand, he'll pull the screwdriver out of her grasp, down the tunnel towards the definitely-not-scooby-doo villains. he'll hold her still, just for a second: ] Don't be stupid. [ before letting her go and pushing her, lightly, in the direction they'd come from.

(it's the floor. clear the area, bruce says, in the meantime.)

peter glances, quickly, at him. jason had told him bruce is from before he becomes batman, but peter doesn't really know what that means in terms of how well bruce can look after himself. he's survived well enough thus far and jason certainly hadn't implied that bruce was incapable, just — younger. he hadn't mentioned anything about getting bitten by an irradiated bat, confirmed he doesn't suddenly gain any, like, obscure bat powers (or ever gains the ability of echolocation and really, ol' hornhead needs to have a word with this guy—).

whatever the case, he's at least moving. ]

I'll be right behind you, just go.

[Villanelle is caught for a moment in shock. The way the screwdriver sunk into the cloth. It was nothing like cutting into skin, more like she imagined a slicing into a rotting corpse: the cloth skin bloated and thin, the gaseous ichor inside thick and cloying and full of decay. These things are not ghosts, these things aren't people at all.

The foul slime, so like the shit on the walls above, slicks the ground, cascading over her boots, burning her ankles. She's suddenly hyper-aware of the stretch of skin between the bottom of her trousers and the top of her boots. The eyelet holes for her laces. She wants to bend, to kick off her boots and check her skin for damage. It's on her, it's on her skin.

Don't be stupid.

She's not one for self-recrimination, but her ankles are stinging and she only has herself to blame. She catches Peter's eyes, hers shocky and wide, and then he pushes her away, the screwdriver lost to the darkness, and she's running back the way they came, hot on Bruce's heels, the beat of her footsteps no longer a steady thump, but a sticky, ominous squelch.]

[There's no escape.

They're bounding up the stairs as fast as they can, and the trapdoor is still open, but that thick, noxious tar is seeping in, bubbling and boiling as it makes its way down to meet them. They'll have to turn back, they'll have to turn back, or else claw their bare hands through the sludge and lose the skin and muscle up to their elbows, maybe more. Maybe worse.

But those sheet-covered things are jammed so tight in the other direction, and the stuff seeps from between the cracks in their body, faster now, higher, the level rising.

This is how they die, in the dream. And then they wake up.]

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EVENT LOG: ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DREAMERS)

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