logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

EVENT LOG:
ENTER MR. SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

characters: those who signed up as defenders for the event
location: all around Beacon
date/time: november 16-29
content: the defenders attempt to drive off a spirit invasion
warnings: lots of horror! body horror, psychological horror, gore, violence, etc.. please cw all threads where appropriate! mods will do the same

in your closet, in your head.

It all happens in a matter of moments. Your friends, your companions, and even some people you aren't all that fond of; everyone who took so much as a bite of the spirits' feast suddenly collapses into a comatose heap. Which is bad enough already, but the worst, by far, is yet to come.

Before anyone can really figure out what's happened to the sleepers, the woods surrounding the town come alive with sound. Rustling, screeching, clicking, howling, and under it all, the characteristic hoots and whistles of the forest spirit tongue. But these aren't the friendly creatures that set up the banquet in the first place, and they aren't the familiar faces (or masks) from around Beacon. As they begin to emerge, bursting forth from the trees, these spirits reveal themselves as a horrifying army of terrors. And sprinkled among them, distinguishable by the emerald glint in their sockets, are the infamous "green eyes", the dangerous spirits that appeared once before.

Attempting to talk to these spirits is a moot point, made obvious by their immediate assault on anyone they get close to. They attack with claws and teeth, with limbs far stronger than they have any right to be, and the green eyes, as they are wont to do, will try to get into your head. Somehow, they seem to know what it is that scares you most, and they don't seem too hesitant to use it. It's not clear what they want— are they here to eradicate you? To frighten you? To send a message?

Whatever the case, one thing is very clear: you and everyone else, sleeping or waking, are in serious danger. Are you ready to defend Beacon?

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Crowley hands over the pack without even looking at what's in it.

"Humans have saved more people with less," he says. "Look---we've got all of these tables, yeah? We cut out little wheels, turn them into carts. Carry the people on the carts. Get people to defend the ones carrying the sleeping people as we go through the woods, try to find another place that doesn't have all of these monsters. Or get them to the lake and go out, see if we can float out somewhere else."

(I still really love this guy. So damn optimistic.)

The look Crowley gets from the Soldier as he rambles is soft, not quite the thinking-about-Steve look, but it's kinda close. It's not possible. Not really. But it's a nice thought, and that Crowley is thinking so hard about it is damn sweet.

Maybe the Soldier can consider it as a last resort, if things really start to fall apart. And it would give Crowley something to do, in here, instead of come up with even crazier ideas. So as the Soldier turns back to the cupboards and the food inside, they say, "It will take some preparing. Making the carts. Or making a bigger raft than the little one we have." There's no way to fit fourteen sleeping people on the raft and Rosinante's boat, that they have now. "For now we can hold. But we can prepare for escape once things turn worse."

"And it will turn worse," he tells them, moving to crouch next to the human soldier person. "It will. We can't wipe out the dominant species on this----in this world, wherever we are. They've got us right where they want us and as long as we stay here, we're sitting ducks."

He moves back to a standing position. "Come on, you're a soldier. You know this doesn't have an end date until we're dead and they have the people they poisoned. Because that's what they have to want, right? They want to get to them."

"I'm not sure they do," the Soldier says slowly, finishing putting away the bread and the last batch of Aziraphale's cookies, and several more of the fucking canned peaches. "I found Eve asleep after a full day, and she hadn't been touched. And this isn't all the spirits-- just some of them. The little ones don't attack, my own contact didn't attack, I looked for them. They aren't a faceless, endless horde."

They shift more ingredients from cupboard to counter. Going to make sandwiches for now, and start a stew that will be ready next time they come back. (God we are so fucking hungry. Hurry up with that, wouldja? Calm your ass, I'm working on it.) They then use the counter to heave themselves back to their feet.

Crowley wants to argue----has every intention of arguing, actually---but he lets out what sounds like a very aggravated sigh.

"Sit back down, let me have a look at it," he says.

"It's fine, I've had worse," the Soldier says, but they don't complete the motion to stand up, instead just dropping back down and pulling the remains of their pants leg to show Crowley the bite. "I don't think it's bleeding anymore."

(Make it quick, pal. We're starving over here.)

It does make them unaccountably nervous to have someone, even Crowley, looking at a wound. They swallow it down. Crowley isn't a doctor. Doesn't even have any bandages or needles with him. It's fine.

It isn't a major wound, which makes Crowley think he might actually be able to do something with it. Demons usually can't do anything but harm, but Crowley's always been able to do more than the average demon---what with being able to bless and heal and even bring the occasional animal back to life. Not as good as Aziraphale, of course, but what is as good as Aziraphale?

He holds out a hand, but doesn't touch them.

"I can try to heal it," he offers. "But I'll have to touch you. That all right?"

Shut up, Crowley, you are every bit as good as Aziraphale, and in many things (according to this guy right here) actually better.

The bite wound was worse a couple hours ago when it first happened. It's had all that time to heal already. The Soldier twitches when Crowley moves, but then makes themselves hold still.

(Hey, it's okay, it's like what he did with the arm, right? And we need to be fully functional to keep them safe.)

"Yeah. Okay, that's fine."

Crowley lays his hand on their leg and concentrates, focusing on mending skin and muscle. This has never been easy for Crowley----not even when he was an angel, really---but it's harder here. Everything is muted under the dark world of Beacon. But he focuses on making the wound better.

"If they don't want to capture the sleeping people, why put them to sleep? Are they trying to just make us more vulnerable?" he asks.

It's still better than nothing. And it doesn't feel like the usual familiar mending of torn flesh... it's warmer, somehow. Not bad, though. And not like the kind of things a doctor would do, so it's not as hard as it could be to stay still. The teeth marks close the rest of the way, crusted over with fresh scabs, while they look on and frown.

"I don't know. It doesn't make tactical sense if their goal is to capture or destroy us. So logically. That may not be their goal." What their goal could be, though, the Soldier doesn't know.

"It could be to frighten us," Crowley says. "Keep us terrified and complacent. Remember how the Lighthouse Keeper isn't responding to any messages right now."

He glances briefly over his shoulder. "I could pay her a visit."

He turns back to the human soldier person and releases his leg, looking down at the healing he's done. It's not his best, but it's something, at least.

That's actually more frightening than the idea of a doctor touching them, and the Soldier reaches over to catch at Crowley's wrist with an expression of alarm. "No, Crowley. You're safe here, or as safe as I can make you. Don't go out there. I don't think I can focus to keep the others safe if you were killed."

No dead friends. None. Absolutely not.

"None of us are safe here," Crowley retorts. "Not as long as the creatures are attacking us and our friends are comatose. We have to find out what they've done to them. What they've done to Aziraphale. And if she's not responding, that means she's part of it."

Crowley knows it could actually mean a lot of things. But right now he needs someone to blame.

"You stay here, you can protect everyone. I'll go out, I'll stay on the network. It can't be that long a walk."

"A walk full of spirits trying to kill people. Dammit, Crowley, no." They keep his wrist, not letting go. And the Soldier is stronger than Crowley, here in Beacon. "And the green-eyes are on the network. One of them replied to someone yesterday. This is the safest place right now."

Crowley looks down at his wrist, surprised at the human soldier person's strength. Crowley's not weak by any stretch of the imagination, but there's a superhuman nature to their grip.

"We can't just wait. Listen, I can't just wait anymore. I have to do something. I have to find some way to stop this."

Are you only just now figuring out that the Soldier isn't entirely a normal human, Crowley? C'mon now.

"Then start working on the carts. To move people. I'll bring you wood to carve, put together. You saw Aziraphale and me do it, you know how." They give Crowley's wrist a little shake then let him go. "Just don't go out there alone. Please."

"I won't," Crowley lies.

He moves back to his feet and offers a hand to the human soldier person.

He's got to get out there at some point. To find out what's happened to Rosalind. To maybe find out what's happened to the Lighthouse Keeper. To just----to do something. But he won't worry them with the details.

"Make sure you don't." For now, the Soldier's going to take that at face value. Mostly because they're so damn hungry it's starting to interfere with higher functions. This may be part of why the idea of Crowley in danger comes so close to panicking them. (No, it ain't. ... okay, no, it's not. Make lunch anyway, dumbass.) They accept the hand up, clap Crowley on the shoulder, and immediately start putting together a sandwich. "I'm starving. Healing takes a lot of energy. You hungry?"

He wants to say no, but that will just worry them. They've already got enough on their plate.

"Yeah, all right," he says. "Can't hurt. Keep me awake if I eat and drink water, isn't that right?"

Look, it makes them feel better to feed people, sometimes. "That's what I'm doing. Even if I tried to sleep, even if I managed to sleep. I would just have nightmares. It isn't worth it." There's some things they know about themselves, and that's one of those things. Sleeping in the middle of a mission, in the middle of a siege, is just going to end in screaming, if it happens at all. That will just worry people.

The first sandwich-- slices of beef, cheese, tomato, and pickle on a thick bread, with whichever condiment they've discerned by now that Crowley prefers-- gets set on a plate in front of Crowley, and then the Soldier starts working on numbers two and three for themselves. "Better to stay awake and look out for people."

Crowley lifts the sandwich up and takes a bite. Around the bite---polite as ever---he says, "I'm not sleeping again until we work out a way to wake up Aziraphale. He can sleep for both of us."

Will they ever be able to wake up Aziraphale? Will he stay asleep forever?

"He'll wake up," the Soldier says, with certainty. They're not sure how much certainty they actually feel, but sometimes an inability to think clearly beyond the next four or five days is a benefit. "This won't last forever. And then the two of us can sleep for a week, instead. Preferably without any spirits interrupting."

They put the cheese and bread back in the cupboard, then tuck into their own sandwich like a starving wolf. (Fucking finally. All that chatter. Now we finally get to eat.)

Crowley watches them eat, and takes a careful bite of his own sandwich. He wishes he felt as confident about it as they do. Aziraphale hasn't shown any sign of life---nothing since they picked him up from that feast. Just asleep. Completely comatose. Crowley let him to to the feast, telling him he was just being stupid, that it couldn't possibly be that bad. Hell, if they poisoned Aziraphale, he'd just come back to life, right?

Not this. No, like this, he's still here. Not even dead.

"How long do we wait? Before we take it up with our captors?" Ever single-minded, Crowley is. "Or start trying other things? I don't know----killing them, see if they wake up in the church?"

The Soldier, unlike Crowley, waits until they've swallowed to speak. "We wait until we can't fight anymore. Or until it's longer than the last time terrible shit happened here and then stopped without warning." Because they might not be great at thinking about the future, but they do have crystal-clear memories of the past in this place, since their death. And these things keep happening for no damn reason.

Except there has to be a reason, they just don't know what it is, yet. When the other spirits return, when Robin starts replying again, they need to ask more. Stop being shy and nervous and just ask things.

"We're not there yet," they say, and have more sandwich.

"When is there, then?" Crowley's voice has an edge to it. He feels like he could handle a few days of this---but this long? Not knowing what's going on with Aziraphale, not knowing when the assault will end...

He drops the sandwich back on the plate and waves a hand dismissively.

"It doesn't matter. We won't run out of ammunition, i can make sure of that. We could do this literally forever."

EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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I apologize, I never got this tag!

oh! no worries :D I figured you just thought it was at a natural end or somethin <3

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