logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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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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[ It's cleaner than something like that should be. There's no residual black that clings to his mouth and his teeth, not the way the blood does. The Unversed heaves up out of his throat and to the floor and breaks cleanly from him, the magic done. It writhes there, oozing with two red eyes boiling along it's body, like it can't decide what shape to take. Vanitas gasps, the sound rattling around in his chest. It keeps rattling there, because he keeps inhaling sharp and fast, hyperventilating around the overstimulation, the utter agony.

Tears cut through the blood and dirt on his pale face, fall off his chin and track his throat. His body trembles, an uncontrollable quake. He's half certain that he'll fly apart at any moment. Vanitas thinks that maybe it would, if he wasn't being held down. Wildly, the pinpricks of his pupils go to the solid hold on his knee, and then track uncertainly up to Quentin's face. What does the most, cruelly, isn't even the constant stream of his words, or finding his steady gaze— it's the shape of his hand on the back of his neck, broad and solid.

Xehanort would've held him like this. Shaken him like a puppy, to force him to push passed the hurt. Get up, boy.

His voice is broken all over, like shattered glass in his vocal cords, when he sobs: ] I can take it.

Jesus fucking Christ--

[It comes out shaky. Unsteady and maybe a little bit like Quentin wants to throw up, too. Because the pain in Vanitas voice is like a tangible thing. Like fingers wrapped around his brain in sympathy, or was it empathy? Quentin makes a low sound in the back of his throat, only watching Vanitas face and not the thing writhing on the dirty floor. If the spirit was going to get up and try to kill them, there's really nothing he can do about it right now and making sure this guy doesn't accidentally snap his leg open again is too important.

There's no way he could do this again, put both hands inside of him and try to make him whole again.

The pain flickers across Vanitas face again, tears streaming down his cheeks and fuck it, there isn't anyone else here. Alice would have remembered an old an ancient healing spell, or at least something for the pain. Eliot could have done it all without even raising his hands, using kinetic magic to set the bones and Julia? She would have made up a spell on the spot, healing without pain and without scars.

But all Vanitas has is Quentin, who is decidedly mediocre all across the board when the problem isn't one he can fling himself at in some type of glorified suicide.

Hands shaking, Quentin lets up on the knee and he keeps telling himself be kind, be kind, be kind as he strokes his thumb over Vanitas neck a few times. Fumbling without looking away, Quentin gets his hand around the bottle of vodka and he takes a long pull, the blood making the hold slippery and weirdly tacky and everything smells like blood.

Quentin swallows hard and tries again.]

Please drink something? I-- yeah, maybe you can take it? I don't even know how you're still awake-- when I lost my shoulder I-- [Screamed his head off in Eliot's arms, fighting to get back to Alice and he remembers watching with sicking fascination how a part of him was hanging on only by a flap of skin, the yellowish bone sticking out of him and the searing, burning pain. And then he passed out] But. You don't have to. This helps. I'm going to try and heal the skin, since I can't do anything for your actual leg. And--and I'll try to make sure it doesn't. [Frown] That it holds.

[For what? This guy wasn't in any shape to walk, let alone fight after this.]

I can get you somewhere safer. Just-- I'm so sorry. I'm so fucking sorry about this.

[ The Unversed pushes up over itself, finds a shape— it rises up on four short legs, a bulky mass like a rock given form, emblazoned with his symbol. Long red eyes curve down what must be the front of it, two slashes that seem to give it an expression of deep pain and sorrow, and it totters off toward the wall of the shed, where it curls up in the darkest corner. ]

I said can take it. I can take it.

[ He doesn't shout it, not the way he was yelling at Quentin minutes ago, his whole body alight with adrenalin and pain. He repeats it like a mantra, almost to himself. Some of it is wearing off now, the rapid hammer of his heart against his ribcage stuttering as it tries to find a new rhythm.

Vanitas has been run through, ripped apart. He's been beaten unconscious and had his heart shattered— but he can't measure this against any of those things. It hurts so badly that some parts of him have almost gone numb with it, this real flesh-and-blood body in these moments seems a far cry from the darkness-given-shape that he had been in his own universe.

Distantly, he can feel the thumb moving on the back of his neck through the solid shape of his armor. Some small, injured part of his heart longs for it to be more than just that— the piece of him that had fallen apart in the church in that spirit's hands and cried all over her until the pressure of her presence had knocked him out. He has always been without kindness in this life, but the buried part of him that knows what he was before he'd been split from Ventus aches for it. He doesn't reach for the vodka. His hand stays on Quentin's bare shoulder, but the bruising grip of it has given way to the tremor wracking his entire frame. ]

I can take it.

[The thing on the ground moves, undulates against the grimy floor before tottering off to a dark corner, the unreal face of it a mask of pain and Quentin really wants to ask questions about that. So many questions.

But they'll have to wait until the prospect of maybe having to do this all over again isn't as imminent and before he loses whatever kind of courage he's managed to find between the bottle and Vanitas yellow eyes.

Vanitas fingers are a dull kind of sensation, the living wood transmitting nothing but the pressure of his hand. There's not heat except for where Vanitas fingers slip and brush against the skin on his cold arm or just above the joint, where his own flesh starts. Startlingly hot, even if Quentin is way past feeling the cold of the room, since he's covered in a thin film of cold sweat and anxiety.]

Okay. That's, yeah. Okay. You're doing so great-- just. Keep breathing.

[It's barely louder than Vanitas own low mutterings, and it's mostly said to himself. A way to keep himself grounded and not bolt out of the room and away from having to inflict pain on someone else. He pats Vanitas awkwardly on the shoulder as he pulls his hand away from his neck.

He can't fix the broken bones, but he can use a spell to seal of most of the wound, a combination of minor mending and a second year healing spell that Lipson had to use on him, that one time. So, careful as anything, Quentin peels the t-shirt off of the leg, watching with rising dread as the arteries pulse and bulge at the edges of the wound, the way the flesh is still protruding from the gaping gash and the torn clothes.

He cups his hands around the edges, careful not to touch anything and hums the spell, willing his magic in to Vanitas, reminding his skin of what it used to be. It's harder with skin and flesh than with objects. Objects always want to wake up. They want to remember what they used to be and people rarely did.

But he's still gentling his magic over the wound, letting the skin and torn muscles remember on its own what it wants to be. What it used to be. Letting the magic flow freely from his own hands and in to Vanitas.]

[ He should be able to do this himself, he thinks at a bit of a distance. Now that the bone is gone, it doesn't look like anything but a gory, gaping hole— and he could deal with something like that. But he feels a little disconnected from his body, like the sensation of floating in darkness. There, but not completely. Aware, but at arm's length.

Some part of him expects more pain. The last person to use magic to heal him had been Eldin, and the strength of his light had scorched him from the inside out. Vanitas is a creature of darkness, and while the spell worked, it had still hurt like anything. He has the star-shaped scar under his breastplate as a reminder of it. Quentin's magic isn't like that. It isn't familiar, like his own Darkness, but it doesn't burn, like Light. It feels more like— everything else. Like sitting in a pool of water.

He's still shaking, adrenalin giving way to shock and dissociation, but Vanitas keeps his eyes on what's happening with his leg with a sort of morbid fascination. His body doesn't reject it, but it's not exactly a clean heal, either. Whether that's because of what Vanitas is himself or because of Quentin's novice ability, it isn't like Vanitas would be able to tell the difference. He isn't crying anymore, but his breath still shudders on every inhale and exhale. ]

[The wound closes slowly, and watching it is a little like watching a old fashioned loom weaving. Tendrils of razor-thin skin climbing slowly, slowly over the shortest stretch of the hole in Vanitas leg and as soon as it connects to the edge, other threads of skin start weaving in and out between them. All of it guided carefully by Quentin's magic as he hums, almost sings, the spell and concentrates on getting it right.

It seems like it takes forever, which today might be somewhere around ten minutes. Ten minutes of full concentration and once the last thread of skin weaves its last round, Quentin takes a deep breath and falls backwards, catching himself on one hand as he wipes his bleeding nose with his arm.

He places the t-shirt back over the wound, making sure the cleanest side is down.]

It's-- I know it still looks kind of red? And. Uh, sore? But it's the best I can do. [Which is never quite good enough. Not here, not anywhere, and Quentin heaves himself up to pick up a discarded chair by the back wall. It's dusty and the seat is torn, there are tooth-marks on the backrest and no one is going to need it. Probably.

He places it on the floor, kicking at the legs until they snap off with the sound of a gunshot. Quentin picks up the two best ones and secures them to either side of Vanitas leg, tying it all together with the strips of sheet that he's been carrying around. Once he's done, it looks-- like crap. Vanitas leg is tied to chair legs from just above his knee and down to the heels of his boot. There's a black t-shirt tied to it and the white strips look like maybe they were tied on by someone not very good at it.]

I-- that's all I can do? For now. I wish I had painkillers for you-- [Vicodin or cocaine, even one of Josh's brownies would have helped and Quentin shifts down to sit next to Vanitas, shivering almost as hard as he does. He's got blood everywhere, his own and Vanitas, and Quentin tries a sideways kind of hug, just to give some kind of comfort. He's really not that good at this, but he remembers Riku doing it to him in the forest, when he was two steps way from throwing himself in the river. How it helped.]

[ Ten minutes is almost an eternity, while also being no time at all. Vanitas feels himself at a distance, like he's standing just outside his body and watching everything happen. He's more aware of the thin sound of his breath rattling in and out of his lungs, the liquid rushing sound of his pulse in his ears, than he is over what's going on with his leg anymore.

But he still can't stop watching it stitch back together, the skin reaching out like thread to knit back together, swallowing up the black-red mess of muscle beneath. Almost like it never happened. Vanitas can't even wonder if it will scar. He assumes it will, because so much of his tempering has ended up littered all over his body.

His leg looks huge and bulky underneath that brace and it throbs in time with his heartbeat. Once he can think, once he can muster up the strength, he can do the rest. He's had to do it before. He can do it now, too. Once Quentin leaves him behind, to deal with the aftermath on his own. ]

You can't kill pain. [ Vanitas rasps, his voice tremors like the rest of him, his body shivering with shock. He's cold, or too warm. It's difficult to tell.

And then Quentin's arms are around him.

It's not a real hug, exactly. Not the way Gene had held him when he came back that first time. Not the way the spirit in the church held him, either— but something small and desperately needy in him wants to lean in to it and accept the comfort. In the corner of the room where the Unversed sulks, it shifts around, a soft scratching sound of it's body against the shed walls.

But he can't do that. Not now. This is just like his training. He needs to push through it. It's what Xehanort would want from him. It's the only way to get stronger.

Still, he can't bring himself to push Quentin away. ]

Pain [ He closes his eyes and speaks tightly, like he can't quite unclench his teeth. ] makes me stronger.

It's-- yeah.

[A quiet agreement to that, because-] They used to tell me that, too? That magic? It comes from pain. Anyone can have talent, or be smart. But. It's pain that sets us apart in any meaningful kind of way?

[He makes a face, although Vanitas probably can't see it. Not with the low lights and how they're sitting. But Quentin makes it anyway, half disbelief and half terror of this being the truth.] Pain is what makes us great. I think that's bullshit. Why can't it come from love? Or friendship? I mean, why couldn't it run on decaf soy latte and cheesy 80's pop music?

[This is weird. Or, it's getting there. The guy isn't letting go, not really, and Quentin's not about to pull away from the guy he just had both hands shoved in to. But it's still a little weird. The stiff line of Vanitas shoulder under Quentin's hand and the bulky leg still sticking out within easy reach, all lending to the fact that this isn't really as warm or as comforting as Quentin wants it to be, if only he knew how to hug like a normal person.]

Uh, but there is-- where I'm from? We can kill pain. There are pills? Or drugs? Sometimes, if it's bad enough, they'll even pump it in to your veins. I just-- I don't have any. Maybe someone will at the Invincible. Some of those people were crazy prepared for this.

[With a small squeeze, Quentin lets go, patting Vanitas twice on the shoulder as the universal signal for okay, done now before he slides his arm back to cup his elbows in his hands and look for his hoodie.]

[ Drugs. Gene had those. And Bruce has them too— he keeps them in a secret place in the museum. But Bruce isn't awake right now, he's deep in a coma that he won't be roused from (just like Ventus) and Riku... well. He wouldn't know, would he? And besides, he has all his stupid little friends to protect back at the Armory.

He realizes he's still holding on to Quentin, so he makes the effort to make his hands open, to pull them back and to himself. He doesn't put them to his lap, but instead places both hands flat on the ground next to his hips. It's difficult to say if this is because he's about to try and get up, or if it's just because he needs something to steady him. That's when he squeezes Vanitas and lets him go, and he feels that queer sensation of both loss and relief. ]

I'm not going back there.

[ Vanitas is still shivering, but it's from shock more than the cold. His eyes flick up to find Quentin without his lifting his chin. It means he watches him from under the shadow of his eyelashes. ]

So you better start running before those spirits show up.

What?

[He only catches the last part of that look, Vanitas hair is a perfect cover in the dark and even though his eyes are a bright yellow, they're hard to see in the low light. Quentin finds his hoodie and pulls it over his head, letting the black fabric cover the blood and the gore, and the bruises he's got from fighting. Most of them would be under Vanitas' blood now anyway.

But once he's got a little more clothed, he turns fully and just stares at Vanitas like he's lost his mind.]

I'm not going to run? What? That's not even-- what?

[ He's mostly able to steady his voice, even if his body still shivers almost uncontrollably. Vanitas raises his head just a little, and pushes some of that aggression back into his expression and into his tone. ]

Don't you have a friend to look after?

[ He hasn't seen Eliot, he doesn't know he's there, but Vanitas doesn't have to be a telepath to understand what else might be happening. Almost everyone in this place had someone they wanted to protect, and from all his interactions with Quentin on the network, Vanitas already knows where he stands on his views of the greater whole of the community. ]

You'll regret it if something happens to them while you're with me.

Okay? That's-- not how this works, but okay.

[The hostility throws Quentin a little, not that he isn't used to it, from various sources through out his life, but it still takes him by surprise every time. Add that to how weird he's still feeling about the whole 'having his hands inside someone to put them back together' and the amazingly bad job he apparently did at comforting this person even a little bit--

Quentin is feeling too drained and too weird about all of this thing that they're doing and he looks back at Vanitas, matching the aggression on his face and in his voice with a raised eyebrow and a crocked half-smile.]

Uh, yeah. I'm protecting someone, but. It's not like I can't do both? And--and I'd regret it if I went to help them and you died.

[True, but he'd do it anyway, if it meant saving Eliot. He would let all of them die, but that's probably more truth than anyone with a busted-up leg needs to hear right now.]

I have a-- it's a kind of cart? I can take you somewhere a lot safer than here. I don't think you should put too much pressure on that leg for a while and maybe there's pain killers there. Or something.

[ The thing is, Vanitas is too proud for this. His hackles seem to lift, his shoulders bunching and his hands curling into fists. Bad enough that the guy has seen him in this state, that Vanitas needed help to begin with. But being tossed into a cart? It doesn't matter that his whole body still throbs with the ache. He can take care if the rest on his own.

It's what his Master would have expected of him. ]

I don't care how you feel about it. I don't need any more of your help!

[ His eyes glitter in the darkness, a byproduct of the tears. ]

I can take care of it by myself, so go away!

I-- what?

[You really can't is hovering on the tip of his tongue, and had this been last year, or the year before. Before fighting monsters and giving up, he probably would have said it. Easy as anything, choosing for someone else when they can't put up much of a fight.

He'd done it for Alice, forcing her back to life when she wanted to stay dead. He'd heard Margo do it for Eliot, selling his unborn daughter to save his life, when Quentin willingly signed his life away to look after a monster until the end of time at castle Blackspire and Eliot took the shot that took that choice away from him, and there had been so many choices that were made by the wrong person with disastrous results.

So.

Quentin tilts his head and nods.]

Alright. Do you want a stick to lean on or anything? I can throw it through the door, if that makes you feel better.

[As he gets up, first to his knees and then to his feet, hands braced against his thighs like an old man. Doing magic, any magic, was so much harder here, wearing him out too fast and leaving him feeling drained for much longer than it should have.]

[ It's a relief, in a warped kind of way, that Quentin finally relents and stands up. Vanitas feels like he's barely holding it together as it is, and now that the initial adrenaline is wearing off he's feeling increasingly vulnerable. It's one thing to defend himself against the spirits, but this is different. Already Quentin has seen more of him than most people in this place has— he doesn't want to owe him any more. ]

Just go.

[ He hisses it out, curling his fingers into the dirt at his sides. The Unversed crouched in the corner of the room shifts around, the only other noise in the room as it's body scrapes against the wood. ]

[Quentin gets his few tings together, and once he's all packed, he lingers with the bottle of vodka in hand, rolling the fat bottle between his hands before he sets it down next to Vanitas.]

Drink it, throw it away. It's up to you, but it could help you get up and keep fighting. It-- you won't care about the pain so much. Speaking from experience.

[Because Quentin knows how it feels when a piece of you is hanging on by a thread of flesh, the physical pain and the horror of watching something that's undeniably you but somehow now it's not anymore.

But it's really not up to him, but he nods at Vanitas on his way to the door.]

Please don't die?

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EVENT LOG: ENTER MR SANDMAN (DEFENDERS)

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