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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[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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