logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG: GRAVES

EVENT LOG:
GRAVES

characters: everyone.
location: Bonfire Square.
date/time: July 12-19.
content: mysterious shrines appear and bring visions of death.
warnings: likely violence and potentially gore.

time to pay your respects.

It happens when no one is looking, when most of the town is asleep and the rest are inside. A makeshift cemetery has come to Beacon, taking up residence in the middle of Bonfire Square. Each monument, shrine, and altar is dedicated to someone who now resides here, a memorial of their previous life.

Some may be drawn by curiosity, others by fear, and some may simply have to pass through this strange graveyard to get to the Bonfire itself. Whenever a person gets near, the altars beckon with a mysterious urge— an urge to approach, and an urge to leave something behind. They will feel compelled to make offerings at the various shrines, but doing so has a curious effect; it causes one to experience the death of the person whose grave they've honored.

Whether you resist the compulsion or give in willingly (or something in between), you'll also have to wrestle with the fact that a grave exists for you. Will you let your death be known, or try your best to keep it secret? Destroying it sure won't work, as it will return— with a duplicate somewhere else in town.

However you choose to deal with this, one thing is hard to ignore— this a tangible reminder of your death, and the fact that it's probably permanent.

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( ooc; the short version is 'sniping spawncampers fucking suck, bro.' for anyone interested in seeing ghosts, refer to the first half of the comment. i was thinking about limiting it, but you know what, go nuts. if you just want the death skip to the second half.

a battlefield cross is the only thing to mark this grave, the helmet emblazoned with a red medic's insignia. there are a set of dogtags tangled around the stock of the gun that have the name E. P. HICKS inscribed on them. )

(ghosts)

It's awareness of the cold what creeps on in first. The air's suffused with chill. It sinks into your bones, wraps around them and drags you down into an almost compulsory awareness of it. Your fingers are numb, and blowing on them just seems to make them slick with condensation rather'n'any real shade of warmer. Your hands stay the rough, weathered red of early onset frostbite, and you know you ought to be fighting fit before the call comes up. You tap out a cigarette, instead, and keep your hand cupped around the match longer than you need to light it.

It's early morning, else you wouldn't risk the glow. Snow's fallin' harder than you'd like. Nearby there's a panzer tank still faintly smoldering run off the road. Half your boys are in ditches, the other half in the sorriest excuse for foxholes you've seen yet in this war, scraped a couple feet at best down into the frozen ground. You're sittin' back from their line, crouched against the low retaining wall of a building what's been destroyed just to watch, and find some space to breathe. The 2nd Panzer Division ain't done with you yet, an' you know they just got reinforcements in the shape of an artillery division that just broke past the 89th Recon. The air's too cold to smell like rot, and anyhow the GRS has come on through an' mostly pulled the dead outta sight. But they can't bury them when the ground's froze with this damn nor'easterly wind that lances through every layer you're wearing and flays your bones. Reggie says they just stacked them like frozen firewood in the church at Lierneux.

Anger builds. It builds, an' builds, an' crashes directionless against the beachhead of your calm. You're used to fighting it down. Good at it, now. No point in givin' in. Not a soul alive it'd bring succor to.

"Genie."

Reggie's voice, clarion-bright. It cuts through that schism of anger, gives you an anchor-point against it. You close your eyes, take another drag. When you open them, your friend's leaning against another husked-out wall a short distance away. Reggie's a handsome fella, dark-skinned and lean with a smile that could bring the gods to their knees. He's in civvies, an' he don't seem all that fussed by the cold. Damn New Yorkers, you think to yourself, but there's pain threaded through the thought like ivy in old brick.

You ain't spoken yet today. Ain't sure you can. Yesterday was hard and you're still wearin' the blood of good men. But you give him an acknowledging nod. I'm here. I'm with you. and he gets it. He always does.

"Can't wait for that Alabama sunshine, huh?" Reggie says. His voice is soft an' gentle but there's a playfulness to it, obscured by his accent that can't decide if it's British or Brooklyn. He grew up with one, compounded it with the other, ended up with somethin' not quite either. But he can sound Parisian at the drop of a hat an' knows some six languages besides. You never realized how suited he was for spying until he was in the thick of it. "You better enjoy it for both of us, kid." He ain't never wistful, you know Reggie'd never put that on you. It's just an earnest, fervent wish. Live.

"My pals at the SOE thinks the end's coming, and Aveline — well, ask her yourself, she was in Bauvenn last time I checked in with her. But lord, Genie, you should see the mess of Germany right now. Hitler's losing his goddamn mind. I really think losing Rommel was the tipping point, you know?" Reggie stands up, comes over. Sits down again. The smoke of the cigarette seems to pass right through him. "And the Russians just liberated another camp in Budapest."

Good news. It's good news, an' you should be glad to hear it. But you can't shake this pervasive sense of dread that settled in the pit of your gut around 0300 and ain't yet left you. You ain't even had the heart to bring yourself to eat somethin', even though you know you should. You need to be ready. Can't help your boys if you can't hardly function. Determination cracks the veneer of malaise, and you pull out a tin of ham, prising open the top with the edge of your knife. You've been still so long the snow shakes off your shoulders. "You hear anything about Albert?" you ask at length. You can taste blood on lips cracked in the cold as you stab a piece of gelatinous ham and bite it off the tip of the knife.

Reggie exhales. Shakes his head. "Sorry, Genie. You know how he is. Only damn one of you Hicks boys that can hide from me."

There's a stab of sorrow that lands alongside the cold. Ain't nobody heard from Al now in weeks, it's startin' to wear you down. "It's all right, Reg'. You tried, an' I appreciate it mightily."

"Anything for my best guy," Reggie says fondly. He stands up, makes a show of stretching out his legs. "Anyway, kid. I'm gonna go scout the Salm. 9th Panzer's still out here somewhere, it's driving me nuts." He tips his hand in a salute and wanders off, passing through the retaining wall without a word. You watch him go, and then turn your attention back to the road.

(/ghosts)

(death)

Lou's throwin' snowballs, and Malachi ain't havin' none of it. You can hear the clear refrain of idiot, you want the S.S to roll up while you're playin' with your goddamn dick in the snow? You ain't got the sense God gave baby bunnies, Lawrence! and you catch the moment that Lou hits Malachi straight up in the face with a ball of it and crows with triumph.

It's short-lived. The scream of the first mortar goes up. You ain't sure who takes up the bawl but someone yells it, incoming! The boys scatter, you try to track them in the chaos so you know where to look for the injured. But that first shell hits harmless, throws up shrapnel and steam on its impact. You should be relieved, but you ain't. That dread just won't quit. Lord, not today, don't take any of my boys today—

Another shell thuds against the earth. Another. You can hear Ginny yelling who taught these fuckers how to aim, the Goddamn 2nd Infantry? and a bunch of fellas laughing with nervous, fitful energy.

And then it goes up. That frantic call, you ain't even sure whose throat it gets torn out of but you hear medic hollered into the ether and you're up. The snow an' all the detritus kicked up by the shells makes it hard to orient, but the call keeps on and you run towards it.

First time you ran into danger, your hands shook so bad you could barely dress a wound. Now, fear's an old thing. Dead and decayed beneath the rooted bones of your resolve. You make it. Someone's grabbed Malachi and pulled him down into a foxhole, and you skid on your knees on the dirt and baseball slide into the damn thing with a hand on your helmet.

Malachi is cussing a blue streak and tryin' to fight Jimmy straight-up offa him. But once you're there, he swings his attention to you like a bull spottin' a red flag.

"I'm fuckin'— fine, Doc," Malachi says through gritted teeth. He ain't even let go of his rifle yet. You give Jimmy a look, and he snatches the rifle away when Malachi's distracted with you.

"You go on an' let me see, Mal—" you says gently, ears ringing hard. "Go on, you know I'm just doin' my job. How many purple hearts is this, now?"

"Too fuckin' many! What am I, some kind of goddamn magnet? Fuck! I'm sick of these cocksuckers!" There's blood on his uniform, but it ain't anywhere vital. You rip open his jacket and feel along his chest for the slick spot. No blood on the mouth yet. No laboured breathing that you can tell. Lord, it might actually just be a flesh wound. You find the injury along his back, a hunk of shrapnel about the size of your fist embedded just above the shoulder blade. Ripped right through that coat. You can't pull it out. Right now it's stopping the bleeding, an' there's no telling how deep it is. He ain't going to like that much.

"We gotta get you back to the 51st. Come on, get up." You're already trying to steady him. There's a lull in the shells dropping, which means their mortars are reloading. You might not get another chance.

"I ain't leavin' this fucking foxhole, Doc!" Malachi growls out. "Just pull it out and slap a goddamn dressing on it. I'm shootin' me a Kraut an' I'm gonna nail the bastard's balls on my fucking mantle back home!"

You know he'll listen to you anyway, despite the protests. You peek over the edge of the foxhole, straighten your helmet. Then you stand up, and —

— And you wake on a boat and the soft sway of water, and —

(/death)

Edited 2019-07-12 20:01 (UTC)

[Kyna doesn't mean to trigger the vision. She leaves The Invincible to find the line of shrines and graves and feels an inexplicable pull towards them. It's weird, but probably not dangerous, she tells herself, and then she finds herself stopping at what is obviously a soldier's makeshift grave.

She reaches out to run her fingers along the rim of the helmet, hand trailing down to the dogtags caught around the gun. Without thinking, she touches Wash's dogtags around her neck, almost in sympathy. She doesn't recognize the last name, but then, she doesn't know many people's last names here. The urge to leave something feels almost natural, and so Kyna slips one of her rings off—a simple slim silver band—and leaves it at the base of the marker.

The effect is instant. Suddenly she's freezing, and very aware that she isn't herself. It all happens so quickly that all she can really register is Gene's certainly non-human companion and the visceral intensity of it, the speed with which Gene died, there and suddenly gone.

And then it's over, and Kyna finds herself with her hands over her mouth. For a moment all she can do is sit, forcing herself to breathe slowly so she doesn't spiral into a complete panic. It's the vision, yes, but it's guilt too. This isn't something she has permission to see, and just like in Hadriel, it feels like a violation. Maybe Gene would have told her if she'd asked, but this is taking it out of his hands completely, and she hates it.

Kyna scrubs her hands over her face, mutters a muffled god damn it, and then forces herself up. She has to find him, because the thought of knowing something this personal about him and not telling him is... awful. She's sure she's going to fumble this conversation somehow, like she always does, but she can't just not warn him.

By the time she finds him near the bonfire she's practically vibrating with anxiety, and she fidgets awkwardly before snagging his arm.]

Hey, um...

( he's been sittin' here a spell, not doin' much else but that. lost in the will an' whisper of the flames. he's wearin' his sweater even in the heat of the night, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. he's leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, a beer loosely held in one hand between 'em.

seein' his own death again weren't a trouble. he got to see his best friend, inhabit those last moments. it eases the hurt, some. an' comin' to the realization that it was a sniper what killed him, he has hope, too, that ginny got to malachi an' got him on out all right. please, lord, don't have let him die for nothing.

he's liftin' the beer up for another drink when kyna catches his arm, an' he lowers it again without havin' put it to his mouth so's he can turn to face her immediately. somethin' about her tone an' the language of her body has him on alert, an' he's checkin' her over for injury on instinct alone as he stands up. the beer gets left on the ground near his boot an' he reaches to cup one of her elbows gently should she need some manner of support. )

Kyna, y'all right?

[Kyna is already struggling to think of what to say when he starts to stand, but then he does that thing he alway seems to do—that genuine concern thing, and when his hand cups her elbow, she's hit with a wave of grief that's all the more disconcerting for the fact that he's standing right in front of her. Before she can think better of it, she wraps her arms around him and hugs him tightly, words failing her as usual.]

I'm sorry.

[Her voice is small and it doesn't make much sense, but it's all she can manage.]

( he goes real still beneath her hands, like stone given life an' breath. an' then, very, very slowly he reciprocates. wraps his arms around her and just lets her be held a moment, or however long she needs to find whatever solace she can.

once the shock of the moment's worn off, he realizes what it is she's apologizin' for. he's seen grief an' guilt aplenty. enough to know it off by heart, an' all the more to recognize it on the face of someone he has, in a short time, come to call a friend. she saw his grave, an' the vision what followed it. christ o'lordy he should'a stayed there to warn folks away. it ain't like it was a hard death, or even a cruel one. it's about the best way you can hope to go in war. but ain't a soul he's met deserves to feel like they ought to come up to him beggin' penitence for somethin' that ain't a sin.

he just rubs her back in a gentle, circular motion an' sets his cheek against the crown of her hair. )

Shh, shh. S'all right, sweetheart. I'm sorry you had to see it.

[He knows what she's talking about, apparently, and in one sense that's a relief, but he's apologizing. That's the part that baffles her, and she finds herself shaking her head, the motion slightly awkward pressed against his shoulder.]

No, no, that's not— I mean—

[She lets out a frustrated breath, tells herself to slow down the way Harlan might.]

I didn't... I didn't know what would happen.

[But that's not the point, so she pauses for an awkward beat and tries again.]

I'm sorry. I know it's... really personal. I won't tell anyone.

( he releases her an' puts his hands on her shoulders, just so's he can make eye contact on the matter. )

Listen. It ain't your fault you didn't know. You don't owe me any manner of apology for an accident, you hear?

( he's soft, but ain't no less firm on the point. he'd never in a million years blame her or anyone for that. he gently steers her to a spot near the fire an' gives her a little push to sit down. death's traumatic enough when it's your own, but bein' taken to another time an' place an' experiencin' someone else's emotions wholesale as if they're your own an' then bein' summarily yanked on back out ain't a pretty thing on the mind. a touch'a shellshock's to be expected.

he sits down beside her, takes both her hands in his to keep them warm, rubbin' them a bit to keep the blood flowin'. he ain't wearin' his coat, or he'd offer that too. )

I don't mind you knowin'. Ain't nothin' that happened I wouldn't'a told you anyway for the askin', all right?

Edited 2019-07-13 06:55 (UTC)

[Kyna doesn't fight him when he steers her, and locks her gaze on their hands, mostly because she think if she held eye contact she'd just start stumbling over her words even more.]

I know, but... I didn't ask.

[And there's a difference there. Gene doesn't mind, but Kyna doesn't want him to think she takes it for granted. She's not sure she could articulate why that's so important to her, but it is.]

I didn't want to keep it a secret, you know?

( shock tends to throw logic out a window into the open air, an' so he doesn't pay it much mind. even if he knew nothin' else of war, he'd know better than to hold someone's actions against them when they're newly come from trauma. )

S'all right. If you'd known what was gonna happen, I know you would'a asked. That's what's important, all right? I ain't upset. An' I appreciate you tellin' me. Lord knows you didn't have to.

( he already knows she wouldn't tell anyone else, it ain't to the soul of her. ever since that first meetin', she's struck him as bein' deeply honest and loyal by that same stroke. just the fact she's so come to ruin over so small a thing is clear evidence of it. )

[Kyna nods at that, squeezing his hands. It's okay. They're okay, then. She's silent for a second, thinking, and then she bites her lip before speaking up again.]

Um... Can I ask you something else?

( atta girl. she's comin' on down. lord, what a will this woman has. she's made outta the stuff what lives in the center mass of a star. )

Yeah, go on.

( he thinks he can guess what it might be, but oddly there ain't no how-to-do about it. no fear, no dread, no grim determination. it's like his emotions surrounding the topic have been cauterized. )

You don't have to answer or anything.

[She says it like a disclaimer, shifting where she sits to cross her legs underneath her. Gene strikes her as an open book, sweet and accommodating, but she's not sure he has any idea how long the vision was. She has enough friends with secrets to know that some things are just too private, but she also trusts that he won't get upset.]

So... That guy with you. The one who walked through the wall? Who was he?

( he squeezes her hands, an' then releases her an' sits back into his own space. not to be away from her, specifically, just. he needs a moment.

aveline was the last person he told about reggie. an' that'd been. utilitarian. strictly business. she wanted to know how it was he happened to possess information that only a dead soe agent should'a known. she'd asked the right questions an' boxed him in an' anyway, he ain't one to lie. so he'd told her, an' her first thought was for how she could use him to win the war, an' he'd consented to it because the sooner it's over, the less likely it is that his baby brother is gonna be able to sign up an' come over to europe an' die in the fuckin' mud like so many other boys.

but reggie.

reggie died on a wednesday. in vichy france, beneath a sun so hot he'd joked first about dyin' of thirst before schäfer shot him. he'd spent eleven days bein' tortured before that, an' then left for dead in a field. an' gene ain't had a minute, not one goddamn minute in this war to grieve him. how could he? he weren't supposed to even know he was dead. there's a hot pressure in the back of his throat an' behind his eyes and he has to breathe through the worst of it before he goes an' breaks down.

all because she asks, when she doesn't have to. somethin' comes down inside him, some dam or stopgap, and when he draws a breath it's half a shudder besides. )

That, ah. ( lord, his voice is rough. he clears his throat an' tries again. ) Reggie Holiday. My best friend.

Oh.

[She says it quietly, and her first instinct is to reach for his hands again, because she's so much better at comforting through touch than words. He needs space, though, so she holds back, tangling her fingers together in her lap instead.]

I'm sorry. It's okay if you don't want to talk about it.

Nah, it ain't that.

( he'd never do her the disrespect of makin' her think this is somethin' on her. he'd tell her near about anything if she asked. he just. doesn't know where to start, an' the simple fact that she's askin' about reggie more than the fact that gene saw him so is. it's tellin'. about the sorta person she is, what it is she reaches for in dark times. human connection is everything to her — but before this conversation it'd been an educated guess an' not an absolute. now he knows.

she'd wanted to touch him, he saw that much. but she's a woman who understands that sometimes you have to put what a person wants over what you want for them, and she'd acted on that. so he reaches out and touches her wrist, just a little point of contact to let her know it's all right. then he takes a bracing breath. talkin' about the man ain't a hardship, it's a goddamn privilege. )

I told you some, 'bout Brooklyn, yeah? Well, I moved there when I was fourteen. Big change, you know. Goin' from a city with less than a thousand souls to a place like that all on your own. Reggie, ah... he took me in, in a way. He was a couple years older. Taught me how to dance an' manage in a place that was as foreign to me as the moon. Sometimes we'd just... go out and ride the trolleys until the sun came up. I don't know why he picked me, Kyna. Ain't never met a man like him, before or since. All eyes came to him when he walked into a room, it was like... lookin' at the sun.

( but he never made gene feel small. or any manner of inadequate, despite the fact that his folks were both doctors an' he had more education in his little finger than gene'd had in the whole of his life. )

When the war kicked off, he went to Europe. He'd been born there, see, an' he joined the 'Special Operations Executive' as a spy against the Axis. An' on account'a my seein' the dead ( he says that deliberately. calm. ) he came to me when he died. He could'a passed on, you know? But he stayed. I lost track'a how many ambushes he foiled an' how many lives he saved just by tellin' me German troop movements an' spyin' on their officers. I was in Love Company, but a lotta folks nicknamed us Lucky on account'a how few casualties we took.

( comparatively. some paratrooper units clocked in at 96 percent casualty rates durin' big operations like overlord. an' lordy, did they lose men in italy. )

[She's silent for a moment, processing that. Suddenly, ridiculously, she wishes she'd paid more attention in her history classes so she knew she wouldn't be asking any stupid questions. Kyna lets out a breath, looking up to meet his gaze again.]

He stayed behind on purpose to help you? Do you know... I mean, did he ever say what it was like?

( they hadn't really talked about it much. reggie wasn't one to volunteer information or any ounce of sufferin' besides. it could'a been like hell for him an' he wouldn't'a so much as toyed with the notion of tellin' him. )

All's I know is that it wasn't this. But, ah. Most ghosts... they just say it's lonely.

He's lucky he had you then, huh?

[She draws her knees up to her chest.]

Do you know anyone else where you're from who can see ghosts?

( aveline had asked him that question. an' he'd lied. lord help him, he lied about it. because he could stand her knowin' his secret, but his brothers an' his pa — they were his to protect.

but aveline's aim had been endin' the war. he'd known what he was gettin' into. kyna ain't got no stakes in the knowin', an' besides. he ain't been a man of her acquaintance long, but he trusts her.

the conflict's still evident in him, though. the set to his shoulders, the line of his jaw. the way his hands work themselves closed, an' then back open again. )

All the men in my family line can. Goin' back as many generations as you please. Ain't a one of us it's missed.

Really?

[And she can tell he's conflicted. This is one of those delicate secrets that all of her friends seem to have, so, gently, she tries to make him feel a little more relaxed.]

That happens a lot where I'm from. Not seeing ghosts, specifically, but... My best friend back home was just kind of born to magic, you know? I've always taught myself, but he just gets it, like breathing. I think it's always run in his family.

press f to pay respects; (also known as tl;dr, the tag)

this got tl;dr too rip

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