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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[ Beside Gene's battlefield cross is Irwin's own, his red cross helmet and dog tags abandoned on the stock. The soil piled on top of it is fresh; it would seem that the body was interred within the past few hours. It hasn't been, of course - Wade is here, in the afterlife, walking around and reading the inscriptions on the graves of others.

Those who leave an offering will experience the following. ]

1. h HOUR ON d DAY : fragments of the d-day landing [optional prelude]

[ scene can be watched here. link timestamped for wade's first appearance. ]

Your face is wet before you've even touched the water. The cold black waves pitch and throw the landing craft like a ragdoll, spraying salt water into your face, your nose, your mouth, your eyes. Over the past two hours pretty much everyone's vomited - nerves probably play a role, but between the gross oversaturation of adrenaline in your blood and the constant jerks of the craft it would be a miracle if you didn't puke. Nonetheless, you're one of the guys who doesn't. Breathe in. Out. Again. You're not shaking, either. About half of the guys are. Maybe you're less present than them - because you're scared too, God, you're scared, but if you die you die and if you don't you don't and what matters is holding that death off for as long as possible. The longer you're alive, the more people you can keep from dying.

"Now!"

The gate drops and welcomes in the German gunfire. The kid next to you jerks and falls motionless into the water mid-breath as his neighbors scramble past his momentarily upright corpse.

---

You don't think as you fight your way up the beach, weave around the bodies, spit out sand as it sprays into your mouth over and over. Screaming - men are shrieking their lungs out everywhere you go. There's blood all over, more than you've ever seen in your life. The gunfire and explosions of mortars are deafening, almost disorienting. You focus on the task ahead of you, let the world and the looming chance of your own death twist and fade as the blinkers lower onto your face.

---

"Move on to someone you can help!"

Another shelling. Without removing pressure from the hemorrhaging wound on your patient's thorax you cover him with as much of your own body as you can. The dirt and sand and black-red mist of human remains shower down on you instead of his wounds.

"He's battalion surgeon, Sir!" And you're so close. So close. Just a minute, two minutes, he'll be stable. He loosely grasps your forearm as you work, seemingly just to have something to hold on to. More gunfire, closer this time, or so it seems - it's impossible to tell what's close and what's far when flying bullets are engulfing you from every angle like a swarm of lead locusts. You grab the chest of the corpse in front of you and roll it onto its side for a little more cover. Shots pelt it in an instant.

And then - beautifully - DeForrest, Battalion Surgeon, stops bleeding. His rapid descent toward death freezes. You have a split second to catch your breath.

"I got it!" you yell - you have to if you want to be heard, and your throat is raw for it - "We stopped the bleeding! We stopped the bleeding!"

A metallic clang. A bullet punches through his helmet and he goes motionless. Dead. The past several minutes and desperate effort vanishes in the blink of an eye. "Fuck!" You scream. Throw the now-fucking-useless bandages on the sand. "Just give us a fucking chance, you son of a bitch! Son of a fucking cocksucker!"

"Wade! Come on!" Someone grabs your shoulder, exerts enough force to push you down as you try to straighten up so the Kraut bastards who just picked off your patient can get a proper look at you. "Wade! Wade, it's Mellish! Wade!"

You fall onto your back in the sand as he drags you - all you can do is scream. "Fuck, fuck, fuck--!" and then halfway through the reality crashes down on you, the futility, the fact that you can't fucking help anyone here because they're just going to get blown to fucking pieces three seconds later if you do. Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God. You're in hysterics when you both slam into the steep sand of the seawall and Mellish lets go of your collar, crying like you haven't since you were four or five as reality overwhelms every circuit in your brain.

Another shell crashes into the seawall. A guy a few bodies down the line shrieks bloody murder. "Oh my God! My arm! Somebody!" The emotions, the fear, the selfhood that occluded any ability for coherent thought a matter of seconds ago all vanish. Everything stops. You scramble through the sand in the direction of the senior medical officer and the new casualty like an automaton. Blood geysers from his upper arm in spurts. The wound's arterial.

You press a clump of red bandages to the wound with one hand and fumble for his brachial artery with the clamp you're holding in the other. His blood sprays onto your face as you work, running down your nose and off of your bottom lip. You can taste it, hot and metallic among the grit of the sand on your tongue and teeth.

"Oh my God, it hurts! I'm going to die! Oh my God! Oh, Jesus! Oh, God! God! God help me!"

"You're not gonna die! You're not gonna die!" You deliberately project confidence - urgent, but calm. You have to. "You're not gonna die! You're fine! Don't look-- don't look at it!" You jam your elbow downwards, separating his line of sight from the welter of his torn arm, and shield your patient with your own body as inorganic and organic debris rains down on you from another mortar blast close enough to rock the sandy earth underneath you.

Edited 2019-07-13 07:57 (UTC)

2. A LITTLE MORE MORPHINE : wade's death

[ i'm borrowing some details/dialogue from the book's version of events here and there, but besides little additions it's the same as this scene - wade has just been hit accompanying the squad while they charge uphill to try and take out a german machine gun nest. ]

"Oh, Wade. Oh, Jesus Christ." The Captain's voice rises to a yell that carries down the hill. "Upham! Grab the gear and get up here! We need water and extra dressing now! Get the morphine out of the extra medical kit!" You can barely discern what's happening through the smoke and yelling - but you know you're hit. Several times. You knew from the moment you collapsed into the grass like a shot dove plummeting from the sky.

"Son of a bitch."

"Sulfa. Get some sulfa on there."

They rip open your shirt like it's made of paper and you struggle to lift your head to get a look at what's going on, at where the searing pain is coming from. You've been hit more than once. Several times. You're losing an unbelievable amount of blood.

"Get my legs up! Get my legs up!" It's leaving your brain fast. Your demands go unnoticed.

"How's-how's it look? How's it look?"

"Wade, you're gonna be fine. You're going on a hospital ship." Mellish's voice is gentle, like he's speaking to a child. Upham just watches in open-mouthed horror. Nobody's gotten your legs. Breathing is almost impossible. Their hands are glistening and red as they pour more sulfa powder over you.

"Put my legs up. Put my legs up. Put my legs up." You desperately try to convey urgency. This time they notice.

"I got 'em, I got 'em, I got 'em, I got 'em." The sergeant props your calves up on his thigh from where he's crouched beside you.

"Upham, give me your canteen!" You stare up at Jackson's throat as he cradles your head and the others scramble between applying pressure and shaking more sulfa out of its packets and dumping icy water on your bare skin.

"How's it look?"

"Give him some morphine."

"How's it look?" you repeat, this time with more urgency. They're not listening to you. They're not listening. You're not going to be conscious for much longer. You have to tell them what to do while you're still awake, before it's too late. "How's it look?"

"It's gonna be alright. You're gonna be okay."

"Here comes the morphine, here comes the morphine."

"Am I shot in th-the spine?" You can't move your legs. There's no sensation in your boots. The warmth of the morphine starts to crawl through you, but the pain's still there.

"You're okay, Wade."

"Am I shot in the spine?" Talking is now an almost unbearable effort.

"Lift him up. Put some pressure on it." And a chant of easy, easy, easy over and over as they roll you onto your side as gently as someone can move a person who's been torn to pieces.

"It's okay, Doc," Jackson whispers, thumb on your cheek. "It's all right."

"Wade, you got an exit wound, it's in the small of your back." No. No. No.

"How big- How big's the hole in th-" You can't breathe enough to finish. Your own blood crackles in the back of your nose, crawls up into your mouth. Every breath comes like a diver's first gasp after surfacing.

"It's about the size of an acorn." They turn you onto your back again. You gag when the blood in your mouth falls toward your windpipe.

"You're fine, you're fine," Mellish says at the same time as a small scarlet river spills out of your mouth and trails down your chin. He's lying. They add more pressure, too many hands for you to count pressing down on the unending springs of blood coming from your body.

"Pressure on it!"

"Put some more pressure on it."

You have to struggle to draw in a breath around the blood rattling in your throat to voice your worst fear. Have to stay calm. They don't know what to do. "Is there anything... bleeding... worse than the others?"

"Yeah, right here, do you know what it is?"

"No."

"Right here, I'm gonna put your hand on it." Mellish's hand is so warm on your wrist - you know his body temperature is normal. You're sinking into hypovolemic shock.

"We got some pressure on 'er," Jackson tries to reassure you.

"Right there, okay?" Mellish is almost whispering, with the same tone of voice a man would calm a badly wounded animal with during its last moments. "That's the one." You probe until your finger hits the firm, rubbery flesh buried deep in your abdomen.

"Oh my God, my liver! Oh my god, it's my liver!" I'm going to die! I'm going to die. Tears spill over your cheeks at last. There's no point in holding yourself together any more, fighting to keep your composure so that you can tell them what to do. There's nothing that can be done. You can cry now. You're going to die. There's no hope.

Upham leans forward, helpless. "Tell us what to do. Tell us how to fix you."

"What can we do?" The captain whispers in your ear. "Tell us what to do." Nothing. There's nothing they can do, there's nothing anyone can do. With effort, you turn your head to look at him. Jackson wipes more of the unending flow of blood from the corner of your mouth, smearing it across your chin. The only thing they can do is hasten your departure. Make it more comfortable. You've already had one dose of morphine. It'll only take one or two more to kill you. Miller watches you, waits for your answer. You make up your mind and present the final plea as a suggestion.

"I could use... I could use a little more morphine." You meet the captain's eyes, brows creasing. Please. Please.

"Okay. Okay." He looks at you with pity. You brace one hand on his forearm out of a need for something to hold on to, to ground yourself in the temporal world.

The sergeant jams another syrette into your thigh. The events have been set into motion.

"I don't want to die."

"Here you go. Wade. Here it comes. Shhh." Mellish grasps the hand that you've curled into a fist against your chest. You can't keep it together any more - you're scared and everything is about to end and give way to nothingness and you're not ready for your entire existence to end. Someone holds your other hand as you turn your head away from the scene in front of you with a whimpering sob. The morphine surges through you, warm, merciful. You still hurt, horribly so, but the pain doesn't reach you. It can't do anything for the terror. Give him another one, someone says. You want your mother. Not them. You don't want to die with them, you want to die with her, you want to see her one last time and to hear her say it's going to be alright but you can't because she's in San Diego, California, not France.

"I wanna go home, I wanna go home-- Mama! Mama, mama, mama-" You call for her because it's all you can think to do. She'll make this better. She'll make it okay. Your thoughts float, abstracted from your body, the horror around you. It's an effort to keep your eyes open. "Mama...mama....mama..." Your eyelids drift shut.

Edited 2019-07-13 02:36 (UTC)

He's offered the clear jar, drawing and unlit candles like at many others and again the visions come. It's hard to disassociate his feelings with the ones in this grave site. It's like ice coursing through him rapidly, his stomach seizing into a ball as he's hit with one feeling after another. He's witnessing a death amongst fire and blood, held by companions and people he knows but he doesn't quite know. The experience is so jarring as he begins to feel all the pain this, Wade went through.

Screams of pain and agony, desperately clawing to what little life Wade had left, it makes his stomach turn. These men did all they could to save him and Wade just wanted to go home. He didn't die in his homeland...he just died so far away from the one person he wanted to be with. Wade was dying and all they could do was just let him go peacefully and it makes him want to wretch. He wants to scream at Wade, to himself to hold on, to not drift off. Claw your way back into life and don't let go so you can say goodbye to your mother, to be with her. But he knows it's unrealistic.

These men could only do so much and from the looks of what they had, only practical ways of healing. No divine sources, no magic...just bloodied hands trying desperately to close a fatal wound. Then the sleep comes and he feels himself drift away, the thought of the mother running through his mind. He wonders if Wade's mother was all right and how she was doing now that he was dead? He wonders himself how his own mother was doing. He hadn't thought of her when he died...but this grave was enough to remind him of the fact, his mother lost another son....and this one wasn't coming back.

Finally, the visions end and Elden steps back in a daze, his teeth clenched, body weak. He takes a moment to collect himself, before turning back to the grave and bending down to it. Every person that came to this town had a grave...had they all died this violently? This sadly? He places a hand against the stone, a sad look of contemplation on his face. "Maybe if I was there...you could've seen your mom again, Wade," he murmurs to himself.

It's the same sort of gray desperation and chaos that Rosinante discovered at Gene's grave site. But that young man had gone quickly, hadn't even realized it was coming. This is pure horror, and he's left gasping for breath and sweating from his brow when he snaps out of the vision.

The fear and the violence he knows from past battles, though nothing so severe firsthand. He hates how so many worlds have deemed this kind of disaster necessary to protect the lives of others. How many people have to become disposable?

He doesn't want to bother Wade with this. The man has suffered enough. He comes and goes without a sound, leaving behind a cup of whiskey as he tries to shrug off the little bit of jealousy that at least Wade hadn't been alone.

Vanitas doesn't need to know their world to understand that they died in war, and what their roles were. That they were the good guys, and they were fighting the bad ones. Those are easy concepts for him to understand, they're uncomplicated, black and white, the way he views the world. Each death he's seen so far has only vindicated his idea that his perception of things is true. People are either Light or Darkness, there is no in between. That, more than anything, is why he nosily keeps going from grave to grave, hunting out all that negative emotion that comes with death like an addict.

Leaving an offering of a singular stone at the other doctor's memorial, it's too tempting not to do the same for this one immediately next to it.

It's a rush, all that negative emotion. Vanitas thrives off horror and fear and unfiltered hurt. It's all he knows, and in it he finds the strength his Master had forged him with. Even knowing Wade died in the arms of his comrades does nothing to soften the blow, because that isn't what he wanted in the end. The residual that lingers when the vision ends makes Vanitas shake, the high of morphine translating into the high of that surge of negative emotion. Something about it makes him feel invincible, and he grasps that violent arrogance with a manic laugh.

When he leaves, it's with a purpose in mind, and in his wake he leaves an Archraven that perches on the cross and lingers until the middle of the week— when it abruptly vanishes.

[ One hell of a sight. He's transfixed by it - God knows Irwin had seen battlefield crosses en masse before, but it's something else entirely to stand directly across from his own and stare down two empty red cross helmets propped up for display like the hollow shells of long-dead tortoises. They were supposed to have been safe.

Who the fuck kills a medic?

Wade takes another drag off his third cigarette of the half-hour, bracing against the mild twinge of nausea and lightheadedness that accompanies the latest shock of nicotine into his already oversaturated bloodstream. That's what happens when you go through about half of what you smoke over the course of one day in thirty minutes. He should be pacing himself, especially seeing as he's running pretty low on cigarettes - but he doesn't, because smoking's about the only damn thing that will ease the tension in his shoulders, and it's not as though he's comfortable talking to anyone about the situation.

Ideally, nobody would offer at his grave, either - the memories of agony and fear are his; the terror and childlike desperation for his mother's presence are deeply intimate moments that he'd rather strangers not leaf through. But he sees that some offerings have already been made, and the knowledge that they were well-meaning somewhat soothes the sense of invasion.

Wade doesn't turn his head when he hears the footsteps of the visitor behind him, but speaks regardless, half-addressing the still dark air hanging warm around their reanimated bodies. ]

We were supposed to have been protected... The Geneva Code. It was this set of rules for what you could do in combat. Killing medical personnel was one of the things you couldn't. [ There isn't any bitterness in his voice, however - his words are matter-of-fact as he acknowledges the irony of their situation. ]

[ Optional: If your character moves to leave an offering on Wade's grave while he's here, he speaks up, quiet but clear: ]

Please - don't. If you don't mind. Thank you.

[ wade isn't there when five first visits his grave. looks at it the same way wade does later, the two soldier's, medic's graves, side by side. one he recognizes has to be eugene, and the other -- occurs to him after a beat, must be wade's. the one who'd posted, asking about medications from the future, who's been working together with gene to form the clinic.

five's seen his share of battlefield crosses. five's seen his share of war, across time. temporal disturbances can happen anywhere, any time, but there are so many moving parts in war. so many choices that can change the flow of events.

war, the handler had said. such a fascinating concept. a temporary salve for a permanent human flaw. she'd been here, at this very war, probably in her days as an agent. she'd been here, and felt nothing.

five looks like he feels nothing, expressionless in the face of these graves, but he does, in the end, leave a single white candle at each. and what he'll never tell anyone is: he hadn't known, until he did it, what would happen.

he runs into wade later, passing through, pauses at the sound of his voice. we were supposed to have been protected.

"supposed to" has to be the dirtiest words in any language. ]

I've heard about the Geneva Code. [ inflectionless. held no sway at the commission, of course, an organization out of time and accountable to no one. ] Not that should've means much in war.

[ not exactly wry, just -- knowing. he's preaching to the choir, of course, and he knows it. ]

Edited 2019-07-13 19:47 (UTC)

[ For once, Wade allows himself the small, selfish luxury of a quiet sigh, an expression of weariness and fallibility a man in his position really shouldn't display. ] That's the bitch of it. I think if people cared more about shoulds we might not have to worry about as many wars to begin with.

[ The corners of his mouth barely lift in an approximation of a rueful smile as Irwin watches the smoke he exhaled fade into the black air and takes another drag, even though he's reached a point at which continuing to burn down the cigarette in his mouth is making him feel worse, not better, at least in a physical sense. At the very least it gives him something to do, a worrying stone alternating across perches between his lips and fingers. ]

[ he can't help it -- flashes to the commission, all quiet bureaucracy, white halls, beautifully appointed offices where people brightly discuss the most expedient ways to ensure disasters happen. there's more to history than the bad, of course, but enough of it is; and even the good are preserved with death, just as much as the bad. ]

Goes both ways, [ he says. ] That's a double-edged sword.

[ his job had been all about maintaining the should -- what's meant to be, is meant to be -- though. goes both ways. people shouldn't be killing to maintain the timeline, either. he sighs in turn, wears an expression too old for a teenager. ]

Or maybe you're right.

You're not wrong, it is. [ Wade concedes that point with hardly any inflection one way or the other. ] In these cases you just have to hope that whatever started it was worth going to war over.

[ Wade lets the cigarette hang untouched between his fingers as he continues. ]

I like to think ours was one of the ones worth fighting. Have you heard of Adolf Hitler? [ Can't be too thorough - he's not sure how much information Five's generation had about the Second World War, especially seeing as the young man standing beside him seems to be at least a generation or two removed from it. ]

[ Wade won't be guarding his grave during the event, but as time goes on it's probably going to become clear that he'd rather people not offer at it. This week he'll be occasionally looking at his grave but mostly continuing with the day-to-day of establishing/running the clinic and gathering supplies. Feel free to toss a starter here if you want your character to approach him after what they did - or didn't - see, or hit me up at grinchhands mcgee#7599 (discord, preferred)/

bluehellgazette and we can plan out a thread!]

[Kyna doesn't mean to leave an offering. After her accidental vision at Gene's grave, she gives the rest of the makeshift cemetery a wider berth, sure not to touch any of them. But when she stopped at Gene's grave a few days ago, she got close enough to Wade's to understand just whose it was, and it starts to grate on her. Something about the bare dirt eats at her, and every time she passes it, she can't help but think he deserves better.

So, finally, the third or thirtieth time, she stops. She's as far away as she can get—a few yards—and she's practiced this illusion spell enough that while it might not last forever, it'll last a while, at least. It shouldn't count. All she's doing is weaving her magic into a facsimile of the real thing, without any true substance. Confident as always that she can solve this little issue with her magic, Kyna waves a hand, covering the grave in flowers.

It doesn't work.

Where Gene's death was sudden and painless, Wade's is horrific and drawn out. When it's over, Kyna finds herself on her knees, fingers tangled in the grass, struggling to catch her breath. She feels sick, but more than that, she feels choked with guilt.]

God damn it.

[She should have just left well enough alone. What an idiot.

It takes her longer to make herself find Wade than it did to approach Gene. They're just... different. Wade is harder for her to read, and harder for her to know how to approach. Worse, she's not sure she really has an excuse this time. Does the intention matter? Does an apology actually matter?

She runs into him on the way to the clinic, and unfortunately for them both, it's instantly obvious from the look on her face and the set of her shoulders that something's wrong.]

Hey. Um, can I... Talk to you?

[ Irwin's seen more than a few people in a similar state of distress since the graves first appeared around the bonfire. He's not sure how Kyna died, and it's certainly none of his business, but given her age and her life before Beacon, he can't imagine it was pleasant. Maybe someone allowed her to experience their death, which would also explain the slump of her shoulders, or perhaps reality is just... sinking in. Either way, she doesn't have to say that it's a sensitive subject for him to infer that she'd probably like to have this conversation in private. ]

Sure. [ He keeps his tone subdued. ] There's nobody in the vestry right now.

Oh. Okay.

[She's not sure why doing this in a church feels more uncomfortable, but it does. It's not like there's a better place, though, so she heads in, anxiety practically radiating off of her the entire way.]

Look, I... Um. I... accidentally saw. I'm so sorry.

[ It takes a moment for what Kyna's just said to sink in. He'd done his best to prepare himself for this eventuality after the consequences of leaving an offering had come to light: at some point it would be inevitable that someone would make a well-meaning tribute and experience his death. And indeed a few people have, judging by the small collection of trinkets that have gradually accumulated at the foot of the rifle jammed barrel-first into the bare earth around the bonfire.

It's a violation, albeit accidental, not malicious. He feels a bit like a cadaver being dissected for an audience in an anatomical theatre, every glistening organ on display. She'd felt the terror, the childlike desperation to just go home, the last thoughts of his mother.

The warmth of the morphine in his blood as it eased his departure.

At least presumably.

Wade doesn't give much in the way of external reaction to this news beyond a neutral look - it's important that Kyna knows that he's not upset with her, and experiencing a battlefield death is undoubtedly something very traumatic for someone who hasn't come right out of a war zone. Hell, it was traumatic for the person who did. ]

[ After a brief pause, he speaks up, voice soft and almost monotone: ] How much—how much of it did you see?

[Kyna's not sure if the neutral look helps—it's hard to read, and hard to react to.]

I, um... All of it. I think.

[Which is awful, and she knows it.]

I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to snoop. I just... The grave was bare, and so I cast a spell on it to... Cover it, you know? But it was just an illusion spell, so I thought... I thought it wouldn't count.

[But apparently the spell itself had been the offering, which she should have considered.]

I won't talk about it with anyone. I promise.

[ Wade gives her a faint smile that doesn't reach his eyes. ]

Thanks, Kyna. [ For the agreement to stay quiet about it? For the gesture she didn't realize was an offering? It's not completely clear by his tone of voice. He's grateful, though. He's grateful, and he believes she'll keep her word. Irwin wets his lips with the tip of his tongue, letting a few moments pass as he tries to think of what to say. Finally, he goes for the obvious question, because he is concerned and wouldn't wish such a horrid experience on anyone, especially a friend. ]

Are you holding up okay?

[ He doesn't particularly care to relive his own death by talking about it, but Wade feels a sense of responsibility to do so if that's what will help her process it - both because he's still a medic and because it was his own death she had to endure. ]

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EVENT LOG: GRAVES

irwin wade ➣ saving private ryan ➣ open prompts below

cw: blood, gore

cw: blood, gore, overdosing

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3. HEAR ALL THE BOMBS FADE AWAY : at the shrine

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4. IN THE MORNING THEY RETURN : wildcard

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