logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: FEAST OF LIGHTS

Entry tags:

EVENT LOG: FEAST OF LIGHTS

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: december 23 - 30
content: Holiday cheer is here!
warnings: n/a. please cw tags appropriately.

a show of lights

When characters wake on the "morning" of the 23rd, they'll find all of Beacon is lit up beautifully. Spirits have carefully placed candles all around the town, lighting up the familiar buildings and streets with a warm, comforting glow. If others wish to help, they're more than welcome, but it won't take too long: they've clearly spent all night getting things ready. If asked, Rastus will explain the spirits do this every few years, and yes, those candles are lit from the bonfire, but he'll get them back before the end of the event.

Once the spirits finish their task, it's time to hand out dreidels! While the four-sided toy has the usual Hebrew letters on it, characters will soon realize that they've little correlation to the typical rules. Instead: each side offers a certain kind of prize (listed below). Characters can play against the spirits or among themselves, but either way, they'll find a personal dreidel in their possession for the duration of the event.

secret santa

Of course, the spirits aren't the only ones in a holiday mood. Thanks to the tireless (and secretive) efforts of Eleven, quite a number of people wake up to find a present nearby. The wrappings vary from elegant to, well, an effort, and the gifts range form big to small, but there's no doubt each was given with at least a little thoughtfulness in mind.

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"Sorry," he responds immediately, and raises an open palm as if to show he means no harm by it. "I won't. Won't bring it up again. I didn't know."

What a strangely severe reaction, though! He can't quite fathom what it means, for he's never seen someone react in such a way to something that is presumably their own name. The only thing he can think of, the only reference he has that would make himself react with such vehemence is a particularly dangerous secret. That doesn't mean that's what this is, but he can't help but be intrigued.

First, though, apologetic. Maybe even a little bit genuinely so.

The Soldier puts their head into their hands, fingers in their hair, curling their knees up, making themselves smaller and staring at the ground, the star maps they kicked on accident in their flight across the floor. Breathe. Got to breathe. Not panic. Not bolt. Rosinante doesn't know, doesn't understand. It only halfway understands, and it's inside their own head. (Hey. Hey, pal. It's okay. Jesus, what happened? Nothing. Nothing nothing nothing go away Sergeant.)

"Can't know that. Can't. Shouldn't. Not allowed." It sounds more like they're talking to themselves, muttering between rapid breaths, but it's audible enough to Rosinante. It's not quite the same panic attack as what he saw in the church, but it's pretty close.

How very, very strange. He's not really sure what to do about any of it, either, aside from letting Soldat have his little meltdown while he calmly reaches for the maps he can draw closer without getting up. The rest, ones that slid a few feet farther than the others, he waits on for now. They're not going anywhere.

"Come on over here," he sighs, beckoning with a hand. "Didn't mean to startle you. Did you get to talk to people at the Night Market?"

Maybe he'll calm down if given a swift change of topic. Here's hoping.

That's an order. Orders are for obeying. The Soldier takes a minute to register it, but once it does, they start to slowly uncurl. Creep over back to the edge of the mess of maps. Collect the ones Rosinante can't reach, despite shaking flesh hand and noisily reconfiguring plates in the metal arm, and setting the pages carefully back into place.

"Yes. Some. Michelle." (Sentences, Soldier, c'mon. Know you can do it. Go away Sergeant! Where the fuck am I supposed to go, pal?) The map in their hand rattles, they set it down. "Gave her origami, got magic origami. Not useful, but pretty."

Better already. He nods his thanks at the retrieval of the remaining maps, but otherwise stays quiet to let Soldat speak. No need to rush, they can take their time, one word at a time if needed.

"Magic origami, huh? What does it do?"

"Nothing. It's just made with magic. So I can't replicate it. Too complicated." They tried, but only managed a simpler version, and that only after a couple hours of patience bleeding into frustration. (Yeah, think about that. That's not gonna freak you out, right? No. Origami is good. Soothing.)

They pointedly think about folds and angles for a long minute, setting down the last disturbed star map. It does, in fact, help a little bit, and the last map doesn't shake as they nudge it back into place. "Her power just shapes paper. Makes it stronger or sharper. Doesn't give it abilities."

"I see. Pretty handy, though. A practical ability." Paper is pretty easy to come by, after all, and there's probably plenty it can be used for with a little imagination. Or maybe she just makes decorations and toys with it - his mind had quickly jumped to weapons, but there's no reason to assume.

"I tried origami years ago, never got the hang of it. Have you ever done any?"

Sengoku had tried to teach him but in his clumsy hands the paper always ended up torn and misshapen. Still, it served its purpose. It kept him occupied and focused on something constructive - for a few minutes at a time, anyway, until he got frustrated or the old man's goat ate it.

"Yeah. Misty showed me. Says I'm pretty good at it. It's relaxing." They hesitate, then settle back on their heels, crouched in front of Rosinante and his maps. At least they're not hyperventilating anymore, that's a plus. The Sergeant has shut up, but he's not gone. And Rosinante knows, and might say it again at any minute.

Folding. Think about folding paper. "Sorry," they manage, eyes down on the stars. Shit, they can't even give someone a gift properly, without turning into a panicked mess. (Nevermind that it wasn't really the gift giving that was the problem.)

Rosinante shakes his head. "You don't need to apologize, and I won't bring it up again."

Probably. He suspects he'll never need to; that if Soldat ever feels like they want to talk about it, they'll do so on their own. But that strikes him as unlikely, and that's fine.

The topic of the night market and origami seems to have quickly exhausted itself, though, with Soldat struggling to say much at all. He'll try something different. "You said this coat was for... Christmas? One of your Earth holidays, right? It keeps coming up. What's it about?"

Later, the Soldier is going to wonder at just why Rosinante is so good with them when they're freaking the fuck out, but so terrible with them when they actually feel like they're doing something worthwhile and helpful. Right now, they're just going to be very grateful that he does seem to be able to handle the panic as well as he does. Distraction and acceptance is the best thing the guy can even do to calm things down.

They breathe out slow and dredge up the happier memory. "I only know what Misty told me. That it's about family and friends, and really stupid kids' stories. There's gifts and a lot of food."

"Right. Seems about like what I've seen so far." Maybe not so much with kids' stories and food, but everyone seems intent on giving each other gifts. He'd taken Eleven's game as a simple wistful memory of some tradition from home without realizing it was part of this particular holiday in winter, but it's starting to come together now.

"I'm... impressed, I guess. That people are so generous here, in giving all kinds of really thoughtful things to each other when we've only known each other a few months. Less, in some cases." It's how people should be, though. It's probably how normal people are, when they grow up and live mostly normal lives. Friendly, trusting, open. He knows it, but just doesn't have much firsthand experience with it at all.

Trust doesn't have a whole lot to do with liking, in the Soldier's experience, but liking is definitely happening. And thoughtfulness. And kindness. They're working on the trust thing, still. "There are good people here," is their contribution. They've said it before, and they'll say it again. "More than I ever expected to see. In once place." Literally everyone they've interacted with has been some form of good to the Soldier (except the green-eyed spirits, but that don't... really count, and even then they're in an OOC limbo in which case they might have been good, too, who knows) with the single possible exception of Vanitas, and even that wasn't bad, just grouchy. It's eye-opening. Helps a little with the trust thing.

There are quite a lot of good people here, it's certainly true. He'd been so wary at first, but month after month, new arrivals come and most of them are still generally able to work alongside each other, to be kind to each other and help everyone out. Sure, there are exceptions, and sure, some keep more to themselves than the rest, but perhaps something about dying tempers some of the fear and anger they may have had in life. The realization of one's own mortality probably changes most people at least a little.

But also, "I think we've gotten lucky. It sounds like past groups didn't have the cohesion we do. It's not quite what I'm used to, but considering it's a bunch of randomly-delivered people from multiple worlds, I think we're doing all right."

"We don't have cohesion," the Soldier says, looking down at the star charts. "Not now. Too many people going their own directions. Doing the same things but without talking to each other." They know that part intimately, having clocked something like six people making regular patrols without coordinating with anyone else, not including themselves and Javert who do actually coordinate. "But most of us want to help. Even if what we do doesn't work yet. That's a start."

"That's all I mean. We're far from a coordinated unit, but we agree on working together and sharing what we find as we go."

Except apparently Soldat believes that isn't true? He frowns a little as he begins sorting the charts back into order. "Who's trying the same things as who without talking about it?"

"Patrols," the Soldier says. "Javert and I coordinate. No one else does." And the Soldier isn't going to stop-- can't stop, not and feel remotely safe-- but they do feel a little silly doing multiple patrols while other people are doing the same thing. (One more thing that's fucked up about us, I guess. Hey, I'd keep doing it, too. No telling how good these other people even are.) "Exploration and building, to a lesser extent. Everyone just. Does their own thing."

They shrug a little, still looking down, but now with half a smile. "Can't expect civilians to act like military."

"No, you can't," he agrees, for he'd quickly had to accept that within weeks of arrival. He wouldn't expect them to act like military, which is the whole point of his service, of course. The Marines, and the other soldiers he's met here, have that shared purpose of protecting civilians so they can live their lives freely so long as nobody is harmed by their actions.

"But have you tried asking the others to coordinate? I know Jason Grace was talking about organizing units at the last town hall meeting, since it's how he's used to patrolling at home," he suggests. And while his tone is entirely neutral, even positive, he can't help but be a little annoyed. Soldat hadn't even come to that meeting. Had sent others to speak for them, instead. Should they really be so frustrated by lack of coordination if they hadn't made an effort to do so? Even if the large group was unsettling, they were clearly listening in. Isn't it better to do something if there's a problem than to sit back and complain about it later?

"The. Idea was dismissed." They'd heard it being largely shot down as unlikely to get traction, and left in Jason's hands if he'd wanted to do anything in particular with it. So they'd waited to be contacted, or for a network message to go up, if Jason wanted to actually go through with the idea. They look at Rosinante sidelong, still feeling unsteady and raw around the edges, and now uncertain on top of it. "And I follow orders. I don't give them."

There is a lot he would say if he ever spoke without considering his words and their consequences first. Instead, he gives himself a few seconds to mull over how to respond to all of that - for while there were few actual words, they say quite a lot.

"It wouldn't be an order, it would be a request. Ask Jason to collaborate and schedule patrols around the ones you're interested in doing so that you're not both covering the same ground," he replies. "The idea of scheduling patrols by a sort of organized conscription was dismissed because we know people here won't follow it. You'll have to be more self-directed here than you're used to doing if you want certain things to be done. You have to make your own judgment calls here, like you would on any field mission."

Judgment calls when not in the midst of a battle or an actual mission are... hard. Not just because it's unfamiliar, though there's certainly that. The Soldier looks away again. It's so much easier to just let other people make the important decisions, and follow along. Maybe collect intel and edge in suggestions here and there. Or work alone, where they're not responsible for anyone else, and if they get stymied by a choice or get themselves into trouble, then no one else has to deal for it.

"I still have a hard time deciding how to spend my own free time," they mutter. "My judgment outside of combat ain't exactly great."

"The sort of jobs you did, then, were just - in and out? A few days of fighting and then you leave?"

No judgment if that's true - in fact, he's a little jealous. Wouldn't it be nice to be able to just go, do work, and then return home and turn all of that off? Living an assignment 24/7 for years at a time like he'd done is a different beast altogether. A very exhausting one, although "exhausting" doesn't begin to cover his experience.

Soldat has, of course, told him they were an assassin for that group that brainwashed him, but in his mind that would still mean weeks and months of travel just to get to a target. Perhaps his previous employers had escorted Soldat from place to place themselves?

"Never stayed out of cryo longer than a week," the Soldier agrees. "Not usually even that long, or there would be the Chair mid-mission. To. Start over. Most of my missions, I wasn't supposed to be seen, just a shot from the dark to take out a target. Sometimes there was tracking, but never for long." It was only the last one where they could be out in the open, when it no longer mattered, because if it succeeded, HYDRA would own the world.

The Soldier has fragments of knowledge: they'd just wanted it all to be done. So they could finally stop, just go back into cryofreeze for the last time. The plates in their arm ripple under their jacket. "I never had free time until I died. Never had time without a mission or a goal."

Right - cryo. Frozen, and presumably shipped around, thawed, then frozen again. Soldat had briefly made mention of being in a state like this early on when he'd asked, and Rosinante had forgotten the details; plus, they really are details, now, in more depth than before.

He does actually understand frozen storage. But that's the sort of thing that should take an entire building to achieve, that couldn't easily be moved, and repeated freezing and thawing sounds insanely dangerous. That it exists doesn't surprise him by now, since so many of the worlds people are from here are so advanced, but it's hard to picture ever talking about it so casually. And this, of course, explains also why Soldat refers to themself as a tool. There was simply no life outside acting as the weapon, and was then hung up on the shelf, so to speak, when the job was over.

So that's a depressing sort of life. Hardly counts as life at all, really. "Well," he says with a sigh, "Obviously that isn't the case here, where you have plenty of time. Do what you want with it. There's lots of time to learn how."

Probably would have been fatal to anyone without advanced healing from the serum, to be honest. The Soldier certainly never saw anyone else being frozen like they were.

No more cryo here, though. No more stopping, until they either stop the World Eaters, or are destroyed by the spirits when they fail. And until then, free time. "I'm trying." Which is better than nothing, they suppose. Even if they don't feel like they've made a lot of progress. (Nevermind that even trying, feeling like there's progress to actually be made, is progress in and of itself.)

"I'll talk to Jason," they finally say, gaze still down. "Even if we just coordinate between him, me, and the Inspector. That's still better coverage."

"It is. And if you see others while you're out patrolling, you might try asking them also if they want to coordinate. In fact, if you have a gap in the schedule you already know about, I don't mind filling it sometimes."

The main problem being that sometimes he's just gone for days at a time, so rather than some sort of organized patrol, he keeps watch where and when it suits him. Part of the problem, maybe, but the fact is he's not actually the sort of soldier who works in a unit or who patrols some border territory back home. He's used to acting alone and making his own decisions when not at Marineford, and this is definitely not Marineford. He's willing to adjust, though, for the benefit of those stuck here.

EVENT LOG: FEAST OF LIGHTS

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