logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

I. Red, January 20-25

The metal arm doesn't feel pain. It feels a lot of things, but pain isn't one of them. The place where it joins the flesh hurts, a lot, and the metal anchored to bone under their skin and muscles ache and tear, throb sometimes with the cold, but the sensors in the metal limb itself don't process anything like pain. So when the Soldier, after shutting away the weird reddish tinge to their lantern glow and the worrisome spiderwebbing of cracks behind the protective metal plating and shifting the lantern's position to something more stable against their shoulder, starts feeling the itch and ache underneath the plates they know something really is wrong.

Over the course of the next full day, while the Soldier tries to keep up their usual patrols and attempts to help handlers and friends around Beacon, the plates in the arm grow and twist, turning into jagged spikes of metal inches long, turning the arm into a wholly different kind of weapon than usual. The metal supports under their skin tear through, making more spikes all along their ribs and left shoulder, halfway down their spine. They can't wear their fresh new tactical vest for fear of shredding even the kevlar, or their very handsome tailored pea coat for the much more certain fear of shredding that.

In the end, they just have to sacrifice a hoodie and a couple thinner long-sleeved shirts and hope the sharp metal doesn't destroy them too thoroughly. They certainly do a number on their own flesh, constantly tearing with each movement, turning the back of those clothes rusty with blood.

And they still try their damndest to keep focused on routine, and on helping, despite it all. Pain is normal. They can deal. Others are not so lucky.

II. Dark Green, January 26-27

On the sixth day, the red shade is gone from their lantern, the arm has morphed itself back to normal, and the holes in their flesh of their back and shoulder are slowly starting to heal. They get a whole half a day of relief, one full patrol and then several hours in the Invincible kitchen making half a dozen dishes to share around and to eat themselves to fuel the healing of their poor back and ribs.

Then the light from their lantern slowly starts to change, shading darker and darker green, cracks growing deeper and darker. They start missing things they grab for, their knife slips off the counter when trying to cut things, they bump into tables and cupboards with a clumsiness that they've never shown before. Everything looks wrong, everything feels wrong, and they can't even properly quantify it. It's as if the whole world is curved, and they can't see around the curve.

After the first time they chop into a finger instead of a carrot, they promptly put all the weaponry and food away, finger wrapped up in a cheesecloth, and exit the kitchen, bashing their metal shoulder (thankfully free of shards, now) on the doorway on their way out. No more sharp things until this clears up.

The Soldier's twice-daily patrols for the next day and a half are a lot of fun, and involve either moving much more slowly than usual, or stumbling as if drunk, head full of vertigo and disorientation. Whenever not on patrol, they find somewhere safe-ish to sit and cling to the chair or sofa beneath them, and watch the world spin dazedly.

III. Green, January 28-29

The cracks recede at last, the light brightens-- but the lantern isn't whole, and the color hasn't cleared. The world rights itself... but the self slides away from them, instead.

Sometimes it's the Sergeant, voice rough and body aching from the operating table, not remembering where he is. "The fuck even is this," he mutters to himself, loitering at the edge of the dining room at the Invincible, or at the treeline staring at the village. "The fuck even is this?"

Sometimes it's the Asset, all the growth from the past several months just gone, a blank slate with all their weapons and tac vest and no expression on its face. "Ready to comply," it says to anyone who attempts to address it. "Awaiting orders."

For exactly two hours early on the last day, it's a very confused young man named Bucky, who's trying very hard not to show how afraid he is by all the dark and all the weird shit going on. "Hey. Buddy." He offers whoever it is a weak smile. "Got a smoke?"

And when that gets shaken away, it's just Soldat, who is just shaken and with a largely normal lantern again, just a single crack and a hint of green hidden safely behind the metal shutters. For the rest of the final day-- and a couple days beyond, in fact-- they are a shadow around the edge of the village, talking only to a very few, and those only briefly and with a lot of effort on both their parts.

Sora's on a practice patrol himself, keeping an eye out for stragglers in the dark and observing things the way the soldier's taught him. He's got a strange feeling that something off is spreading through the town, but besides one or two flukes with people he's walked by, nothing's seemed truly wrong. It's just a general sense of unease that he catches on the air, making him wonder if there's something going around and he's just the only one who hasn't picked up what it is yet.

Until he spots the soldier, and the amount of blood that is soaking into their usually well cleaned and kept clothing? That's not normal.

"Hey. Hey, slow down." He walks up next to them, worry in his eyes. He's not sure what he's looking for - an expression of pain, resignation, fear - but he's mostly here to see if he can help. His pulse kicks a little faster. "This doesn't... What is this? What's happening?"

Really, it's not hard to spot the cause. The metal shards protruding from the Soldier's back and shoulder all stick out several inches beyond the bloody clothing, catching the light of Sora's lantern; the jagged look of their metal arm is obvious, as if each plate has grown three or four times in length and curved outward like a score of knives all along the outside of their arm.

The Soldier's expression is resigned more than anything else, though they wince at Sora's nearness, step sideways a little, just in case. "Careful. Careful, kid, it's all very sharp. And it keeps twitching." The last thing they want is their arm getting a life of its own and trying to cut their friends.

"Uh, not to burst your bubble, but that's a lot of really bad words all in a row." Sora's eyes widen in horror as he raises his lantern, letting white light flood the situation. That's some horror movie craziness. He's seen some network people get back some really, really nasty echoes, but this is one of the worst he's ever seen.

"Please tell me that's not normal. Are you good with magic? I - I don't know how much it can do but -" And Sora glows green, head to toe. He's never shown the soldier this one, he thinks, but it has to do something, even if it's only stop a little of the pain. If the soldier lets him cast it, it'll surround them both with green light and spectral leaves before disappearing. It's not much, but it's relief.

The Soldier stops and blinks at the glow, shying aside only for a moment before realizing it's not from Sora's lantern, but just from him.

Magic. Right. They hold still, let him do whatever he needs to do, and... it helps. It does. It won't last long, but at least it helps with the current wounds. They hold still, for now, trying not to re-open them just yet. "Thanks." A weak little smile, but a smile nonetheless. "I think.... It feels like the metal that anchors the arm grew. The way the arm did." So yeah. These spikes start at the bone.

That. Is very not good. He'll breathe a sigh of relief as the outer edges of the damage resew themselves, at least, but they need to go somewhere and rest. Sora doesn't even know what they're still doing out here if things have gotten this bad.

"The metal that anchors the arm..." Sora's eyebrows bunch together, determined. "We should go back to Aziraphale and Crowley if that wasn't what you were doing already. I can't fix this."

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Bucky/Soldat | OTA CW: Blood in part I, major disassociation in part III

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