logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

characters: everyone.
location: around town.
date/time: january 20-29.
content: the lanterns begin to malfunction.
warnings: body horror and psychological horror. please cw tags appropriately.

you'll become one

January 20th arrives the same as all the days before it. There's no great pulse of warning that throbs through the air, no ominous wind that causes the bonfire to shudder. The spirits are neither agitated nor do they hide. You could almost miss the change, if the lanterns weren't always by your side. There's no explanation that comes with the way that it's changed, but it's impossible not to worry when it's happened so suddenly.

Maybe it takes a few days, or maybe it only takes a few hours, but suddenly it isn't just the lanterns that have changed. You, yourself, have become somehow different. It's possible that you won't even have the right state of mind to wonder how long it will last. At the very least, it appears you aren't alone. All across Beacon, lanterns are changing, and changing the people with them.

Out in the distance, the lighthouse's beam has turned green.

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She observes, looking no more in the know than before. Searching, perhaps, when she musters the nerve to watch his face.

"Please don't make me say it. You know. You know. You're not supposed to bandage it."

You're in hell, Soldat. Plain and simple. Descensum.

He looks up, looks back, registering her tension and hesitance and letting their eyes meet, for once. Holds them for a good ten seconds before looking back down at her hand, packing fresh snow on it. Keep it cold, until it's ready to take a stitch or three. "I don't want you to be hurt, Misty. You're my favorite handler, remember?"

"I'm not real," she murmurs, dropping fully to a whisper before, "You're not real. None of this is. Still the classroom. Still the kids. Still frogs."

Not working well with logic.

"It bleeds out, squirming." Twitching and in pain. Jesus, it never did anything.

"No, Misty. No frogs here." They try for a wan smile, looking back up at her face again. "And you're always trying to make me believe I'm real. I don't think you'd change your mind now." It's the lanterns. Like his is red, like the kid's went green when he switched minds into Skyler. Something is wrong with the lanterns, and it's affecting them somehow.

"Can you hold your hand very still for me, Misty?" they ask, brushing away the snow gingerly to see how swollen the wound is, fully expecting more blood in the process.

"There are, I just don't know why I can't see them. Maybe they ran again. They'll be back." He says what would be a nice, comfortable truth, and she knows better than to hope for it. Certainly not believe it.

But why is he doing what he's doing.

There's new blood flowing steady, what snow hasn't melted into it instead clinging to the stained skin surrounding the wound. Not fully numb, though the only evidence of that is continued, involuntary twitching. She doesn't move the limb, at least.

"I'm not going to move." Cqnnot, in fact. Rooted down like always. She doesn't need to check to know.

The whole thing isn't likely to be numb, not with nothing but snow to work with. But balancing between pain, blood loss, and a guess as to how long Misty will actually cooperate, they're going to have to err on the side of pain. "This will hurt a little. I'm sorry."

They pluck up the needle, thread it deftly with the metal hand, and after another wipe of clean snow to clear blood away, they dip the needle into the edges of the tear to pull them together. This is going to be a fucking pain to keep bound and pressurized, on the palm of her hand, so the stitches had better be good enough to hold.

Unsurprisingly, she hisses with the sensation of it. Surprisingly, she doesn't budge. The understanding that there's no standing, however much she may want to, withstands physical pain with ease. A particularly violent shudder rolls through, and past.

"Jesus--"

"I know, I know, I'm sorry," the Soldier soothes. For once their voice even cooperates, and it's gentle, not just quiet: warm, not just calm. And not even worried. It's like in the memory with Steve, patching him up, it's like his voice somehow remembers how to do it in this one instance. "I'm being as quick as I can. Then I'll get you more snow."

One full stitch. Two. A third, just to be safe, since the position of the wound is so damn awkward. The steak knife was not the sharpest thing around, nor the widest, it's just so messy-- thank fuck she didn't find the two knives the Soldier has hidden at her house. Those would have gone straight through her hand, come out the other side, and then gone up to the hilt. By the time he's done speaking, the thread is knotted and sliced free with the knife-sharp edge of his metal hand, and he's picking up the promised snow to hold in place. There's blood everywhere.

"There. There you go. All done."

There's no room for tenderness, there. Could it fake as much, if only to prolong torture? She isn't sure. Can't recall. Why would it shift, even if it could? Why won't he explain? She listens, she accepts what treatment is offered without incident, even cries silently. Breaths are uneven and ragged. Eyes flicker anywhere, everywhere, wildly. Her arm is trembling by the time he's finished, injury, lack of sleep, and her current mindset all working in tandem to drain her.

"It just gets cut open again, you know." A mumble, confused, dazed. "I'm supposed to heal it, and then it...again." She slumps toward him, in staggered increments.

They put their own hand under hers again to support it while they wrap the bandage around her palm, with a fold of gauze up against the wound itself, as tight as they can manage without cutting off bloodflow to her fingers. And without shredding the bandage with metal fingers still gone sharp. It's tricky, especially when having to hold themselves so that if she falls any further, she falls on the shoulder that's not full of four-inch long impaling spikes. "I won't let anyone cut you. No cutting. I'll protect you. That's my job."

"I'm the cutter," she explains, or admits, or confesses, not herself certain. "That's what I have to do." It's like explaining the sky is blue, though trying not to topple over saps what energy might otherwise have gone toward putting more surprise into it. It doesn't benefit them to pretend not to know. Protection is antithetical on an unprecedented level.

Where is this coming from. Why does Misty think she has to hurt herself. "You don't. Promise, you don't." They tie the bandage off, pull back the metal hand so they don't cut anything they don't want to. He can't leave her here, can't let her sit surrounded by bloody snow, unprotected. "Misty. Can you stand."

"I do. It's why I'm here." Though she's listening, perhaps more attentive for the lack of any continued harm to or complete healing of her hand. It's the only available distraction, which helps. She thinks about the question, though her answer still sounds foggy. "Can't."

There's no leaving the classroom.

Fuck, that means if they don't want to leave her here, they'll have to literally pick her up and carry her. Which means dealing with the metal everywhere somehow not stabbing her. And, also, lots and lots of fucking touching.

They look around helplessly once, then turns instead to ease onto the bench beside her. "I'll sit with you, then."

Company is accepted, eye contact largely unmade. A minute passes, staring down at the snow, silently crying. She should acknowledge him, maybe. If the cycle's already this broken, that might be what's intended.

"Where are we going, after this? If we're - if we're going."

They're going. As soon as they can convince her to budge from the seat, they're going. "Someplace warm and dry. Where I can feed you and wrap you in a blanket. Probably your house. It's closer than Aziraphale's." They still don't know where she thinks she is, what she thinks she's supposed to be doing, but maybe continually referencing where they are now will help?

It's a solid start. Brow creased, she considers it.

"Aziraphale." Not a name that fits. But a name. None in Louisiana, either- where would an Aziraphale be from. "My house. Other people? Frogs?" Food sounds nice. Blanket sounds nice.

Jesus, her hand hurts.

"Just you and me. For now. I can bring someone to see you, though, if you want. Sora might like to see you again. You two got along pretty well." And Sora could use a distraction from his worries, too.

Not yet, though. They get Misty to themselves, first, while they help her come back to herself.

They pause, then add firmly, "No frogs."

More names that don't fit. Interesting. But best alone for the time being, too sensitive to overstimulation.

No frogs. Good. She would like to be warm.

"What food?" Coming around!

The Soldier can make a lot of things now. Between Misty and Midge, and even Aziraphale, they've picked up a couple dozen recipes. Right now, though, they're going to go for nostalgia and comfort food: "Grilled cheese. With your favorite exrtas in it." They have sadly discovered that the twisted and sharpened plates of the metal hand make it much less effective for flipping sandwiches in a pan, but Misty has spatulas. They'll manage.

She nods, slow, but an affirmative gesture independent of the usual cycle of the classroom. Great step. How long as it been since she ate? Why is she hungry, when the dead don't eat? She wants free use of her hand, and to be warm, and fed. There's a burning stare at her perfectly functional and unharmed legs. Willing.

"Will you leave after?" New method, perhaps. Last ditch theory. Comfort and abandon.

Never abandon, Misty. Ever. "Only if you ask me to," they say. "I want you to feel safe."

Safe.

Her hand throbs, and she considers this.

Nervously: "Could we go?"

"Yes." They stand at her question, hoping that means maybe she's ready to move at last, turning to face her and offering the flesh hand for her good one. "I can help you. I just can't carry you." Not safely, and he doesn't want to hurt her again.

Please be a good sign. Very, very gingerly, she accepts the offered hand. The tug starts gentle, but can't quite maintain as much - this is the main hurdle, just getting off of the bench. For a tense (to her) second or three he's undoubtedly leveraging the bulk of her weight.

And then she's up, wide eyed and holding her breath. Good.

"I don't know where it is." He'll be leading, she means. Home is too vague a location to know.

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