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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Their gaze focuses after a moment while she speaks, twitches up to hers, then away. There's fear there, but it's not of her. Their breathing is unsteady. Misty knows that name. There's a voice like the Asset in their head. It's very much not okay.

(No. Awaiting orders.) They swallow heavily. What does it mean when the Asset asks for orders in your own damn head? Is it there? Is it some outside part of themselves, now? Will that blank slate, that lack of everything, come back? They remember the memory malfunction, the mission where they shot Scarlett, the combination of focused purpose and suppressed rage and ever-present terror. That's still there. It's still fucking there, and now it has a voice.

(Ready to comply.)

The Soldier-- (Orders. Shut up!)-- they just about gag on the voice, then leap forward to snatch up their lantern, gasp out for Misty, "You might not be safe," and bolt for the door.

There's no stopping him without making the situation much, much worse, and so it is with no small amount of worry she allows him to race off. Knew enough to get his lantern, likely not in any position to accidentally harm himself. This is a comforting thought only until she has to imagine what he might do in perceived self defense, what others might do to him for more palatable defense of their own. She shudders.

Making a post would call more attention to him. God forbid, drive him into the woods. Ultimately the only course of action she can settle on is giving him the night, and if there's no word in the morning, put out a feeler or two on the network. A creatively worded warning. And in the shorter term: dishes.

Might have a glass of wine herself, the way this week's gone.

Thankfully, there's no real need for warning anyone. There's a knock on the door between three and four hours later, with the distinctive sound of metal knuckles.

Opening the door reveals a Soldat with head down and what expression can be made out through the fall of hair appearing contrite. And tired. Very tired. But at least not murderous, terrified, or apparently likely to lash out? The plates on the metal arm are even under control, not shifting.

Their lantern is unshuttered, for once, to show that the color is almost entirely the usual friendly gold of a normal, glass-protected flame.

Thank fucking god. Emanating relief, she's quick to step back, to usher him in. It's still freezing out there, to speak nothing of - all the rest.

"Are you okay?" It's reflexive, out before she can help herself. "Do you want to sit-?"

"I've. Been better." They step inside, look around with a kind of helpless uncertainty. "I didn't get to look at your hand. And I made you worry. I'm sorry. And."

And. They can't make the words come out. Thankfully, they half-expected that, so instead they look back in her general direction and offer their tablet, upon which they have actually put down their big, painful request in the text-writing app. Soldat has learned to plan ahead for their brain stupidity, at least when it's this important.

Misty please do not ever use that name. I can't know it. I panic when I hear it. It will only cause problems. Please keep using Soldat. It is okay now.

There's a hum, in lieu of whatever else she might want to say initially. The tablet is accepted, read and reread, a frown growing steadily as she does so.

Of course, Soldat.

"Can you sit, just a minute? i want to say my piece, you can leave after if you want."

That's kind of ominous. They can't think of anything that would make them want to leave, now that they're sure (like, 88% sure) that the Asset can't get out to hurt her, but it doesn't bode well for what she wants to say. Neither does the frown. They can feel shut-down threatening, somewhere behind their eyes. (Good. Not good, you moron. It's fucking annoying, and Misty doesn't like it. No.) The bickering helps keep it at bay, at least.

So they edge over to the couch and sit as requested. They don't even reach for the tablet yet, in case she still wants it.

Were she aware that's how it came across, she'd kick herself. Contingencies seem important. He ought to know he's never beholden to hearing something out if he doesn't absolutely want to. Fortunate she keeps the tablet, because it's apparent after a minute of false starts she isn't going to be able to get through the sentiment she'd like to in one go.

So she types. More false starts, bursts of typing ultimately backspaced. Eventually she manages, and passes the tablet back.

I'm not going to use it. You'll be Soldat. I can't promise you I'm not going to have questions about it someday, or that I'm not going to ask them, but I promise I'll wait. This is going to be on your terms. I won't force it.

I don't want you to worry is all. I want to make sure I'm saying that clearly before this place scrambles one or both of us again. Don't rush anything. You've come a long way, you know? I love you for it, and that won't change however you end up. You don't have to apologize for rough patches. I trust you to get through them, and I trust that anything bad coming out of it isn't you. Take space when you need it. Talk when you need it. Never feel too much like you have to apologize for all this stuff you didn't ask for.

You're great. You're always great.

I still have cocoa if you want any.

Typing. That's odd. But maybe good. If she were actually angry, she'd say it out loud, not take the time to write it out and make sure she had it right. So they wait patiently, not fidgeting, keeping the metal arm calm. Listening to the Asset mutter and the Sergeant snipe at it.

Soldat takes the tablet back, blinks at the long note... starts to read.

They read it over twice before their eyes get too blurry, they wipe them and sniff once, then read it a third time to make sure they have it all. They do; they've never had to read something more than once to remember it. But it feels like they need to, here. Just in case. Just to feel that some more. (Going to save this forever. On the flash drive with my music. Good idea.) The Asset doesn't even have a comment.

"Cocoa sounds good," they start with, voice a little thick. It's going to take a minute to sort out a proper reply.

"Yeah?" Gentle, amused, a little verbal nudge to assure him she won't pelt sap at him forever. "Good, it'll be just a minute." And she'll prepare it in its entirety by the kitchen; no break back, allowing him a moment free of any scrutiny.

"I'll do half a pot, even. We earned the treat, and too much running around outside anyway." Implicit invitation to stay awhile. He's always welcome, of course, but but there may be a specific want for his company. It's been a long week.

While she goes about making cocoa, additional cocoa in fact, Soldat carefully saves the text file, both their start and her response, then closes it out. They'll remember, but it will be nice to go back and read if they're feeling stressed or down. If they worry.

They also have a brief internal conversation.

(Look, pal, you gotta tell her. I know. I know. No. She has to know to be safe. Just in case. No.. You really want to leave her in the dark, Asset? You read that same as we did. I know you can read. .... She's a handler. ... Yes. Thank you.)

When she comes back with the mug, they hold it with both hands, tablet on the coffee table, now playing some very quiet music. Jazz and lounge. Familiar, from Before. Comforting to have in the background. There should always be music. "Misty," they say, looking into the mug. "There are more things I need to tell you. So you know. And can be safe."

There should always be music. Approval plain on her face, something approaching a calm finally seeping through, she sinks into her seat once more.

She'll read the best into that also-ominous statement.

"I'm listening," she replies evenly. "Shoot."

They have a fortifying gulp of chocolate, then make the attempt. "Remember during the first hallucinations, before the siege. My accent changed. You asked if I'd been watching old cartoons. We never talked about that." In no small part because they'd avoided it hard.

Strangely, the fear associated with telling a handler about regained memories isn't quite there, this time. There's something, there's nervousness, but it's not handler related. Something changed, in there, whether in regards to Misty, or just in regards to themselves and their programming. (Well, if you needed more proof. Shut up, Sergeant.)

"Starting kind of early on, when we were making the little boats, there was this... voice." They wince a little, knowing it sounds bad. "Making comments. Usually rude ones. Sometimes helpful ones. He's the Sergeant, he remembers pieces of the war, he's. Still in my head. We talk. Sometimes he comes out and talks to people, but not much, he doesn't like it for long. He's not dangerous, just kind of an asshole. He likes people."

Well that's - odd. Peculiar. She can't quite parse whether that's another layer of something worrisome or not. He doesn't sound frightened of it, necessarily, and helpful advice sounds only that. Helpful. Protective, maybe. It may be to his benefit. At the very least, nonharmful.

Stay supportive. It's slight, but she smiles.

"Send along my thanks for looking out for you, then. I'm sure he's a softy." Teasing, but also - she wouldn't all any iteration of him she's met thus far not something of a softy, if you prod enough.

(Tell 'er she's welcome. I like you, too, kid. Oh. Um. Thanks, Sergeant. Shut up.)

"He says you're welcome. Maybe he is a softy." (Shut up, asshole. No.) Right. That's the real problem, isn't it. The smile from the Sergeant's affirmation fades. They hesitate a beat, have a little more cocoa, and continue: "The past few days. It's like I. Broke. Into pieces. The Sergeant was out for a while. The. One you met. And. And what I used to be. Before I died. Just obedience and anger and fear. You said I've. Changed. Come a long way. I didn't even realize, until that. Until it came out." They stare hard at the cocoa mug. "And it's still there. In my head. Like the Sergeant."

"Definitely is," comes the conspiratorial murmur from the ridge of her mug.

The rest isn't as amusing. Supportive still, out extends the hand on the coffee table, a stand-in for a pat. "That's okay. Doesn't sound ideal, and I'm glad you're telling me, but it's - it could be worse. If it can't be worked through, it can be worked around. Doesn't make our day to day too different, unless there's something...I don't know, dangerous. And we could plan for that, too."

There's a beat, then they lean over to put the flesh hand around her wrist for a gentle squeeze. Just briefly, accepting the stand-in with what contact they can stand just then (and since it doesn't feel like a fist-bump kind of moment).

Then they sit back, cradling the mug, looking out into the middle distance, unable to even guess at their expression. Sad, maybe, a little. "I don't know if it is or not. Maybe not to you or the Inspector. It accepts you as a handler, and him-- stopped protesting telling you when we reminded him of your designation. But it still might. It's hurt handlers before, too. I just needed you to know." Just in case. She can't make good decisions without all the data, can't take the precautions she might need to take.

Something goes profoundly and obviously soft, at that. The meaning isn't lost on her.

Plenty of people get by not dealing with her in full pictures. His due diligence is her surprising consideration and forthrightness. "Clue me in when he's getting loud, maybe? Code words, stuff like that. Just so you can tell me I need to be keeping guard up when it's smartest to."

"Yes. I will." They feel-- relieved. She took it okay, she's going to take proper precautions, they have a plan even if it's just bare bones. Plans increase the chance of safety. "We're just calling it the Asset. Since Soldier is-- is-- is not. I'm not. The Soldier anymore, I'm not that anymore." The plates on the metal arm recalibrate once-- just once for now. "But Soldat is what I can have, right now. It's safer. It's close enough."

That got kind of confused in there. They don't even know entirely what they're trying to say, only that they're using something closer to a name now, even to themselves. Which is frightening enough, but it's better than that name, and it's better than the Soldier, because that's too close to the Asset.

She probably won't understand, but they tried, dammit.

Admittedly, she does lose the plot a little. But it's workable information, and likely the kind of thing that will refine on its own in time. No rush, as she said earlier. It will be accepted as it comes. Something approaching a name is good.

Bucky is too novel anyway.

"Close enough is good enough, definitely. Soldat through and through. Besides them, any other developments?"

Sergeant, Asset, Soldat. Apology. Note. Hot chocolate. Weeping over her note (not actually part of the plan). What else? (Handler. Oh, right. ... thank you, Asset. No. Asshole. No.) They set the cocoa aside. "I need to check your hand. It's my turn. Have you been using it?"

"Your turn?" She wasn't aware there were rotating hand checks; it's likely not the case, but it opens up room for an explanation. The hand is offered as requested, regardless. He'll notice it's at least three days beyond the state of repair it ought to be in.

"I keep trying to, but it's just muscle memory. Nothing real, the stinging's pretty good about reminding me."

"To take care of you. You made me lunch." Even if they kind of. Threw it up shortly after, on their way back to Aziraphale and Crowley's cabin. (Maybe don't tell her that. Yeah, let's not.) "And then made me cry." That's meant (mostly) as a joke.

They pick the bandage apart to check the swelling, the stitches, and the redness. Less of the first and last than anticipated. "This is healing quickly. Are you using magic on it?" If she's going to keep doing that, it might be time to get the stitches out.

"Crying didn't happen if I didn't see it," she notes, conspiratorially. "And there was no looking at that-you and not feeding him, you know. Can't help but be easy to care about all the time, can you?"

There's a shift, something approaching sheepishness crawling across her face. It's...nerve wracking, to have it acknowledged. "Don't know why I wouldn't, can't be burdening anybody. Hands're important."

Just going to acknowledge the first with a little snort and an eyeroll, and move on. She saw it. Brat. (Best brat. Well, yeah.)

"As long as the magic doesn't hurt you. But if you're going to speed it up again, I need to take the stitches out before you do more." Otherwise she's going to have them forever, or else taking them out will make things worse, and nobody wants either one of those things. "It will need more ice and a clean bandage after."

EVENT LOG: TURN THE LIGHTS OFF

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