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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Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's just so nice and it's so weird.

"Please don't be lying. I don't think I can take more lying." This is so warm, turning out to be insincere might properly, fully crush her. It's got to hold water.

"You'll stay, right?"

"Misty. I will never lie to you." Said with the same solemnity and sincerity they said it that first time, on the very first day they met, if maybe with slightly less disbelief that she would even have to think such a thing. They understand a little better, now. "And I'll stay as long as you want me to."

Fuck patrols. And sleep. This is much more important. (Maybe not food, but they can get food and keep Misty company at the same time.)

Against judgment that's only loosely arguably better, she wants to accept this, and so does. If nerves spike, she'll pretend it's temporary. Just enough to eat, numb her hand, sleep. He seems to have a better understanding of what's happening, and if he won't lie, there's an important question. "Will I wake up back there?"

Though they're still not sure where "there" is, they can at least confidently say, "You'll wake up here. Wherever you fell asleep. Probably in bed, unless you'd like to rest on the couch." The couch might be a better idea, rather than making her climb stairs to the bedroom in her current condition.

"Couch." That's easy, at least. "Too much going on to move." Wants the last of her drink, last of her dinner, his very comforting presence close by, and to sleep for a month. Realistically, she'll settle for merely more hours than might be usual. That would be a pleasant end. Her shoulders sink a little, lost tension rather than concern. "You won't be missing either?"

It's... touching. That she wants them to be here when she wakes up, even in the state she's in, even not knowing them. Even if they hadn't already made the decision to stay, her asking would have made it for them. "I'll be here waiting. You can sleep as long as you need to and I won't go anywhere." They have some music they can listen to, some lunch to make themselves, a little bleeding to clean up on their own back so they don't drip onto Misty's clean floor, and maybe a nap they can take next to the couch if she sleeps long enough. They'll have to message Javert and let him know they can't make their usual patrol time, but he'll understand.

"You don't need anything?" Only now, finally, does it sink in that the spikes aren't supposed to be there. That she has an acute and specific understanding of ordinary, daily Soldat, isn't connecting. But it feels off regardless. He seems too nice for what must be a discomfort.

Of course, even as she asks, his assurance rolls through her like a wave. Exhaustion can finally be met. The last bite of sandwich is unceremoniously packed into a cheek, and she's half-lidded waiting for a reply. The final okay before leaning wholly into the arm of the chair.

"I'll be fine." Yeah, the spikes and the horrible mangled plates of the arm aren't exactly normal, but it could be worse. They've ignored pain more dangerous than this, before. "You can rest. I'll clean up." Both the meal and themselves. She looks about to fall over, herself, so it's the least they can do.

As she leans into the couch, they gently take her plate in the metal hand, fairly sure it can't hurt the thing, and after a brief hesitation, does finally reach up to brush her remaining tears away with a couple fingertips. "You'll be fine, too. I'll be here."

There's a distinct want to press him for a promise, but the words can't quite find their way to her mouth. Too spent, too long a day. It's a comfortable couch, even if she's mildly surprised to find the arm underneath one cheek. Was she leaning? God--

No time to overthink the process of nodding off, fortunately. Touch grounds. Always. She feels, acutely, the delicate brush under each eye. The weight of herself being supported by furniture. The weight of the blanket, itself proving something of a useful anchor. Full, warm, solid ground under her. Her eyes are shut and her nod is feeble, but it's proof enough she catches it. Out.

Her lantern, tricky to gauge at any angle but one owing to colored panels, will switch innocuously back to its pristine condition and normal color roughly an hour afterward. She never so much as twitches.

By that time, the Soldier has finished cleaning up-- both the dishes from her lunch and an additional (very quietly made) lunch for themselves, and their bloody back-- and settled very carefully on the floor next to the couch, leaning the flesh shoulder against it and scrolling through the network on the tablet. They notice the change in color immediately despite the colored glass, aided by the sound of glass sealing itself up again. They twitch with the suppressed urge to wake her and check on her, but don't want to disturb, either. She needs sleep.

Instead, they watch, wait, and eventually nod off themselves with their head propped against the couch cushions and metal arm resting to one side, where it's less likely to cut them on accident in their sleep. Constant healing takes energy that not even food can always entirely replenish, unless they keep moving and keep the serum pumping. They'll be there when she wakes, though any movement on her part will wake them up, too.

She wakes three times.

Two are fleeting. Long enough to wonder where she is, and then to remember. The pain in her hand tempts her further, but ultimately it's an easy backslide into continued rest. Neither lasts more than a minute.

The third is proper, real wakefulness, though the fatigue will take some movement to complete shaking off. She's not inclined to kickstart this. Instead she remains perfectly still, surveying what of their surroundings is illuminated by either lantern. Piece together, roughly, what had transpired to lead her here. Then there's a crushing wave of embarrassment to ride out, thankfully buoyed by the sight of him still there.

Hard to focus on much beyond gratitude, after that. Contentment. No sense waking him, either.

And something just under a half hour passes in that fashion until she absolutely must pat the top of his head. Actual threading of fingers would startle even more when the movement at all will jolt, she's sure, but...he's still there.

Deserves tender patting of head.

The hand movement doesn't wake them, but the touch does. They twitch awake all at once, blink at her, then belatedly wince as the twitch opens up one of the half-healed cuts on their back, from the metal spines. Too close to waking to properly smother it. Ow.

More important, though: the quality of the light hasn't changed since they fell asleep, and Misty is awake. And touching them.

"Misty." Ugh, they even sound like they've been sleeping, a little rougher than usual. How embarrassing. "You okay?"

A wince right back. A physical 'sorry' before she could have possibly thought to say it.

Otherwise, it's nice. Tired Soldat is cute, even. Figuring the worst of the scare done with, the gentle ruffling of his hair might be taken as a sort of apology. Both tired. No sense wasting words when the standard of fretting is mutually understood to be high. "I'm okay. You?" Spikes...are...as bad as they are confusing. It's some doing, but she sacrifices a little blanket for him. Not quite large enough or arranged in a way conductive to covering him, but his flesh shoulder at least is a little warmer.

The ruffling of their hair is... actually kind of okay. Like preening. Better than the random forearm nudge, certainly. They drop their head back against the couch cushions. "Same as before. Little better. Managed to stay still long enough to heal some." And only a couple of the spines actually cut them, in the twitch, so it's not so bad. They decide to stay still a little while longer. "You sound more like yourself."

"Yeah, well..." There's no pride for what happened, and no shortage of discomfort towards what it implies for Beacon. No real explanation is at the ready. This wasn't ever supposed to have happened, but the landing was better than she'd have hoped. "Feeling it, mostly. Tuned in. Is there a weird loop in my head, or did I do this myself?"

She doesn't lift the injured hand, but trusts he'll understand.

"Not the lantern. Not the change. That's Beacon's fault. Like the metal on me. But the hand. Yes." They look at it, rather than her face. It's easier, and she'll be used to that. "You said you had to cut."

It's not quite a question, but it's definitely a tentative request for information. If she feels safe sharing.

It deflates her, just a little. Impressive that she can sink lower into the cushions without a sudden increase of personal density. False start, before she can speak.

"Wasn't in a great place before I got here either," she murmurs, tensely. As if acknowledging it in any way will suddenly drop incredibly immersive curtains around them and she'll realize she's been there all along. There's always another shoe waiting to drop. "Doesn't do good things to people."

That is a pretty clear set of "don't want to talk about it" signals, there, Misty. The Soldier knows how to respect those. "No. Bad places usually don't." Case in point, themselves. And apparently Misty. The idea that someone did things to Misty like what was done to them... it would make them angry, if there were any point to being angry about it. Maybe they can be angry outside, in a couple hours, when there are trees to punch and throw knives at.

For now, they lock that down tight. They won't ask further unless she starts to offer. Instead, they ask, "Is there anything I can do, now."

If it were to be discussed with anyone it would absolutely be him, but it's such a leviathan of a topic-- the mental equivalent of a full body convulsion, even in passing. To what extent she can, she considers his question. "Just sticking around is so much. You're good for me, you know? I don't get on with most people this easy." Continued permission to pet him would be nice, but is pushing it.

A beat. A less than relaxed inhale. A swing way, way back for the fences.

"I've died before. Before the one that sent me here."

You never know until you ask, Misty. Or try. Hair-petting is leaning towards the "okay" scale, anyway. They smile a bit, able to understand how just being there can help, at least in their own situation. Seems ridiculous that anyone could find them just being there helping, but they'll take it, if Misty is just weird like that. (Pretty sure she ain't the only one, pal. Stop being a dope, Sergeant.)

The second comment makes the smile fade, and though they don't nod, not wanting to bleed more, they do say, "Okay," with as much sympathy as they can manage with their limited ability to control their tone. Dying isn't fun, they know this. But since she was alive to die again... "Did someone revive you?"

Some part of her always imagines some abrupt physical change or blow-up, so that's a fairly promising start.

"I did." Solemn. It's no less fun, and a very harrowing sort of independence. Terribly necessary. "It doesn't work here, but I could do that back home. This is my fourth."

And largely why she's so deeply certain this place is no true afterlife. She knows the feel of them by now, and not a one had superseded her ability.

If you want a big reaction, confess that to somebody who hasn't also died several times and been revived medically. Or to someone who isn't used to moderating their physical responses to emotional reactions. The Soldier is neither of those things. "So you thought you were dead in that other way," they guess, from the things she'd said while her lantern had changed, and how it must connect to the confession.

The Soldier, at least, doesn't remember anything from actually being dead. It was always just dying, and then waking up either after a time in cryofreeze, or on an operating table with techs everywhere. And even that is fuzzy, colored by the hallucinations the memory came back through, and influenced more by memory-less knowledge than actual events. What must it be like to remember being dead?

"Very specifically."

Because it's always been different. She tries not to think about any of them, but that in particular, she cannot. Cannot.

"Very specific death. It's...I don't know how to describe it. Couldn't. Places custom made to torture you, you know." Nothing yet, but her tone is dangerously dipping toward unsteady.

Having to hurt herself over and over. Maybe other people, if they're interpreting the "frogs" comment the right way. That does sound like torture. The Soldier glances up at her face, over her body, how tense she is, before their eyes slide away again. "You don't have to tell me," they say. "If it hurts you to talk about."

The last thing they want is to hurt her further. They can learn about her past, if she wants to share, in some other way. Learn different, less horrible details, maybe. There have to be less horrible things in her life, after all, than dying and being tortured in death. Even the Soldier has a couple good memories.

"It's never not going to hurt," she admits, comfortably resigned and defeated all at once. It's nothing she believes is possible to walk away or recover from. She'll...stagnate, until she doesn't do anything at all. Nothing she wants to dig into, but is aware enough of to acknowledge that if hurting is a deterrent, she'll never get into any of it. It's what she is, now.

But god, the out is so tempting.

"It's not that I wouldn't want you knowing. It's not you. It's it."

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