logsinthenight | EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

EVENT LOG: THE NIGHT WE MET

characters: everyone.
location: the path from downtown beacon to the harbor; all over town.
date/time: february 16-21.
content: the forest spirits send off their friends to join the aurora. memory opals drop from the eerie green lights above.
warnings: n/a.

i had all and then most of you, some and now none of you.

For most of the day on February 16, all of the town's forest spirits can be found along the stretch of road between downtown and the harbor, clearly setting up for, uh, something. They're piling snow onto the pathway, creating a miles long sled trail that starts outside the Landmark Inn and ends at the very end of the harbor's dock. Not only that, but the forest spirits are also not super willing to explain what they're up to! They're busy, you lantern-havers.

By the time evening rolls around, the spirits have set up wooden railings alongside the snowy path, as well as a warming tent, hot chocolate booth, and announcer stand outside of the Landmark. Oh, and a starting banner for the race! It's dogsled time!

Throughout the event, Beacon's downtown and harbor areas will be completely overrun with forest spirits, all there to bear witness to this holiday celebration—this holiday is for them, though, not you weirdos with your naked faces. Point is, none of the spirits will be hostile at this time! They're more interested in interacting with each other than with Beacon's residents, though if pressed, a kind spirit might be willing to explain what's going on:

The aurora arrives in Beacon for about a week each year, and the forest spirits believe it to be "friends in the sky". The lights are old friends of theirs, it seems! And each night while the aurora shines above the town, the forest spirits send off a handful of friends to join the aurora! The spirits ready to join the aurora build sleds of their own and assemble mighty sled teams, sometimes comprised of dog spirits and sometimes... other stuff. Then, when the aurora is at its peak in the wee hours of the night, the sled teams will ride off one by one, racing down the snow-covered path all the way down to the harbor, where they'll finally rocket off the dock and out over the lake, picking up more and more speed as each team gallops wildly over the water before arcing up into the sky. Once the spirits are barely a speck, they'll hit the aurora and burst into a shower of light. Beautiful stuff!

See, since the aurora is made of light, forest spirits launched into it are killed on impact! Isn't that wonderful! The forest spirits seem to think so! What is death to a dead thing!

All of this information can be learned through handwaved/played-led interactions with the forest spirits during the event. They'll all be focused on saying goodbye to their friends and cheering them on as they stream through the sky, but they're happy to welcome lantern-havers to join in the celebrations. The hot chocolate is free and only tastes a little bit like mud, so. Enjoy!

•••
For the entire duration of the event, the aurora will dance in beautiful silence overhead, lighting up the whole town with its eerie green glow. Every so often, handfuls of opals will rain down like meteorites from the lights above, and these opals each contain the memory of someone currently in Beacon! They can be found all over town, landing on paths and atop buildings and maybe even rocketing straight through your ceiling to crash into your living room. Perhaps a forest spirit decided to hide some shiny rocks in your cereal box or under your pillow... Better hope the Postmaster General doesn't find your opals before you do, though. That spirits sure does love their rocks. Point is, who knows where the opals might turn up?

On that note, if you signed up for a random event, we'll be RNGing characters to receive these random events throughout the event! The event may happen in response to a toplevel on this event log, or we might turn up in your IC inbox... 👀 These events will be entirely random, meaning we could dole out any number of them at any time, so it'll be a fun surprise for all of us.

If you missed signups and would still like to toss your name in the ring, go right ahead! Signups will remain open throughout the event, though we can't promise everyone who signs up will get something.

And finally... Each day, we'll post a list of the forest spirits joining the aurora! What, did you want to know in advance? The forest spirits have never been a particularly organized bunch, so they're winging this—which means more surprises for you. :)

Enjoy the races and the lights and the opals, residents of Beacon, and remember: WHAT IS DEATH TO A DEAD THING!

QUICKNAV
comms	\|	network • logs • memes • ooc
pages	\|	rules • faq • taken • mod contact • player contact • calendar • setting • exploration • item requests • full nav

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

They shake their head a little. "It would have to be something bad. Destroy my torso or head, dismemberment. Anything else, technicians would just bring me back." The idea that HYDRA would let their singular and very expensive Asset go without at least trying to recover them is ridiculous. Unless all of HYDRA had been taken down, somehow, but... there's a lot of HYDRA.

"Might have just been standing in the wrong spot, yourself." There's more than that, but it takes a brow-furrowing second to put her finger on it. "Whatever they can do to bodies, I promise you, they can't do to souls. This might have just been you slipping by before they could do anything. Heavy arm, sink faster."

They aren't sure if trying to give them hope is helping or hurting. Well. It's definitely hurting, but that may or may not be a good thing. "Maybe," they say, voice finally falling out of the cadence of reporting to a handler. That just means it sounds small again.

"I'm not trying to sell you on it," she hastily tacks on, moving to touch an arm and catching herself. "I'm just saying you - don't have to feel sure until there's a lot of reason to be sure. Or maybe feeling it in either direction would help. I wouldn't look at that and think all hope is lost, is all. If I'm off base, I'll hush."

"I know. I know." She just wants to help. Soldat understands that. Helping just hurts, too. "He stopped fighting me when the carriers started to go down. He knew me. And I just kept hitting him. He would have let me kill him." The immediate memory of that moment is tainted by fear and dying, not as perfect as many they still have, but they know the look on the target's-- Steve's face. He would have.

"Is this something you just got back recently, or did somebody - leaving - put it back on your mind?" If there's a clear means of talking one through that memory alone, she doesn't know it, and thus the method is turning-over questions until something crystallizes for her. "You were hardwired. You couldn't have meant to, and there's no certainty in thinking you did just yet."

If Cao Pi has found that particular memory stone, he certainly hasn't shared it, so talking is the best they can get. Soldat leans back against the counter, disentangles their fingers from the now-mangled dish towel, wonders vaguely how that happened because they don't remember the metal hand doing that. "I didn't. I hadn't put together that the target was Steve. He was just some. Weird asshole who said that name and scared the shit out of me." Which sounds really dumb now that they say it out loud, Christ.

"That makes sense," she murmurs, consoling despite herself. "And is...horrible, Christ. I'm so sorry. I think there's a real chance he'll get out of that, but this...that's a lot, on you."

Between the unearned sympathy and the topic, it's probably unsurprising that Soldat is finally hitting tears. They don't do anything with them, just stare some more at their hands and the shredded remains of terrycloth. "What kinda person tries to kill their best friend."

This is interesting, one one level, because such a question would only matter to a person, aware in some fashion they are a person, or at least one doubting it - and doubt is still an admission of something. On all others, it's a little heartbreaking in a way she would loathe calling familiar.

"The kind that does whatever they're told to do, that had that beat into them so hard they died and didn't think they were who they are. Clearly someone different. You wanna sit?"

See, that's the whole problem. They can't be a person, because that means a person did all those terrible things and had all those terrible things done to them. Surely an actual person would never, could never, do that to their best friend. Surely.

The wall of that reasoning is flimsy and full of holes now, though, after all the memories of Before. Because weapons don't have little sisters, fathers who tell bedtime stories, or best friends. They don't try to protect little girls from fear or play songs for their friends.

Some part of Misty's words filters through the haze of guilt and grief and low-level panic, maybe, but it just translates to Soldat sliding down the cabinet to land with a heavy thump on the kitchen floor. That makes a handy spot to curl in on themselves and sob, the first time they've done so that they can even remember.

Oh, no, no. This is inevitable, probably. She's by no means a psychologist, but any real ground gained would lead to a push like this - and an outburst like this. It is no easier to watch. It's a tense moment. Literally, as she feels the movement like a phantom pain, and for the rapid spike of ten different feelings, most in some fashion impossible to express. To be unable to do anything remains its own hell. The closest she can come to the hug she can't give comes in the form of a throw from the couch being carefully draped over his shoulders, weight and warmth with hopefully none of the discomfort real contact provokes. Because Christ, he needs something.

After that, she drops to a crouch beside him, hands uselessly gripping her knees.

She does not hush him. This deserves to be felt. Vocalized.

"It's alright. Can't possibly feel like it, but I promise it's gonna be alright. You've been through so much and you're still right here. That's not changing, okay? This is more than anyone should have to deal with, but you're so strong, and I'm right here. Fall apart for awhile if you've got to, that's fine - I've got you."

Her voice is a soothing background to the misery, like rain on a window. The blanket is ignored for the first minute or two, until finally Soldat's hand comes up to blindly grope at it and pull it closer around them while they rock and sob on the floor. Only once or twice do they even try to talk: abortive fits and starts of "so many people" and "what is wrong with me" and "how could I" and "oh god Steve". Even when they run out of room between great gasping breaths, it keeps going around and around in their head. Not even the Sergeant or the Asset try to get a word in around Soldat's fractured thought processes.

Finally they run out. Of tears, of energy, of air. Something. They subside into hitched breathing and little shudders, the plates of the metal arm continually rippling along their arm under their (currently singular) sleeve, face pressed into the flesh arm, resting atop their knees.

And she's been at it on her end, all the while. It's impossible to gauge any effectiveness from her end, the way he's at it, but she needs to do something and those cries cannot be the only sound, so there's not any other option. No grand promises, nothing by way of specificity, but reassurances, persistent comforting, an insistence that he is still good. It would be a lie to say his finally hitting a dead end wasn't a little relieving. One wave down. The first, the brunt. Passing.

She touches his wrist, briefly. It doesn't linger, it doesn't clasp, but a pronounced brush. What little physical means she has of reminding him she's still there. That there is indeed a physical world around him, beyond whatever mess he feels stuck with in his head.

"You're alright." Latest of many of this assertion. "Deep breaths now, okay? Deep, hold it for a second, and exhale slow. One at a time. You can get better, and you're going to - you already have, so, so much. None of that can touch you now. You're safe, with people who know your worth, and we have time to get through this. Is there anything I can do, right now?"

Do they? Do they really know the Winter Soldier's worth? If they did, they might not keep trying to reassure and forgive and support them. Surely. Who would do that for something like them?

They obey the directive to breathe more carefully, though, because that does help a little. Might allow for actual communication.

Once they can get it out in more than two-word phrases, they say numbly, "Hospital. I blew up a hospital. With kids in it. Took down a whole passenger plane. Because the target was on it. What kinda worth is that, Misty." Yeah, they are not yet all right. But the actual storm is over, for now.

It stings, but not how he must imagine it would.

"You didn't have any choice in it. You were beat down so completely in so many ways you came here basically a robot - so bad you can't even hear your own name without panicking. That ain't someone who's calling shots in a situation. You shouldn't forget about it, but you can't expect to take full responsibility when you had no other options." Another brush at his wrist. "That's still a person, and still one worth caring about. Not stopping anytime soon."

They're not sure they can believe that. There had to be choices. They could have missed. Could have found a better angle to get at the target, that didn't kill so many innocents. They have tactical flexibility, excellent training, an actual brain. Could have. Done something. Anything but follow shitty, shitty orders. (What, like throwing yourself at field command and making them shoot you? ... Yeah, I remember that, too, pal. Biting. Yeah, remember the reason they had to fuckin' muzzle you?)

"Stop gangin' up on me," Soldat mutters thickly. Then, for Misty's sake since she can't hear what's in their head, "Even Sarge and the Asset are tryin' to change my mind." The Asset, of all things. Sarge has been after them about this for months, but the Asset? (Side note: check out the new name for the Sergeant, Misty.)

It's noticed. Punchy. Interesting. Better for examining later.

"That ought to be saying a lot, shouldn't it? They were there too. Asset was the one stuck with all of it, sounds like. If not me, those are people worth listening to. If you were any kind of monster, they wouldn't do that, and you wouldn't be so struck by it, right?"

There may be one tentative attempt at hair scritching, even. Swing for the fences in times of need.

The arm stutters noisily and then. And then. They lean hard into her hand with a sound embarrassingly like a whimper.

No words yet. Just that. Apparently that kind of touch is okay-- more than okay, desperately wanted.

Easily done, easily kept up. At any sign of a tangle or snag she diverts, the aim being an all but constant, uninterrupted pet. No significant force applied, but she keeps pressure roughly level with that of his head against her hand. It's meant to be felt in the scalp moreso than necessarily the hair.

"It's alright, you're alright, I've got you." Easy, short, truthful. Sensing an opportunity to repay a gesture, one brief press of lips to the crown of his head. "We're here."

No handlers or technicians ever bothered to gently stroke the Asset's hair, so the only potential trauma to ruin this would be the memory of impatient detangling or the Chair. This isn't like either of them. It's like Owl Friend preening their hair. Like careful brush strokes counting one, two, ten, and on until calm is achieved.

They twitch a little at the almost-kiss, a fleeting moment of tooclosetooclose, but it passes quickly and they shudder out a little sigh, slumping further down against their own knees. Too tired for a proper panic, and the continued petting is soothing. Misty is safe, anyway.

"Sorry," they mumble at last. They don't feel embarrassed, exactly, but... maybe a little ashamed, still. That she's still trying to comfort thme after all that.

"Don't be." This is simultaneously quite light and quite firm. She can't smile yet, but she can be warm. "This is what we do for ours. You've got a lot to get through, and if that means big crying fits or screaming or breaking shit, you can do that, and I'm gonna be right here through it. You're still here, you matter, and I care about you. Ain't changing."

And while she can expect he'll be lingering in this spot awhile longer, she can get out ahead of something. "Second nap'll be here in the spare room. Not letting you out into the cold for a long while."

"M'not gonna break your shit, Misty," Soldat says, but they maybe sound a little guilty, thinking about their rare but memorable escapes into the treeline to find a sturdy trunk to punch. Usually for a good ten minutes. The one time, in a fit of extremely stupid frustration, they emptied a whole clip from the glock into the tree they'd been punching when that hadn't been enough.

But they're not gonna break Misty's stuff. Or anybody else's, for that matter. Trees are safe outlets for frustration, right? As long as there aren't any spirits living in them, right?

"Not saying you're going to, I'm saying if you did, it wouldn't change my response any. You do what you need to do when you need to do it, and count on me hovering around." Two pats to his head, before she resumes the stroking. "Stuck with me. No spooking off, no apologies."

They absolutely do not deserve that, but they also have no ability to turn it away. Maybe it makes them greedy or weak or a terrible person, but they're just not capable of saying no to unconditional acceptance even knowing it's too good for them. So they say, small-voiced, "Okay." (Better. Handler. I hate you.)

And they also require their handkerchief. Their eyes are leaking again, but at least this time it's the normal kind, not the great awful sobs. Kind of hurts, like their eyes are tired of crying and the serum hasn't helped them recover yet. They uncurl enough to find their pocket and get the square of fabric out. "Probably still gonna apologize," they warn.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

oops we broke him...

OH NO BUCKY

it's okay he really needs this

but does my HEART

you know you love it

I DO

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject