logsinthenight | Losing Family [Catch-all Log

Entry tags:

Losing Family [Catch-all Log - Open]

characters: Bucky/Soldat and OPEN
location: Aziraphale and Crowley's house, around Beacon, the church, etc
date/time: First half of March, up to the Wild Heart event
content: Soldat lost some really important people and is reacting poorly
warnings: Excessive sadness, a temper tantrum at one point, varying levels of ability to actually verbalize, and the usual disassociation for a Soldat post

I. Ferry Fears (Open)

It's normal to visit the ferry on the day it arrives. Soldat always helps unload, and this month they have things they badly want, anyway. They frown at the smell wafting off the lake as the ferry drifts up through the melting ice. They know that smell-- they know it very well. Why does the ferry smell like weeks-old dead bodies?

Well, that's a question quickly answered. Leaping on board even before the ferry docks-- thanks, superserum!-- Soldat is faced with... actual weeks-old dead bodies! What a surprise. They crouch to investigate them, because of course they do, looking for signs of cause of death, alert for potential danger still on board. And that facial structure and rotting clothing is... familiar. That curl of blonde hair. That--

"--holy shitting fuck," Soldat whines, scrambling back with a start. That would be the decaying body of one Misty Day, right there. But they saw her just this morning. She's fine. They, uh, dash out a quick text message to her on their tablet (Misty please tell me you are okay) and then pick themselves up. Gingerly. And start looking at more bodies, giving that one a wide berth but keeping it in the corner of their eye anyway. Other bodies reveal themselves to be other friends, including a Crowley and Aziraphale, and, wedged into a corner of one cabin room, their own rotting corpse-- metal arm still shiny and undecayed because the damn thing doesn't even rust.

"What the fuck," they mutter to themselves, before finally, warily getting busy hauling getting supplies off the boat. Maybe a little more quickly than usual. They wanna see people's faces in person, after this.

II. Frantic Searching (Open)

Only there are a few faces missing. Aziraphale is nowhere to be found (again) and Crowley is missing from his bed and Mewtwo is not at the armory. Soldat checks in with the others-- Sora, Misty, Ellever, anyone they actually know and find comfortable to talk with actually-- with one of the questions: "Have you seen Crowley? Tall, copper hair, kind of an asshole?" "Have you seen Aziraphale? Kind of round, white curls, awful bowtie?" "Have you seen a tall blue cat-like person that floats and talks in your head?"

Even after the weekly bulletin with Lucius and Aziraphale confirmed in the obituaries, that doesn't mean they're not coming back. Right? And Aziraphale will be pissed as hell if Soldat managed to lose Crowley hours after his untimely demise. So they keep looking, keep asking around, keep checking the various outlying buildings and holding up their lantern fully unshuttered to the dark woods in search of a glimpse, an echo of a voice, a goddamn scent of Crowley or Mewtwo. (Fully unshuttered means anybody passing by can catch a glimpse of that little green crack, too, for those inclined to be nosy and who might know what that means.)

III. Church Vigils (Open)

When the search falls short after a few days, Soldat's routine changes. Patrols are cut a little short. Visits to handlers are brief, a quick assurance for Misty and dropping off a meal for Javert. Lunches or dinners at the Invincible are made to go. Meals, network scrolling, and weapon maintenance all take place in the church, a pew near the back, while Soldat waits for Aziraphale. And maybe Crowley. And maybe Mewtwo. Maybe even Lucius.

After the first week, it's Crowley and maybe Mewtwo. And a fixed, carefully neutral expression. They go through two notebooks, writing not memories of before they died, but memories of a former handler and technician. Those are precious, too.

IV. Rattling Around the House (Semi-open, close CR only)

Four hours twice a day are set aside for sleep. Mostly, in the empty house, Soldat does not in fact sleep. They pace around. They make little armies of origami animals. They cook mounds of food and plow through it without tasting it, to make up for the nervous energy and the lack of sleeping.

They can be found here during the two four-hour segments of the day they normally sleep, if anyone wants to come by. Only close friends get an answer at the door, though. People Soldat doesn't feel comfortable being nervous and only partially verbal around don't get to come in.

V. Packing Up (Semi-open, close CR only)

After the second week of church vigils, Soldat stops going. Because no one stays dead that long unless they really are dead. After that, patrols and handler visits don't happen at all for about three days. One of those days is spent out in the woods behind the village punching trees and making a big, noisy fuss outside of the immediate earshot of anyone who might worry. One is spent in blank moroseness, locked up in the house, out of energy to make a fuss.

The third day is spent slowly packing up all the personal things that belonged to Crowley, Aziraphale, and themselves. (Including a weird-ass little ghost thing that seems to like being petted on top of the head and occasionally followed them around the house during their pacing. It's kind of cute, and it used to be Crowley's, so apparently Soldat is looking after it now.) Friends can come in this day, too, if they want to help in the packing.

Packing complete, Soldat starts sadly carrying armfuls of things to Misty's cabin or back to the general store.

VI. Back to Normal? (Open)

After that, things even out. Soldat is staying at Misty's house now, though the torch remains in front of Aziraphale and Crowley's house since she has her own. Their routine resumes, exactly as if they never stopped it. Patrols are on time and thorough, meals happen actually at the Invincible, they return to practicing at the gymnasium on days when there's no combat classes, and they actually sleep again.

Still kind of quiet, though, with little casual conversation and no singing under their breath, and there's been no catching various friends with a song and a dance like had maybe seemed like it was becoming a thing now and then. Soldat's going to be a while actually getting back to happy, sorry friends, but they never turn down company.

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They're all in this together. He needs things to do, too.

Walking side by side, Somnus answers, "My power enables me to conjure glaives, cast spells, and warp short distances." Ostensibly, he possesses these powers to push the darkness back. If only he hadn't perished before reaching that point . . . Even after all those years of practice and experience, he's unpolished. "In life, I was the commander of an army whose soldiers I assembled and trained."

The warping sounds pretty useful. There's a few people who can do the teleport thing. Also, a little scary, but for once, Soldat is distracted enough by non-threat anxiety that it doesn't freak them out. "How far can you warp? Would be useful on explores. Or crossing the river. And there is a class for weapons and self-defense twice a week, at the gymnasium. I teach and practice there." Meant as a point in its favor, as something useful, more than a boast.

"As far as I can throw my glaive," he replies. Be it a sword, a spear, or anything with a sharp edge: "The blade guides me."

And he's known about the class for a while. He admits that he could use the practice. Perhaps he can learn from the teachers something that his tutors as a child didn't impart. Either way, it's about time that he committed. "I shall attend the next class."

Soldat flashes him a quick, pleased, if still kind of tense smile. "It'll be fun. If I don't have any students. We can spar a bit. I teach knife skills and the very basics-- how to fall, how to break a hold, how to stomp something painful to escape. Things people new to combat need to know."

Attention going back outward, as they cross the bridge back towards the scrapyard, they ask, "You warp to your glaive. Just the ones you conjure?" Which means, they presume, create magically, like Xayah's feather-knives (they're still not entirely convinced she doesn't just pluck them, which is why they gave her a very fine knife of her own for Christmas).

Fun. The last time he had fun during a spar must have been years ago. That time feels further away now more than ever. But now isn't the appropriate moment to be thinking about that.

"I can conjure any weapon or object in my possession," he says. "Anything I pick up here will suffice." Even if the weapon is as rusty as a bucket and unusable in combat, it'll work. He just has to throw it.

Soldat isn't gonna have anybody throwing rusty bits of scrapyard junk, that's silly, and also potentially dangerous. Instead, they pull one of their (many) knives from a sheath under their shirt, because that's totally less dangerous than a rusty bucket, and offer it hilt-first to Somnus. Since that sounded like the offer of a demonstration, and one should always know about one's allies abilities so as to properly strategize with them.

Also, seeing it in action will help them learn how to defend against it. That's pretty much always in the back of their mind, no matter how much they might like a person. Threat analysis never really goes away.

It is silly, and Somnus appreciates that Soldat has afforded him the dignity of throwing something respectable. He returns his lantern to its strap at his waist, takes the knife, and handles the hilt to familiarize himself before sending it flying with a side-arm pitch farther down their path.

Just like that, he disappears in a shower of light blue sparks while the knife follows its straight trajectory. A second later, Somnus reappears in a similar fashion at the end of the knife as if he'd never let it go in the first place. Having thrown it a little above waist level, he drops to a stop from half-a-feet in the air.

Shifting, he points his shoulder toward Soldat and waits.

There's a tell. The throwing, and the blue light. Soldat can work with that. Not that they expect Somnus to attack-- the chance of that is pretty low, given how Somnus has been weirdly respectful bordering on deferential in their interactions-- but threat assessment never stops. They nod, impressed and relieved both, continuing on to meet him. "That is useful. Get across obstacles in the forest with that. No limit to distance? Just what you can throw?"

"Just so." The only caveat is himself, as far as he can tell. He turns the knife around, returning it to Soldat in the same fashion that he received it. "But the effects of certain spells have changed since my arrival. If additional limits have been placed, a spar would be a suitable time to learn them."

They accept, looking it over as if for some signs of the magic used in tandem with it, then tuck it back away in its sheath. A spar will be nice. Their search isn't quite so desperate that they'll miss lessons with Javert. "Yes. Light magic no longer works. Fire magic works but doesn't produce light. Healing spells are less effective. Have you noticed any other changes?"

The knife looks exactly as it did when Soldat handed it over. It seems that Somnus' magic dissipates in tandem with the flecks of dulled light it produces. A man's possession is his: He wouldn't mark what doesn't belong to him in any way.

"Regardless of the element, no spell can cast light." Not that he ever relied on his magic overmuch for the purpose of seeing in the dark. Lanterns and torches serve their purpose well enough, both in life and in death. For the purpose of anticipating other alterations (perhaps of a less magical variety), he asks, "What changes did you observe upon your arrival?"

"Nothing. I don't have anything like magic. My strength and speed haven't changed, I still heal more quickly than most. I don't have much of a baseline to compare the length of time healing should take to compare. I still have to eat twice as much as anyone else." They hold the lantern high again, shedding as much light on the junk in the scrapyard as possible.

The temptation is to actually go in among it, wade around, see if Crowley is there digging for something himself. But they've already gone far enough of course. There's a patrol to finish. So they keep walking.

"The programming has faded a little," they admit, "but I think that's time more than Beacon itself."

Somnus' steps are confident as they move swiftly through the scrapyard, guided by the light of Soldat's lantern.

"I know not what that means," he admits. Programming, that is.

Soldat evidently doesn't have the physical makeup of an ordinary human. Then again, who here does when they're all dead? Eating more to replenish energy spent and promote healing is natural, but even Soldat's choice of words can be peculiar at times. Even so, Somnus declines to pry, asking only to understand what's been given.

That's close enough to a question, pal, you're getting the explanation. "Aziraphale calls it brainwashing." Soldat shrugs jerkily. "Protocols and rules to follow, how to behave, specific people to obey in specific circumstances. That's where the handler thing comes from." Since Somnus had been so disturbed by that, last time.

The large dog spirit comes bounding up dragging its junkyard chain, but Soldat has already bought their passage on the way through the first time, so all it does is come lick their face. Undisturbed by the conversation or the spirit-teeth in their face, Soldat grins and shoves it lightly away, but makes up for it with scratches along its jaw as they walk and it follows along beside them happily.

He spares the dog a lingering glance, then it’s back to their patrol.

Brainwashing? That seems to go beyond the scope of discipline. People aren't cattle. “What will you do when you've no handler?” If he recalls correctly, it's the technician who's gone missing. But there's always the possibility that someone else might disappear. Will the programming have faded even more by then to make it a nonissue?

You ain't wrong, buddy. It was pretty fucked up, and definitely wrong.

The idea of Javert or Misty going away is, in fact, worse than the idea of losing a handler. Both of them are so much more, these days. The thought makes the plates in the metal arm buzz threateningly, but the Winter Soldier is nothing without plans and contingencies. They've thought about this, no matter how hard it might be to consider.

"Might spontaneously designate a new one if both Misty and Javert... left. It's what happened when I died. First people to give me orders just wound up handlers." It's probably more likely they'd just... shut down for weeks, if anything happened to Misty or Javert. "But. I've. Got a routine, now. Got a schedule. It helps."

That seems like a pattern of behavior that’d be all too easy of which to take advantage. Should Misty and Javier ever vanish, Soldat will be ripe for the picking by an opportunistic tongue. Moreover, what happens when something upsets that routine?

There’s not anything he can say to any of that that doesn’t sound harsh, so he says nothing as they continue on their way with the scrapyard dog for company. Far be it from him to spit on Soldat’s progress from this strange programming when no harm’s been done. Instead, a respectable silence washes over them amid their search and patrol in one.

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Losing Family [Catch-all Log - Open]

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