logsinthenight | The bitterness, the bitterness

Entry tags:

The bitterness, the bitterness

characters: Rosinante, OTA
location: The church
date/time: August 6
content: Guess who died again? Anyway he's back now.
warnings: not much tbh, will edit if that changes

Every time a person dies, they only have roughly a thirty percent chance of returning, on average.

Rosinante knows this to be fact. He's tracked the deaths and the revivals since the beginning. He now knows it's also more complicated. Some percentage of those deaths that never returned were likely because the lanterns were unrecoverable, or too damaged to repair - like Dr. Solis' own lantern in the end. So he thinks, perhaps, this is why he's been so fortunate, for only once did his lantern end up in a truly difficult place. This last death must have been easy. His lantern wasn't too far out, and it shouldn't have been damaged badly.

These are the thoughts milling in his head as he becomes conscious, sitting here in front of the candle flames used in part to restore their not-quite-lives. He'll have to thank whoever is repairing lanterns these days next time he's back in the lab. Has to thank whoever found his, too.

Gods, though he hopes it wasn't Law. He'd gone out looking for him and then was overcome by the compulsion to eat, thanks to whatever the world eater had done to his head.

He lifts his lantern to look it over before looking around. Is anyone else here waiting? Did Law ever make it back from the hospital? Is Mary all right, having not seen him for a few days again?

And just how well was his lantern restored this time?

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[ elektra hadn't been tracking deaths and revivals near as closely as she should have been, she's found herself realizing. though in fairness, she'd never expected to be part of the efforts in restoring them. she's been fortunate with her efforts so far, for the most part, but she suspects that even with the best knowledge and experience there's only so much success one can have restoring someone once this is their second or third time.

she doesn't know if this is the case with rosinante yet. she does know that she'd been very displeased to have his lantern delivered to the lab. between her own death, matthew's first and second death, and now his, she's hoping to get a little more breathing room in between now and the next death of someone that's important to her.

she hadn't been waiting for his revival in the church for the past three days this time, but she has been making a point to stop by to check every day since they'd finished the job. seeing lantern and movement further inside, she steps fully into the church, making her footsteps deliberate as she moves. ]

Did everyone decide they were going to become that much more reckless with their afterlives once the labs got discovered? [ ...you're included in that, elektra, don't be a hypocrite. ]

[Well thanks for the rude welcome there, Elektra. She gets a frown leveled at her, though it's not one with any real bite to it. Probably just her way of saying she cares, same as Law and Will. He's used to it, in other words.]

Maybe, considering I was trying to catch up to people who were headed to the hospital.

[And they both know what happened there. She wants reckless? How about the idiots who went to go check that place out.]

[ exactly, this is how she shows affection. if she didn't care she'd be indifferent instead of mean.

oh, she's aware of that, and she was none too happy about it either. the only thing that had kept her from going into the woods herself is the still precarious state of her arm and wrist and the fact that treeby had gotten upset when they'd realized matthew was gone. ]

They're back by now. They ended up surviving.

Edited 2020-08-15 18:35 (UTC)

"... Oh."

The soft voice is punctuated by the footsteps of someone coming into the church, closing the door behind them.

Her. Lorem looks surprised than concerned, with a hint of apology in her features. She clears her throat, more to steady her voice than anything else. "I'm sorry," she starts off, "I came in to inspect the church. It seems to have been a place of great interest in the archived messages on the network.

"Am I disturbing you?" The offer to leave isn't said but Lorem stands by the door. She's ready to slip out if he hints to it.

[She says that, and the irritation fades as relief, instead, floods his features. They made it out safely. That's all he wanted, before he got unfortunately sidetracked.]

Good. Good, I should go, then.

[Law must be worried sick.

He's still a little disoriented from the revival, though, so he stands and then immediately stumbles on the very pew he was seated on and crashes back down, this time onto the floor on his knees.]

"No. No, you're fine," he sighs as he looks over at her. Ah, the young woman who found some of his ammo. Well, good to see new faces learning their way around town.

"It's seen better days," he says as he looks up at the roof he helped repair, at the beams reinforcing the sides. The stained glass windows were never completely pristine but they suffered greatly in the flood and these days they look a little more haphazard than they did once, glued back together as best they could manage given nobody here knows how to work with glass.

"We had a big flood a few months ago. Damn near took the building down. Would have, if we hadn't had people dedicated to keeping it safe, but we need those candles," he says, nodding to the rows before him which flicker as strong as lantern light. There sure are a lot more of them now than there used to be.

This has become a routine. When Rosinante doesn't come home, Mary takes her sketchpad, she takes her crayons, and she goes to the Church. She stays there like a sentinel, waiting for him to come back. If one day he simply didn't, it's hard to say if she'd ever leave the building again.

When she realizes she isn't alone, she peeks her head up from the pew that she's snuggled in, and plods quietly up to her self-appointed guardian, raising her little hands up in the universal sign for "pick me up", wanting to be eye-level with him.

He lifts his head at the sound of those little footsteps and sighs. Poor girl. When she runs off, at least she always comes back. He's doing a terrible job of holding up his end of the deal. He has his excuses, of course, but ultimately that's what they feel like - excuses - and so he feels pretty guilty as he lifts her up into a hug. These pews are always pretty cramped for him but he'll make room for her no matter what.

"Hey, Mary," he says with a tired sigh.

[ she's sympathetic, she really is. especially as relief washes over his expression. but then he starts moving forward and then tipping forward and her instinct overrides the thought that hey, her left arm is still isn't in great shape and trying to catch him will probably hurt a lot and she tries to do just that. it doesn't go great; he hits the floor anyway and she clutches at her wrist, cursing in cambodian.

after a second or two of that self-indulgence, she moves closer, offering him her less damaged arm. ]

No, I'm fine.

[He shakes his head and gets himself back up. He knows she's just trying to be nice, that's all anyone ever intends when they try to help, but he'd rather they just ignore the constant tripping and falling and teetering off-balance. He doesn't want to have to depend on anyone. Call it pride.

Once on his feet, he checks his lantern over as is habit. All seems fine, though he's bleeding slightly from a cut on his lip. Must have bit it somehow in the fall. He hasn't noticed.]

[ she gives a subtle nod, stepping back a bit to give him room to get up on his own. she can understand pride, however: ]

You've got a cut. [ it's spoken neutrally, she's not looking to get in a fight with him, especially after he's just been resurrected. ] Law's not going to be happy if he sees you with it.

[It takes him a second to find it, as he brushes his fingers across his face until they come across the spot of blood, which begins to sting the moment he comes across it, as these things sometimes do. About to retort that it's pretty shitty of her to say that, like invoking Law's name somehow should hold any power over his behavior, he instead stops, frowns, and tongues the cut against the inside of his lip.]

... Strange.

[No, not what she said. The puzzled look on his face grows as he swipes blood away with a finger again as if to confirm that yes, it is still bleeding. Why can't he taste it?]

[ for whatever it's worth, she's not invoking his name to hold it against him, just speaking from her own experience with him. (and okay, yeah, maybe a little to hold it against him.) she seems ready to accept whatever he's about to lob back at her when he seems visibly distracted by the cut, as if it took her pointing it out for him to realize it was there. ]

You couldn't feel it? [ the sharpness leaves her tone, becoming replaced with concern. ] Or taste it, even? [ sometimes it takes sensing one to realize the other. ]

It's been a long three days.

He had considered joining Mary in her quiet vigil in the church, but the walls of the building had seemed to close in too fast, and the thought of waiting, waiting, and not knowing —

it had been too much. He couldn't stand it, sitting there with nothing but his thoughts on how he'd failed, again, how the only reason for Cora-san to be out in the woods in that particular direction was that he'd come after him, and that meant it was Law's fault that he'd died... again.

He doesn't know if he's glad or not that at least this time, he hadn't been there to listen to him die.

He spends the three days cleaning the things he got from the hospital (but at what price, his brain whispers, and Law almost breaks a couple of fingers, punching the wall hard enough to leave a dent in it). Isn't this what he's an expert on, by now? Burying his grief, his feelings, deep enough that he can function and keep going.

And every few hours, he closes his eyes, breathes, and feels, listening to the only presence he cares about.

And when finally, finally, he finds what he is looking for... he's there outside the church with a few quick flicks of his fingers. But when he moves to walk to the door of the church, he feels frozen in place — what if he felt wrong? What if his senses have been messed with? If it's wrong, if he's not there...

For a moment, Law can't breathe.

Then, a familiar shape walks out the door, and all the air leaves his lungs in a single exhale.

Couldn't taste it.

[Still. The hunger is gone (for now? forever?) but the lack of any sort of flavor lingers - in fact, is worse now than it had been the past month. Sometimes he thought he had glimpses of taste, or the non-visual equivalent. Traces of salt and sweet that faded in and out. The spirit, when he ate that, was the most satisfying thing he thought he had ever consumed.

Now it makes him nauseous to even consider, which is some sort of relief. So perhaps it's blood, specifically, or flesh, that tastes of nothing now?]

I couldn't taste anything for the last few weeks. I think it was the world eater. Thought that would've come back by now though.

"Law..."

This is, of course, exactly who he was going to try to find when he walked out that door. He had heard from Elektra that Law and the others came back safely, which is a relief, but he can only imagine how terrified Law must have been when he heard what happened.

All he can hope is that Law was not the one who actually found him and his lantern in the woods.

But that's only a tiny concern in the back of his head right now. He covers the ground between them quickly and then drops to his knees, but then falters, not sure if he wants a hug or forgiveness or to yell at Law for running off without him. Uncertain, his hands ball into fists.

"What were you thinking?" is what ends up coming out, but really, he could ask himself the same thing.

Will is painfully aware of the same percentages as Rosinante, though he skews them here and there to account for mass deaths. The revival rate of the last group, before the reset, was roughly the same as this one— the revival rate of the reset itself, however, was zero. He knows it's got everything to do with circumstances and not random chance. But that only makes it worse.

What's the likelihood of finding a proverbial needle in a proverbial haystack? Now that they no longer have anyone seemingly supernaturally inclined to the task, the odds seem low. Dying in a raid by the Green-Eyed Spirits, in the middle of town, that's more fixable. Dying in the middle of the woods? Not so much.

Of course, knowing and caring are two different things, and normally the revival rate is something Will just factors into his mental math of how the town is progressing as a whole. But it's different when it involves someone he actually gives a shit about.

What an absurd notion, giving a shit about someone. Will knows that human relationships are just an evolutionary means to an end, but, well, he's human too. Which is the explanation he's sticking to for why he spends the time between Rosinante's abrupt radio silence and his return pacing around his own brain like a caged animal. Rosinante will be fine, he's sure. But then, he remembers what happened to Winters after all those revivals. How many is this now? Three? Four? Even if they do find his lantern, how well can they repair it?

When he finally hears that Rosinante's back, he doesn't waste time with messages. He's just there, knocking on his door, absolutely sure he's about to deliver a lecture about being reckless when you're an asset to the community at large. Will he actually manage to? Maybe. But first, the second the door is open, he's starting in with the questions.

"What was it this time?" He means to sound stern there, accusatory even, but that's not how it comes out. The way he actually says it, it sounds more like concern than anything else. He doesn't bother trying to fix it.

He's not sure who he expected at the door, but he knows who he was hoping it would be. Will, who always greets the world with that sharp tongue, as if most events are a personal affront to him, has nonetheless always been there to check on him when things go wrong.

So he hardly minds the immediate questioning, but instead of answering just as quickly, he glances over his shoulder and holds up a finger to tell Law he'll be a moment, then steps out into the hallway and closes the door, and beckons for Will to follow him into one of the unoccupied rooms on the floor. Nobody is going to overhear them talking anyway because that's just how he does things, but it's nicer to be in a room with the door closed when he snaps his fingers and pops up the bubble of silence than it is to be out in the middle of the hall for people to marvel at the silent conversation.

It also buys him a few extra seconds to respond because he's still not sure how best to do so. Dying again isn't something he's proud of, and certainly the method itself doesn't help.

"It was one of the spirits. I was trying to catch up to Law, who thought going to the hospital without me was some brilliant plan," he finally says, sounding tired, and has a draw of his cigarette before actually explaining.

"I - when we fought that world eater, it did something to me. Made me want violence. I suppressed it as long as I could but out there in the woods, I guess it finally took over. I snapped, attacked a spirit, we took each other out."

Not... exactly false, and it doesn't actually sound great, but it's better than the reality of what happened. That's something he doesn't really even want to admit to himself.

[ that definitely sounds like it's in line with what the world eater is capable of, but one would think that it would return with his resurrection. she'd make the suggestion if she'd known what he'd been craving for the past few weeks, maybe there was a connection, or maybe it was just another consequence of resurrection.

maybe those were dependent on how you died. ]

If time didn't bring it back, you'd think death would.

I guess. I'm not sure what kinds of things dying and reviving really do here. Nobody's ever sat everyone down and come up with a list of how things were before and after. How much stays, how much doesn't, how much just... changes.

[But they should. He doesn't like it, but he knows it. They should probably all try to understand the full range of risks.]

[ she's picking up on what he's not saying, and she likes the idea of it about as much as he does. it's probably something they should have been doing before, especially to see if there's a connection to how you die and the affliction being brought back earns you. ]

Putting that together's going to take a while. [ and she doubts that there'll be many that'll be happy to discuss it. ]

There's more of that frustrated mental pacing while he waits for them to get far enough away, waits for Rosinante to finally answer. And then the frustration loses the pacing element and just sort of turns into a printer jam. There's too much of it to properly vent all at once.

Some brilliant plan, yes, as if going out after someone alone is a brilliant plan. Especially if you're under the influence of some World-Eater-induced madness. Really now, who was the one with the stupid plan? But none of that is what comes out. Not yet, anyway.

"That's not what I meant," Will snaps. "I meant what's wrong with you? I've been here long enough to know that people don't come back this many times without any consequences."

Is this worse, or better? And why does he care so much? So what if Rosinante thinks he's being rude or overstepping his bounds. Maybe that's what he needs to hear.

Oh. Yeah, that's a valid question. Most people aren't so blunt about it, but again, this is Will. Will who, he knows by now, probably wants to just make sure he's all right and is just terrible at expressing that the way other people do. It's never been too hard to figure him out, it just takes a little patience and sympathy, which are things Rosinante has plenty of.

He frowns at the cigarette in his fingers specifically as he slouches back against the wall. He still smokes them, of course - they feel good. But.

"I... I can't taste anything anymore. Not really. It's all kind of the same."

Could be worse, but it does take away one of the few remaining pleasures in his life. Unlife. Whatever it is.

Anything here takes a while. Doesn't mean it shouldn't be done. Just more reason to start sooner.

[Since when has he let something like that stop him, anyway? His patience has always been one of his assets - just as much as his persistence. They go hand in hand.]

Sitting everyone down together isn't going to work. People will only answer if they trust the person asking them. Will you help?

[ she nods, already considering who she knows who's left and if they've died before or not. ]

There may already be records. I'll take a look back at the lab.

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The bitterness, the bitterness

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slides in two weeks late

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