extinction is the rule

[singmod]

SEPTEMBER 2023 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS: The Aurora comes, bringing chaos to the town of Milton. Electronics go haywire, and the Interlopers learn of the original citizens of Milton.

PROMPT TWO — THE HOUR OF THE WOLF: Tainted by the Aurora and attracted to the noise of people inhabiting the town, several packs of wolves descend upon Milton.

PROMPT THREE — IT SPEAKS: A voice comes to the Interlopers, one that knows them and their darkest fears and deepest insecurities, persuading them to fade into the Long Dark by any means necessary.

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: supernatural horror; ‘ghost’ horror; hauntings; death of npcs in various ways including suicide, murder or exposure to elements.

After the feast, and making sure the newcomers to Milton are seen to, Methuselah packs up. He will explain to others that while he will return to check in, he is no resident of Milton and will not stay. He is a nomad, something he has been all his life. He lives in nature. That is where he belongs. But he does assure that people are welcome to remain sheltered in the Hall if they wish to. And sure enough, the old man leaves, wishing the newcomers well. He can still be found out in the wilderness, and will shelter and feed those out exploring should they come across him.

And so the days and nights of this world roll on. The initial time of those who have come to be stranded in this world is unsettled. The weather is always changing, even if it remains bitterly cold. On some nights throughout the next month, however, the snow clouds clear and Interlopers are given a rare, clear night. At first, it’s beautiful: without the light pollution, all the stars can be seen, the moon casts an eerie glow upon the snow in the dead silence of the night. One might even say there is a kind of peace that comes with it all. And for some of these evenings, they pass by: uneventful and silent — the long darkness of an endless winter’s night.

But on others, it isn’t so uneventful. The noise starts: faint at first, but then growing louder. Something in the heavens above. An ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds difficult to place. There’s a kind of electrical buzzing with it all, a low, endless hum punctuated with cracks and pops that echo. The sky is alive with sound, louder than anyone could ever expect it to. With it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as the night goes on: The Aurora has come.

And it isn’t the sky that comes to life too: the whole town does too. Streetlights, illuminating the town’s roads; lights in stores and homes will come alive, buzzing and flickering often. Previously abandoned cars will turn on, their headlights blaring but faltering. Electronics that had previously seemed broken flick on — and whilst there are no broadcasts available on televisions, and the radio waves only drone on in static, both only occasionally blaring standard emergency broadcasts. Any computers and phones will turn on, but will have no internet or reception. Instead, Interlopers may find texts and emails — many of them unsent. The everyday lives of their users stored within, now readable.

But there’s something else too. The Aurora doesn’t just awaken the electronics of the town. Dotted around, in the streets, in homes, in stores, the lights of the Aurora begin to take shape: spectral-like forms of people, their faces hard to make out, details difficult to define. They move in glitching patterns, they speak with voices distorted by static. Eagle-eyed Interlopers may recognise the forms of some, a body or an action:

These are the residents of Milton, in their last moments on this earth.

The forms act out short scenes on repeat: a desperate fight between two men over a vehicle, a murder in a store during a riot, a suicide alone in one of the many houses. An argument over the communication lines going down. A sobbing teen curled up on his bed. A child stares up at the skies, their hands over their ears, crying in fright. A woman begs for her father to leave his home and head to the coast with her, to try to make it to the mainland, but he refuses to leave. A man succumbs to the cold walking alone in the outskirts of town without proper clothing for the elements. Several of these ‘ghosts’ are people fleeing before they stop and simply gasp, staring off into the distance for a few seconds before they drop dead on the spot.

There is nothing that can be done to stop these endless loops. Nothing to help these poor souls. Each of these moments are captured by the Aurora: final, desperate and tragic moments in some unknown, chaotic time. Some of these ‘ghosts’ maybe stop after so many loops — flickering out into nothing, others will last all night. But all will be gone by the morning and the Aurora comes to an end. There are answers, and there are none.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

WHEN: Sporadic nights over the next month.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: (wild) animal attacks, altered wildlife, possible character injury/death, possible (wild) animal injury/death.


The growing presence of people within the town of Milton has meant more light, more warmth, more noise. The Aurora has created great change, but people are not the only thing the ethereal lights in the sky has brought down upon this old mining town.

When the sun slips below the horizon, and the clear skies of burnt embers and inky blues alight with stars, they come.

A lone howl, long and haunting. It is the first signal, which carries on the air. You can’t seem to place from which direction it comes from, it feels like it encompasses you. Then another voice joins it, and another, and another. A chorus of them. As the sound echoes off, another fills its place: a strange feral chittering, snarling and snapping — the drumming of feet upon the snow, heading right for you.

Wolves.

Unnatural, glowing green eyes in the dark — tendrils of light seeping from them as they rush in and encircle those they come across outside. They come in packs of three or more, and they are clever. They’re quicker than any wolf you’ve ever known, bigger and hardier too. They will try to strike fast by zipping in when you’re distracted, snapping and nipping at legs or trying to take quick bites out of arms before drawing back. They work together to bring their prey down, a solid unit of noise and teeth. They will hunt down those who hide inside, try to claw their way inside of homes and buildings — dead set on finding you and tearing you apart. There is no hiding from them. They will find you.

But breaking the pack can send them back. If they’re broken, their morale is depleted. Fire is your biggest friend: torches, campfires and flames will keep them mostly at bay and only the bravest of these packs may attack. Striking them with flares or flames will actually send them into brief retreats. Bullets and arrows are effective with both noise and injuring the wolves, and although hitting one will be difficult due their speed, it’s possible. Killing one of these wolves will dissolve the pack’s morale entirely, and the rest will flee off into the night.

Until next time. Maybe it’s best you don’t stick around. They do hold a relentless determination.

IT SPEAKS

WHEN: Over the next month, possibly longer.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: psychological horror; mental manipulation; themes of suicide; themes of depression; potential self-harm; potential feelings of isolation; potential attempted suicide.

There are whispers. Small, at first. Distracting. Perhaps it is only the wind you hear. Milton is so quiet, even with the new hustle and bustle of the new people to this place. Wood creaks and the trees rustle, there are plenty of sounds you could mistake it for.

‘Interloper.’ It is an old voice. Something deep and dark and ancient. Something impossible, older than the earth itself. It floats into your ears and nestles there, sending an ice-cold shiver down your spine. Even to the most stoic and unshakeable souls, it is a unnerving voice. It feels wrong. It feels like an ending. To hear the voice is deeply unsettling... and yet... you recognise it.

It comes to you, in the dead of night when sleep is far. In the long stretches of day as you go about your business, as you travel across the frigid landscape or gather firewood or try to pass the time within whatever home you’ve made for yourself. For some the voice will be clear as day, for others it may be some distant whisper — something gently murmuring in your ear. But the voice will be heard, no matter the person.

‘Interloper. Do you know what it means?’ It asks. ‘It means one that involves itself in a place it does not belong. You do not belong.’

That it isn’t the only thing it tells you. For everyone, it’s different. It knows you. It picks up on any weakness, any insecurity. It makes you feel small, insignificant. It tells you all the quiet, terrible things you hide down within yourself. For days, weeks, the voice is there. Speaking to you. It will wear you down, insist you are not wanted, that you do not belong here.

... And wouldn’t it be better if you weren’t here at all?

The voice seeks to break you. It will push you to your limit. Sleep will become hard to find, your spirits low and hollow. In time you might seem to believe it. Maybe it’s better if you weren’t here. You don’t belong in this place, why should you stay?

‘Disappear, Interloper. Go into the Long Dark.’

Perhaps you next find yourself atop the steep cliffs, looking down into the Milton Basin below. Perhaps you find yourself with a gun in your hand, or a rope. Perhaps you find your feet carrying you out into the snow. You’re going to disappear. You’re going to go into the Dark.

Or maybe the voice isn’t so loud. You can push it down, ignore it. Perhaps Faith is what keeps you steady, perhaps knowing who you are despite your faults stops the voice from taking over. Maybe you can help those who can’t block out the voice. Words of encouragement, affirmation, kindness, determination, even spite. The voice wants you dead, but you will not let it. You will not fall. You will not let anyone else fall, either.

FAQs

THE AURORA: AFTERSHOCKS

1. While examples are given, players are encouraged to come up with their own ghostly loops of similar loops. The key thing to remember is that the people of Milton have descended into public disorder. Fights, arguments and murders have occurred, as have suicides or other unexplained deaths. People are frightened. They want to leave the town.

2. Ghostly loops cannot be interacted with, only witnessed.

3. There is no way of putting these 'ghosts' to rest. These loops are more like residual memories, as if the energy of the townsfolk remained, and have been reconstructed by the Aurora.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

5. Sharp-eyed Interlopers may notice that the 'ghosts' of those who are staring off into the distance before gasping and dropping dead are looking skyward, towards the east.

THE HOUR OF THE WOLF

1. Due to the Aurora's influence, these wolves are harder, better, faster, stronger, than typical wild wolves. They do not die as easily, and are much more difficult to wound and kill. But not impossible. Scaring the wolves will be far easier to accomplish.

2. Wolves will return, sometimes more than once on the same night, or on other nights during the month. The only sure-fire way to have them stop coming back is to kill the pack.

3. Wolf meat is technically edible. But not advised due to parasites. Characters are still welcome to harvest the wolves they kill, however. Who would say no to a cool ass wolf cape.

4. The wolf attacks and Auroras occur on sporadic nights over the course of the next month, with the Aurora being the first thing, then the wolves. It's unlikely you'll get both on the same night. While the wolves are attracted to the Interlopers' activity, the Aurora's light and noise will keep them away from the town during Aurora Nights.

IT SPEAKS

1. Characters can be talked down and broken from the voice's influence by others. Genuine connection and empathy will work massively, but even encouragement and affirmations to keep surviving will be powerful enough to break the voice's hold.

2. Players are welcome to play with the length of time the voice can be heard with characters. Some may want to have it over a short space of time, others can have this progress over a longer time period.

3. The voice can come at any time over the next month.

PLOTTING POST

Comments

din djarin | the mandalorian

[metaldad]

open + closed starters

[ starters in the replies. plotting post is here, or if you prefer, hit me up on cosmonautdelta! ]

for la'an⸻

[metaldad]

It didn't take Din long to discover that he is not the only one to have the idea of patrolling the perimeter of Milton. This is a good thing, in his opinion; the more protectors they have, the safer they will be while they try to figure out a way to send everyone home. Din doesn't think he'd be any use trying to figure out the mystery of space/time travel that's brought him here, so, he puts his energy where it's better used.

There's a few people that he's seen a couple of times, but so far he hasn't introduced himself. He's not in the habit of doing so.

It's an otherwise normal day, as near as he can figure. The weather was calm, the sun set as usual, and the night is chill and dark. The is a riot of stars with no light pollution to interfere, and Din's paused in the middle of his patrol, not far outside of Milton, gazing upward and wondering if he can see his galaxy from here.

And that's when it starts. A low buzzing noise that seems to come from everywhere and nowhere. Crackling. The streetlights flicker, orange light sputtering on and off. And as a burst of color blooms across the night sky, Din can hear the sound of what must be one of those primitive holos turning on in the nearest house, an emergency broadcast blaring and light spilling through the window he can see.

His armor's power crackles to life, too, and the environmental controls kick in to protect him from the cold, his helmet's visor overlays flickering.

He walks, and it doesn't take more than a minute before he finds another person that had been patrolling. Din says nothing, merely joins her in looking at the sky, and waits.

for edward⸻

[metaldad]

Ever since the electricity kicked back in, Din's armor's environmental controls have been keeping him nice and warm, but he gets the feeling that it's not going to last. He'd been outside patrolling when the aurora had bloomed to life on the night sky's darkness, and he had seen how the electricity sprung to life immediately afterward -- obviously the two are connected, but he doubts the aurora will last forever.

Others, he has seen, have been checking the electronics. Din fiddled briefly with what he supposed was a radio, but none of the emergency frequencies he recalls had yielded anything.

He decides he will leave the investigation to others, for now. He is more useful on patrol, making sure the town is safe. Now, Din has paused at the town's edge, thoughtfully examining his blaster and checking over the battery. Its power is flickering in and out, but if he times it right, it should still be useful. Experimentally, Din takes aim at a tree stump, and fires. A red streak tears through the air, hits the tree stump, and leaves a scorch mark and a large hole in its wake. Din fires again, but nothing happens. A third time, and the blaster fire seems weak, its impact not as powerful.

He's attracted an onlooker, it seems, so Din pulls back his blaster, tips his helmet in a shrug, and says wryly, "I'll make it work."

[jackdawvision]

The ghosts are a useful fount of information, up to a point. Eventually even Edward, who’s used to watching the life leaving people’s eyes, can’t take any more visions of the town’s dying moments, so he shuts his scavenged notebook and pencil and goes to patrol the area. He’s not the only one, it looks like—there’s a man on the town’s edge, firing a gun at a tree.

At least it looks like a gun. What comes out of it is patently not a bullet, but a red streak of energy that leaves a purple hole in Edward’s vision for a few seconds. Twice more the man pulls the trigger, but the second time is a misfire and the third barely even effective. Still. Useful trick.

“That’s not a gun I’ve seen before,” he says, pushing himself up off the wall he was leaning against. “What sort of ammunition does it need?”

[metaldad]

"It takes gas cartridges," Din replies, flicking open a port on the side of the blaster so he could check on said cartridge. Luckily he'd replaced it not long before he got pulled here, so he's still got the better part of a few hundred shots left, but he'll still have to be careful to conserve them. Eventually, if he's here long enough, he'll run out.

The thought is enough to make him sigh, the sound just barely caught by his helmet's modulator. With any luck, he won't be here that long.

He looks up with a long, silent gaze at his current company. "What kind of guns are you familiar with?"

[jackdawvision]

"These sorts," says Edward, stepping closer and pulling his pistol from its holster, to show it to Din. It must look like a quaint antique to this man, who uses cartridges of gas for his weapon: made of wood and iron, a fine design etched into the handle, a ramrod slotted into place below the barrel. "I scavenged a few cartridges of powder and some bullets, but not much."

Otherwise he'd be asking if this helmeted fellow is willing to let him try out this blaster.

"Yours is a tad faster than mine," he says. "Not quite as reliable," which is funny because god knows Edward's pistols have misfired a few times in the past, "but I take it that's not normal?"

[metaldad]

Din's only been to a museum in passing -- collecting a bounty -- but there'd been some Mandalorians in his covert that had kept slugthrowers, guns that fired metal projectiles. They were seen as old-fashioned, and wasteful, but they worked great against Jedi and their lightsabers.

Still, as old-fashioned as they were, they were still powered by energy and made from high-tech materials. Not wood, like this one and some of the ones in town were made from, and powder.

"No. It needs electricity to work, and the aurora might have brought the electronics back online, but it is not... reliable," Din sighs. "My other weapons have fared much the same. Only the non-powered ones work faithfully."

Ironically, he supposes, the old wood and powder and iron guns now have the advantage over his own. They do not require electricity, and so, will work at any time. Din has a scavenged hunting rifle strapped to his back, a scavenged shotgun on the outside of his thigh, and a scavenged handgun on the other leg. He will need to study those slugthrowers more indepth.

"I am not familiar with the type of gun found here," Din admits. "They were ancient relics in my time."

[jackdawvision]

"Electronics," Edward echoes. "So that's what you call them." It's the first time he's ever seen anything like it, if you don't count the Observatory, which was—something else entirely. Close to witchcraft, except not really, no, it was just the science of an age long passed and a people long gone.

He does chuckle a bit at Din calling it an ancient relic. "Hey, I'm not so old as that," he says. "Neither's my gun. I only got it last year, by my count." A beat. "Well, last year was 1734 for me, anyway."

It's a little disquieting to him that he somehow skipped forward a couple hundred years, yeah. But he's rolling with it like a champ.

"I'm less familiar with the guns nowadays, though," Edward admits. "I've a sturdier foundation than you, I daresay, but there's quite a lot that's different from my pistol to this one." And he shows Din the handgun he's strapped to his hip, similar to Din's own scavenged gun. "If you'd like, we can learn together."

[metaldad]

For Din, 1734 doesn't mean much. He supposes Edward means the 1734 of this planet, or another planet, but Din has no frame of reference for that year. He can tell that it must have been an age before electric technology, if Edward didn't know what it was called.

"In my galaxy, it is 9 ABY," Din replies. "Or 7986 in the C.R.C. calendar." Though he doesn't expect that to mean anything to Edward, either, he guesses it's just polite to reciprocate knowledge.

At the offer to learn together, Din nods, a short movement of his helmet, because he'd appreciate the help. Edward does have a more solid foundation than he does; his aid will be valuable. But before Din can express that, something else catches his ear. The crunching of snow, and ragged panting. He turns his head, just in time to catch the sight of a small pack of wolves emerging from the trees. They'll be on the town in moments.

"I will drive them off," Din says, unruffled, drawing a long spear of unbroken metal from his back. "Your gun would be of use, but if you would prefer to conserve ammo, I understand."

for rorschach⸻

[metaldad]

[ cw: suicidal ideation ]

The electricity coming back on seems to have everybody excited, and Din's definitely grateful for the return of a few things -- his armor's environmental controls, his helmet's visor overlay -- though he's certain it's not going to last. He has kept to his same schedule that he's made; patrolling the perimeter of Milton to check for danger (and driving off some wolves here and there), checking the traps he's made in the forest for prey, and delivering meat to those who need it.

But he has not slept for the past three nights.

It started small. A voice in the back of his thoughts. Whispering about how out of place he was. And at that point, Din had just shrugged, already knowing he was out of place even among the new residents of this strange little town.

But the voice had grown stronger. And it had started to say, why are you even promising to protect this town? why should anyone believe you? you swore to follow the creed and you broke your promise, the biggest promise you've ever made, how can anyone trust you'll keep your word?

And then, it's a good thing grogu wasn't with you for long, he's happier where he is now. and look at you. you've got nothing. no ship. no child. no creed. no way out of here. The voice circles his thoughts over and over again, gnawing into the bruised edges of his soul, and without realizing, Din begins to agree with it, his thoughts bleak. I have nothing. I am dar'manda. I'm spitting in the face of the Way by still wearing this armor. What use am I?

Between the lack of sleep and the mental furor, Din finds himself at the edge of Milton, striding outward with purpose. Yes. He will either find something of use out here, or he will perish, and cease to be a burden on the town. This is the right thing to do.

[moralabsolutism]

Rorschach had been getting into more of a routine after being in the town for a while now. Granted, this place was starting to seem more like Hell frozen over than anything else, but much like with his stringent beliefs, keeping a routine helped to keep him as sane as he could be under the circumstances.

He was moving from one of the houses he'd been staying in to another when he saw a familiar armored figure. He'd gotten along with the Mandalorian well-enough when they'd first met and that was rare enough for it to be notable in Rorschach's mind. He looked right now like he was heading somewhere in a hurry and that pinged his interest. He hurried towards the Mandalorian, stumbling a little in boots that were a size and a half too big for him. "Where are you off to?"

[metaldad]

Honestly, Din hadn't really expected to see Rorschach again. He seemed like the type to keep to himself in an extreme way, the exact opposite of some of the more social personalities Din has met here, the type that would pick a house in the forest and self-sustain. Maybe he's not wrong, and he just caught the masked man's attention. Or maybe he is wrong, and Rorschach is more social than he thought.

Either way, he has a hunter on his heels, and hunters are hard to shake.

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. His head is too busy swimming. He thinks of not belonging. Of soullessness. The voice called him interloper and hisses venomous things, and he has to claw his way past it to think about talking.

"To be of use," he answers gruffly, not pausing in his stride.

[moralabsolutism]

Truly, Din had Rorschach pegged right. He was a lone wolf, the kind to hide away in a house and never come back out again unless he absolutely needed to. He was fine to be content with patrolling this place, trying to solve the mystery of how they'd all ended up in Milton, and reading the approximately 872 cowboy novels that had been possessed by the old man who had lived in one of the houses.

"Use how?" Rorschach asked.The Mandalorian was definitely booking it somewhere fast. He trotted to keep up with the longer stride of the armored man and not trip over his too-large shoes. Really, he would have liked winter boots in his own size but Rorschach had small feet for a man and that made it hard for him to find shoes that fit right. Plus he decidedly refused to wear anything he perceived as women's clothing.

[metaldad]

Din doesn't have an answer right away, and so remains silent.

To be of use, how? What is he going to find out here that will prove him worthy? What amongst the snow and the ice is going to redeem him?

Dar'manda, the voice whispers. Does he hope to find his soul out here? Does he think if he walks long enough and digs deep enough, that he might unearth it from the frozen waste? Even if he did, somehow, would it still be intact? Could he cram it back into himself and continue living?

"I do not know," he admits to Rorschach, voice weary where it crackles through it helmet. "Either I will find some way to be of use, or I will perish. That... seems right."

[moralabsolutism]

"Perish? No." He shook his head shortly. "Bad idea." As far as he could tell, the Mandalorian was one of the more competent people in this town. Letting him just wander out into the snow was not a good idea and it seemed like such a foolish thought to the masked superhero.

"Come. Let's go back," he told the armored man. Rorschach might have been one of the worst people in the world to try and snap someone out of a suicidal state but there was no one else. He had to at least try, awkward at being a person as he was.

[metaldad]

Rorscach's words fall on deaf ears.

Din's too busy listening to the voice. He can't help it; it's too loud, like a mouth pressed right up against his ear and screaming. Interloper. Dar'manda. Perish. Over and over again. It has ceased it's subtlety and has degraded into mindless howling.

"No." Even his own voice doesn't sound quite right.

Din just quickens his pace, uncaring if Rorschach keeps up or falls behind, lives or perishes with him. The voice doesn't seem to care either.

[moralabsolutism]

Something was definitely not right here. It kept itching in Rorschach's mind. He could have just let the Mandalorian go off into the snow and probably die there. But that sense of being aware of things around him which made him a good detective also let him know when he needed to intervene in a situation. For whatever reason, he wasn't willing to let this man perish.

Rorschach reached out and grabbed the Mandalorian by the upper arm and dug in his heels, trying to get him to stop. For all that he was short, there was a lot of muscle under all those layers he wore and he was pretty strong when he needed to be.

for ghost⸻

[metaldad]

Ever since their first meeting, Din and Ghost have set up something of a regular schedule.

Din's an early riser. He showers (with water, which is novel), fixes himself coffee, tries to check on Grogu and forgets that he's not here, and somewhere inbetween all of that he'll look out his kitchen window and see Ghost making his way to his bird's nest. Since the aurora spattered color over the night sky, his morning routine has been accompanied by the low hum of electronics -- a small laptop, a tv, a phone -- which he's given a cursory check (and had to puzzle out the remote).

(It's also been accompanied by feelings of existential dread and a voice in the back of his head telling him he doesn't belong and he's got no use here, and Din hasn't been very successful in ignoring it.)

Today, he doesn't see Ghost. He hasn't seen him for past few days, and at first Din had just assumed he'd missed his ascent but now he's not so sure. So he loads up a thermos with coffee, bundles some breakfast in a cloth wrap, and sets out into the cold. With the electricity's return, his armor's functions are working again, and his visor's overlay tells him that the footprints around the base of the bird's nest aren't fresh. Either Simon's been up there for a while, or he's been extra cautious with his tracks.

Din makes the long ascent up to the bird's nest, and finds Simon at the top of it. He's relieved, but it's hard to tell, what with the way he doesn't say anything. Din settles in, legs crossed, and takes the thermos and the breakfast bundle (toast, hardboiled eggs, dried meat) and sets them in front of Ghost.

"Thought you might be hungry."

[buriedpast]

The problem was this wasn't the first time Ghost had heard the ghosts whisper to him from his past. They found him most often in the dead of night and in the emptiness of his room. There was a reason he preferred to be on constant active duty. Always moving, always thinking, always surviving. When things slowed down, things crept in. The odd thing was that strange things were happening around town and that, normally, should have had him on his game.

And he was, for a few days. But as the days went on, he kept hearing his laughter mixed with his father's. He kept hearing his brother. The bubbling laugh of his nephew. He felt like the earth was swallowing him again and the stench of rot kept him rooted in his spot for longer than he realized.

You've never belonged anywhere. That's why you're the Ghost. You're meant to be the thing left behind. The voice wasn't wrong. The voice had never been wrong. He didn't deserve warm, witty Scottish remarks or bulking men in strange armor looking after him.

His body has gone stiff from how long he has been sitting in the same position. As a sniper, he was used to that sort of thing, often sitting hunched over his rifle for anywhere up to ten or more hours. Minimal food, minimal water, minimal everything.

He should hear Din's ascension. Ghost doesn't move an inch, and his head is tipped in such a way that his eyes are cast in shadow, making his mask all the more gaunt and haunting. He's on his own knees, knife in hand, but loosely, and it looks as if he had been in the middle of cleaning it.

He doesn't even move when Din settles in front of him as he typically would. While not always a man of many words, he still acknowledged Din vocally. Liked the man well enough to say hello. To thank him for the strange gestures of kindness. Simon still couldn't wrap his mind around why Din brought him anything at all, but appreciated it regardless.

His silence echoes louder, somehow than Din's words. He shifts ever so slightly, a mild shake of the head as if some part of him is still with it enough to tell Din to leave him alone.

[metaldad]

Ghost isn't the most talkative of people, Din has learned, but he's also not the type to just straight up ignore someone like this -- and as Din pauses awkwardly, he considers the idea that he may not be the only person with a voice in their head right now.

He knows the source has to be external. Din's a man that dwells largely inside his own head, and he knows that he's usually mentally stable. He doesn't go from mostly fine to constantly on the verge of a panic attack for no reason, even if he has been flung across the galaxy with no ship and no kid and no creed and half his weapons gone. So, something else is interfering with his thoughts.

It stands to reason it could be happening to other people, too.

That's just a guess. But a man like Ghost would have a lot that a voice like that could talk about, just like Din, enough to make a man vanish into his thoughts. Enough to freeze him in the middle of his actions and drag him down into a darkness from which escape is nearly impossible.

"Ghost," he says, voice abrupt, "snap out of it." He thinks briefly about reaching out, patting him on the shoulder or something, but he doesn't. The knife might be a problem if Ghost gets violent, especially in tight quarters. "You with me?"

cw: vague suicide ideation + ptsd

[buriedpast]

Din's voice reaches him, but only mildly at first. Some buried part of him knew he needed to snap out of it and felt embarrassed to even be told to in the first place. But the voices are louder now and he doesn't move right away.

You with me?

Ghost snatches onto that small thread.

Barely, he wants to say, but the words die in his throat. The hand around his knife tightens hold, the leather glove crackling with the force. But then he's moving his hand out slowly, a slight, uncharacteristic tremble to it. Blade facing out, away from both men, and pointing instead at a wall. He lowers it even slower until finally, his hand and the blade are hovering just above Din's lap.

He lets go with some difficulty. There is no real grace in the gesture, and not for the first time, he thinks it's a good thing Din wears all that armor. He snaps his arm back as if the gesture alone had burnt him, and beneath his mask, he scowls.

"Trying to be," he finally manages to get out. His voice was already deep, but in this state, it came out in a growl. "Can't trust myself with that right now, don't think." It isn't spoken in a way that suggested any concern of him hurting Din or anyone else and perhaps it is clear enough who he is truly concerned with hurting. He may have thought about ending it all before, but even he knew something was gripping him beyond his own will, and the idea of turning a blade on himself because of that felt like losing a battle.

"...Can't..." He begins, shaking his head slowly. He rests his hand next to his own knee on the floor. He exhales slowly. He could feel how hungry he is, how nice that drink smelled. He could feel that his knees were bruised and stiff from how long he had been sitting there with his full dead weight on them. It was going to hurt like a bitch to stand.

But first. His mind.

"Like a goddamn flashback except..." It wasn't. Not really. Flashbacks at least had the mercy of robbing you of your sanity temporarily. This was...Simon had just enough of his sense about him to grit his teeth. "Damn loud."

[metaldad]

Din's gaze fixes like a hawk on that trembling hand, waiting for it to move. His relief is immeasurable when it swivels the blade away from them, and that shaking grip releases the knife into his lap. Din catches it, and stashes it in the boot sheath where his vibroblade had once gone -- it's not out of Ghost's reach, but he'd have to make a pretty obvious move to get it, and Din would be able to intercept in time.

For now, the most important thing is Ghost's state of mind. Because Din's been there. Yesterday he'd gotten so lost in the voice that Rorsachach had had to tackle him and pin him down and stop him from trying to walk out into the snow and disappear. He knows exactly where Ghost is right now, and it's not a pretty place.

So he takes that hand that Simon put down, and he puts it against his chestplate, and breathes in enough that Ghost can feel it move. "Match my breathing," he says, as gently as he can, modulator crackling. Even through two pairs of gloves he can feel that Ghost's hand is cold, not moving well. "Focus on your external senses. What do you see?"

When he'd been a young foundling, there'd been things that had triggered him into panic attacks. The sight of droids, the smell of smoke. Loud explosions. His buir (parent) had always sat with him and used this trick, making him describe his sensory experiences to draw him out of the flashbacks.

"Describe it for me. Focus on the details."

[buriedpast]

Ghost has never been around someone else for this long while going through a flashback. He was good at vanishing just before this sort of vulnerability made itself known. As far as most people were concerned, Ghost may as well have no feelings at all. If he had the choice to vanish now, he would. He didn't want Din to see this part of him; didn't want anyone to see it, but least of all the one ally he's felt he's made.

But there is no choice to run away or tuck it down deep. His hand shakes as Din brings it to his chest. It's the first time someone has really initiated any sort of intimate touch with him ever and that alone is enough to jerk his attention to the right place. He's hyperaware of the exact size and shape of Din's hand, and then slowly, his breathing as well.

His own breath trembles as he pulls it in and then lets it back out, doing as Din instructed.

"You." It's a blunt assessment, but it's true. He's not really looking anywhere else except Din's chest and Din's hand. He tries harder though, clearing his throw lowly.

"Your armor. Your hand, mostly. It's warm." Unlike the cold bodies stacked up in his mind. He looks slowly over Din's armor, tipping his head slightly. "I've never seen armor quite like yours before. Reminds me of a knight."

[metaldad]

It's not particularly detailed, but it's a start. Ghost's starting to focus on something other than his own thoughts, and that's the direction he needs to keep heading in. Whatever's happening to cause a malicious voice in people's heads, Din at least figures that distraction will work.

It's not a long-term fix. Din has no idea what that would be. He's always just shoved shit down and kept going. For now, this trick his buir taught him will do.

"Good," he says, so soft his modulator barely picks it up, so soft it only barely crosses the air between them to reach Ghost's ears. "That's good. Keep going. What do you hear? Tell me everything."

The leather of his glove creaks faintly as he tightens his grip on Ghost's hand, keeping it against his breastplate. He can feel the pressure against his chest as he breathes steadily, the locked joints of Ghost's hand underneath his own. Besides Grogu, he hasn't had this much contact for a long time, not unless someone was trying to kill him. It's confronting, but... not unpleasant.

[buriedpast]

Ghost didn't believe there was such a thing as a long-term fix. Men like them tended to die with their ghosts right beside them. There's some creeping embarrassment crawling in as he starts to ground himself in Din's presence. He wasn't the sort to fall apart. He had to be able to take care of his own men. Grinding his teeth together, he has to take a particularly deep breath to keep himself from shoving Din away.

Din was trying to help. And he was succeeding in it too. Just as Ghost's mind was about to slip away, Din's voice pulled him back. He shifts at last and the pain in his legs is a bit agonizing.

"Your voice." Again, blunt, and obvious, but it's a decidedly nice enough voice and he can't help but think back to Los Almas and how grounding it had been to just be able to hear Johnny. "Wind."

He plants his other hand down on the ground next to him and carefully adjusts his weight. He hisses lowly as he sinks to the side, shifting so sit on his ass instead of his folded-up legs. There's an immediate flood of pins and needles.

"Your- glove. Our breathing." The latter of which isn't too loud. He closes his eyes briefly, head bowing forward. "Creaking of the building."