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

vasiliy yegorovich ardankin | original — historical/(secret) revenant

[m1895]

[ plotting comment with quick character summary here, character info here! ]

I. EVERYBODY THINKS THEY KNOW THINGS, BUT NOBODY CAN SAY THEY KNOW ME
THE AURORA; 1 TAKER PLEASE! CW: GUN VIOLENCE, DEATH, FLASHBACKS TO EXECUTION, DISCUSSION OF THE YEZHOVSHCHINA, PTSD EPISODE.

[ All of a sudden, the living room of the house Vasiliy's taken up occupancy in crackles and buzzes to life, overhead light and table lamp flickering and humming as the bulbs struggle to maintain a steady stream of power. He jumps, hand reflexively landing on the revolver on the side table, then settles back into the couch and tucks the pistol into the front of his waistband as his shoulders (partly) relax, getting up and grabbing his jacket off of the back of a dining room chair on his way to the door. He zips it up, concealing the weapon as he steps outside to join what seems like half of the neighborhood in looking around at the flickering yellow squares of nearby windows and buzzing streetlamps.

He turns to the person beside him. ]

Your power, it is on too?

[ But he's not attuned when they answer—as soon as he asks, the translucent forms of two men begin to materialize against the dimly lit backdrop of someone's cedar shingles a few meters behind them, both facing the same direction. One holds a pistol to the back of the other's head, and Vasiliy's suddenly aware of the phantom sensation of cold metal against the base of his own skull. His mouth goes dry and the skin of his arms prickles as the dark hairs stand upright under his jacket sleeves. The unarmed man falls to his knees, as tears silently trail down the ridges of his high cheekbones. His heart races.

This has to be a hallucination. I've finally gone crazy.

He stands, frozen with horror, unable to speak as he stares past his new neighbor's shoulder. ]

II. THESE DRUGS ARE FUCKING WITH MY HEAD, I THINK MY MAILMAN IS A FED
WOLVES; MAX 2 TAKERS PLEASE! CW: GUN VIOLENCE, ANIMAL DEATH.

[ Vasiliy seldom allows it out of arm's reach, even when (especially when) he's just answering the door: a double-action, seven-shot Nagant gas-seal revolver identical to the one he was issued upon his enrollment in the NKVD. An antique purchased at an Illinois gun show—quite something to hear a service weapon that was cutting-edge in his own time called antique, and himself by extension—issued in the same year as the one he learned to shoot with, as indicated by the numerals 1937 engraved beneath the five-pointed star carved into the gun's frame.

It works for him—he knows how this gun operates, effortlessly and unconsciously accounting for its idiosyncrasies because he's never known anything else. By default he squeezes the trigger of a gun hard enough to account for the weight of the M1895 model's. When he was getting his American concealed carry permit on a class-provided Glock, his thumb reflexively swiped through empty air in search of a hammer that wasn't there.

His walk to the town hall is no exception, and when the wolves appear and begin to lunge at another walker, he's ready, even if the situation he's spent years prepared for is a human one. An average aim among the ranks of the NKVD is more than adequate for the purposes of hitting center mass in a group of tremendously large animals.

The pose he immediately snaps into to fire at them may strike a 21st-century (or later) witness as slightly odd—instead of bracing one hand on the bottom of the frame with both arms in front of him to stabilize the weapon, Vasiliy stands with one arm out, feet spread, body turned to the side. Odd though it may be, it works. He jogs through the snow to approach them as soon as the body of the third and last wolf collapses into the snow; the animal, almost but not entirely dead, tries to snap at him and he promptly renders it motionless with a gunshot to the skull: he'd tried to conserve bullets, but while he's not particularly fond of animals, it would be wrong to let it suffer.

He immediately turns his attention back to the human figure that's fallen into the snow. ]

Are you okay? Are you hurt?

III. I KNOW MY MOTHER WANTS ME DEAD 'CAUSE SHE HATES THE SMELL OF CIGARETTES
THE AURORA; 1 TAKER PLEASE! CW: FLASHBACKS TO EXECUTION, DISCUSSION OF THE YEZHOVSHCHINA, PTSD EPISODE, SMOKING, POSSIBLE VOMITING.

[ Vasiliy would not, if asked, describe himself as brave, though he thinks of the other party on their two-man exploration team as such. What else would he do? He has a gun, most of these people don't, and this could be dangerous. Of course he volunteered to check things out.

He keeps his weapon drawn and pointed down and out with the hammer already cocked as he walks, the only sound he makes being the crunching of snow under his work shoes. More and more apparitions—as an atheist and someone who values logic and science (like all of his comrades, back in the Soviet Union), he's reluctant to refer to them as ghosts, which are a thing of back-country superstition—materialize as they walk, pushing open the door to some kind of municipal-looking building that shapes up to be some kind of tax assessor's office.

Nobody's upstairs, but the door to the cellar stairs—why would there be a cellar in a tax assessor's office?—is bowed. They head down slowly, Vasiliy holding the small battery-operated flashlight from his kit bag originally intended to check pupil dilation and give better lighting to wounds; while the beam isn't nearly as much light as they need, it's enough to go down.

He's about two thirds of the way down the staircase when the smell hits him—cold, earthy concrete, stale water, mildew, old papers. All at once his legs freeze, refusing him entry. His heart begins to race again. His body refuses to be sent forward as icy dread rushes over him in a single overwhelming wave.

He's there, for a moment he's there again, leaving nothing but the husk of a body in Milton, Canada. Dimly, he realizes it'll probably seem like he's afraid of the dark, a grown man afraid of the dark after making it this far, but propriety, the impressions of others, they're all too distant compared to the all-eclipsing fear.

He breaks one arm free of the sudden spell put upon him and reaches into his breast pocket to withdraw his lighter and a single cigarette. He holds it between his lips and tries, fruitlessly, to light it—the same shaking of his hands that makes the small beam of the flashlight in one dance makes the flame waver and jump in the other, refusing to stay still long enough to light the end of it. ]

Would you please—

[ He holds it out, hand still trembling. He'll deal with the humiliation of drawing attention to it later. ]

IV. I CAN'T TRUST YOU, I KNOW YOU BLEED BLUE

[ wildcard! pm this journal or pp bluehellgazette (but no friend requests unless we have ongoing cr please!) to hash out other plans! ]

iii

[jackdawvision]

[Edward’s own gun, a quaint little flintlock pistol straight out of the 1730s, is holstered at his side, but the deadlier and more reliable weapon he has is his hidden blade. It’s still in its housing on his bracer, but if something gets too close to them despite Vasiliy’s gun then Edward will take care of it, easily.

He takes up the rear behind the other man, his steps silent as a church mouse. It’s dark down here, but Edward’s used to darkness, as an Assassin. We work in the dark, and all that—it’s just more literal than usual, right now.

He stops when Vasiliy stops, confused for a moment before he understands all at once—some sort of shock, brought on by a memory. He’s not sure what to do with this, so he’s relieved when he’s asked for help, taking the lighter from the other man’s hand.]

Aye, here, let me. [And he lights the other end of the cigarette, watching how the other man reacts as his free hand rests onto Vasiliy’s shoulder. Squeezes gently, as if to reassure him of Edward’s presence.] Do you need to get out of here? I can search this room well enough on my own, if I must.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy takes a long drag, inhaling until his chest aches and his ribcage stops his lungs from expanding any further, and tries to anchor himself in the rush of nicotine. It doesn't do as much as he'd hoped, but at least it's a familiar feeling.

The touch is welcome, an additional tether to reality, though the offer is shameful. It's unbecoming, having raw, undeniable fear on display like this, especially while in uniform: his only coat is his EMS jacket. What does it say, when the person responsible for getting the situation under control is afraid too?

Vasiliy silently struggles for something to say, some reasonable excuse for why he stands paralyzed halfway down the staircase like a deer frozen in the middle of the road. He exhales shakily, the breath materializing as smoke in the dim air, and momentarily holds his cigarette between two fingers. ]

No. I will come with you.

[ He has to. ]

[jackdawvision]

[You don't have to, he wants to say, because he doesn't want to drag Vasiliy deeper into whatever fear had taken hold of him just now, but the problem is that he does need the light, and between them Vasiliy's the only one who knows how to work the little device in his hand. It doesn't give off as much light as Edward would like, but anything's better than nothing.

So he sighs, and lets go.]

All right, then. But if something's wrong, tell me, I'll get you out of here. [He means it as a reassurance. He takes a few steps down the stairs past Vasiliy once he's certain whatever shock came over him has passed, and looks around, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. Papers, he thinks. Plenty of papers down here, plenty of records—they might find answers down here, but Edward doesn't think those answers are the ones they're looking for.]

What do you think they kept records of, down here?

[m1895]

[ He's in the middle of another long drag when the question's asked; he plucks the cigarette from his lips and holds it between two trembling fingers as he answers, the words materializing in a plume of cigarette smoke as the cherry glows red like hot iron in the darkness. ]

I think this is... tax man's office. Property records. Names of people who lived in these houses.

[ But as to what a tax assessor's office would have in the basement, it's beyond him. Maybe an oil heater, or extra storage. They'll see.

His heart still races; he's not sure if it's better or worse to have another person present, witnessing his shame. At least he seems to have a modicum of understanding, although that, too, might be a problem as opposed to a blessing; someone here now knows that something happened to make a Russian man freeze with fear when faced with a basement... there aren't many possibilities, and he'd probably feel wild with anxiety and dread over that were every neuron and synapse in his body not preoccupied with overriding the primal urge to turn and run. ]

[jackdawvision]

[Ah. A tax collector. Edward has long since left the life of a pirate behind, but at the mention of his being in a tax man's office, he makes a sour face almost instinctively, mouth twisting into a tight frown. Still. It's information, even if it's not strictly information they need.]

At least we'll have names to put to all these dead bodies around town. That'll come in useful should we decide to put up grave markers.

[From his tone, and how he crosses his arms, it's obvious he doesn't think they will. Respect for the dead is one thing, and it's admirable, but their own collective survival comes first. They can't waste resources.

He stretches out a hand in the darkness as he walks on, touching—something cold. Feels like metal, which is honestly a good thing, because Edward had half-expected to trip over a dead body while down here. How much of the town have they cleared out so far? It can't have been a lot, the number of survivors who stumbled into this ghost town is far less than the number of dead bodies scattered all over the place.]

Mate, can you get your miniature lantern here? [Odd thing to call a flashlight.] I can't quite tell what I'm supposed to be touching.

ii. wolves

[kidproof]

[Angry wildlife ain't new and Joel was doing what he could to fend off the dogs with the blunt side of his rifle and a hunting knife when they all crumble into the snow. The first shot makes Joel hit the deck out of reflex, and he scrambles off to the side to find the source as the stranger makes haste with the other two.

Once he stops firing, using that last bullet to put the pup down Joel finally meets his gaze.]

I'm fine.

[Joel won't waste time saying thank you when he could have handled it himself. What he does do is start the process of hog-tying the remains.]

Meat can be used for trapping, pelts for warmth, bones for weapons and we can get your bullets out in the process if you're willing to lend a hand.

[m1895]

[ It's immediately apparent to Vasiliy that this man is from a world very different from his own: in Petrograd and then Moscow—and then Chicago—he'd never hunted, let alone skinned anything, and he hasn't the slightest idea how to do any of the things the man's suggesting.

He has his doubts as to how useful he'll be in the whole process, but he certainly isn't going to stand around without helping while someone else works, and he can hardly think of anything worse than being seen as lazy. ]

I am probably no good at this. Tell me what to do and I will do it.

[kidproof]

[Very different maybe, but similar enough to the frozen hellscape that it does give Joel any pause to use what's left behind after the attack. That was just good sense. Life after the outbreak demanded some natural understanding of resources, and being a smuggler gave him all the know-how and risk. Nothing got left behind to go to waste.]

I can do the dirty work if you think you can manage to help me separate things out for transport. Either that, or you can help me haul these back to my horse and I can take care of it myself back home.

[m1895]

I will do whatever you need me to do. I can carry more than I look.

[ Because he's aware that the perception of him, based upon a height shorter than the vast majority of American men, is that he's not of much use where carrying ability is concerned. In reality, of course, it's all about strength and body mechanics, leverage. ]

[kidproof]

[It's just a wolf, maybe 60 pounds maximum, and Joel hardly thinks the guy'll have an issue with that but his lack of experience makes it necessary to mention. He'd rather do the work himself and keep it all with no hand-outs for the stranger, but the stranger having made the kill makes that a little more difficult.]

Okay, you take this one I'll take the other. Then we'll go from there.

[Better not to leave a trail for other predators to follow. Joel hauls up one of the wolves and flips the dead weight over one shoulder with a grunt.]

ii. wolves

[fidior]

[ Edward's patrols have become daily rituals — and taken quite severely. As the days pass by in this place, the first lieutenant falls to what he knows. He falls to keeping order, and even if that currently only means making his rounds to ensure that nothing is amiss (and part of it is for appearances' sake, making certain that the people here know he stands as a figure of authority, that he's never seen out of uniform), it is important. It is the most important thing he can do.

(It is the only thing he can do.)

The double-barreled shotgun strapped to his back is more a symbol than anything. He has no plans to really use it (and in equal parts, no desire to). Ammunition is scarce, but there's also the fact that Little's stomach is a tangle of knots most days, and even after all the horrors he's known (perhaps especially because of), it won't allow him to so easily pull the trigger on a thing that explodes. He flinches when tree branches crack and snap under the weight of snow. He flinches when a door slams somewhere in the distance.

And he flinches when, all of a sudden, there is a snarl and a snap. Those seconds of surprised inaction are to be expected, but when he just stands there, not moving, it will cost him dearly. Edward's gloved hands do scramble for the strap attached to his weapon, frantic as he manages to grab his gun, but there's at once something very large and very heavy upon him, and his weapon is knocked from his trembling grasp. He barely has time to cry out before he's knocked to the snow-dusted ground, hard, and he feels something sharp against his chest. If there is pain, he hardly registers it yet, head buzzing with static and noise, with shock.

Abruptly— a gunshot. Not his, but another. The man's wide, round eyes snap up to catch sight of the stranger standing there with arm held out, and jumps at the sound of more shots. It's then that Edward does register some sensation of pain. Breathing quickly, alarmed, he's looking down at himself, one thick boot giving a heavy scrape against snow, pushing himself into more of a sitting position with a pained grunt as his other leg protests movement. In the attack, his officer's cap was knocked to the ground, and he peers through disheveled waves of hair, a shaking hand reaching down to his leg. The ends of his greatcoat splayed open, his trouser leg ripped through — large claw marks having left gashes just below his knee. Already Edward thinks he can smell blood in this sterile air, or perhaps it's only in his mind, but his heart pounds at the sight. ]

Its claws—!

[m1895]

[ Brightly oxygenated blood is already running from the deep gashes in his leg, though Vasiliy's far more concerned about infection than blood loss from superficial lacerations. Depending on how deep they are under the welling blood, he might need sutures, something that isn't within an EMT-B's scope of practice, but between the medical training he does have and his ability to hand-sew he's sure he can figure it out.

Vasiliy eyes the black lips of the dead animals discreetly as he crouches down in front of the man, checking them out from the corner of the eye as not to alarm a patient who is already quite worked up: mercifully, his quick check for foaming saliva brings back nothing. It would seem they're just unusually aggressive, or maybe in the earliest stages of the disease.

For once he doesn't have his kit bag on his person—he won't make that mistake again— but at least the house he's taken up residence in isn't far from here. ]

You will be okay. [ If they weren't rabid. ] That is not enough blood to hurt you. It just looks bad. Large surface area. I am a EMT—Emergency Medical Technician. Let me see it?

[ And by that, of course, he means tear open the pants leg further. It's that or take them off entirely, which isn't really an option when it's this cold. ]

[fidior]

[ He is hardly a stranger to horrors of the flesh, now. To bloodshed and gore, and to men in states that one could not even conjure in nightmare. In comparison to some of those things, this is actually quite slight, but in the face of it, in the panic of the moment, Edward's heart feels like a frightened animal, trapped within his chest. To be targeted by something, attacked with no warning.... those already-raw nerves bristle and fray. And with his distress, questions pouring inwards. What if there are more wolves? What if they come for him right now, when he's wounded?

What would it feel like, to be torn open while still alive? Would they go for his throat? The warmest parts of him? His belly?

But there's someone else there, someone speaking to him. The man, crouched down close — a medical technician, he says. The thought is immediately a relief, no matter how stunned Edward is. He nods quickly, wills himself not to cry out as he tries to shift his leg a little bit more, then lets it go limp again. But he'll not resist the man tearing open the knee of his trouser or whatever of it he needs access to, fingers curling into the snow beneath himself.

Fortunately, the cuts aren't too deep, coming from quick swipes closer to the surface rather than penetrating deeper layers. But its free bleeding does frighten him, despite the medic's assurance. Edward has never had a strong stomach for it, and closes his eyes for a moment as he tries to keep his breathing even, tries not to think of the sensation of seeping wet, of the way it smells, of what bone looks like deep beneath layers of tissue and muscle. He can't help asking, worried, brows drawn together as he opens his eyes with a sharp wince. ]

It— it isn't too much? Too much blood?

[m1895]

No. This is very small.

[ He's sure it doesn't seem that way to his clearly panicking patient, but in the scope of his own experience, the wounds are almost negligible—though he recognizes that it's a harrowing situation the man's just been through, it's not bleeding like a gunshot through a major artery or a puncture wound in the moment the offending piece of rebar is pulled.

The tensile strength of the dark fabric making up the man's frayed pants leg is better than that of the cheaply produced garments of the era he awoke in, but it's still no match for the strength of his arms with a crack already in the foundation. Vasiliy rips the hole open further until the full tracks the wolves' nails left are visible. They'll definitely need to be irrigated.

Vasiliy unzips his jacket and slips it off his shoulders, wrapping it around the injured leg a few times and tying off the sleeves—tight enough to apply uniform pressure, but certainly not a tourniquet. The snow crunches under the soles of his shoes as he then straightens up. ]

I am going to lift you, okay?

[fidior]

[ There is a fear of death, certainly. Surely no man who has come so close to it and in such harrowing ways could exist without a fear of it now. But even more than that, what Little truly fears is pain. Torment, to be subjected to horrors that no human should be, and in that process, to be stripped of one's own human sensibilities. That is what haunts his nightmares, what sets his blood racing, a dull thrum in his ears. He fears the slow agony, the mutilation. The desire to die, and the inability to do so.

And even now, his body reacts to what he's seen and known. What if he should bleed too much? What if infection should set in? Will he have to lose his leg? Be held down the way he once held one of the men, pressed firmly down while sawed through? These thoughts race through the lieutenant's mind, bringing a pallor to his face, eyes darkened almost to black as his pupils swell in anxiety.

But all he can do is rely on his saviour in this moment, and Little's nodding quickly after his leg is wrapped up, stifling another pained moan as he reaches an arm out to retrieve his cap nearby, holding onto it tightly. ]

Yes— thank you. [ He agrees verbally; he won't resist the instruction, though he winces as his hands grasp onto the other man's shoulders, preparing himself to be moved upwards. Little is hardly a... well, little man, of average height and sturdy. Even those tiresome months so hungry out on the ice, the weight he'd shed, have hardly made him much lighter; he's thick-boned and thick-coated, his greatcoat a considerable weight. He tries to stand on his other leg, to push some support onto it, giving soft gasps here and there. But he looks back down at his shotgun lying there in the snow, heavy but a weight he thinks he can support against his shoulder. Perhaps some part of him resists being a burden even in this small way, yearns to still be of use. ]

My gun— I think I can carry it, sir, if you'll hand it to me.

V — CLOSED; FOR GRACE.

[m1895]

V. AT THE TRIAL THERE'LL BE NO JURY / AND ALL THE DEAD ARE GONNA PLAY WITNESS
IT SPEAKS—CLOSED: FOR GRACE. CW SUICIDE ATTEMPT, MASS MURDER MENTIONS, DISCUSSION OF THE YEZHOVSCHINA.

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

He knows that. The voice confirms what he already knows—and still, Vasiliy freezes as he stands in front of the sink, plate in hand, water running. I'm finally going crazy. Those weren't hallucinations, but this is.

I'm not a hallucination. These people don't know, but I do. Why should you live, and not them? That doesn't seem very fair, does it? That you should have a normal life. You're Eichmann in your own private Argentina, Interrogator Ardankin. You cheated your way out of your rightful punishment.

The plate clatters on the bottom of the metal sink. He doesn't remember letting go of it. His heart races even as his body remains frozen.

Do you know how many people you sent to slaughter? Or the gulag? Did you ever bother to count? I'll tell you, Interrogator. Two thousand and ninety-three people interrogated. That's an impressive career. One thousand and four-hundred fifty-three signed their own death warrants because you asked them to.

It's time to face what you earned. Go back to where you came from. You know what to do.

You didn't do the right thing then. Do the right thing now.

He lets out a shuddering exhalation, every nerve in his body crackling with raw electricity, heart torn open. There's not a single word the voice said that wasn't true. Maybe it's time. Maybe it's time.

He owes it to them. He's been a coward.

Vasiliy reaches down, touches the cold metal frame of the gun tucked into his waistband, so much colder than the chill ambient air in the home he's been residing in. He swallows hard, closes his eyes for a long moment and lets the tears run down the high ridges of his cheekbones.

Do what's right. You have to do this. It's time. He's right. It's time.

He doesn't bother grabbing his jacket as he walks out into the snow, and then keeps walking, further and further away from the town, closer to the snow he woke up in. From ashes to ashes, the Christians say—his own ouroboros, the silence of a fresh layer of snow on the ground. The wet skin on his cheeks stings in the cold, but he's only dimly aware of it.

Finally, he decides he's walked out far enough. Nobody will have to find his body, with any luck. He pulls the gun with a shaking hand, fingers already flushed from the cold. Cocks the hammer. Presses the cold metal to his temple.

Disappear, Interloper. Go into the Long Dark.

And he almost does. He closes his eyes, a fresh wave of tears falling as he tries to will himself to pull the trigger. He falters. Even now, he's a coward, can't will himself to do it. He's almost there, almost has willed himself to take the jump when he hears the crunch of footsteps in the snow. He opens his eyes, their wetness burning in the cold, and looks at Grace, who stands a few feet away. ]

Stay back. I have to do this. Go. I will wait for you to leave.

[patchwork]

[ Grace credits a strange, unsettling feeling of prescience with the decision that led her to check on him. Among all the strangeness that has awoken in the town, something pushed her towards Vasiliy, and she can only thank God that she let herself be pushed. Heart in her throat, she'd watched him pull something out of his waistband, and before she even had time to register that it was a weapon, he was holding it to his own temple.

It's an awful, sickening sight, and it steals the breath from her lungs. He's gone mad – he must have done, to even consider such an awful thing, an insane thing. The footsteps had been involuntary, moving sporadically towards him, but she stops dead when he turns. There's a look on his face that's so defeated it makes her want to cry, because he'd been so transparently determined when they first met, so clear about his conviction when he'd explained the way of the world to her that none of it had sounded like fantasy but rather like pieces of a puzzle she hadn't quite put together in her own mind. ]

What are you doing? [ Her voice is sharp, just shy of panic. ] Vasya, put it down. Have you lost your mind entirely?

[m1895]

[ Of course, she thinks he's a civilian. She doesn't know that he's simply carrying out the punishment from which he was spared—doesn't realize that this is a punishment at all. She thinks he's a normal man about to take his own life over something like depression, or a bad life choice. Something temporary and reversible.

His chest aches at her distress; he had wanted her to think he'd simply... disappeared. His intent hadn't been for his body to be found, but now, he knows, she'll come looking for it, turn around and try to give him a proper burial after she hears the gunshot. ]

I have not. There are things you do not know. [ He inhales shakily, the cold air adding to the ache in his chest. ] I need to do this. It is time.

[patchwork]

[ There are always things people don't know about each other. Grace resigned herself to that a long time ago. It's where she lives, among the things people don't know. How she functions. How she holds onto her sanity.

She knows in her soul that for him to take his own life means to damn himself; it's what she was raised to believe, and what she understands about the world. To be flagrant and careless with God's gift of life. But he's not a godly man, and that argument would settle nothing.

Her heart is beating so quickly that she worries she might lose control, fall to the ground unconscious as she's done so many times before. She begs herself not to. She curls her hands into fists, pressing her fingers into her palms as hard as she can, just to hold onto the feeling of wakefulness. ]

What I know or don't know does not matter. Our pasts don't matter one bit in this place.

[m1895]

The past matters. It matters as much as the future.

[ Another shaky breath. She would understand, if she knew. The kinds of numbers the voices shared with him: those are incomprehensible in their magnitude to those who weren't there. Maybe forty people would fill up one room of the small cedar-shingled house he's been staying in, if packed in tight. He killed over a thousand.

Not with his own hand. He didn't pull the trigger. But the voice is right: it's still on his hands that the blood rests. Russian blood, Ukrainian blood. He killed his fellow Soviets, his fellow communists. Perhaps that is the ultimate sin. ]

There are things your god cannot forgive. It is same for atheists. There are mortal sins.

[ He needs to make her understand, so that she can have some closure; given that she's Irish, she's probably also Catholic. He speaks using concepts that should, hopefully, be as ground into the core of her being as collectivism is to his. ]

I have done terrible things, Grace. Things you cannot imagine. Things nobody can imagine.

I

[moralabsolutism]

[Out of all the people Vasiliy were to run into, it would be the superhero from a universe where the Cold War was still going strong and threatening to turn into a full nuclear war between the U.S. and the Soviet Union any day now. Thus, hearing someone speak English with a strong Russian accent got a complete double-take from the vigilante. For him, that was almost as shocking as the lights in the cabin he'd been staying in suddenly turning back on.

Before he could even begin to process either of those things, the ghosts appeared. It said something about the things Rorschach had seen in his career in that he barely felt anything when he saw one man execute another. It was brutal, harsh, and cruel. But then so was most of the world in his experience. But when he turned to the Russian, he looked like he was on the verge of some sort of fit, seeing but also not really seeing what was before them.

There was really only one way to deal with that kind of reaction in Rorschach's opinion. So he slapped the man smartly across the face.]

ohhhhh my god

[m1895]

[ The man's hand collides harshly with Vasiliy's cheekbone, leaving a huge swathe of skin stinging in the cold air when it leaves. His head snaps in the direction of the assailant and away from the outward manifestation of his own (it feels like his own) death to regard some freak taller than him with a head mummified in gauze and smeared with the loud black markings of a butterfly's wings. Watching him silently, like he's just another part of this mysterious hell. The thing probably can't speak.

So Vasiliy deals with the physical assault from an unfriendly entity in the only way he's been trained to do—and throws a sharp, practiced punch directly at where he approximates the monster's gauze-wrapped jaw to be. There's a great deal of skill transference between that which is needed to take out a person resisting arrest (the goal had not, after all, been for every member of the cadre Yezhov brought to stay an interrogator) and that which is needed to throw a solid punch at some human-adjacent monster. ]

This will only go well. Uh-huh.

[moralabsolutism]

[Ironically, for someone so used to violence, Rorschach honestly hadn't been trying to start a fight with his actions. He merely was trying to snap Vasiliy out of the shock he'd been in. Unfortunately, with how poorly socialized the man was, it clearly hadn't worked out the way he had intended.

But rather than do what a normal person would and try to explain his hasty actions, Rorschach was quick to respond with violence when he was punched. He honestly hadn't been expecting to be hit and so ended up with a sock to the jaw. He staggered back a step or two, one hand reflexively coming up to grab at the aching spot where Vasiliy's fist had collided. The black spots scattered all around that area as if reacting to the blow itself.

Well, if that was the way his actions were being perceived, he wasn't going to bother with being nice any longer. This Communist was going down! With a slight growl, Rorschach responded by aiming a punch towards his midsection. He'd been in a lot of fights over the years, though curiously not often with an opponent around the same size as him by virtue of only being 5'5" in bare feet.]

shit i just realized this was in past tense shdhdj...hopefully it is ok if i write in present??

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy blocks—barely. The man's fist still hits him in the gut hard enough for his body to fold inward, though he manages to tense practiced abdominals in time to avoid the worst of the somewhat-blunted blow. It still knocks the breath out of him, and he knows it will bruise.

While he's down there, though, he's presented with an opportunity. In a room full of soon-to-be torturers, there was no concept of what the Americans would sanctimoniously call 'fighting dirty', and it's a moral facet Vasiliy wholly lacks.

So he swings a tightly closed fist upwards to punch the thing in the crotch, hard, in the way he was told would make a prisoner double over and vomit. He's not sure what's under the very human clothes it's masquerading in, but it seems male, probably. Even if it's like an American Ken doll, being punched still hurts regardless of location. ]