singillatim | it must be that old evil spirit

it must be that old evil spirit

SEPTEMBER 2024 EVENT

PROMPT ONE — PAINFUL REMINDERS: An Aurora briefly connects the Interlopers to their homeworlds, and with it are able to receive items from home — but these ones will bring no comfort to them.

PROMPT TWO — THE ENEMY WITHIN: Strange and familiar occurrences begin in Milton and Lakeside, growing in frequency and danger for the Interlopers. Who can truly be trusted among their numbers?

PROMPT THREE — BAD BLOOD: The Forest Fighters finally come to Milton, and with it: they bring the yawning grave.

PAINFUL REMINDERS

WHEN: 5th - 9th of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potentially upsetting themes; themes of loneliness/isolation.

For many, the sight of the Aurora is now one they have become used to. There have been plenty of them over the year that has passed since the Interlopers first came to the Northern Territories. Often, they have been a sign of great danger, with plenty of unsettling and unnatural things happening when the skies light up. Other times they have been the herald of aid — a link between Interlopers and Enola, gifting them with abilities to help them survive in this world. There is no real knowing what kind of force the Aurora is, truly. And there is a tension that holds amongst the Interlopers as the day turns to night and there is the soft sound that grows louder.

The ethereal, high-pitched chorus of sounds, is difficult to place. Perhaps it sounds like voices, or discordant strings. And with it, the low-drone of electrical buzz — punctuated with the echoing pops and sharp cracks. The sky is alive with sound, and with it comes the swirling streaking of colour against the inky black of night, growing brighter and brighter as time goes on — greens, blues, pinks and purples shifting and dancing across the night. And much like every Aurora before this one, the electricals of the world come to life too. Homes, streetlamps, cars long-stranded in the snow. Man’s world comes alive, buzzing and flickering precariously.

But there are no ghosts like there once was a year ago. No terrible weather, no poisonous fog. If one could call it a ‘normal’ Aurora, that’s what it appears to be. But there is something else in amongst all the light and noise. Snatches of things: whispers of conversations, names called, laughter and tears.

You realise you recognise these voices. They are the voices of home. Perhaps you hear your mother, your siblings or friends. Whoever they are, you can hear them. And although they might not be able to hear you — for one brief night, the Aurora has connected you, bridged the gap between your world and this one. You may sit for a while, simply listening to the voices, relishing in hearing those from back home. If others join you, you will find yourself compelled to speak of them: to share in stories about those from back home — the connections you share with them.

It’s strange, though. These voices do not fill you with comfort or joy. Instead you are left with feelings of sadness, anger, and isolation. The Aurora has connected Interlopers, but now you feel so cut off from home, cut off from friends and loved ones — reminded of everything left behind. Everything you long for. Everything you have lost.

Something strange skips through the sky, a warping of the sound. It’s unsettling. Something feels... wrong, somehow.

It’s not just the voices that will remind you of this. Something else comes through the Aurora after that night. A small token will be brought through. Whatever the item may be, when you go to sleep and next wake, you will find said item. It may be placed on your bedside, on your desk or dining room table.

The item, you will find, will bring you a reminder of pain. Of sadness. Of horror. Perhaps it’s something you haven’t thought of in some time. Maybe it is something that has lingered in the back of your mind. Perhaps it is a part of you, waiting to be uncovered. A sign of something to come. A painful reminder of your past, or an ominous omen of your future.

THE ENEMY WITHIN

WHEN: The month of September.
WHERE: Everywhere.
CONTENT WARNINGS: kidnapping/attempted kidnapping; attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; animal mutilation; corpse mutilation/manipulation/desecration; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character/npc death.

It starts with strange happenings at night, things left to be found by the next morning. Those within Lakeside many find themselves unsurprised by it, given their location, but the scenes found in Milton are a foreboding sight.

Mutilated bodies of animals: rabbits, ptarmigans, even deer — mangled and strewn about the streets, blood upon the snow. Some may awaken in the middle of the night to the sounds of their windows breaking, with houses on the Outskirts being targeted more than those in the middle of town. There is… a kind of unrest in the world.

It escalates.

Some may leave their home for the day and return in the evening to find the place trashed: items broken, precious foodstuffs thrown about the place and destroyed. Those within the Outskirts are once again particularly vulnerable, as are those within Lakeside. Fires are started in some of the abandoned buildings of Milton. Something, someone is targeting the Interlopers.

It is hard to pin-point who exactly, and it only puts the Interlopers on high alert. Nothing like this has never happened before. This is new, especially in Milton.

As the month progresses, the acts become more serious. Fires may be started in the middle of the night in Interlopers’ homes while they sleep. Some are attacked in the night, others are taken from their beds. Some killed within their very homes. Of the Interlopers that go missing, their mutilated remains may be found days later out in the wilds.

In Milton, soon enough, someone is bold enough to come out from the darkness, out from the gloom of the night. Interlopers may be attacked in broad daylight — by those they may recognise as newer Interlopers of the community, who appeared from the wilds: lost and shivering, with nowhere else to go. Some of them have been within Milton for a few months now.

Those in Lakeside will face something similar: Forest Talkers are making a move, rogue and isolated incidents — done with sabotaging attempts at hunting and taking a more direct approach.

They have no qualms about being captured or killed, only determined to get rid of as many of the Interlopers as they can. They whisper, they scream: “You don’t belong here. You should never have come here. It wants you gone, it wants us all gone. The end is here, it’s too late for any of us. Nature must run its course. The yawning grave has been opened.”

The attack is on two fronts: the first of Forest Talkers in Lakeside amplifying their actions. The second in Milton, enemies within the ranks of the Interlopers, Forest Talkers hiding as Interlopers.

Within Milton, newer Interlopers will likely be met with suspicion as being some of the Forest Fighters as a result of these individual acts of violence. As the numbers of Milton have been infiltrated, and it’s easy to have mistrust amongst those newer to the community. In-fighting is likely, and the entire town is stuck in some terrible, tense state — unsure of who to trust within their own numbers. In the days and weeks that follow, it remains like this. Acts of violence and vandalism — chaos and disorder.

BAD BLOOD

WHEN: The night of 27th - 28th September.
WHERE: Milton.
CONTENT WARNINGS: attempted murder; murder; vandalism; arson; assault; mentions of blood; themes of peril/terror; possible character/npc injuries; possible character death/npc death; actual NPC death.

Towards the end of the month, the moon is full. They call it the Harvest Moon, but colour seeps into it — oranges and reds: a blood moon, partially eclipsed. The night is calm and cloudless, but there’s an uneasy feeling in the night.

The earth groans, the rumble of another quake that’s plagued the Northern Territories since the beginning of August. It is the only warning Interlopers will get — if they may realise it as a warning. To some, when they look back, it’s a omen, a starting pistol.

They do not come through the Mines. Thanks to the efforts of Interlopers to guard the entrances of the Milton Mines, they know better. They come to town from the south, not the north.
The quakes of August and September have opened a new way from Lakeside to Milton. They are led by their Leader: a man dressed in white, a large deer skull upon his head. And while their numbers are small in comparison, they come armed and with the determination to get rid of the Interlopers once and for all. As they come into town, they launch their attack.

More fires will be set, Interlopers will be attacked with abandon. Shot at, stabbed, beaten. It is a mass execution. They will not stop until the Interlopers, or them, are dead.

Well, the majority of them. There are just under a dozen teenagers and younger people amongst their ranks who have shown hesitance toward violence in the past. Perhaps they can be reasoned with. Perhaps there may be a way to convince them to abandon their cause. There is fear in their eyes. Some of them do not want to die. They fear the yawning grave.

What will do you then, Interloper? Are you willing to fight for your life? Are you willing to take another’s to save your own, or a friends? Will you hide, or run? What choice will you make? The Forest Talkers have long since made their own choice. Now you must make yours.

It is another night of chaos on a town already scarred by the events of June. Interlopers will note two familiar faces in the fray: at some point during the night both Methuselah and Young Bill will arrive. While Methuselah will concentrate on aiding the wounded and trying to shelter Interlopers the best he can, Young Bill will help protect Interlopers from the Forest Talkers with his rifle in hand. But fortunately, it is just for one single night. Ammunition runs out, sides are switched, and people are killed. As dawn approaches, Forest Talker numbers dwindle. Either killed, incapacitated or defected. In the early morning light, bodies lie in the snow both Interloper and Forest Talker alike.

Those trying to hunt down the leader will see him slipping inside an empty cabin, heavily wounded. Following after him, they will find him settling himself down to kneel on the floor. The white of his tactical gear stained red with blood as it blooms from his wounds. Slowly, he removes the deer skull from his head to reveal a clean-shaven man in his late twenties with a shock of white-blond hair. His eyes are blue, calm.

He sets the skull down, panting and sweating. He is dying. He is not afraid.

“My name is Mallory, not that it matters now. We are dead, you and I.” he says softly. “We exist in a dying world.”

He is in much pain from his wounds. He moves again to sit cross-legged on the floor. A hand touches the bloodied fabric of his front and he laughs humourlessly.

“You don’t understand, do you? The end must come. That is the order of things. The end must come so the world can be reborn. That is how it’s always worked. When the world is swallowed, it will grow again from the earth.”

It is a story. The story of the Darkwalker. Some believe it to be the end of the world, but Young Bill had once said there is another telling of the tale. A creation myth. The Darkwalker swallows the world and returns to its slumber within the earth. Within it, everything its swallowed grows again and the world returns.

“We fought against man’s actions to ruin this place, not knowing our true purpose. The Devourer has shown me the truth, and I sought to put that into action.” His head tilts to one side. “The yawning grave is opened. Does new life not grow from the decay? It is a cycle. The grave and the cradle.”

He finds it difficult to breathe, but he presses on.

“You fight to live. You come here and you do not see what you are. You are only delaying the inevitable, perverting the true course. Prolonging the suffering. You are the Interlopers, you are not part of nature’s design. The Darkwalker does not want you here. And where it fails, we have tried to succeed.”

There’s another laugh, something catching in his throat. He coughs, blood bubbling from his lips.

“And failed. For now. The First Cursed cannot hold it forever. She, too, delays the inevitable." Even as he is dying, he still have the energy to sneer. He speaks of Enola. "A woman who plays at being a god. What right does she have? All must go into the Long Dark. ... As will I. Return me to the grave.”

Mallory’s head dips, his body sagging. He inhales once more and then stops.

FAQs

PAINFUL REMINDERS

1. Players must sign up for items. See the toplevel on the plotting post.

2. Items will face the same warps/nerfs as everything else that is brought into the game.

3. Items can be no bigger than something your character can reasonably carry.

4. While items do not have to belong to your character, there has to be a good reason why they’d receive such an item — ie. something related to your character.

THE ENEMY WITHIN

1. The Forest Talkers within Milton are a number of NPCs that have been pre-selected from NPCs who arrived in April and August. Not all of them will show their true intentions as the month goes on but will continue to stay hidden.

2. Two NPCs killed in the June Event were also Forest Talkers. … Good… job?

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers at this stage: Devon Busswood; Rita Yee; Realm Lovejoy.

BAD BLOOD

1. Following the events of this prompt, Interlopers now have an additional way into Lakeside. It’s still rather dangerous: it’s through a partially collapsed cave system that ends into abandoned bunker on the Lakeside side. The game map will be marked accordingly in due course.

2. Some Interlopers may recognise a familiar face in the Forest Talker ranks: the man who was kidnapped by Interlopers previously in July has returned. Looks like he made good on his promise. He's come back to cause problems.

3. The following NPC Interlopers will out themselves as Forest Talkers during the attack: Jackie Blackmore; Ross Huguet; Jennifer Kitchen; Daniel Kresco.

4. As a reminder of numbers: around fifty Forest Talkers will show up for the attack.

5. There is an OOC vote on the fate of the remaining Forest Talkers, the link is here.

PLOTTING POST

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[Everything in Charles' being wants to refuse, and the internal debate is plain behind a face trying poorly to remain stoic. He knows he's shit at accepting help - always has been, since the dark days of his childhood - and certainly can't think of anything he's done to deserve this stranger's coat.

But the thing is: it's fucking cold. It's fucking cold, even inside the crumbling walls of his cabin, and every shudder that goes through his chest resolves in a building panic, because last time he felt this way...

Last time he felt this way, he never got warm again.]

Don't be hard on yourself, mate - you don't look that old.

[A jab to cover the almost sheepish way that he reaches forward, taking the coat again. It takes him a good few moments to get the damn thing on, with shaking arms and stiff fingers, and actually closing up the front is a lost cause that he's not willing to embarrass himself on. When he's in it, though, he holds out his arms as if to say, Happy now?]

[ Even in the middle of this lonesome, heavy night and the strangeness of it (he can still hear his mother's whispers, still hear a Kostya every now and then) Konstantin's able to take a moment to realise how strange talking to this person in particular is. How... unsettling in a very particular way. He hides it well, the way he always does, but it's there, maybe weirdly exacerbated by the thought he offended the kid somehow. (A devastating concept, for some reason. The youth before him is more 'man' than 'boy'; Alexsei's only seven... or eight by now. Not every lost boy is his lost boy. He projects, he knows he does. He has the self-awareness to stop himself every time it happens.)

That doesn't mean there isn't some odd, pressing sting, like a finger pressing against a bruise. He'll be eaten alive by his own guilty conscience, someday. For now— there's a weird sweep of relief when the stranger accepts his coat, like he's done something good. It shouldn't be about that, but some part of it is.

Everything's still too heavy for his smile to fully reach his eyes, but delight still manages to shine there. ] Rubbing it in.... how I'll be fully grey in no time.

[ There's grey at his temples, and patches throughout. Back home, they add to his public image, make him seem seasoned, trustworthy. Here, no one knows who he is. ]

Looks great on you. [ Konstantin smiles again, good-natured — yes he's happy now, and maybe it's stupid, but he genuinely is. He looks the boy over; it has to feel better, having the thick padding of a coat like that. ]

Now that I think about it, there aren't many of you young people around this place. Might be some things actually left at the store in town that fit.

[ Kieren's probably the only other boy around his age, and of his build — lanky, tall-looking. ]

[In life, Charles’ youth sometimes felt like a curse; something he wasn’t allowed to enjoy, and was only allowed to be punished for. He dreamed constantly of adulthood, of the day he could meet his father eye-to-eye, man-to-man, and flaunt his own power for once. A grown body, unbroken and free of the bruises he used to wear like brands.

He never got that. And honestly, most days Charles’ eternal, unshakable youth feels like a gift. Is a childhood he didn’t get to cherish in life. It’s freedom, and it’s fun, and the world is so much bigger than it was when he was truly young.

But then sometimes, he looks up at a man’s graying temples and a hole opens up in his stomach, shaped like a life he will never get to know.]

Met a couple other teenagers, I think. I’m not a great judge of age.

[Kieren, pale and soft, and Lyanna with her pretty red hair.]

I didn’t want to take up the good shit, anyway. Thought I wouldn’t be here for long.

There's a little handful, I think. Scattered around. [ Age can be difficult to determine, but when the young man says it that way — 'other teenagers' — it clarifies something important. He really is still just a kid, probably around the same age the boys Konstantin trained back in his military days were. Back then, he didn't even realise how young they really were. Now that time has passed, he can see how they were still just kids in so many ways.

There's another smile, but this one fainter. He thought he wouldn't be here for long either, and he spent so much time thinking that, didn't settle into anything, kept some... distance, one that felt necessary. Even now, he probably only knows less than half of the people in this place.

He swallows back thoughts of escape (and how he's failed to find it here after months), not wanting to make anything heavier on the poor guy while tonight's already such a strange, exhausting thing. Instead— ]

Where're you from?

[Despite his chronological age, after the last thirty-five years "teenager" has become more of an identity than a life stage. It's what Charles will always be, for as long as he haunts the Earth, and as long as he exists in whatever comes next. He's a boy in stasis, in none of the ways that youth entails growing, or beginning. He barely started life, and he will always have barely started life.]

Southall. West London. [He smiles, pushing through a spark of homesickness, not just from the weeks he's spent here but from his time in Port Townsend.] Got a flat in the city with a mate awhile back, though.

[Which is of course not to mention the years between that he spent up at St. Hil's, nicking fancy clothes and trying to hide his accent.]

Yourself?

[ It's been a long time since he asked someone where they were from, Konstantin realises. Not simply for the fact he hasn't met a new Interloper in some time — even before then, it's a subject he's been almost too-careful to approach in others. ]

Russia — Moscow. It's where my mother lives too, though I don't get to see her as often as I like. My job requires I live at a sort of... closed campus.

[ Present tense, not past. He knows he can't really return there — he's dead, or so he desperately fucking hopes — but that's a pill some part of him is still trying very hard not to swallow. His job is over, he'll never see his mother again. It's too many things to mourn. ]

Is it— the same mate as now? [ The same best friend he'd mentioned quietly haunting him. ]

[Charles has slowly taken to the opposite, over the last three decades. Across London, his mother is still alive and well in his childhood home, sipping tea and watching telly as her hair gets greyer. For awhile, he fantasized that he could visit her one day, somehow become tangible and let her know that he's okay, that while his life ended in the attic of St. Hilarion's, he didn't.

He let go of that a long time ago. His parents are a piece of the past, and that's how he speaks of them.]

Yeah. Edwin. [Despite everything, the corner of his mouth tugs up into a smile. He says the name like it's a treasured secret, something he's letting Konstantin in on.] We met at school. Started a business together after we left.

[Which he definitely looks too young to have done, but who's counting?]

What's your job, then?

[ Names are... difficult things to share, to voice. Konstantin hasn't been able to say the ones that hurt the most — Lidia, Alexsei. Even Tatiana is a name he's given to only one other person here, and it was because that person reminded him so much of her, that for a moment, he thought she had arrived to this place. Let something slip through the cracks, let his heart be exposed before he could stop it.

It's almost just as rare for people to give names to him, too. In a place like this, where a person is suddenly wrenched from home and the things they hold most dear, maybe it's just as painful for any of them.

He doesn't take it lightly, and he won't forget the name shared with him now. Edwin. ]

I'm a cosmonaut — an astronaut, as the Americans would say. [ A wry little smile. ]

When we're not up there, we live in a place called Star City. It's like its own little world — not open to the public, everything contained within. When I was a kid, I wanted nothing more than to live there. It seemed like a dream world.

[ To be like Gagarin, his hero — everyone's hero. And then he had. And he only had to give up every single thing to do it. ]

A businessman, though? That's very ambitious for someone who can't be more than... twenty? [ He's probably younger than that, but Konstantin aims high. There's a period of time when it's difficult to tell, when a kid still looks like a kid but they're old enough to be a man, go to war, start a life. ]

Somewhere around that.

[Charles’ boyish smile is somewhere at the borderline of joking, one eyebrow tilted like he’s bemused by the man’s guess. Even though the doubt is clear in Konstantin’s eyes, it’s refreshing to hear someone aim at a different decade than usual. For a moment he can almost pretend that it’s a serious suggestion, that he’s passed for something other than a gangly child.

An astronaut, though. He leans in against the bench, interest piqued. It was never quite his niche, growing up - he preferred music and stories to science - but that isn’t to say he didn’t pay attention.]

We learned about the American space stuff in secondary school. Challenger blowing up, and all that.

[He still isn’t used to the notion of living people being from different years.]

Now they’re sticking shit on Mars. Bloody brilliant.

[ Mentioning "fellow teens" a few beats before pegged him somewhere to be sure, though Konstantin's definitely fishing for an exact age, here. Ways to find out information without directly asking — and he still won't ask directly, meeting that bemused smile with a softer one of his own. Already this strange, awful night has drawn out personal details and he of all people knows what it is to be cautious with what's given out.

He pauses though, something snagging and catching, tugging him to a thought. Challenger? He's familiar with the craft; part of the race with the Americans involved both sides being privy to one another's business. Challenging each other, inspiring one another. It was a new project, part of their Space Shuttle system. But it hasn't... crashed. In his time, the orbiter is set for liftoff... in a few months, actually. ]

It blew up, [ he echoes back — visibly stunned, but the concept of being from different times is something that he's very aware of by this point. Konstantin lowers his arm from where it'd been casually propped against the back of the bench, sitting up straighter. ]

What... year did that happen? Do you know?

[Oh. Shit.]

Like, 1985, maybe? '86? I think I was in year eight. [He hadn't switched schools yet, he knows, but that's about it.] Sorry, I should've- asked, or something.

[Which is a ridiculous notion, honestly. How do you ask if someone was alive for a historic event before you bring it up? He's still barely used to the notion that not everyone in this town was dragged here from the same present-day. Bloody hell, Edwin would love trying to wrap his big ghost brain around that.]

There was another one back in the 2000s. Another C-name, my mate was reading all the news articles. But now it's been, like, almost twenty years since that one, and they're all doing fine, aren't they? Nothing to worry about. Just cool robots on Mars, and shit.

[ 85, 86.... So not too long after his... ending. Konstantin runs his hand down over his mouth again, wide-eyed and thoughtful, before lowering it. Fuck....

There's something else. Something his mathematically-inclined brain catches even through his own startle by the news, times that don't seem to quite add up. "Back in the 2000's".... If this kid was alive in 1986, in school.... (and twenty years since the 2000's? Just what year is he from? How old is he?)

His closest frame of reference for people "time-skipping" (which is what he automatically thinks to) is, ironically, his own dead roommate — or rather, undead. Vasiliy was... resurrected? Reanimated? Konstantin still isn't sure. He isn't sure what to make of this either, though he's not about to make assumptions. Who knows what kind of world this stranger might be from? He shifts more to attention, and for the first time tonight forgets about the whispering calls of his mother, even if just for a few moments. ]

It was 1983 for me, before I was brought here. [ He finally replies. ] You're.... you lived in the eighties? It seems rare to meet anyone else here who did.

[ He never had the pleasure of meeting Eddie Munson.. ]

[Charles' mind isn't as patient and orderly as his other half's, but he's right clever, even if he doesn't often recognize it himself. He catches details others don't, parsing through context with ease. It's for that reason that Konstantin's intentions, hidden behind an innocuous question, reads plain as day.

He nods simply.]

Turned sixteen in '89.

[And died just weeks later.

He could wax about the decade for hours, about the music and the films that colored his youth, about what Konstantin has to look forward to (ha). He could talk about the rave scene, the drugs, the gaudy fashion. The rage and the rebellion, and the vibrance of the world opening up in front of him.

But he doesn't; he knows that isn't what Konstantin is asking.]

That was a long time ago, though. Came here from 2023. [Less than forty years, but he knows it sounds abstract, like something out of film.] Look good for my age, don't I?

[ He's only so recently found out about Vasiliy's... situation, whatever it really is, and it's still a strange sort of wound.

(It's also a terrifying one. The... thought of it. Konstantin made sure he would die, back home. And then he ended up not dead, ended up here instead, heart still beating and still home to a monster. What if he can never die? Or... can never stay dead? That's a horror he can't even begin to contend with. The final piece of his autonomy stripped from him.)

He doesn't know the exact colour of this boy's situation, but it's... something. Something odd, maybe in the way Vasiliy's something is odd. Or Kieren's. Or maybe something else entirely. (Maybe he doesn't physically age anymore? Maybe he can move through time. Or maybe he's the product of some... fucking 80's experimentation, too. The cosmonaut's recent experience isn't far from some abstract film concept, itself.

Hell, maybe the kid isn't even human at all. That's always a possibility, too.) ]

You'd better keep it a secret, or else everyone will be hounding you to know your methods for looking so young. [ A playful smile; he's good at that, at making some strange, serious situation seem softer. ]

Your friend — Edwin. He's like you? [ Existed as a kid for... too many years than should make sense. That's what some of the details mentioned would suggest, anyway. The timeline — the span of it. ]

[Looking young isn't so bad as to be a curse, but there are plenty of moments it aches in his chest, knowing how people see him. Knowing that his jaw will stay smooth, that his limbs will stay lanky, that his voice will never deepen any further. Even here, with a heart that tries to beat and lungs that need air, that hasn't changed; the shaved hair above his ears is proof enough, unchanged in the weeks since he arrived.]

Yeah. [Physically, at least. Edwin lacks the sorrow that being dead causes Charles, seemingly content in his noncorporeal state.] Right suited, we are. Haven't been apart a day 'til now.

[He's already specified that they're friends, right?]

... Can't decide if I want him to be here, or not.

[ Konstantin's more playful smile shifts towards something quieter, maybe more genuine than the things that come more easily on the surface. An expression that moves into his eyes, instead. ]

That sounds like an incredible friendship. I don't think so many people are fortunate to have someone like that in their lives.

[ For so long, so closely — never a day apart (until now). ]

You know, being in this place made me realise I never really had friends. It sounds pathetic, I know— [ He chuckles quietly. ] —I think I had a hard time with it. Getting close to people. It was just my mother and me for a very long time.

...But I made my first real friend, not long before here. She helped me, at great risk to herself. I don't think I'd ever known someone like that before — someone who would try that hard for me. Sacrifice, for me. [ It was her job at first, but then... it wasn't. And he doesn't often talk about Tatiana; it's strange, now. It's nice, too. ]

....I miss her. I find myself wishing she were here, and then hating myself for entertaining that thought at all.

[The words are almost too real, too relatable, and part of him wants to shy away from them. No one had ever cared for him the way Edwin had, not in his entire life, not up until the night of his death. Not his friends, and certainly not his parents.

Being in this place, the man says, and Charles casts his eyes away. He's quiet for a moment.]

Everyone's been aces here, so far. Proper hospitality. [Giving him their coats, and feeding him what apparently counts as soup.] Can't say I've been as nice back as I should.

[He's always made an effort to be friendly, to be good, but it's hard with desperation and grief driving him.]

... Being welcomed feels sort of like- like giving in.

[ It's not often he speaks so freely like this — for how friendly and wide and white his smiles are, Konstantin hardly ever lets interaction get deeper than that. Nothing that hurts, nothing that could make him seem... so vulnerable. Even this much is a lot, for him: the name of someone precious, shared. Tatiana. He makes her real, like that. It also makes the empty space in the center of his chest, the one freshly wounded by the voice of his mother, ache more.

But this boy — they don't even know each other's names yet — gave him the name of someone he misses. Edwin. And it feels... okay, to share back. It feels nice, as much as it hurts. Sometimes it's nice, to sit and chat with a stranger. Maybe especially on a night like this, with the whispers of the past right there.

'Being welcomed feels sort of like- like giving in' — that's familiar for him too, but he asks first, wonders the exact shape of it for his young companion: ]

Like giving in to... being here? Trapped, not finding escape, finding a way back home?

[ And what you're meant to be doing there, protecting there. He has a son he needs to find. ]

[A moment's thought, silent as the rest of the night - then, a brief nod.]

Yeah.

[Even the thoughts he can't hear ring painfully true. What is Charles if not a protector? What is he supposed to do if it isn't watching out for the people - the person - he loves? The questions gnaw at him until he feels torn and empty inside.]

Like- like I'm gonna lose my chance, if I don't look hard enough.

[Even if there's nothing out there to find.]

... Like I'm gonna be letting him down.

[ Ah. Konstantin dips his head for a moment with a faint smile, and a soft nod of his own. He could have said those very words, himself. ]

I think I know the feeling. It sounds funny now, but I actually spent a long time trying to escape this place. As in, literally trying to leave. [ He has to chuckle a little at the memory of those fruitless attempts. Packing food and setting off, fighting past his own weakened condition. Being found half passed-out in the snow by Constable Fraser, or Vasiliy, a hand pressed to his mouth as he coughed blood into his palm. ] ...But it was important that I didn't stop fighting to get back to the people who need me back home. Even after I accepted I couldn't physically leave yet, I think emotionally... I haven't even let myself get attached to this place.

[ He still doesn't know all of its residents by name. He still keeps up some... distance, some wall, despite the bright white friendly smiles. He still hates having to rely on others so much, with how sick and... useless he is now. It's a guilt that's grown and grown. Konstantin sighs, looks down at his hands for a moment, thoughtfully. ]

I know it sounds cheesy, but I think the only way you can ever hope to find him again someday is if you survive now. Whatever it takes, and whomever you have to rely on.

[ In this place, it means sometimes accepting food or shelter or clothes from others. A coat. He looks up at the boy again, gives a smile. ]

It's something I keep reminding myself of. You're trying, and that's something. You're not letting him down.

[Charles thinks back to his own first attempts at escape, skin nearly burning from the cold seeping into his clothes. The pain had felt right, retribution for leaving Edwin behind, but listening to Konstantin speak, it only crumbles into bitter shame.

There's a reason he's never been the brains of the Dead Boy Detective Agency.]

How long did it take you?

[To stop fighting, he means. To feel the aching urgency begin to subside.]

Months. Truthfully, my condition isn't very well. I have a medical issue — it took me getting seriously injured running off a few times, and I would be a hypocrite if I said I've fully learned my lesson.

[ Konstantin laughs quietly. He's definitely not preaching about this sort of thing. Not when he set off on a foolish one-man rescue mission to try and find Kieren Walker out in the wilds when the kid went missing, or all the times he still pushes himself too hard, because he knows that feeling — how the pain can feel right. Deserved. He doesn't want to let himself be too comfortable, maybe. (And under that — too happy.)

He glances back up to the kid, offering a wink with his next sentence. ]

But none of this is to say that I've given up on an escape plan. It's just that it's probably going to have to involve help, instead of being a solo mission. And for that, it's good to have friends. Or at least people you can rely on, especially in a place like this.

[Ah, relying on people. Never part of Charles' skill set, not even back when he was alive. Sure, he knows he can rely on Edwin, of all people, but it goes against every instinct he has. Edwin - and now Crystal, and Niko, and everyone he meets here - are supposed to be able to rely on him. He doesn't know how to do it the other way around.]

... Thanks for the jacket, [he says again, in place of disputing Konstantin's kind words. He gives the garment a tug around the middle, pulling it tighter to himself.] I'll find a way to pay you back, yeah?

[And he won't take no for an answer, on that. You don't just help Charles Rowland without him swearing fealty.]

( Konstantin gives a little smile, dipping his head forward, not quite a nod, but almost. He could argue — he doesn't need to be paid back for this — but he'd say the same thing, if the tables were turned.

So instead, he gives a soft groan as he stretches his arms up over his head, working out some of the stiffness that came with sitting still somewhere too cold, for too long. )

It's a deal. ( Something soft and warm and a little aching seems to coil in his chest. The kid's going to keep the jacket after all (and it really is a nice jacket, about as nice as the coat Vasiliy brought back for him from Lakeside. This one, Konstantin found on his own and gave away again on his own.) He's so glad that for a moment, he's speechless. Then he continues. )

I should be thanking you, though. For the company. It was nice to listen to someone else, for a while.

( He can still catch the faint whisper of his mother, but he's not able to pick out distinctive words anymore. It's time to head home. )

Take care. I'll talk to you again soon, all right?

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

it must be that old evil spirit

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cw child abuse

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cw: suicide things but nondescriptive

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