worthallthis | IC Inbox: In the Night

You are on the floor of a very snazzy house in New Orleans. A coven, in New Orleans. Staring upward at an ornate chandelier, just turned on. A shame you've never been to the city and now that you have you've spent all of it here or entombed, but you have better things to do than think about that. You have to focus. This is important.

Getting to hell should be simple for girls with your talents. It's the getting back, darlings, that is the challenge. If your soul hasn't returned to your body by sunup, you will die.

It's as if the air is physically pressing in on you. There's a pit in your stomach, and if you weren't so anxious you might cry. Focus. You turn to the mousy girl on your right, who looks, to her credit, undaunted.

"What do you think it'll be like?" (The exhale afterwards is staggered. God, everything--)

"I was hoping to never find out." Sounds undaunted still. She's kind enough to humor your taking her hand. Or maybe she's afraid too. Permission is given to begin. One final breath. She relinquishes your hand.

Four voices, different tones, inflections, volumes, discordant to the very fucking end: "Spiritu duce, in me est. Deduce me in tenebris vita ad extremum, ut salutaret inferi. Descensum!"

The frog under your hands twitches, ribbits, clearly wishes to right itself as you pull back. Good. You have eyes for nothing else, hyperfocused, hands folding in your lap.

"Freak." Right, there's a world around you. You look up and into the safety-goggled eyes of a child surely no older than twelve. A whole room of them, busy with their own knives and their own frogs, though only this one seems to be set on you. The room is dimly lit, sickly green. Fluorescent lights flicker noisily overhead. ANIMALIA is the only thing you can make out from the corner of your eye scrawled on the blackboard off to the right, but it repeats. You somehow know it does. Some short phrase filling all available space. Tables lining the left as well as all shelving around the room are lined with preserved frogs. Atypical decorations. You blink. The boy continues: "You're a freak. Mr. Kringley, she did it again."

You muster exactly one, defeated, "No." But it's already in motion. Footfalls behind you, quickening - because he's irritated. Everyone's staring, now.

"Where is the dissection frog?" He asks, sounding frustrated. Your frog has finally turned itself over, cheerfully sounding off its success. Unable to meet his eyes, your head drifts to the left.

"It's right there, she brought it back to life--" "Shut up, Bobby! She snuck a live one in to trick you. The trick's on her. Pick up the scalpel."

"No. Please, don't make me--"

"If you won't dissect a dead frog, than you will - dissect - a live one." He lifts the scalpel left untouched until that moment, and forces it into your hand. He's stronger than a man ought to be, or you're weaker, maybe. His fist closes around yours, scalpel at the ready, and you can't shake it. There is a void behind his eyes.

You're nearly crying already, panicking, who knows how long you've been at this, it's all one rushed, "No-please-don't-make-me-kill-a-living-thing-- please, you can't make me--"

"You'll kill it or I'll have a talk with your parents." He forces your whole arm, now, and try as you might you can't stop it. Try as you might, you can't look away.

The frog is somehow on its back again, squirming, ribbiting, vulnerable. Scalpel slices. Scalpel sinks. Such a small creature but you feel it down to your stomach, the feeble resistance its flesh provides, the heft of tiny organs being destroyed. It's like paper after that. Watery blood trickling steadily over its heaving little abdomen, its sides, down into the crook of its little shoulder, and if the poor thing is still making sound you can't hear it over your own wail.

Everyone is still watching, you know even despite your own firmly shut eyes. Not one pair of lips moves, but they're laughing, somehow. You can hear it, it echoes off the walls, it converges overhead. They're laughing. Focus. Blood has been wicked away somehow when you open your eyes, intestines visible as you cage your hands protectively over and around it. Familiar expenditure of energy. Power like home. You can correct this. (You're shaking.) You are sorry. You're so sorry. It's--

The frog under your hands twitches, ribbits, clearly wishes to right itself as you pull back. Good.

"Mr. Kringley, she did it again."

He's not at your side anymore. There's his footfall.

"If you won't dissect a dead frog you will dissect a live one--" The scalpel in your hand, cold, fingers like clay, unable to pull back, your largely identical weepy babbling - can't kill a living thing you can't make me--

Clearly he can, now. Your hand moves like a limb possessed, despite the lack of his hands on you this time. You press so hard you can feel the blade meet the metal bin the critter's laying in. You wail. Of course you do. The minute control of your hand is restored you toss the scalpel aside, cage your hands protectively over and around it. Familiar expenditure of energy. Power like home. Why is this happening, how long have you been here? You're so sorry. It's--

The frog under your hands twitches, ribbits, clearly wishes to right itself as you pull back. Please. Please.

"Mr. Kringley--" "-- dissect a dead frog, you will--" "NO--" - the slit, the blood, legs to throat, the croak, that helpless squirming, it didn't do anything - "NO--" -- its skin spread, stuck down with pins, tiny, fragile organs so haphazardly disturbed it's like you'd turned them with a fork -- when did that -- footfall behind you -- the laughter and your own screams are almost deafening -- "You're a freak--" your wordless, monosyllabic, verbal ache-- twitch, ribbit--

(It loops. It loops forever. Determining time passed within it in any real time is an impossible task, and if there is a set period after which an onlooker will be located, it's longer than any sensible person would want to. You never stop screaming.)

It takes even longer than the minutes the memory lasts to come out of that, because first Soldat has to relive some throat-slitting of their own. Then because when the memory malfunction clears away, there's nothing left in their head to deal with either memory, there's nothing at all. They come to almost an hour later, crouched in the snow and shivering with both arms wrapped around themselves. Even a self-hug, they realize with a twitch to free themselves, feels like confinement. They're just lucky they're on the tail end of their 0500 patrol, so it's still too early for many people to be out and about, and they're on the largely-deserted path back from the armory, so no one stumbled on them.

The opal is on the ground, melted through the snow with the heat of their flesh palm, looking balefully up at them.

A check to the tablet shows that they're late to visit Misty. She's going to worry. She's going to. She's.

It's another ten minutes of broken mental loop before they manage to creakily push to their feet.

Christ.

They pick the opal up with metal fingers, wrap it in the usual scrap of fabric, but don't do it the service of putting it into a pocket. They'd crush it, but only with Misty's permission. They go straight to her house and knock like usual, but their expression isn't the polite neutral or small smile of usual, it's grimly blank, because anything else will hurt her. Or them. Probably both.

Worry she does, to such an extent she's been cycling through waiting on the porch itself in addition to right behind the door. Tablet in hand, she's halfway through sending her third message in as many minutes when the knock sounds. Nearly throws the thing in her haste to throw the door open. He's one of very few constants, here and in life, and it's jarring when he errs.

The expression is no comfort. Her concerned expression holds fast.

"Are you okay? What happened-?"

They are so not okay it's not even funny. But they can keep a lid on it. The walk here helped some. They hold up the metal hand, showing her the little bundle of fabric, but keep the metal fingers curled around it so she can't take it herself. Not yet. They don't want her to have to relive that unless she insists. "I. Saw the frogs."

Their voice is hoarse, and the grim expression can't hold, it's turning into something that looks like it might cry, but they can't feel tears. It just feels pained. "I'm sorry. I'm. I'm sorry, Misty."

There's a more innocent 'oh' on the tip of her tongue - it's easy to deduce from the raised cloth it's an opal, perhaps something upsetting about the history of the town - but then he speaks, and all the air leaves her in one steady, seemingly endless exhale. Her legs want to give out from under her, but fittingly, the memory makes rest uncomfortable. Cannot sit down, or she may never stand up again. A step back is taken, and her weight shifts from one foot to the other without cease.

"No one was supposed to-- I-- Um." She's livid someone else has been subjected to it, on some level bruised that anyone else has so much as seen it, but it doesn't stick. Her chest hurts and her eyes are shining, and she can't hope to hold a flame right now. It's every effort to not cry immediately.

"You didn't do it." Didn't seek it out. Shouldn't feel any responsibility. "It's just what-- ah. Ain'tyourfault."

They can't do anything. For a long moment, they can't even say anything, just watch her move away, look stricken, look like she's going to cry. Really cry, not just hurt like they do.

What comes out is the flat question: "Do you want me to crush it. I can crush it for you."

She's wary to so much as look at it, which is something of a help. When she finally does cry, she was at least already looking at the floor. Just the nod is all she can manage at first, and after an embarrassingly rough clearing of her throat, "Please?"

They unwrap the opal, tuck the fabric back in a pocket, and roll the opal at optimum crushing position before closing their metal hand into a fist with a hum and buzz of servos. There's a loud crack, then a crunching sound. They shake their hand free of harmless crumbs of stone and dust over the snow outside, then crouch to wipe the plates off on with in cleaner snow.

Then, finally safe from that memory-- it's never leaving their brain, but at least neither of them can relive it-- they step inside and. And. Fuck, what do they do, Misty's crying and it's their fault and she can't cry, that's what they do not her, and it hurts to see tears and hear her breathing wrong and--

--and what they want or need doesn't matter, they have to make that go away. They have to help. They take two steps up to her, steel themselves for a beat, and wrap the flesh arm around her shoulders to pull her in. Misty, you get your first Soldat hug. Apparently what it takes to push past the horror of that much touching is seeing her cry.

An immediate danger removed, for which she is indescribably grateful. It's a lose-lose situation, but over means it can be put far from their minds once the initial shock subsides. No one was ever supposed to see that, especially, particularly him. It isn't beyond her imagining that it might rouse unpleasant experiences from his own life, and she doesn't ever want to be an accessory to that. And it hurts, the whole of it, this ugliest most haunting affair dragged to the forefront when so much of her time is carefully calibrated to keep it at bay.

Nor is it beyond her imagining that he is making a concession on her part, right now. She does what little she can in return - what would undoubtedly be a set of arms coiled around him for god only knows how long is tamped viciously down. One hand pressed into his chest, adjacent to the face she buries into his shoulder.

It's the first anyone's done this that was about That, and nothing else. Perhaps it's that fact, or normal reactions to being reassured in general, but after one great shuddering breath sobs. Once, twice, and then that too is tamped down. The whimpering might be more pathetic. Lose-lose situations. She sets about muffling herself as much as she can against him, to mitigate this all around.

"'m sorry."

Christ, they manage to actually hug her, and she's not even going to take advantage of it. But the lack of arms back is... better. They can keep this up a while if she's only clinging to their front-- that's almost familiar, like shielding a target on the rare protection detail mission, or a partner they don't want to get shot up. So they add the other arm, tucking her right up, both arms to their chest, shielding her from the world, and. Rock a little.

That's familiar too. Not going to chase down how, just yet, but it is.

Instead, they murmur, maybe a little more Brooklyn than usual, "S'okay. Ain't your fault. You cry if you gotta. Okay? I know. I geddit. S'fine, whatever you need." Okay, maybe a lot more Brooklyn than usual. That is some fine New York mangling, right there.

Edited (dammit sorry XD) 2020-02-24 05:28 (UTC)

Soldat isn't a person to take advantage of, however coveted hugs are. However tempting, her comfort cannot be his discomfort. However nice this is. Which isn't to say she doesn't all but fold in on him once the extra arm is added.

Actual output is balancing into merely a steady cry. Every breath is a shuddering effort not to become a sob, but she manages. Encouragement makes it both better and worse. He's going to have an incredibly oddly placed damp spot on this shirt.

"You weren't -- supposed to see that."

Hey, Soldat's got like four layers on. She's just getting their coat wet. It's fine, it'll dry. Her tears oddly make them feel less like crying, themselves, more like they got to be steady for her. Apparently Soldat is not a sympathetic crier-- thank god. It takes enough self-control to stay put and keep their muscles relaxed. This isn't bad, but it's not easy, either.

One hand rubs on her back, the flesh one, since it's the one that they presume is nicer to feel. Warmer and with more give to the fingertips and palm. "Not supposed to see a lot of shit. Still did. Still ain't your fault."

A wise call, as it's very nice. She'll be going another few minutes at minimum, as is simply the law of tear conservation. Next to no indulgence in a cry means dam breakings are...dam breakings. As comforters go, however, he's top marks. No better time to confront some things.

"None of it had to happen. They just-- left me there."

"Fuckers." Oops, did that slip out? That absolutely slipped out. Whoever did that to Misty deserves all the invective and, in fact, all the shooting. "Anybody tries to send you there again, I'll put some bullets in them. You're mine. My handler. Nobody hurts my handlers." That tone of intense certainty come with a couple plates shuddering in the arm, the sound of a few gears tightening, as if they be preparing to shoot someone right the instant.

The flesh hand stays gentle on her back, though. That's the joys of having one arm be a machine: it does shit entirely independent of the rest of Soldat's body, sometimes.

"Thank you."

It's soothing to the substantial parts of her that are, remain, absolutely enraged. There's no room to express it around the pain of sudden focus and the confusing, dizzying pull toward actual comfort, but it's there. The gratitude is indescribable.

Perhaps it's what emboldens her enough to mumble, quietly, "I don't know that I ever left, sometimes. Don't know if it just changed, waiting to spring on me."

Everything out of his mouth thus far has been good. If ever she could voice this, it's now.

You know what. It's not even something Soldat can begrudge her feeling. Every now and then, it still jumps out at them that maybe they're hallucinating, that this is some new kind of cryo, some new kind of torture, that they're going to defrost and it'll be HYDRA all over again. But those moments are getting less and less frequent.

In no small part because they don't think HYDRA could dream up Misty and Sora and Crowley. Or music and food and origami. "Would that place give you somebody who dances with you? Threatens to shoot people for you?" They duck their head to... to press their lips to her hair, just briefly. That's okay. They can do that. "That place was. It was. All horror, all pain, all the time. We get. We get downtime here. And even if it's horror, you still got support. You ain't alone. Yeah?"

Where does he get off, being so perfect.

"Probably not." A begrudging mumble meant more for the him-specific prompting that ultimately answers both. Rest assured, the additional contact is felt and met with remarkable restraint so as to prevent sudden clutching. "'M not used to that. Never been the case before."

Never had a Soldat before, clearly.

"And you've got your own troubles."

"Yeah, maybe, but who wants it to be all about them, all the time?" That gets embarrassing. And exhausting. And-- "That ain't fair. Or. Or equal." She's technically a handler, so "equal" shouldn't measure into it, but... she's her own special category, at this point. They want it to be equal, to be balance, wants to help her as much as she helps them. They give her back a little pat. "I get to fuss sometimes, too."

"Too nice to be fussing," she murmurs back, commentary more than contrary. "Throws me off that you're real sometimes." Arm wrap is tempting. Nuzzle is safer. To his immense credit, flow of tears is steadily being stymied.

Are you ready for a very lukewarm attempt at humor?

"Everything we make for the next week is vegetarian."

(Except she's serious.)

Much safer. They're reaching the limit of their full-body contact time soon, here-- the internal static is getting harder to ignore, and the tension harder to keep at bay-- and arms around them would probably cause a jump and a rapid detangling. The nuzzle's cute, though, and earns her a hair pet instead of a back pet.

They're gonna take her comment as serious, though. "That's fine. I'll learn something new." They'll just have to get their extra protein from meals at the Invincible or Aziraphale and Crowley's house, that's all. Not that much of a hardship. Besides, maybe they can add nuts to things. Soldat hasn't tried peanut butter yet; they're in for a surprise, there.

"Were you okay, finding it?"

Any grip on his many shirts is loosening; worry not Soldat, you'll be released in very short order. Initial wave is passing, and it's followed by burnout. He will be permitted to fuss as needed, but it wouldn't - cannot - negate any serious blows it may deal in the short term. Violence is violence.

Violence is indeed violence. Soldat hesitates, looks vaguely guilty should she look up at their face, and admits, "It wasn't great. Lost more than an hour, after, like that time in the rain. It's why I was late."

And their voice has lost the Brooklyn, at last, which is probably a sign that yeah, they're hitting a limit here. The plates in the metal arm ripple with a little mechanical purring sound.

"Wondered if that was why you felt cooler than usual." Not enough to stray even close to danger, but not the usual warm. "You gonna be okay?"

Reluctantly, she steps back. Will have to curl up on the couch momentarily, but for now, a level if watery proper gaze.

"You ask me that," Soldat complains, just lightly, pulling their hands back too and finally divesting themselves of the coat to hang up. "Yeah, I'll be okay." Their brain continues to hurt, but thinking about someone else's problems for a while was actually a nice break.

Once the coat is out of the way, they give Misty a once over and turn the question around: "You?"

All she can honestly offer is a limp shrug.

"Old wounds. Made it this long. Not sure what I can say past that, really." Nothing that can be walked off or dealt with in any one go, however objectively great his hugs are.

SOLDAT FINDS AN OPAL :) [big, big animal injury/death cw]

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