The Clock Froze Around Midnight, I Can Feel It In The Room [October Catchall, OTA]

[hearthebell]

Who: L Lawliet (Lazarus Sauveterre) and CR old and new
What: Catchall for October; includes event prompts and slice of life wildcards.
When: Throughout the month, dates are ambiguous unless otherwise noted
Where: Various places in Trench (flexible unless specifically noted)




[October is a season of change and loss, and in Trench, it’s not really any different. L nevertheless feels a sense of restlessness that manifests in snappishness and irritability; exceeding what usually visits him in the ambivalent season of his birth.

He goes about his business anyway, keeping to his own odd schedules and doings in a mostly solitary routine. He avoids contact with others this month, not least because the typically stoic detective is struggling to discern when his mood will shift and his tears might start flowing and refuse to stop.

It’s better, perhaps, to guard what he’s always known to be raw in a month where he can feel it so keenly and plaintively.]

Comments

I. Second Death

[hearthebell]

[It’s not terribly unusual for L’s cases to take him to odd parts of Trench. Paranoid about even those he hires having it out for him, he’s careful about planning the time, locations, and manners of his investigations so that they’re unpredictable, which is why he feels no deep sense of dread or foreboding when he makes his way to the graveyard in the wee hours of an early October morning.

He notes the freshly dug holes in passing, but keeps his eyes on the prize. L brushes aside some leaves, breathing a satisfied sigh as he picks up the missing heirloom locket. He’ll return it tomorrow to his client, collect his fee, and all will be well.

Except, he doesn’t remember to. Not until two days later, when everything else he’s forgetting simply overtakes it in a powdery avalanche that leaves him numb and blinking. It continues over the first week of October; you might approach him, knowing who he is while he seems to not recognize you. You might call him by the name “Lazarus” and receive a puzzled look in return. You might reference some experience or relationship that you share and have him shake his head in bewilderment, but it’s clear that he’s not firing at his typical sharp capacity. His mind has gone from steel trap to sieve, which is tragic, but even early onset dementia doesn’t work quite this fast.

Something’s up. Maybe you encounter him in the early days when this is still relatively new and it can be passed off as a scattered brain due to a lack of sleep, or maybe you see the draugr at his back while he struggles to remember simple words and his omen shifts formlessly, unable to remember that she’s a whale. If you've heard of the draugr and the endangerment to those whose footsteps they haunt, perhaps something can be done.]

i. second death

[poorlittlesange]

[Jin Guangyao would never be so presumptuous as to proclaim himself an expert on any subject beyond being able to read a room, but after three draugr encounters of his own, he is inclined to consider himself at least a journeyman at dispatching them. The first time had been the most frightening, of course, because he had been the monster's intended target. The second time had been exhausting because destroying the draugr's physical form had been only half the battle; calming Mike's fractured mind had been the rest of it. And so by the third encounter he'd opted to exit his home each morning prepared, just in case, which means that he is as ready to provide aid to this stranger as anyone is liable to be in Trench.

He rounds a street corner en route back to the Willful Machine after spending his morning meditating near the Pale Sanctuary, and that is when he spots the draugr dogging L's heels. Steeling his resolve, he quickens his pace to close the distance between them, already fishing a weighted talisman from his qiankun bag and activating the sigils on it with a burst of spiritual power. Then with a flick of his wrist, he sends the talisman hurtling through the air like a precisely aimed paper missile. It lands with the force of a literal boulder, knocking the draugr to the side and pinning it to the ground.]

Excuse me, xiongdi, [he apologizes afterwards, though he keeps his eyes fixed on the draugr as it snarls and thrashes where it trapped by the talisman's spiritual power,] I hope I did not startle you.

[hearthebell]

[L startles violently at the sound and the shockwave, stumbling back and away from the pinned creature. His dark gaze flits wildly between the newcomer and the paper missile.]

What is...?

[His eyes linger a little longer on the man, clouded with a type of fear he doesn't usually have to feel. Usually, his burden is remembering everything, not hardly anything at all.]

Have we met? If so... I suppose I wouldn't...

[He stares harder, as if some detail might jog his memory.]

cw for draugr decapitation

[poorlittlesange]

[Jin Guangyao sees a reflection of his own fear in L's eyes, of losing his greatest asset--his mind--and all of the vulnerability that follows in that state. It doesn't move him to compassion and sympathy, precisely, but what does it matter if his actions remain the same?]

No, xiongdi, we have not met. [This, said with gentleness and delivered with a smile calibrated to be as nonthreatening as possible.] Please do not trouble yourself on this matter.

[He returns his attention to the draugr where it remains pinned and thrashing and snarling to the ground. The stink of it is almost unbearable. Already he can see the effects of the talisman are beginning to wear off, the edges of the rice paper beginning to singe and burn as it consumes the spiritual energy granting it its power. Jin Guangyao unsheathes a curious-looking sword from somewhere in the general vicinity of his waist, directs a pulse of his limited spiritual strength straight into its flexible blade, and then lashes the blade around the draugr's throat; this method proved most effective when dispatching Mike Enslin's draugr, and Jin Guangyao sees no reason to fix what isn't broken.

Once the blade has tightly encircled the monster's throat, the sharp edges sinking like tines into the flesh, it should be pretty that Jin Guangyao is going to tear its head off. Unless stopped, that is exactly what he does.]

[hearthebell]

[He stares quizzically at the other man, as if to question what reason he could possibly have to not worry over this matter. It might as well be comprised entirely of worry, after all, leaving room for few other thoughts and feelings.

He thinks he's heard something about creatures like these in the last days, but he can't be sure. He wouldn't be sure if they were a completely normal sight in Trench, because he doesn't remember where he was or what he was doing even five minutes ago. The creature has really made a feast of his memories, leaving little left.

He doesn't stop Jin Guangyao. Just watches, wide-eyed as a newborn who knows nothing about the world, as the thing's head pops off. Almost immediately comprehension begins to seep back into his expression as his memories begin to return, but the shock of it leaves him momentarily dumbstruck.]

II. Unmasked

[hearthebell]

[L had intended to stay away from the Black Parade, but people and things simply get lost more during celebrations and festivals, and after literally forgetting about most of his cases in the past week, he’s scrambling to repair his reputation with some quick successes. It’s even better, in a way, because masks are encouraged, and he is highly drawn to situations where he can wear some form of anonymity while he’s at work.

He chooses one with smooth, pale, porcelain features, blank and placid except for a shattered spiderweb artfully applied near the left corner of the mouth and over the right eye. He’s drawn to the elegant asymmetry and dons it, finding it doesn’t impede his work at all. Some dropped purses and a wailing lost child later, the mask has not made him a worse detective or hindered him in the least.

At least, that’s true until someone knocks into him and he loses his balance, falling and knocking his elbow. He winces preemptively; the force, while enough to bruise, certainly won’t be enough to cause further damage. But on impact, he hears a sound like plate breaking, muffled through his clothes, and while there’s no pain, his elbow has shattered, hanging on by only an elastic cord he can feel running up through his arm and shoulder past a busted joint.

Lycka helps him to his feet, but he’s slow to start moving through the crowd again, because he’s piecing together what’s happened. It’s good that he didn’t fall and smash his head; beneath his clothes, every bit of his body is porcelain, and every step suddenly feels like a hazard.]

cw: mention of blood

[bleedformeplz]

[Himiko wanted to explore much about this world as possible while keeping herself safe. One of her favorite holidays was around the corner, different name, same tradition. Rumors and stories circulated in the omi-net recalling last year's festival. If Himiko had to be honest, they sounded like something out of a horror film, especially those creatures who ripped skins off the Sleepers, creepy. There were more such as blood river, and with how many lives Himiko had taken, she'd rather avoid it.

The Black Parade sounded fun, so off Himiko went. Usually, she tried to drag Dabi or Tomura for the ride, but they grew tired of her endless late-night text, thanks insomnia! While, for some reason, she suffered through this, she may as well enjoy the festivities and hoped the excitement tired her out. Himiko heard another interesting rumor, something about cursed masks and the requirement to take them off. In this case, Himiko chose a kitty paint mask, whiskers stretched out and away from the nose, her nose touched with soft pink, stripes across her cheeks like a tiger, and she was given a headband for the ears! The person painting her face was kind enough to grant her request, longer fangs stretched pass her lips. Through the night, a tail slowly snaked from under her skirt and her nails felt pretty long and sturdy. Wow, the rumors weren't wrong! It was like having another quirk! Even her senses sharpened! Spooky~ If someone had to guess her new breed, it was blonde tabby!

The sound of a shattered plate rang her ears like bells. Her ears twitched and her sense of curiously lit as she glanced over her shoulder. Usually, she wouldn't recognize some people with their mask, but this particular person had the same damn shirt and pants of a certain 'boy scout'. It has been a while since they talked, Himiko recalled. Even though he didn't look attractive at all, the taste of his blood left a 'yummy' taste in her mouth.

How did they meet again? That's right, he masked his present until the last moment. She remembered, buddy. It was about time to return the favor. It wasn't hard for Himiko to maneuver around the crowd quietly, the streets were busted with noises. Sneak, sneak, sneak~ It wasn't a quirk, Himiko was an expert at catching someone's blind spot. She held her breath, it erased her presence. Eventually, she was close enough to L's back, breath still held, as she snaked her arms around his shoulders and locked him close like a cobra. Her breath finally exhaled as she spoke quietly close to one of his ears.]

Meow~

[Smooth kitty. Her tail swayed playfully. Something felt of about him, but ah, she was in her own mode.]

Re: cw: mention of blood

[hearthebell]

[Typically, L is very good at perceiving his surroundings. Given the current conditions and the distractions they bring with them, he could perhaps be forgiven for missing the cat-like sleeper's changes, as well as her presence that brings her so close and even with the man who has just realized he's made of glass.

His jump is not too violent; he cannot afford it to be. His heart takes whatever slack accrues (does he even have a heart, this way?), and it's rattling against his ribs as he asks]

What is it? What do you need?

[bleedformeplz]

[Gosh, she will never get tired of creeping up on people. It gave her joy when L barely jumped.]

This is payback for creeping up on me before.

[Don't think she forgot about their first meeting, Boy Scout. Though it's no surprise for L to be weary of her. She did kind of go squid beast last time. There is a small 'hm?' which escapes her lips now that L is in her clutch. His body feels... pretty different, no like human. Another hum escapes, her palms travel over the surface of his chest and maybe close to his hips. Sorry L, she's feeling ya.]

III. Lost in the Woods

[hearthebell]

[L’s fingers close around cold, damp soil, dried leaves, and a bit of broken glass. He tries to keep his breathing steady and calm, trying and failing to recall a time he’s been known to sleepwalk.

He can’t, so it’s unlikely. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, standing and noticing that the glass glows in his hands. Dimming and brightening with each step, the broken face seems to follow the sort of whimsical logic familiar to one who walks often through dreams.

It’s not long before he sees another figure approaching him, their own hands glowing just like his.]

In the Woods- For Chara

[hearthebell]

[the_obedient_servant]

[Chara steps forward, looking down at their own glowing piece. So that's the name of the game here. Well, they're never one to back down from a challenge. Their eyes meet L's, a hollow and dull red meets a hollow and dull grey and they smile in greeting, inclining their head slightly.]

Detective.

[They raise their own piece.]

I believe we're matching.

[hearthebell]

[L's never quick to smile as a general rule, but he still spares a ghost of one for the child who approaches him in the darkness, illuminated by a similar, if not identical, glow.

The pieces aren't the same, after all. If they were, it would mean that they were interchangeable, and that's not the case at all.]

Chara.

[He greets, instinctively bending over slightly. More than any other form of empathy that he's always reliably managed, he knows innately how not to make children feel small.]

It seems that way, doesn't it? Have you encountered others, to make it here?

In the Woods- For Pyrrha

[hearthebell]

[martyrofduty]

Duty recognizes the young person before him, though it's been some time since they interacted directly. Words on the network, revelations from John, it's not the same thing. Then again, he's not fresh off the beach either. They've both been busy.

Duty meet's L's eye and raises the piece of a compass. "No scones, but these pieces fit together," he says.

He hasn't experienced what happens if one is too slow. He doesn't care to find out.

[hearthebell]

L's eyes widen in the darkness. He recognizes this person, he thinks, though something seems to be different about him, now.

"I'm lost," he replies. "A piece that fits will in fact suffice, Duty."

He uses the name that he knows to call this person, after an uncomfortable span of time involving others who have moved in their spheres. He's not, in the end, entirely sure how to treat Duty, or what to assume.

He's obliquely threatened John recently. Maybe that's known; maybe it's still just between them, as intimate and ugly as adultery.

"I'm glad to have run across you. It's like I've been walking for hours, though I'm sure it can't be the case."

IV. Slice of Life Prompts

[hearthebell]

For Illarion at The Rookery

[hearthebell]

[The weather's getting cooler, and as a detective, L spends a fair amount of time outside. Life in Trench means that it's typical for people to be rough on their clothes though, and though Sansa works to keep L dressed the way she might for a cherished relative who is a bit fashionably challenged, everything but his arrival cloak that he wore in the winter of last year is in tatters or eaten by moths, and even after so much time in Trench, asking for what he needs is still shockingly difficult for the detective.

He's home at the Rookery today, resting between crises, a quilt pulled over his shoulders as he makes his tea. He's not expecting visitors.]

[unsheathedfromreality]

[Though Illarion had not encountered the young man frequently out and about in Trench--their circles did not cross much even before the shrike had stepped out of House Atreides' direct orbit and into the Emperor's--he still thinks well of Lazarus. The young detective's sharp and unafraid of pursuing questions wherever they take him, and--moreover--didn't scruple from stepping into Nephele-that-wasn't to help someone he scarcely knew.

It would have been enough, Illarion knew, to endear the younger man to him if he could experience such an emotion directly. He'd deliberately chosen to act as-if, in his distant way, and had already been planning--as the Season of Blood turned to violence, and the weather turned chill--to drop in on the younger man sometime to see if Lazarus had any needs he was neglecting.

The Emperor's sudden barbed gift of a working soul, a working heart, had made that visit all the more imperative. Liking was something the shrike could feel again; he could cement the relationships he'd already woven of memory and stubborn action with actual positive experience. Bringing something to a--friend, yes, a friend--in need was an excellent opportunity to do just that.

So it is there's a knock on the Rookery door, and a shrike and a very different Omen laden down with bundles waiting outside it.]

[hearthebell]

[Wrapped in his blanket, L has left the firelit comfort of his room to fetch some tea and honey as well as a few sweet cakes. His choices seem sickly sweet and indulgent, but considering it's not uncommon for him to go a day or more at a time before remembering to eat at all, it all balances out in its strange and extreme way.

He goes to the door when he hears the knock, cracking it open and startling backward when he sees an unfamiliar, dinosaurian omen. Lycka rounds and masses above him in preparation for a conflict, but seems to relax once her sleeper recognizes the visitor.]

Moonsight? Or...

[The door still mostly closed, a single dark eye blinks twice rapidly. In some ways, he feels like this is information unfairly won, acquired when there was nothing its owner could truly do to prevent a nosy detective from going through the spoils of library books in Nephele-that-wasn't.]

...or Illarion. I'll call you what you'd prefer, so you know.

[He says so, wondering if it's a relief to be known and not need to hide, leaving room for the opposite possibility.]

October 31

[hearthebell]

Midnight

[hearthebell]

[L’s on the beach, but Lycka’s not darting among the waves as she often does when he’s out late. She’s pressed close to him, practically pinning him down, positioned firmly between the ocean and her sleeper.

He seems to have accepted this. In a liminal, jittery place between swallowing the drugs he takes to dreamwalk on demand and far too much caffeine for them to work as intended, he does wonder if he’s slipped into unconsciousness when he sees a black-clad, weeping woman making her slow and drifting way toward him along the beach.

He's fascinated by her movements, and starts to stand with the intention of closing the distance between them and going to her, but she vanishes in a curl of smoke at the approach of a large, mechanical shape lumbering along the dark shoreline to meet him.

L regards Cloverfield with something like reproach, but it's more reluctant and wistful than cruel or cold.]

I thought you only looked for lost things.

[Cloverfield doesn’t answer, just settles beside him, a hulking shelter against the chill L wouldn’t be dressed for, save for a few considerate Sleepers who noticed his reliable unpreparedness for the weather. His coat and scarf are sufficient.]

I didn’t want to be found, so you know. There’s nothing “blessed” about this day, and there’s not much I want to remember at all, so you should save your gift.

[Cloverfield offers it anyway, with the earnestness and simplicity of a child offering a flower to a beloved parent. L sets his jaw and looks away, but the sleeve of his coat passes across his stinging eyes, stifling a wet, snuffling inhalation.]

Thank you. This means a lot to me... I’ll cherish it.

[He reaches out for the stone, closing his fingers around it, trying to feel grateful, however much he wishes that Cloverfield could help him forget, instead.

He can only think of one thing he wants to remember forever. On the 26th anniversary of the day he was born, he’ll think of it often as it crystalizes in the stone perfectly, the moment someone cared enough to flay the flesh from his bones and undo him wholly with hatred that was powerful and, most importantly, real and true. Finally, he manages to sleep, holding his death close.]

Early Morning [Loneliness Kills Prompt]

[hearthebell]

[Unquiet dreams don't actually allow L to get much rest while he's just casually sleeping on the beach, his omen hovering vigilant watch over him. He wakes just before the sun rises, planting a hand in the cold, damp sand and shivering.

As charmed as he was to be called "old man," he's achey in ways he wouldn't be if he'd slept in a bed or was five years younger. He stretches, groans, and picks himself up to make his disheveled and slightly damp way back up the beach towards town.

He glances at the gift from Cloverfield for his Blessed Day. A stone, with a memory in it that's horrible, but that he chose. Something's new about it, though; a bit of paper seems to be stuck to the condensation the morning dampness has incurred. He peels it off, and stares at the smeared and soggy likeness of what seems to be his own face, but distorted, mocking and exaggerating his features with makeup.

L shakes it off as though it's an unexpected and disgusting slug, the photo shredding into pulp before it falls on the sand. He continues to walk, unaware that the action seems to have triggered an actual nightmare trailing his steps.

The unseen creature following L might have looked human once. He might even have looked like L once, albeit with a slightly shorter and sturdier build. He is very dead, only palely resembling the photo. He looks as he would have when he had died, after all, covered in horrific third-degree burns that will never completely heal, with patches and tufts of dark hair sticking out from the furious scape of his pitted and mottled scalp. Perhaps it's the way L imagined that B might look after he lost, because L never actually went to see for himself.

He never even deigned to do that much for the man who burned away his life just to get his attention.

B looks blind in at least one eye. His lips are smooth and blend without definition into the horrible, gaping hole of his mouth, but he seems to give whoever comes across the unfortunate lonely man a smile, twisted and drenched in contempt as he apes L's movements, going to lengths to make them look as absurd and ridiculous as possible.]

cw: corpses, blood

[acidjail]

[Mercymorn hates this sea. She hates how it mocks her with each white-capped, careless wavelet, with the chill, complex scent of the cooling saltwater heralding an unwelcome change of seasons. She hates what it will not do for her, no matter how much she wills it to, and she hates it for having her brought her to these shores, and she hates what the saltwind does to her fine, unbound hair.

But Cytherea always loved the sea.

They sit together on a woollen blanket spread across the sand, watching the rosy gold fingers of dawn take hold of the horizon, the dark sea lit up gloriously in the first light of coming winter. Another blanket is tucked around Cytherea's narrow shoulders, cushioning her against the slight hillock Mercy carved out to cradle her more perfectly, and it barely shifts at the wet, losing struggle of her breathing. Her delicate curls emerge from beneath the lace of a small muslin cap, and even at this early hour, with only the two of them, Mercy took the time to curl her eyelashes and brush them dark, to daub a shine of gloss upon her parted lips, to wrap her in a lovely, sleek robe over her whimsically ruffled white nightgown and tiny slippers - and, of course, to refresh the green blood ward painted in eye-aching swirls upon her forehead.

Mercy wears the sweater and the leggings she did not sleep in, curled up next to Cytherea's body in the dark, her arms around her waist and her face against her shoulder. She watches the young man and his own companion approach across the sand with eyes sunken into dark, seaweed coloured half-circles, and there is a shadow in them worse than sleeplessness.]

Look. [She says, to the still-breathing corpse at her side.] Guests.

[hearthebell]

[On the dawn of his own lonely, forsaken, cursed birthday, when up is down and death is life, it makes sense, in a strange way, that L would be a guest.

He approaches the necromancer he knows a little too well, and the legendary ghost he doesn't know at all, sitting like lovers on the beach at sunrise. It doesn't occur to him that he might be intruding; perhaps it's the strange, reckless grace granted to those who are running low on things to lose, whose home and hearth have been recently shaken and displaced.

His bed, certainly, has been emptier and colder since his boyfriend slipped back to the sea and left him questioning whether his own shortcomings had hastened the departure. He thinks it's not what he's meant for, not what he can have, and the glacial pace it would take to earn his trust and become known on both sides isn't sustainable.

And yet, the woman with the fine rose-gold hair had made him come exactly once. More than his boyfriend ever had, or anyone else. Even if it's a strange and dirty secret, it draws his steps closer to their place on the beach.

He hadn't caught the murmured words spoken between them, only realizing that they're meant in confidence. He understands; when Light Yagami's violent ghost had haunted his steps, he'd fallen over himself to whisper secrets he'd tell no one else, Samson offering ropes and ribbons of hair for the cutting to one who couldn't hold a sword or shears.]

It's early to be out like this.

[Smudged with muddy sand, unwashed and unfed, L says this as though he has any space at all to talk. His ghostly stalker, burned face distorted, soundlessly mocks the way he speaks. A muscle twitches near the scarred, shiny, thick mouth.]