driftfleet | Glitch | "Who wants to remember all that hell?"

Entry tags:

Glitch | "Who wants to remember all that hell?" | OTA

Who: Sam and you. Also Hell!Sam.
Broadcast: N/A
Action: Iskaulit
When: 1/25/17 and onward as he glitches.

WARNING for Supernatural being awful, so you'll find stuff here that will be very mental health oriented. Mentions of torture/abuse, potentially graphic in narrative, talk of hallucinations, hell, the devil, etc. Sam'll also be reacting as someone who has endured said things listed so if that sort of thing bothers you don't mind me (or if you're close CR lemme know and we can work around it). Sam's a hot mess 'de-aged' for a week to season 6 (~5 years ago in canon), where he hasn't been resurrected yet and thinks he's still trapped in hell. Your character may think he's canon updated into the future but it's quite the opposite! Luckily!

WEDNESDAY/THURSDAY. AFTERMATH, CONTINUED. Space Bar/Garden/Iskaulit. (aka anything you wanna do before he glitches)

[Sam has busied himself with helping with repairs; luckily things aren't quite so awful looking, and the debris and blood's been relatively cleaned away. The garden is one of his top priorities, actually, other than helping re-open the bar (which congrats, guys, we did it! just need some replacements but...), and he can be found carefully replanting and plucking dead leaves and sadly pulling any of his herbs that were too damaged to salvage. He also helps with the library and works on any damage the Bloodsport sustained. Everything seems to at least be getting back to normal. That's good. Really good. And as much as he wishes they'd been spared the attack — Aria's still out, even if she's not dead from her injuries — he at least finds a shitty silver lining in being too occupied to think.]

FRIDAY. LIBRARY. "who wants to remember all that hell?"

[And on schedule, per Sam's luck, he glitches.

He's in the middle of quietly reading in the library when it happens, like a punch. His eyes roll back and he's out for the count, slumping forward, unconscious — for a short while. Images dance behind his eyes, voices teasing him from afar. If you happen to find him here, practically comatose against handwritten accounts of what happened during the raider attack, you'll find he looks — bad. Pale pink scars have formed on his arms and neck and face, and he twitches in the throes of terrible images, eyelashes clumped and wet. Despite what it looks like, he hasn't updated to a new point; he hasn't gone to the future.

No, he's gone to the past. Down below, trapped with the devil himself in a cage. De-aged years back, before he was resurrected, plucked from hell by Death himself. An attempt to rouse him will give the visitor a surprise: Sam jerks like he's been burned, shuddering like he's been struck by lightning before he throws himself back from the chair, toppling it with him, a strangled NO flying from his lips as he blindly crawls back and away. He's terrified and confused, utterly confused.

... Good luck.]

GLITCH. Iskaulit. Garden.

[After he wakes up from the library, anyone who expected him throughout the day will find he'll absolutely miss any appointments. He can be found wandering the Iskaulit, actually. He's not all there — actually, he's trying to figure out where this hallucination begins and ends. Nothing makes any sense, but there's no way he's going to think he's out of hell. No, this must be some elaborate prank by the devil. He's just... waiting for the whole thing to fall apart. Sure, he hasn't seen any familiar faces, and usually things would have gotten violent by now, but... you know. You can't trust Lucifer and his new tricks. Always, new tricks. You can't torment someone for eighteen decades without mixing things up a bit.

The nervous figure rubs his hand along his burn-marked skin, over rough scarring, and looks nothing like the usually confident and good-natured man Sam usually is; he's flighty, and his eyes dart to any little noise like it may very well be the death of him. Er. Well. He's pretty sure he's dead anyway, but the... mutilation and reconstruction of his soul, if you will. He doesn't want to be found, but it's inevitable. His teeth chatter behind his lips and he passes like a ghost, gray-rimmed eyes and disheveled appearance unnatural on his figure.

Sometimes if he hears someone approaching, he finds a place to hide and wait it out. Whether or not the person in question doesn't find him is another matter entirely, but regardless, he'll look at you as if you're aiming to behead him and squeeze into the smallest hiding space he can in order to evade your destructive hands. Because you're probably Morning star, you know? Probably.

He revisits the garden, temporarily eased by the plant-life growing there. Lucifer always did love nature. One of the few pleasures he was allowed was to witness exquisite scenery sometimes, when the devil was feeling generous. It was always accompanied with some sort of terrible double-edged sword, but at least Sam could enjoy that much. He sits with his legs pulled up, long fingers awkwardly plucking at someone's plant — he's a bit confused, because even though he's completely sure he's in hell and has been and never will get out... there's just. Something off. Something different. When he breathes, it doesn't hurt his lungs. And his bones don't crunch when he walks. And there aren't any hooks, aren't any flames (yet, Sam, yet, don't assume anything).

Even so. He huffs tiredly, head rolling on his shoulders, and plucks off a small fruit, unsure if he's even capable of eating it.

It's not real, it's not real. It's not. It'll probably turn into razors in his mouth.]

... This cage isn't very hot.

[Or frostbite-cold.

It's quite... pleasant, this temperature.

Everything is different. The devil is probably enjoying his owl-eyed confusion.]

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A little actual treatment will do that. [She takes a breath, already feeling the nausea rising with what she's going to do, but... firmly:]

For the purposes of this game, you are alive. Drink.

...please.

[His hand shakes when he hesitantly takes the water bottle. He looks at her, almost as if to ask if he has to -- but ultimately, he won't deny her request. He squeezes his eyes closed and drinks; after the first few gulps he stops, eyes still pinched shut -- and waits for something to happen.

Clearly he expects something in particular, something unpleasant, terrible.

His eyes slowly open, and he looks completely caught off guard as he looks at the bottle in his hands.

What the hell, Nami? This isn't normal.]

[She smiles at that. More to be encouraging than because anything about this is funny.]

It's just water, Sam. Won't do anything except make you less thirsty. Drink as much as you need.

[She goes back to rummaging through the kit until she finds what she was looking for originally-- the antibacterial wipes. When she's done, she'll do something about the dirt and the blood on that face.]

[He looks at her with a wrinkled brow, as if to say you're crazy, it's never gonna be just water, because when has things ever been so kind to him? He'll blink and it'll be acid. Or blood. Demon blood, not real, but the thirst will drive him mad—

He drinks slowly, stopping compulsively like clockwork to see what happens.

Tentative as always.

The dirtied man glances at her work.]

... Why're you doing this?

[She's relieved at his hesitance, actually. It means he won't gulp it down, and she's not sure how glitches work but she's pretty sure it's been a long time since this Sam has actually had anything to eat or drink.

...that wasn't a trap in some way, anyway.]

Because I want to. Because you're a mess, and I'm going to help. [That's...not entirely in line with the game thing. She folds the cloth down around her fingers.] I'm just gonna clean your face up, okay? Your lip is bleeding.

[Trial and error: she tries to be gentle and not make sudden moves, but whether or not Sam will let her clean his face a little is up to him. It might make him feel that tiny bit more human.]

[Nami likes to think it's up to him -- but despite the offer of free will she gives him, Sam has determined that there's no such thing here. He will obey, will do whatever he needs to, in order to avoid anymore pain in the moment. That's kind of how you have to exist, in the Cage. In the moment, not thinking of the future. Sometimes, when you need something to keep you going, you remember your brother singing in the car, or the smell of fireworks from the Fourth of July.

He closes his eyes and lets her clean his face, brow wrinkled in concern.

He's not really bleeding, though. It's all just in his head. It's an illusion created by Lucifer. Maybe if he still had his body, the devil could re-assemble him like he did that short while after they fell in. He unconsciously pokes his tongue out to roughly test the nasty split.]

It's not so bad.

I don't scream anymore for most of the cutting.

[That makes it worse. She bites down on her reaction to that, takes away the cloth with its grime and its faint trace of blood from his mouth.]

Nobody's going to be cutting you here. [She hopes that's the case, anyway. If he's carrying infection somewhere it might be inevitable, but lord knows she'll drug the hell out of him first if that's the case. She packs the first aid kit away again and stands, offering him a hand. And because she figures he might stare it blankly:] Let me help you up. We're leaving.

[The garden is lovely and tranquil on its own. It's also public.]

[He doesn't look at her, but he does drift to look at the hand, as expected.

His voice is unnaturally empty when he speaks.]

Is this part of the game, too?

It's all part of the game. [Her own voice is barely there, and she swallows.] Let me take care of you. That's it. And to do that, we need to go somewhere else.

It's going to be weird, Sam. But it's not going to hurt.

[She leaves her hand out. She hopes he'll take it. She's not sure what her chances are.]

[He wouldn't deny her, regardless. It'd be tantamount to burning himself alive.

He reaches out and clasps her hand.]

Alright.

[She could shove him into a bed of nails, for all he knows.

It is what it is.]

[The breath escapes her in a sigh, and she pulls him to her feet. Waits a few moments to see if he can actually stand on his own.]

Okay. Come on. [She starts leading him from the garden, really trying to work out how to explain what the hell they have to do next. Slowly. Baby steps.

...]

So. Uh. In all this time, has Lucifer... ever made you believe you're in space?

[He huffs softly.]

It's kind of new, yeah.

But it's been so long, he's had to get creative before.

[So it's weird, and yeah, it feels strange, but he's not going to believe for an instant that he's alive. It makes no sense. None of that makes any sense. He rubs his arm, letting her pull him by the other to wherever they're going.

He can stand, but he moves with some measure of exhaustion.]

I can see it, though. Um... I see... between the cracks. The fire and the smoke, and — and the screaming. I know I'm not really here.

[It's all right, we'll take it slow. She gives him a sharp look at seeing between the cracks, the urge to deny that right on the tip of her tongue-- this is real, it's real, of course it's real-- but telling someone so fragile that they're not seeing things correctly is not wise, and she lets it die.

Particularly as she recalls he was seeing things before this. Compounded, maybe...?]

Try and ignore it, if you can. It's not...ah. It's not part of what's happening here. [What is happening here? She's making it up as she goes.

She'll lead him carefully to the shuttle bay, then, slowing right down as they enter because the view in there of the great beyond of space is a bit daunting. Maybe not in comparison, but just in case.]

[He makes a soft noise that might be an 'okay'. He walks much differently from the Sam of years later — his head is bowed, messy hair hiding his blank expression, deadened by time in the cage. His steps are heavy and slow, dragging like a prisoner in chains, and his hand is a bit limp where he lets his wrist hang in her grip.

He doesn't really try to ignore it, though.

When he sees the expanse of space and the stars and stares for a long moment.]

They look like souls.

[He steps forward, of his own volition, and puts his hand on the glass.]

There's no screaming, though.

[Lucifer knows he enjoys the stars too much to let him indulge. Right?]

[........well.

That was unexpected. Nami stops moving completely when he goes for the glass, and holds her breath quite without meaning to. This is something she didn't count on. But it's certainly something she's not going to pull him away from, given the reaction.

Like souls, huh...?

.......]

No. They're always peaceful.

[She'll wait. Maybe they help.]

[He stands there and stares, swaying ever so slightly in his exhaustion.

Memorized, it seems. And not at all aware of the passage of time as it is.

... You may need to pull him away from it eventually; he won't opt to move, hand still on the glass.]

[There is only so long she'll leave him, especially given he's already exhausted. So... time, she gives him. But not that much.]

Hey. [She puts a hand back on his arm, tugging gently.] We need to keep going. But you can watch these from where I'm taking you, too. Promise.

[As much as he wanted to stay for a few more years, he knew better than to argue. He offers a small but thin smile — forced, joyless, and nods. His arm is wooden and yielding under her hand.]

Okay.

[He doesn't believe in the promise, but he starts moving again.]

Where're we going...?

We're taking a ride on a shuttle to another ship. It's smaller than this one, but it still has windows. [Nami's voice has taken on a casual, brittle kind of nonchalance like she's talking to a wounded animal. She hates it.]

There's a bed there you can use. And a shower. And food.

[And the shuttle is just here, so she'll open the door for him, help him up.]

[That all sounds... strangely daunting.

Which is weird, because — he's in Hell. Everything is daunting, and there shouldn't be anything strange about it here, but it is. It's strange. It makes no sense, how his body feels, how he's being helped and hasn't lost control of the situation yet. He's supposed to. That's how this goes. He hesitantly enters the shuttle, hugging his arms around himself as his knees end up close to his chin. Those long-ass legs, you know.

He stares nervously out the window, gnawing at that poor lip again.]

I don't sleep. I don't need to. Eat or sleep or shower, I mean.

[Weird. He doesn't want her to inconvenience herself, even if she's probably going to not be her for long.]

Give it some time. [She's not going to argue that point. Sleep is something that will claim him naturally. Eating and showering-- well, she'll cross that bridge when she gets to it. She takes the shuttle out of the bay with her usual efficiency-- when subjecting the shell-shocked to space flight, there's no way to ease them into it.]

You think you're dead, don't you?

[He wrinkles his brow, like she's crazy.

Because come on.]

Of course I am. Yeah, definitely. They ripped the vessel apart a long time ago.

[... And Castiel came and repaired it. Took it away. Sam's still not entirely sure that happened, though; maybe he was just losing his mind most of all, then. He tried to cling to his body, then, those ugly remains.

But he fell back down. Drifted right back into Lucifer's engulfing grace.]

...

I guess if I told you you've been out of hell for years and you're just having a flashback, you'd think that was a trick.

[He smiles, but it's unsettlingly empty.]

You know me so well.

[Spoken at Nami.

But not to Nami.]

[Unsettling isn't quite the word, but it's close. Nauseating. She hates hearing him like this. Her mouth thins into a line and for a long moment she says nothing, getting them back home to the Bloodsport. It's a good couple minutes before she finally answers, voice low and thick.]

Figured.

Let's just stick with the game.

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