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.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

...

[He goes silent, putting a hand on his stomach.

He is. It hurts something awful, his stomach, and not like blades or hooks or needles in skin.]

I — Maybe.

[That's progress, huh.]

[It's something. She watches him a moment, then holds a hand out to him, hopeful smile and all.]

Come with me and I'll take you to the kitchen. You can try some food. That'll give you a more definitive answer, hopefully.

[He hesitates. Oh, how he hesitates.

Looking at the door, he's as skeptical and worried as ever. Game or not.]

He'll be pissed.

[Illogical. Nami is Lucifer, he knows already. But if she's not him — if this is really... No, it can't be, it can't be real. Is this a test? Not a game, but an actual fucking test, or the moment he's lead into what's really happening here.

He's jittery at the thought.

But hey — when did his hand end up clasping hers?]

[It's on the tip of her tongue to retort. Let him. Fuck Lucifer. He'll never find out. Anything. She bites it all back down, not willing to let that edge of anger be shown. It'll probably do more harm than good.

And he took her hand anyway, so she closes her fingers gently around his-- so gently, let him pull away if he wants-- and tugs him out into the hallway, heading for the kitchen.]

Toast okay? Or I have some fruit, or...

[He nods, letting her grab him. He wouldn't pull away, but at least he seems settled.

Not kicking and screaming bloody murder, at least. Though Nami might want to scream in frustration at how he won't tuck his hair out of his face like he really should... Yeah, because that's the biggest problem here.

His feet shuffle a little.]

... Toast's fine.

[Fruit's slippery-slidey, sticky and tacky and glistening like innards.

... He could do without it.]

[Hair is something she'll tackle if she ever runs out of higher priorities first, to be honest. It's a mildly tetchy thing, but right now she's running on getting food, water, treatment--

Maybe hair will be dealt with if she ever coaxes him into the bath. She'll... cross that hurdle some other time.

Nami leads him into the kitchen, gently ushers him onto the bench by the table, and retreats behind the kitchen counter to fish up some bread and butter. Just butter, she thinks. Nothing fancy here. It'll get him fed.]

I know this is a hard question to answer-- [Also a stupid one--] But how do you feel? Physically. Head ache? Any injuries hurting more than they did last night?

[He sits down. Is usual routine of staggering around tiredly to make some coffee, to scribble details of planets on loose paper, to wander the network with that thoughtful arch in his brow, it's traded in for sitting very still and very quiet.He stares at the table top.]

... I guess everything hurts, yeah.

[It's spoken like someone who's tried on clothes to see if they fit.

Very casually, with a bit of self-reflection as he looks at his arms briefly.]

[...ask a stupid question. She quirks a tired little smile.]

Let's start from the top. Thirsty?

[She's going to pour him a glass of water and set it gently down in front of him anyway-- Nami just wants to know if he can recognise the fact that he actually does have basic human needs right now.]

[He runs his fingers over chapped lips, taking in the sensation.

... Maybe. I don't know.

[His lips twitch, and his eyes seem more lively for just a moment as he revisits his encyclopedia brain.]

Did you know someone survived for eighteen days without a drink? Andreas Mihavecz, in a holding cell in 1979. Same year Dean was born. Police just left him there, and they think he has the world record... Might've cheated a little if there was any condensation in the room, though.

[He quiets, and then drops his hands quietly to his lap.]

I don't know why I remember little details like that after all this time.

... I guess I can relate to him nowadays.

Edited 2017-04-25 06:35 (UTC)

[That's. Very informative, Sam, thank you. She stares at him for a moment, somewhere between dazed and confused and horrified, and pushes the glass a little closer.]

Well, there's no need to relate to him more than you have to. There's as much water as you need, right here. It's never going away.

[He picks up the glass and spends some time emptying the glass — in no time at all, once he feels the cool relief of it. It does feel nice, really nice, and he gulps it down and wipes his mouth, where some had escaped his lips. Something deep down reminds him of upside, where manners are, where it's normal to be embarrassed for being too sloppy.

He smiles sheepishly.]

Sorry.

[He turns the glass in his hand. He's not really sure if he should ask for more, even if she said he could have it. Old habits, Nami. 180 years worth.]

[She'd tell him not to apologise, but it's accompanied by that little smile, and Nami only smiles faintly in response.]

It's okay. I've seen far worse. [And here, let me help with that dilemma:] You want another glass?

... Yes.

[That comes out scratchy and choked, and he clears his sore throat.

He slowly, slowly, slides it over with stiff fingers.]

Yes, please.

[She smiles wider at that, taking the glass back, and taps on the top of the water dispenser with one finger before she refills the glass.]

You don't need to rely on me to get you water. I mean, I'm happy to get you some, but if I'm not around for any reason, this is where it is. Help yourself.

[And here, have your second glass.]

[... Sorry, that all sounds crazy as hell. But alright.

He drinks the second glass just as greedily, wiping his mouth. He still looks — not too great. A bit disheveled, dark lines under his eyes, clearly the haggard appearance of someone who went from miserably dead to miserably alive in a flash. He seems more inclined to sit quietly and watch Nami when he thinks she's not paying attention.

Listening, observing, being outside of the world happening around him.

It seems like a safe bet.]

[You sure you wanna be using the description crazy as hell?

Dissociation seems like the healthiest possible response to being tortured for centuries, really. Nami is happy to be observed-- she's more attentive than you'd think.

Happy is not entirely the right word for it, but she's certainly okay with it. Maybe enough observation will help him believe she's not secretly going to hurt him at some point. She leaves him with his water and finishes up breakfast, which is just going to be toast. Seems the most harmless thing, texture-visual-wise.

Let's start with two pieces with just some butter, slid in front of him carefully.] Here you go.

[Right. Um.

He stares at it for a long moment. Another long moment. Another.

And then he looks up to her, unsure.]

Aren't you — gonna eat, too?

[Oh. Uh. Well. She runs a hand through her hair.]

To be honest, I was more concerned about you. You've gotta be starving. Would it make you feel better if I did?

[He is definitely starving. But he's good at it.

He considers her for a moment.]

Uhh. Would you?

I mean... would you, um — be a dinner guest? If you want. Company's... nice.

[Ha. He can't remember having 'dinner guests' even when he was alive.]

[...pfft. She smiles.]

Well, I'm hungry. I'll make some more toast and join you, but don't wait on my account. [She moves back into the kitchen proper.]

[He smiles. At the toast, but it's meant for her, so. That's good. He picks up the toast and eats it in small, slow bites — they grow a bit more confident as he goes, though, which must surely mean he doesn't think that she's poisoning him or anything.

Once again. That's good.

And god, his stomach is pissed that he's going as slow as he is.

No hallucinations, though. Flashbacks. Whatever. The walls aren't crumbling.]

[Well, hopefully you won't get a faceful of echo vision any time soon, right? For now, though, it's positively idyllic. Nami sits down with her toast once it's done, and it's just as bare bones as Sam's is. Her appetite for anything more fancy is a bit more MIA, quite possibly in sympathy.]

If you like, I'll show you around the ship properly after you've eaten. I don't know how much of last night you remember.

[................. He stares blankly for a moment, from behind his toast.]

Umm, yeah, I... Last night?

...you were pretty tired. [Completely out of it, more like. She grins at him, picking at her food.] I figure you might benefit from a bath or something. Clear your head, wash those wounds out a little.

[... A bath. He knows what a bath is, of course he knows what a bath is. He's been in hell, but you don't just forget what simple crap is, you know? But The idea of having to be clean... that's what hangs him up. He looks slowly to his arms, still wounded and filthy. There's dirt from the garden there, where he never bothered wiping them.]

... Oh.

I guess. I guess I should... I mean, I can't be clean, but...

I can be less dirty, I guess.

[Nami probably gets what he's saying. Unfortunately.

This Sam is far less inspired by his life in other worlds.

So, you know. Filthy, unclean being he is.]

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