[closed] i will survive

[broshaw]

Who: Sharky, Pratt, Ossie, Giles, Ava & Clarke
What: Burning things to bring good luck
Where: Giles & Ossie's cottage
When: December 17 (look at that an official date and everything)
Warnings: Discussions of heavy topics including mind control, cannibalism, cult stuff, drugs, uhh, god, like, it's gonna be messy all around. AND THAT'S JUST THE FAR CRY DUDES.
Notes: a one-stop shop for these six characters to burn anything they need to get rid of for their own mental health

Giles and Ossie have a lovely little cottage with a dedicated, unsupervised firepit, and Pratt has a jacket covered in cannibal blood that needs burning. It's a match struck in heaven, TBH, and Sharky makes sure to thank Giles and Ossie like, two or three times for being cool with this.

(He also warns everyone via text that =>pratt's gonna b a basket case, you know, just to make sure they're all on the same page WRT their bro's fragile mental state.)

So we got a quaint cottage in a tiny pocket dimension, surrounded by a Kinkade-esque smattering of spring blooms and autumnal trees. We got a group of people who have things they want to burn for catharsis. And finally, we have a charming firepit already burning away. The question now is simple enough: can Pratt, uhh... survive burning Jacob's jacket?

Comments

[burning stuff]

[broshaw]

[hey, look at that roaring fire. it would be a shame if something flammable were to fall in there.]

The Jacket™

[theweakhavepurpose]

[Pratt has been having second thoughts since he agreed to this. Actually, he's probably up to third or fourth thoughts at this point. Forget the fact that it was his idea, he's been stressed for days leading up to this.

But he is here, and he's going to do this. Eventually.

Give him a moment.

For right now he's in his uniform, holding the folded jacket to his chest and slightly hunched over it like someone might try and rip it out of his arms. His eyes are on the fire but he's just gonna.... stand here for a bit and try to get a grip. He's so distracted by this he's barely noticed the whole pocket dimension that feels like he's walked into a decorative plate. Just deep breaths, he's fine, he's okay, and he will keep mentally repeating that until he actually is.]

[broshaw]

[Sharky was ready to field weird questions of the "what the fuck is this place" variety, but yeah, the jacket is kind of a bigger fucking issue at the end of the day.

Nobody's gonna rip it out of Pratt's grip without Sharky getting pissed at them. That's not much of a deterrent, but thankfully they're with friends, right! It's all good. This is gonna go at Pratt's pace, even if they have to be here all day long.

For now, Sharky just chills next to him, staring at the fire and offering his silent support.]

Soooo... how're you, uh... Feelin'?

[theweakhavepurpose]

[Those questions might come later, or Pratt might straight up forget to even ask at this point. But right now all his focus is on that fire, he's doing the catatonic staring without blinking thing, starting to go numb and lose time before Sharky snaps him out of it. ]

Huh? Oh, uhm. I guess I'm ... [Fucking terrified?] This feels weird, man. I feel like I'm gonna fucking kill him somehow by doing this. When he's been dead for decades and I want him to stay that way.

[There are a lot of super complicated emotions happening right now, and part of the problem is that deep down, Pratt knows he wouldn't be able to kill Jacob. If he showed up here right now Pratt wouldn't be able to pull the pistol from his belt (Jacob's pistol even) and shoot. Even after all the torture, and the drugging and the fucked up shit Pratt's been through, he just couldn't do it.

So maybe he's not even strong enough to do this.

No wait. Fuck that. He's definitely strong enough to burn a goddamn jacket. And Jacob isn't here. Not even the hallucination version which is, admittedly, about 400x better than the regular one. Currently there are zero Jacob's, but there is one Pratt, who takes a single step closer to the fire.]

It'll be better once this shit is gone. I'll be better.

[His voice is so low he might be talking to himself.]

[broshaw]

[Sharky's life experience doesn't exactly lend him a helpful anecdote for this situation. He's usually loaded up with homespun trailer-boy wisdom, but it's all falling short in his head, which means it'll be even worse spoken out loud.

So he just, y'know. Does that "lean in until their shoulders could touch if Pratt leaned in even 10%" thing that stoic bros do when they don't know what to say. And then he thinks of something to say.]

Take your time, dude. We got your back.

[skaikru]

( the initial excitement of being invited to the burning of The Jacket wore off the second they stepped into this picturesque cabin scene. the rest evaporated next to the heat of the well kindled fire, and some of the anxiety radiating off pratt in waves is catching faster than dry brush.

the difference in worlds and worldly experience and history still makes clarke feel a bit of an outside when compared to, like, sharky. but she's invested in this storyline now, and finds it easier to hone in on pratt and his offering than to dwell on the less significant impact of her own relic to be burnt. and she remembers the hesitance of burning her first body, the necessary pressure from two peoples hands: one living, one a ghost brought on by a fractured (and summarily hastily patched, never fully healed) subconscious. she's no desire to be that hand, but still gravitates toward him while he hunches over the camo print, blood stained piece of fabric.

some of the blood's her own, it feels like it should be allowed. and after a weighted stretch of silence: )

Think it'd help to say some words first?

[theweakhavepurpose]

[Pratt manages to tear his eyes, unblinking, off the fire and look towards her. Not really at her, more like in her general vicinity.]

I ... maybe. Like it's a pyre where we burned the dead. Except I'm not sure who's the dead one.

[His hands are clenched, white knuckled in the fabric, but at least he pulls it a bit away from his body so he can look down at it. A good first step in maybe actually putting some distance between him and this stupid piece of bloodied fabric.]

I mean, we both are. Rook killed Jacob. The Collapse killed me. [He'll be proud of himself later for not saying that he got him killed because the Jeep crash was mostly his fault. But he didn't set off the bomb they were trying to escape, or suggest trying to outrun the impact in a fucking car through the woods.] But now I'm here, and he fucking isn't. So... I don't fucking need this thing.

[skaikru]

( at this point, she's well accustomed to pratt's inability to make eye contact, and how distinctly reflective of his state of mind that is. the issue isn't pushed, clarke diverts her own attention to the lowest and brightest licks of flame across wood in the firepit. )

That's true, you don't need it. I don't need this. ( and from the pocket of her athleisure zip-up, she pulls a small piece of metal molded into a two headed deer, maybe two inches in length and rough around the edges. holds it between thumb and forefinger, the antlers digging into her skin ever so slightly, and half extends her arm so pratt can catch sight in his peripherals if he deigns to look. )

But it's still hard to let go of.

( ... )

Different situations, I know, I know. But I'm ready. Aren't you? So what's really stopping us?

[decohere]

[after the burning of The Jacket and giving Pratt an appropriate amount of time to Go Through It, Ava follows up with Malcolm's old hoodie she'd been hanging onto far too long. it's been weeks since she's even bothered wearing it, because it's been weeks since she's felt lonely enough. she still misses him, but... she knows she can't dwell forever.

she presses the edge of her sleeve to her slightly damp eyes and sighs, watching until there's nothing more.

she's brought another package along, folded neatly in her tommy bahama tote, waiting for the right time to approach Pratt.]

[theweakhavepurpose]

[Pratt has managed to burn the jacket. That was.. possibly one of the hardest things he's done which he's both proud of himself for, and feels stupid because it's just a piece of fabric. But watching Giles and Ava and Clarke burn their own remnants of the past has made him feel a little better. Guess everyone has memories they don't wanna dwell on forever.

He goes to retrieve the very cursed horse from where he left it on the rim of the fire area, holding it in his hands as he approaches her.]

Never had any luck getting Pickles into this thing. Asked Friday and everything. And I found it right before that whole nonsense so probably oughta get rid of it. Just in case right?

[decohere]

I would have burned that thing the moment I set eyes on it... [amused and so horrified at its existence all at once.]

But it's a shame, huh. It would have been fun to drag him around. Dammit, Pickles.

[theweakhavepurpose]

We were hunting for buried treasure and beggars can't be choosers ya know? Though.. I kinda think maybe I should have left it there. Thing is bad luck. Or at least bad vibes.

It'd be an upgrade for him right? He wouldn't be in the ship folding our towels, he could at least see things, and if he's not a dick we can pour him a bowl of beer or something. But uh.. not gonna happen now because apparently I'm not allowed to become a cool necromancer or whatever. I guess that's probably for the best, I'm too short to pull off a cape.

[Is he confusing necromancers with Dracula? Probably.]

What uh.. what was your thing you burned?

The Scrapbook

[ring_for_giles]

[ Giles waits and watches, feline eyes bright as spotlights in the flickering glow of the fire, he can't help Pratt – there are better people here for that – and he doesn't want to interrupt everyone else's moments, so he waits, and he watches.

Once things are quiet, though, when others have done what the need to, and attention is starting to divert away from the fire, he takes the book that has been resting in his lap; the drum upon which silent restless fingers beat, and approaches the fire himself.

Each page is carefully torn from the binding, its contents looked over one last time, and then dropped into the fire one by one, each allowed to fully burn out before the next is torn. As he watches each page burn, Giles speaks a list of names, quietly, but with a ritualistic gravity. There doesn't seem to be any order to the names, and some come up again and again. Ginger is chief among them, but so are Miles, Nancy, William, Audrey, Diana, Adam, the list goes on. At least twenty names that repeat in varying frequencies, each given the same weight and time no matter how often they appear. Until finally all the pages except one from the middle and the final two are burnt.

It doesn't feel right to burn the image of someone he's never met, the only proof they existed, without at least showing the same respect he has to everyone else contained within the scrapbook. But with the weight of everything pressing on his mind he can't bring himself to force out a name he doesn't have the use of. So he's stuck for what feels like an eon, he doesn't especially want Oswald to see the face of his ghost, but neither does he want to have to explain the problem to someone.

Eventually Giles manages to tear his eyes away from the fire and the photos, and turns his head to find Oswald with a silent plea on his lips. ]

[ossie_oswald]

[ Ossie's at his elbow in an instant, looking up in concern, a hand gently on his arm. ]

What do you need, love of mine?

[ring_for_giles]

I need you to read his name for me.

[ He passes the final two pages of the book to Ossie. There's a handful of modern photos stuck haphazardly across them, selfies and a couple of candid shots of two men: one clearly a changeling, who seems to be about 50% glitter by volume; and the other apparently mundane, who looks like working out is his full time job, or at least a very active side hustle. They seem incredibly happy together.
Intertwined with the photos is a flowery, looping handwriting that reads "Ferda & Me" with a few tiny hearts doodled around it. ]

[ossie_oswald]

Ah.

[ Ossie slips his hand to hold Giles' elbow, head tilting a little as he examines the photo. First surprising thing is that he thought Ginger was a woman. Second is that he found someone to tolerate him. He can only presume that Ginger spent more time with something in his mouth than he did talking, because the Wyrd only knows how this Ferda fellow would tolerate him otherwise.

Still. Ossie's a romantic at heart, and his heart aches just a little to imagine being separated from Giles. ]

Ferda.

just a lil' figurine

[skaikru]

( she'd known it wouldn't burn. this tiny statue of a two-headed deer was made of scrap metal from the dropship that'd brought them from space to earth, and if capable of withstanding the atmospheric re-entry, it'd survive a bonfire. but... it's the thought that counts, right? the emotional readiness to let go, the actual commitment to casting it into the fire; the distance that would give, the space to reflect and the willingness to grief the item alongside the person. it was also the only thing clarke could think of to bring along to this cathartic burnfest.

and it's fitting. she'd been gifted this token bathed in the flickering light of candles. why not divest herself of it in the pits of a fire pit, and let the woodsmoke be the excuse for any cloudy haze that touches her eyes.

but for a long time she just stands there, fist clenched around the deer so the tiny antlers of shaved metal press uncomfortably into her palm. clarke's very aware it isn't quite the same level as The Jacket, but god is it hard to let go sometimes. especially a small facet of home that's lived on her cabin desk for the past nine months. when she whispers:

yu gonplei ste odon or may we meet again or why'd you do that? or you're welcome

— she's banking on the fact it's too quiet for any of the others to hear above the crackle-pop of wood, or the shouting of their own internal demons. and when she tosses the shiny hunk into the fire, she's banking it's too quick for anyone else to see. )

[ossie_oswald]

[ O shit, here comes a lad, bearing tea and a plate of biscuits to another reveler of rebirth. ]

Lemon crisp? [ He asks, offering the plate and not looking towards the fire in any capacity, ] Jam thumbprint?

[ It sure looks like the guy weeping openly under Clarke's heal in that photo, but in the picture he didn't have long elfin ears and a complete absence of wrinkles or pores. ]

[skaikru]

( there's absolutely nothing like coming face to face with a dude you've seen a picture of yourself stepping on to snap one out of a nostalgic, mournful reverie. so it's probably for the best that clarke first focuses her eyes on the plate of treats.

her brow knits, she has questions about thumbprints, and with this polite rushing of refreshments against the cottage backdrop, she feels about as out of place here as the bit of un-meltable metal in the firepit. still, dilligently working her brain back into order to be able to acceptable converse with the cookie-plate man. glances at his face, then down to the plate; takes a lemon crisp, then looks back up to say thank you and just ends up making an abortive little squeak in the back of her throat. ) You —

( it's not like she'd studied the picture of ivar the boneless trying to mush yakko into the pooldeck with his shoe as hard as she'd studied the one where ivar embraced mikazuki. she still doesn't even know the names of the revenants that took them over, and certainly doesn't immediately spot the differences. let's just say the weirdly airbrushed perfect skin is just uncanny valley enough to add another element of alarm here, and her eyes go wide as her stomach does an awkward flipflop. uncomfortable to a tee, and ossie gets blinked at for a few too many seconds before awkwardly asked: )

What... kind of tea is that?

[ossie_oswald]

[ There is absolutely no indication on Oswald's face as to whether or not he's noticed Clarke's brain misfiring like a neglected car engine, or whether or not he recognizes her from the pictures. His smile is gentle and enigmatic as the Mona Lisa, and he doesn't so much as blink. ]

Rosehip and raspberry. It's quite good- plenty of health benefits, so I've heard- but mostly it's a wonderful treat for when we have company. Of course, we might be able to whip you up a pot of Earl Grey or Chamomile if that's more to your taste? Coffee? Water? Lemon squash? Hot chocolate?

[aftermath]

[broshaw]

[after burning something of deep personal meaning to you, remember to take some time to lie down on the floor and cry about it.]

[ossie_oswald]

[ Ossie loves having people at his house. Really. Honestly. It's delightful. And what is this little gathering if not a darling little shindig? If one just looks aside how miserable and uncomfortable several of the guests seem to be, it's great! All he needs to do is avoid Ava or Pratt asking 'why don't you have pores' or any of his other regular guests inquiring about his new talons and the fact his painted-on eyebrows are distinctly feathered now. This is fantastic. He's glad to be helping like this. He's sure it will be cathartic for all parties involved.

Find him carefully maintaining the snack table and delivering a nice cup of tea to anyone who looks a little unsteady. Just because he's uncomfortable at not having anything to burn doesn't mean he gets to neglect his duties as host. ]

[decohere]

[Ava does not ask such questions, despite noticing with a watchful sort of gaze that flickers away as soon as anyone meets it. seems bad manners, and she's actively trying to have better ones when invited along into somebody's... what even is this again? it's cute though, in an uncanny sort of way that would normally make her slightly unsettled. but the overall weight of the jacket burning occasion is taking precedence in her somber mood.

she's since burned Malcolm's old hoodie she'd been hanging onto, that eventually smelled far more like her than him anyway, having outgrown her need for its comfort. it feels... a relief, in some ways, to move on. but also a harsh reminder of the nothing that awaits. she's grateful to take the offered tea, holding it tightly in both hands.] It's... cozy.

[ossie_oswald]

[ The compliment seems to visibly relax Ossie immediately, and he moves to stand beside her, hands clasped in front of him loosely. ]

Thank you, you're too kind. I can't get you anything else, can I? Something to eat? A blanket from inside? The bonfire is quite nice but it can get a little chilly, [ He's stone-still, no nerves betrayed in his voice, just polished pleasantness. ]

[decohere]

No, no. This is good. [inhales the aroma, curious what sort of tea.] Thank you for... allowing all this. For Pratt. [she's been worried about him for quite some time, since stumbling in on him holding that damn jacket in the laundry room when he received it. she's glad it's gone now.]