faderift | Closed | A Dying Light

Super reassuring.

Agility is...

Well. Viktor has plenty, but it's all in his arms and his head. Why does he keep going into the field? Because I want mission points, but more because his assignments aren't meant to involve physical activity; after this one he's really going to have to start asking more context questions and not simply shrugging when he doesn't receive an answer. It'll be fine, they said is a tried and true complaint, and not at all applicable when they is actually yourself.

"You'll try." Toothless grousing as he pivots, and lets himself down slowly, perhaps too slowly, it's so awkward, why this, "Wait, I'm—" Just as he snags on a flap, the griffon's feathery pants are treated to a gust of cold wind, and now they're all doing a little dance, Viktor skipping on one foot—

It's brief, mild, as dances of excitable creatures go. He comes loose with a gangly hop.

Ellie gives him a long-suffering look but doesn't retort, and the next several seconds are an exercise in peak comedy that is actually kind of terrifying while it's happening.

Viktor comes loose and Ellie goes from a hand on his back to steadying his shoulders, bracing herself so they won't fall over. She's shorter than him but not by much, and strong enough to catch them both.

Still. It's slippery up here, icy, and it's a wonder they don't go crashing down onto the poorly-maintained deck.

Artie flaps the wing that isn't closest to the lighthouse, giving a screech of displeasure, and shakes, adding water droplets and insult to injury before he leans in to check Ellie over with one fierce eye and a clacking beak. He leans in and nips at the front of Viktor's scarf, sharp but not painful, like he's both making a point and assuring himself that the both of them are well.

Ellie looses Viktor from her arms. "See? Nailed it."

"Yes, yes," answers Ellie and Artie both, but mostly the latter, who receives some gloved patting for his trouble, along with a more sincere, "Sorry."

No pat for Ellie.

Ignoring the cold, the wet, and the strain of both the journey and their narrow acrobatic success, Viktor pivots right to tugging his stand-in crutch free from its lashing. It's inferior in both material and design, which is entirely the point; were his own irreplaceable model to, say, fall in the ocean from a great height, he'd never forgive himself.

"No time to waste. Let's get inside and see what we're dealing with. Lantern," is what he's handing off to her now. The bulkier of the leather tool rolls will be next.

"And cross your fingers for stairs. Should we meet a ladder, you're on your own."

Ellie won't fuss over the lack of pats. Artie would've. He trills in response, accepting the apology.

"Stay close, okay?" Ellie tells him, giving his neck a good scratch while they get to unloading the neccessary stuff. She takes the lantern and passes it to her off hand, then the leather roll of tools, which is way heavier than it looks. To make sure she has a hand free she passes it off to the left, where she hooks it under her arm and goes for the trapdoor at the top.

Artie flaps off just as Ellie wrenches the swollen wood of the trapdoor open to reveal narrow spiral of stone steps, down into faint greenish light.

"Looks promising," Ellie deadpans, and holds the door open for the both of them. The lantern casts a shivering light that nearly chases away the green pall, replacing it with the orangey-yellow of flame, and Ellie dearly misses her hands-free flashlight.

Instead she goes first, and takes out her switchblade. It's a soft snickt of the blade coming out, loud in the sudden quiet, once they've removed themselves from the wind.

Despite the lack of wind, it feels colder in here, damper, smells of rot and seaweed.

The first proper room they come to is the room with the setup of the lights themselves. A perk of coming in front the rooftop.

Around the ring of the lighthouse is another door, leading to another set of stairs, and that's where the greenish hue is coming from.

Viktor brings the finer tools—and the thaumoscope, safe and dry in its waxed canvas bag, that being inside a satchel, the strap of which now crosses his chest. Privately, during his careful descent from the hatch, he feels a little smug that his urge to sign a thaumoscope out for this assignment Just Because now seems prescient.

He also pauses to pull the goggles away from his cheeks and stow them up on the damp cushion of his hat so he can see approximately anything in detail; what he sees first is the shape of a knife in Ellie's hand. Does she think the rift demons will have come up this high in the tower, or will be inspired to do so now that they're here? A grim possibility.

"This has seen better days."

Chin raised, eyes on the signal apparatus. As he hobbles near, his hand comes up to feel it, rubs at the patina of salty grime.

"It's a lens," he says, and his tone lifts with surprise. "Plano-convex. This is custom glasswork. It's rough, but... someone invested in this." Some nerd of yore, using what tools they had. "Remarkable. Now, where did you—"

Viktor's attention flits here and there while his body follows on a delay, like it's at the mercy of his head, which is basically true.

"Aha! There," he's pointing to what appears to be a tarnished metal wash basin. On closer inspection, the oxidized stand is hinged, built to rotate.

"See if you can get that to move."

It's reflex. Even if Ellie's skin weren't prickling with the nearness of the rift below, it's a dark enclosed space she doesn't know well, and harsh experience has taught her that you can never be too careful about unexpected threats.

Around the Gallows, she's more relaxed, but on the field, it becomes all too clear how she survived her world.

As Viktor speaks she's scanning the corners of the room, scoping it out even as she approaches the equipment. Finally satisfied, she puts up her knife, putting down the tools to take a look at the huge lens, the beaten-metal mirror looking thing.

"... woah," she breathes, putting together how it must've worked. "This is really smart. You know about this stuff?" It really shouldn't surprise her. At this point, Viktor seems to know about everything.

With a slight nod, Ellie approaches the rusted thing, reaching up with both hands and grasping firmly, putting her whole upper body into it. It squeaks loudly, and Ellie feels a twinge in her collarbone, stops for a moment to get a better grip.

It sticks for another second, then squeals loudly as she gets it to move a few inches.

"There you go."

In the meantime, as he watches Ellie strain with the old reflector, Viktor pulls a folded square from his satchel and shakes it out into a rag.

"Excellent. We're on our way."

Here he comes to inspect her work—or, well, to pull the wet hat from his head and squeeze it with the rag. But he's looking at it. Meanwhile, his hair persists in looking endearingly terrible, flattened and standing up at the same time.

"Good thing you brought your muscles... restoring this to full polish will take some elbow grease. The others should be in better condition, being better protected from the elements. The real hurdle will be that rift."

There. Hat: on. Rag: damp. Hand: free. Viktor reaches into the dish to run his fingers along the surface.

Edited (fiddling) 2022-11-07 17:00 (UTC)

"Sh'yeah, my muscles." Ellie doesn't even bother to hide the laugh the bubbles up, or the grin she gives Viktor's hair.

Mercifully, he puts his hand back on, and Ellie decides to use her own rag, thanks. Gross. She digs into her pocket for a cloth, then searches for something to use for polishing.

"Yeah, I don't think the locals will be too happy if we don't clear out the squatters," she says with a sigh. Truthfully, she's not looking forward to it. She can hear the screeching of something that sounds like what the soldiers called horrors, and another higher, airy screeching of what sounds like a fear demon. Probably some shades, just 'cause.

"... the building's stone. You know what Antivan fire is?"

"No." Viktor rubs at some dark spot with the pad of his thumb, which also comes away dark. That fire thing sounds unrelated to the tarnished parabola he's feeling up, so it can wait. "Brushes first. Wire to scrape off the buildup, hair for the polish. Finish with the cloth."

After pausing to check the crackling green palm of his left hand, to give it a futile shake before returning it to crutch support, it's back to the signal apparatus, with a cough starting up en route. This one doesn't stop after two or three, but becomes a spell of them, pressing his lungs emptier and emptier, the coughs thinner and thinner, until all that's left is to draw a long, wheezing breath and start again. All the while he's bracing himself with just two fingers on the lens housing, the rag bunched up in his hand, mindful of the equipment's integrity. All the while with his back to Ellie.

"Antivan fire," he croaks, as soon as he's able. "What is it?"

She ought to know by now he'll just wave off any inquiries after his well-being.

Ellie nods, reaching into the bag to start with the brushes indicated. It's been a long time since she's cleaned the rust off of something, but if the demons haven't rushed them by now, then maybe they can wait until they get this thing cleaned up.

She touches the first brush to the outer rim of the reflective plate, then pauses as Viktor starts coughing. She gets to her feet when it doesn't abate, steps close as he wheezes, worried he's going to fall. Worried he can't breathe. Worried that the damp and the cold and the exertion has taken more than he's told her, more than she's guessed.

"Viktor-"

He cuts her off with his question, and silence falls, while she decides whether or not to answer, or press. It stretches out. Then, frustrated, she reaches into her bag and pulls out a wrapped, padded box, and inside, a bottle. It's orange, translucent, almost glowing. She comes over to his side, offers it to him.

"Alchemy," she says softly. "If you throw it at something, it breaks, and whatever you hit goes up in flames. There's no getting it off. It'll burn until it burns itself out."

Ellie doesn't reach to take it back.

"They don't have explosives here, so this is the next best thing. Keep it close while we're doing this. Just in case."

His face turns away as Ellie nears, head held at a particular angle, unnatural, preventative. Futile, as he's slow removing his gloves, his fingers snag on the unfamiliar layers of his coat, the handkerchief doesn't come out in time, and it slips off the end of his chin anyway: one, two, dark drops on the floor at his feet. (Could have used the rag, but that isn't for him.)

She's explaining as he cleans his face. The bottle is a bright smear of colour at the edge of his awareness, shortly snatched from her hand with a brush of cold fingers.

"Yes, all right. Thank you." He finishes wiping, clears his throat. The cloth flashes red as he folds it. "I suspect this will be more than a day's work," he says, to deny commentary. "Should we deal with the rift first? Prevent a surprise?"

Blood.

Something cold steals over Ellie's skin. It's something far beyond her limited medical expertise. She can sew skin and muscle back together. Treat burns and soothe acid. She knows how to drive out infection and how to kill pain.

But whatever's happening to Viktor is something much more. And as smart as he is, this is something he can't fight either.

"Yeah, probably."

The words ground her and the world fades back in. There are things she can do right now and none of them have to do with the blood on stone. God, she really wishes she had some of her nail bombs. Or a shotgun. Or Abby and her warhammer. Those would make this fight exponentially easier.

Instead she draws her knife again, glancing down at the aching glow on her palm.

"If things go south, try to get to Artie. He won't let you fly him where you want to go, but he should let you on his back."

If things go south, Viktor thinks, there may not be time. But the truth will do Ellie no good here. She needs something reassuring, something worth the risk to her life, and his own doubtful survival will have to suffice—even though to make such a trade would, in all likelihood, be ultimately meaningless.

It reminds him of Ellis, how determined he was. He's wondered since if his own refusal to accept the sacrifice had caused him pain beyond offending his sense of duty—if Ellis is the type who loves people deeply, selflessly, no matter who they are.

So he gives Ellie a few shallow nods, flicks her a look. Handkerchief away, a sniff, a swallow. He clears his throat.

"Perhaps this should go down first," he says, and bobs the bright flask in his hand. "Then... then we close the rift right on top of their heads while they're..."

Thrashing around in blazing petrochemicals, or whatever alchemical equivalent this is. Do demons themselves feel the things they cause? Pain? Fear? Is this merely a dispersal of violent energy back to the Fade, or a kind of murder?

"...distracted."

There probably won't be time. But there's always a glimmer of a chance, and that's the part of reality Ellie operates in. It'll probably mean her death someday, but it's meant her life so far.

"Good idea," she says, but hesitates.

"I've never tried to close the rift before killing all the demons around it."

But there's a note in her voice that says that if he thinks it might work, then she's willing to give it a shot.

Viktor's looking at the flask. Is it a good idea? How long will it burn? Twenty seconds? Thirty? What if it simply enrages them? Ellie would then be facing down multiple creatures, angry, on fire...

"I've never tried to close any rift. So."

So, this is seeming more foolish by the second. Determination is one thing, but throwing their lives away on a task better suited to more people, or different people, simply because they might be able to do it? There's no urgency here, and no one is in danger but them, should they decide to engage the creatures below.

"Maybe we," he starts,

pauses,

starts again,

"Maybe we should just go, warn the locals not to get close, and... and send a request for support." Closing his hand around the flask, then handing it back to her, "Then you return with a proper team and take care of it."

Ellie licks her upper lip, contemplative, then shakes her head.

"It'll just get bigger, and not all Rifters can fly here. We actually caught it pretty early..." She only saw a few shadows.

Enough to rock their shit if they're stupid, but it's doable if they're smart. She frowns to herself, then looks at Viktor.

"Usually, killing spirits bleeds the Rift, weakens it. Makes it easier to close at the end. This one is still pretty small. I'll bet you that if we distract them with the fire and then try to close the Rift together, it should do something to them. It might even kill them outright."

That might be too much to hope for, but what if it isn't? What if it works?

If it fails, it'll give away their position, sure. But they'll at the very least be on fire. And while Ellie usually capitalizes on not being a target, she's good at drawing the aggro when it counts.

Looking at him, Ellie will see Viktor's argument isn't simply a matter of tactical prudence. He looks cold; he feels small. He knows if he acts as recklessly as he did in Arlathan, if he's forced to force himself, at best their work will be delayed, and the return ride will be agony. But he has yet to do so much as glance back the way they came.

He's looking down at his own left hand, the crease crackling green in the palm. Snaps of discharge prickling at his skin, the ache of it radiating down through his wrist. His fist closes. He raises his eyes.

"You'd better throw it." Again he pushes the flask at her. Resolve wavers to shed a flake of nervous humour, for her sake, delivered without a smile: "I left my muscles at home."

Ellie waits, her eyes on his. If he decides he really doesn't want to do this, she wouldn't force him. But she can't say she isn't relieved when he decides.

With a wry smile that grows into a grin, she takes the flask and gently bumps her fist against his shoulder.

"All right. I'll go first. Once this hits, hold your anchor out towards the rift and just... try to pinch it together with your brain, really hard." It's a weird way to describe it, but there's not a better one. Ugh.

Ellie lets the flask casually spin in her right hand like a softball as she readies herself outside the door, and pulls it open.

Several things happen at once. First, all three of the demons down the stairs notice them at the same time -- a creature like an oil slick, something long and stretched-out and horned, and something ghostly and pouring off cold. As they do, Ellie eyes flare a deep, burning gold that shines out of her irises, suffusing the sclera until it's glowing out of her skull, and she pitches the potion with frightening accuracy right into the dead center of the room.

It explodes in sticky fire, hitting all three of the creatures, and a horrible scream goes up as they flail in the fire.

"Now!"

Ellie reaches out her now-free palm towards the tear in the world and grabs the edges with her will, leans into it to try her best to drag them shut. Something deeper than sound, like a fucked up frequency below human hearing starts to rise in the room, coming up Ellie's throat.

The arc of green light twists between them, fighting her.

Edited 2022-11-29 07:44 (UTC)

The door opens; they go through it.

Viktor is slower down the stairs, careful against the wall. Later he'll be grateful he isn't afraid of heights—there's no room for it now, not alongside his quick assessment of this tall chamber, the ancient stairs winding down its perimeter to disappear behind the crackling, fuming knot of green energy suspended there. A remote thought: once they close it, they'll be in the dark.

Viktor raises his hand, shaking, dry and shrunken in the cold, flinches hard as something shrieks from below. He doesn't see, doesn't let himself look for it—only watches Ellie, now blazing from within.

The flask falls. The tower erupts in light.

Now, she cries, and the air splits in a jagged bolt between them. He tries to pinch it together, with his brain—

A toothy grimace of effort, tendons pulling taut, his hand a straining claw—

The Fade bursts from his palm, tears loose in ragged, writhing, crackling green to join its like, tears his breath loose with it, and his voice from his throat, all lost in the dissonant roar.

They both scream, probably. Ellie can't hear it with the rising tone that does its best to burst her eardrums. It's so loud, so fucking loud. Louder than gunshots in the underground. Louder than bombs going off too close.

And then it bursts.

Green light explodes in a shockwave around the room, snapping the connection between them and the Rift. It's open, still open, and Ellie staggers, reaching back automatically for Viktor, to make sure he doesn't pitch down the stairs.

But the shades and demons below are staggering too. They're on fire, driven to their knees, reeling, dizzy, stunned with it- and the predator's instinct in Ellie scorches through her veins.

Now.

Later, she won't remember it. Just arrows for every step she takes, punching through the writhing bodies on the floor until they stop moving, followed by her knife once the flames abate, the blade biting deeply into the vitals.

They scream, and die, like living things do. But instead of bleeding, they shimmer into mist and are swept up by the vortex that is the Rift.

It's bleeding now too, twisting in agony, winking in and out. She can see Viktor's palm lying a dying star on the other side of the room.

"Still with me?" she calls, her voice hoarse. It sounds like it comes from far away.

It rises, swells, bursts impossibly. Releases the both of them like ropes suddenly gone slack. Ellie's fistful of Viktor's coat keeps him on his feet—he's fine, he's fine, let her take care of those things suffering below.

After, in the quiet, the dying star waves at her.

"Here."

He hasn't moved from where she left him, still up on the winding peripheral stairs, still upright, though he's since sat down and unburdened himself of his satchel. The rift paints him with flickering smears of green, stronger up at his level, lighting him up like a spirit.

He doesn't ask if she's ready to light it up. She is. They both are. This time the burst from his palm is less a surprise—it inspires no shout, but a quieter grimace that flashes toothy on discharge and shortly slims down to a grim effort of focus. After a quick look down, he raises the thaumoscope, holds the sensor right up by his crackling hand.

Ellie's vision swims, tears from the too-bright light. She sweeps them off with her forearm, waves back with her own glimmering anchor, and just breathes.

As if on cue, they sew the hole in the world up together, drawing it inch by intense inch. The arc of light twists between the two of them with the Rift in the center, and unlike before when it had burst back apart with the force that had stunned all those demons, it feels like they're getting somewhere. Like it's not fighting them the way it had before.

The corpses around them dissolve into light, flow back into the Rift and disappear, leaving nothing but dark stains -- and Ellie shuts her eyes to shield them from the light as the Rift explodes like a firework, light winking out to leave nothing but the smell of scorched air behind.

Catching her breath, Ellie crosses the room, pauses briefly at the mark on the floor where the anchor was. She'd normally collect the residue, but maybe Viktor wants to see it for science reasons. Instead she crosses to him, holding out her hand to help him up.

"... shit," she says shakily. "Good one."

When the rift bursts, Viktor is memorizing figures to record in graphite—not easy in such low light, but he manages, cupping his fingers against the page to direct the glow of his numbed and tingling palm as he writes. All the numbers are down by the time Ellie nears him on the stairs. There'll be more to gather soon enough—as Ellie correctly guesses, he will want to examine the residue where it lies.

His hand shakes, too, until it's clasped tight. It takes great effort to rise, and two tries, the first a false start. Once on his feet—and, he hopes, without drawing attention to how promptly he does it—he finds the tower wall for support. It'll take him a moment to get himself situated, satchel and unfamiliar crutch and all.

"That was... a lot." Speaking softly, because it's very dark, and so quiet after the rising, shredding howl of the rift. "Are you OK?"

She seems it, obviously she can handle herself and then some, but—

Ellie pats his shoulder; normally it'd be more of a clap, but she doesn't want to send him falling over.

"Almost shit myself when the Rift exploded and stunned them," she confirms, a little shaky as she looks back on the room, then reaches out to offer her arm to help him down the last few steps. She's utilitarian as she does it, in the unthinking way of someone very used to supporting someone else.

It takes a second for her to place the familiarity, and her heart sinks a little as it lands on Tommy. Fuck.

"What about you?"

The offer is met with a wave, subdued to the politest nonverbal refusal he can offer. He's got it, or has at least decided he's got it, and that dovetails nicely into,

"I'm fine."

He isn't, really—not even in secret, he looks absolutely and overtly terrible at this point—but what else is new? They're both still in possession of their requisite pieces, capable of moving around and reasoning, and thus they still have a job to do.

"Research says the likelihood of a sealed rift re-opening in the same spot is low." He says this as he reaches the bottom of the stairs, gets both feet on the level stone with visible relief, and allows himself barely a moment to feel it before moving on. "So we should be good to leave it overnight."

Please, he means, let's not sleep in the tower.

Ellie closes her eyes for longer than a blink but lets him. It was easier to ignore when they were closer to strangers than people who have had to rely on each other for safety and support.

Fuck it, though. It's none of her business if Viktor wants to waste his energy on stairs.

It's not the time to bring it up.

So Ellie turns to follow him, heading to the center of the room and past the residue left there to kneel down next to it, open up her pack.

"Yeah," she mutters. "This place gives me the creeps."

She hitches her bow across her shoulder to avoid knocking it on the ground, then ends up staring at it. The fade-crystal that's been worked into the sides of the bow's body are glowing faintly, like it's reacting to the sister-material left behind by the Rift.

"... oh shit," she mumbles, running her thumb along it. "That's cool."

Closed | A Dying Light

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