puǝsuʍoʇ ʞɔɐɾ (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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diademlogs2026-02-06 07:28 pm
stations) wrote in diademlogs2026-02-06 07:28 pm
𝐼'𝑚 𝑙𝑜𝑠𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑚𝑦 𝑚𝑖𝑛𝑑 — ( closed for now )
Who: Jack Townsend & Others
Where: Panorama, Diffusion Zones
When: Month of February
What: Catch-All
Warnings: graphic violence, suicide, infidelity, death of a child, ghost wedding party implying they all died
Lɪғᴇ's ᴛᴏᴏ sʜᴏʀᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴄᴀʀᴇ ᴀᴛ ᴀʟʟ, ᴡʜᴏᴀ-ᴏʜ-ᴏʜ
I'ᴍ ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ
Tʜᴇsᴇ ғɪsʜᴇs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ sᴛᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ
Wʜᴏᴀ-ᴏʜ-ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ, ᴡʜᴏᴀ-ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ
A ᴡᴇᴛ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀᴄʜᴇs ғᴏʀ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴏғ ᴀ ᴅʀᴜᴍ, ᴏʜ-ᴡʜᴏᴀ ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ
Iғ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ғɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪs sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ
I'ᴅ ʀᴜɴ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇ ғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ
I sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ
Bʏ ɴᴏᴡ
I'ᴍ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜɢʜ sʏʀᴜᴘ
Tᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
Where: Panorama, Diffusion Zones
When: Month of February
What: Catch-All
Warnings: graphic violence, suicide, infidelity, death of a child, ghost wedding party implying they all died
I'ᴍ ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴍʏ ᴍɪɴᴅ, ʟᴏsɪɴɢ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ
Tʜᴇsᴇ ғɪsʜᴇs ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ sᴇᴀ, ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ sᴛᴀʀɪɴɢ ᴀᴛ ᴍᴇ
Wʜᴏᴀ-ᴏʜ-ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ, ᴡʜᴏᴀ-ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ
A ᴡᴇᴛ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴀᴄʜᴇs ғᴏʀ ᴀ ʙᴇᴀᴛ ᴏғ ᴀ ᴅʀᴜᴍ, ᴏʜ-ᴡʜᴏᴀ ᴏʜ, ᴏʜ
Iғ I ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ғɪɴᴅ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ sᴇᴇ ᴛʜɪs sᴛʀᴀɪɢʜᴛ
I'ᴅ ʀᴜɴ ᴀᴡᴀʏ ᴛᴏ sᴏᴍᴇ ғᴏʀᴛᴜɴᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ
I sʜᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ғᴏᴜɴᴅ
Bʏ ɴᴏᴡ
I'ᴍ ᴡᴀɪᴛɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ᴛʜɪs ᴄᴏᴜɢʜ sʏʀᴜᴘ
Tᴏ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ, ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴅᴏᴡɴ
→ ɴᴀsʜ; ɢʜᴏsᴛ ᴡᴇᴅᴅɪɴɢ
First and foremost, it's because stuff like this is kind of his job. He's still not entirely sure how many rules from back home transfer to over here, and it seems like a wise idea to test things out whenever he's given the chance, particularly in settings where it seems like nothing particularly bad will happen if those tests go awry.
Second, the wedding gifts make for a promising pilfering trove. He could stand to have an extra blender or toaster, provided they don't turn to goo immediately upon leaving the zone. He figures it's about a fifty-fifty shot, and even if he only winds up with a fraction of the small appliances they squirrel out, that's still a net gain, right?
Third... free food. Look, that stuff almost always never turns to goop, and food's not cheap. If they're smart, they can stock up on a week of prepped lunches. He even brought tupperware!
He's not entirely sure how much sentience these things have, though, so it seemed smart to at least dress the part. Hence why he's ghostbusting in a sort of ill-fitting suit and tie, and why he asked if Nash wanted to come along — in part because he just likes her company, but also, bringing a plus one to a wedding is sort of expected, right?
The thing is, he asked her to come before that weird ass text exchange they had, so...
There they sit in the back row of chairs, waiting out the twenty minutes of profound boredom that always precedes a wedding ceremony, and Jack... absolutely cannot keep a thought in his head from escaping his mouth sometimes. It's involuntary wordvomit. Much as he's tried to keep a lid on it, he only manages about two minutes of awkward silence before he quietly blurts out: )
So- hey listen, about... the other night...
no subject
Ordinarily, she loves weddings. Food, drink, dress up, dancing; and, of course, the possibility for interpersonal drama to play out like theatre. But this one has left her a little fuzzy, a little pale around the mouth. And every other guest is caught in this poet's cycle of matrimony, shifting through it by hitting their marks, knowing their lines, repeat, reset, run it again.
Right now, Nash feels like the pressure built up in a bottle of wine just before the cork pops for the first time — except the cork has not popped, will not.
When Jack speaks up, she counts to three in her head before answering. ]
Dude, let's just... not.
[ There's no reason for her to whisper in reply. It isn't like the other guests are terribly aware of her. But she does, because speaking over the lightly playing music indicating the procession is about to begin would be terribly rude. ]
no subject
It's fine. It's fine. They're here now, and they're settled, and nobody's throwing up blood anymore, there's just... one little thing sitting under Jack's skin like an unignorable splinter. )
Okay. Yeah.
( He agrees readily, easy enough, lapsing back into silence. For several long seconds, it seems like that's going to be it, that it's been truly swept away, and they're moving on, and they're not going to talk about it.
And then— )
It's just that I think we might be on two different wavelengths about some stuff and I think maybe we've had kind of a little miscommunication or something that I really, really want to clear up, because you might have the wrong idea about-
( An older ghost lady wearing a big floral church hat turns around, looks him dead in the eyes, and pointedly shushes him with the force of a thousand judgemental suns.
He shushes, for a second.
And then the indignation hits. )
Hey- you can't just shush people like that, lady. The ceremony hasn't even started. I'm not your misbehaving great-grand-nephew. Mind your own business.
no subject
Sorry, ma'am. We'll be quieter.
[ "Ma'am! Do I look like a ma'am to you!" ]
No, uh. [ Said with a slight what the fuck edging its short syllables. ] No, sir.
[ "That's better." With a high pitched huff and an indignant twitch of her chin, the woman turns back around.
A few seconds pass before Nash picks the conversation back up. Again, she whispers as much as possible, leaning toward Jack an inch to keep this horrible conversation private; waking up the next morning and seeing the texts she had sent had been a serious contender for top five most mortifying moments of her life, and she'd rather shove her face into dry ice than have this conversation.
A little ghostly flower girl starts to walk up the aisle before the officiant up at the podium waves frantically, and she turns around and darts back into mist. ]
I was fucking— I was black out drunk, okay? I don't remember anything other than declaring myself Pirate Nathaniel, The Bachelor King, and yes I will be hearing about that for the rest of my life. I'm sorry. Can we please just drop it?
no subject
He doesn't, but he thinks about it pretty hard. )
That's a pretty sweet title.
( He feels the need to point that out first, because... come on, Pirate Nathaniel the Bachelor King is some Dread Pirate Roberts, George R R Martin level stuff. Put some respect on that name. He certainly does. But anyway- )
But okay, yes. Absolutely. I'm totally dropping it.
( A beat.
Another beat.
Another b- )
I just- I'm worried that you think that I don't think you're- you know- pretty, but you are, you're- just, like, objectively very good looking, and I have this tendency to accidentally say the wrong thing or react the wrong way to stuff without even realizing what I'm doing and then I give off this impression that isn't exactly what I actually think, and I'm- I'm really, really bad at-
( He's cut off pretty abruptly when, from somewhere, some hidden speakers behind floral arrangements or something, music begins to play just a little too loudly. )
no subject
The music swells prettily, though, and (somehow) each chair shifts noisily as the flower girl starts to make her way down the aisle — for real, this time — and all the wedding guests stand up.
Nash stands too, and ends up with one hand on Jack's shoulder as she watches the procession. For balance, mainly. There isn't a lot of room between rows.
As the bridal party slowly congregates around the podium, she whispers again — ]
I didn't mean to make shit weird, but — I'm a big girl. You're not into me. You never had to be. We're cool. Promise.
[ See how this can be settled in just a few words? Crazy, right. ]
no subject
He does have to admit the ghost flower girl is pretty cute, though.
The first set of bridesmaid and groomsman starts down the aisle arm in arm, looking poised and attractive.
He has to raise his whisper up just a hair for it to carry over the swell of music — )
That's not- I mean, that isn't necessarily- I'm not not, I just hadn't thought about it and-
( This time when Big Hat Lady turns around to shush him, he's deeply annoyed to have to acknowledge that she actually has a valid point — but that doesn't stop him from snapping: )
Oh my god-
( Which is then followed, almost immediately, by a more sincere, far more taken aback: )
Oh my god.
( Because the second set of bridesmaid and groomsman does not follow with poise, so much as the bridesmaid full-on sucker-punches the groomsman, sending him stumbling half way down the aisle, tripping over his own two feet — just to have to yank his arms up to deflect one high-heeled shoe followed swiftly by its mate from being thrown at his face. )
no subject
Objectively, it probably isn't that funny. But she's sat through a remarkably awkward six hour car ride as the skirt of her only wedding-appropriate dress got more and more wrinkled, spent minutes vomiting up viscera and ghost debris in the bushes before even getting to have a single sip of sparkling wine, and been dragged back into this incredibly awkward conversation with Jack where he refuses to reject her succinctly and has to drag it out. She's had a day. She's tired and hungry. So, her reaction that follows? It's probably justified.
Her forehead tips to rest on Jack's shoulder as her body shakes with tremors of laughter, desperately trying to keep it to wheezes and not full-throated peals. Her cheeks hurt, her chest feels like it's painfully lacking in air.
The groomsman scrambles up, yells, "what the fuck Clarissa!" and starts to pull off his own shoe. Nash feels like a volcano about to erupt, if magma could be replaced with ugly laughter. She clutches at Jack's sleeve to keep upright.
The flower girl screams, "don't yell at my mommy!" and runs over to hit him with her basket of flowers.
Desperately trying to keep her laughing quiet, Nash hiccups. This only makes her laugh more. ]
no subject
Okay, when he read about a ghost wedding on the forums, they didn't go into this level of detail. It said some vague bullshit about some obviously unresolved family baggage, and then there were about a dozen emojis in a row that may as well have been ancient fucking hieroglyphics for all that Jack could decipher the meaning behind them.
But Nash is wheeze-laughing in a way that's... honestly kind of adorable and a little hilarious, and it's doing wonders to neutralize the bigger parts of Jack's concern over what's going down right now.
"With my fucking sister, Reggie?" Clarissa demands, stopping barefoot in the center of the aisle to do the single scariest thing any woman could possibly do at a time like this: she cocks her head and starts hurriedly taking her earrings out.
A gasp ripples through the crowd, and the old hat lady in front of them leans their way without looking at them to conspiratorially whisper, "Her sister is the bride..." )
Oh. Huh. ( Jack says calmly, and then the greater implication sinks in, visibly hitting him all at once with an alarmed— ) Oh, fuck-
( Meanwhile, Nash is hiccuping her way through a hysterical breakdown, and the flowergirl keeps bashing the groomsman over the head with her now-empty, utterly harmless flower basket, and the groom at the very front of all this looks wild-eyed and panicked rather than pissed off like Jack might've expected.
Hmm, that's weird, he has time to think, before the groomsman snaps up at Clarissa, "No, you stupid cow, with her fiance!" )
Oh, fuck.
( Clarissa's eyes flash, and she turns her frigid attentions to the groom, struggling to process this new information for only a moment before snarling, "I'll fucking kill you!" )
no subject
Clarissa reaches under her dress, pulls out a gun. Tells her daughter, "close your eyes, baby, and count to a hundred."
A few moments later, the groom's body is splayed out underneath the podium. The crowd seems a bit less corporeal, their colours melting into the green grass and pristine white chairs. But the music is still playing, reaching its crescendo. At the edge of the ceremony space, the bride materialises into existence. Her dress is impossibly wide and stylised, the sort of thing that would be impossible to eat or dance in. She takes one step, a second, a third... and then unleashes an earsplitting scream.
"Patrick! Rissa, what happened—"
The big-hatted woman shushes her. ]
no subject
The bride cannot seem to comprehend anything that's happening. Between the slumped, sluggishly bleeding corpse of her husband to the woman in the big hat shushing her to — suddenly this: Clarissa wheeling around to point the gun at her wild-eyed and frenzied; the bride stumbles a half-step back. She needn't worry; a second later, Clarissa puts the barrel into her own mouth and blows the back of her head out.
The bride collapses in a mushroom cap puff of tulle in the center of the aisle, dropping her bouquet and sobbing into her hands, and Jack--
-moves, as though on instinct, gently separating himself from Nash and edging out into the aisle to kneel before her, wrapping a hand around either of her bare, pretty, semi-transparent upper arms. It shouldn't be possible and yet: there it is, impressions of his fingers pressing gently down as he firmly steadies her. )
Hey. I am... so sorry. ( There's an earnestness in both his expression and his tone that makes it clear he's being completely sincere. ) This whole thing... sucks. But you can't keep replaying it forever. You have to let it go. You have to let all of them move on. It's time to leave.
( The old hat lady opens her mouth. Jack does not so much as glance her direction, but he does retract one hand to briefly, sternly flip her off. Her mouth snaps closed again. He keeps all his attention on the bride, who sniffles her way through a few gasping, breathless sobs before she finally raises her head to look at him.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" She asks hoarsely.
Jack shrugs, and answers honestly: )
Nobody. Just some asshole that spent too much time living in memories.
( She doesn't know what to say to that — but it's enough of a deviation from the script that something shifts. She pulls herself to her feet as the bridal march begins to play — and then she turns, and walks the opposite direction down the aisle away from the altar. )
1/2
While Jack is talking to the bride, Nash pivots the other way. Kneeling in front of the little girl, she smooths out her dress, adjusts her sash so it's straight. ]
It's okay. You can open your eyes now. Just look at me, okay?
[ One watery eye peeks open, and then the other. "Where's Mommy and Auntie Rachel?"
Nash glances over her shoulder briefly; watches the bride's train drag back down the aisle without bending the grass below it. ]
They're waiting for you, munchkin. Do you know where to go?
[ Ideally, the little girl lived long past this day. Someone might have taken her in. Her father, maybe, or a grandparent. Gone through school, had a career she loved, didn't let this incident scare her away from her own dream wedding. But as Nash watches considerable bruising fade into existence around her little neck, she gets the creeping feeling that isn't the case at all.
She sniffles out, "I think so," and — ]
no subject
It isn't pleasant, being in contact with a spirit. It doesn't feel like nothing, but it should. That contradiction is something the brain cannot quite resolve without crossing wires, imposing descriptions on the indescribable. Reggie, with all his pain, his rage, living his entire life pretending to be something he's not; it made him tired at first, and then sad, and then something ugly — his hands reach through Nash toward the little girl and it's a bit like being struck by lightning. For a moment, everything he carries fills her to the brim.
Fortunately, it also tells her what she needs to do next. Her voice echoes, and there's a crack of thunder underneath it. ]
Go away.
[ In that instant, Reggie blinks out of the scene, and Nash's shoulders droop. A moment of everything, followed by the shock of nothing, has her sagging slightly.
"Auntie Rachel, wait!"
Fortunately, the bride does. Only the corner of her skirt and her outstretched fingers remain visible, giving time for the little girl to reach out and take her hand. ]
no subject
Only the crowd remains, exchanging looks with one another, stunned and confused, their sentience a debatable concept — too dull and dreamy to be able to fully fathom the greater implications of everything that has just unfolded.
Except Hat Lady, who primly clears her throat and says, "Well, I suppose that means the buffet is open now. Excuse me-"
She shuffles her way down the row of chairs, strolling casually toward the fairy-light adorned classy reception area. Other guests exchange looks, shrugs, and murmurs, and then the crowd collectively comes to the decision that they might as well, since everybody's been dead forever anyway and they've never actually made it to the reception part of the evening in all of the times they've undergone this loop.
No pun intended, but: the spirits are surprisingly good, all things considered.
As they all stream past them, parting around them like the tide around rocks, Jack straightens and turns his attention back to Nash. )
...You okay? That got pretty heavy pretty fast.
no subject
Yeah.
[ The feedback of it all tastes like static and copper in her mouth; her sinuses are practically inflamed with something she can't quite identify or assign. But the reception area fades into visible, tangible existence as the wedding guests make their way over. She isn't sure, but the buffet looks like it might be — solid, and perhaps even edible. And as neither of them packed snacks for the six hour drive, Nash is incredibly hungry and thirsty; which might be the only thing she can do anything about. ]
Come on. [ She nudges him lightly; her smile is tired, like the one worn at the end of a long day, but no less real. ] Let's go do disgusting things to this food spread.
[ On the way over, she'll add, a bit quietly — ]
You're not nobody, you know. Or an asshole.
→ ᴀʀʟᴇ, ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀʙᴏᴛ; ᴄᴀɴᴅʏɢʀᴀᴍ
The polite, unobtrusive sound comes from Arle's door one fine afternoon when she's home. What she finds on the other side is... something of an unusual sight. First, there's the too-skinny lad with the bags under his eyes, missing a finger on his left hand and sporting what is clearly a prosthetic leg on his right. He's holding up both an index card and a large, heart-shaped box of chocolates. It is bejeweled.
Behind him, a much taller, much more broad, deeply awkward-looking blonde man(?) stands just over Jack's shoulder, looking about as menacing as he can manage without actually being all that invested in the situation.
The dark-haired millennial in front clears his throat, and then, in a deeply apathetic, somewhat off-key voice, begins to sing: )
Candygram, candygram, this is a sponsored candygram
Big Dave's roast beef candygram
Best beef in the city, best beef in town
Don't let those storms get you down
Someone has a crush on you
So this is what they sent me to do
It's my job to tell you
Someone has a crush on you
Candygram, candygram
This is a song just for you, ma'am
You might not know him, but he knows you
He watches everything you do
Is it Santa? No, come on
It's your favorite coworker, Ron!
( And then, in absolute deadpan, he holds the box of chocolates out. )
a hundred thank yous for this
When The Knave answers the door, her visitors will find that she is much the same: tidily dressed in a button-down vest and pants, with impeccable posture to fill them out in strict lines. More unusual are her crimson-cut pupils, sharp black hands, and stiletto heels, which might literally be described as boots with knives strapped to them.
She looks evenly between her two visitors, then at the garish box of chocolates. There isn't a trace of amusement or sympathy on her face to ease the awkwardness of the song she's then made to endure... but judging by the demeanor of the singer, he'll survive.
To The Knave's credit, she listens to the entire ditty without moving. Her stare is steady and lacking in emotion, suggesting that romance might be dead on arrival. In any case, once the whole thing is over, she very much does not reach to accept the box of chocolates.
The skinny lad did his not-insubstantial part. She looks next to the tall blonde one. ]
And why are you here? Shall I expect a dance as well?
[ Her voice is rich, gracefully severe. ]
thank you for the starter, em!!
At that point, I'd confiscated 4 knives, broken 7 fingers, kicked out 2 kneecaps, and read 174 pages in between deliveries. Space Samurai and the Quantum Honor Code was enthralling. Hopefully Jack considered this service as earning enough to loan me the next two books in the series. Unforunately, this wasn't a job I could half-ass, so when he approached the next door, I tucked the book into one of my pockets, stood up straight, set my jaw, narrowed my eyes at the air just to the left of the target's (recipient's) head, and waited for it to be over. Please, be a boring delivery, please, be boring...
It wasn't. Between the severe affect of the target, the clear displeasure at the candygram, the history of violence on this job thus far, and the presence of potential weapons (her knife-shoes), my threat assessment module was up to 67%. I was ready to yank Jack back behind me the moment her feet twitched in those stabbing shoes.
Instead, she asked if I would dance. My gaze shifted to meet hers head on. Why was I there? ]
In case you try to stab him.
[ Eugh, eye contact is the worst. Just take the damn box and close the door, person, end this hell for all of us. ]