hadriel_logs | Event Log: Dead Ringers

Entry tags:

Event Log: Dead Ringers

Who: Everyone participating in the event!
What: The event log for the Dead Ringers event!
Where: All around the city
When: January 16th-January 25th
Warnings: Evil doubles, so we can assume manipulation, violence, murder, and maybe some nasty words

Everything seems normal on the morning of the 16th - actually, everything seems normal about the city for the entirety of this event. Nothing is strange, nothing is obviously wrong. Well, except that the population has mysteriously doubled, and the new residents each look exactly like one of the old residents. So weird! Definitely not ominous at all.

At least until your new double gets down to business. After all, their only goal is to ruin your life, and that can take any form. Smashing your favorite coffee cup? Telling your worst enemy they're right? Kissing someone else in front of your girlfriend? Brutally murdering you and then hiding your body in a closet so they can more effectively destroy your life? The possibilities are truly endless, and the only way to protect yourself is to kill your double first. They're not really open to negotiation, after all - but they sure might pretend to be in order to trick you.

So watch your back, and try to make sure that really is your best friend and not an evil clone masquerading as them. Boy, that would be awkward. If you can stick it out until January 25th, good for you! But if you didn't manage to and your double survives until the end - well, just as a final 'fuck you', there's a chance you'll come back to life and remember every awful thing your double did. Hey, at least that'll make it easier to fix, right?

► This log covers January 16th-January 25th.
► Feel free to make your own logs, as well
► Please tag headers of threads with content warnings where they apply
► Please put your character's name and open/closed in the subject line of your starters!
► If your evil clone happens to take you out, please let us know here, and remember that you will not revive until the event is over.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"I would turn against any mimic who sought to hurt the other them and take their place," he responds quietly. "My own stabbed me in the back and left me to die while he came here and tried to ruin what—"

He pauses, his own private wounds bleeding onto his face. Revelations about Algidus aren't the only ones he'll have today. "... what happiness I have here."

"We can still have that," the clone attempts, feeling his yearning for the life that was taken from him burn anew in his chest. Of course he knows it won't work--he is a broken thing, made in the shape of another, and no one could ever truly care for a thing like him--but he refuses to accept his reality without fighting. "My feelings for you have not changed, Carlisle. All I need is chance--do not let me be erased!

He flinches at the hurt in the false Glacius' voice, so much like the real one... so much like Algidus.

"And what would you have me do?" he implores. "Let you erase him instead?"

The ice alien opens his gills as if he's about to answer, but a sudden noise from the stairwell draws his attention--his operculum snap shut and he cocks his head up, listening intently. Maybe it's just another resident of the Spire coming home after a long day..? Maybe he can keep pretending, even if only for a few more brief minutes, that he and the clergyman can still be friends...

... But no, those footsteps are definitely drawing nearer, coming to the door to this apartment. The double hisses out a low curse, then--thinking quickly--knocks the lamps that is providing light to the room violently to the ground and liquidizes immediately. In the sudden, explosive shift between light and dark, it's impossible to see where he's gone, if he's lurking in a dark corner or if he's slipped back out under the crack in the door... and the sound has drawn his original's attention. In the very least, the double doesn't leap out to attack him on his way in.

"Carlisle?! What was that sound? I'm coming in!" Glacius calls out to his friend as he takes quick, long strides across the living room--already a stark contrast between the way his double had infiltrated unannounced. The door swings open and the ice alien moves immediately to his friend's side, guarding him as he observes the broken device on the ground.

"What happened?" He asks urgently, his green eyes fastening back on Carlisle, scanning him for any new injuries. "Are you unharmed?"

Lacking the keen senses the icy giants possess, Carlisle has no idea what it is that so draws the false Glacius' attention, his eyes narrowing as the alien looks away like a startled deer. Next thing he knows, the double has thrown the lamp on the nightstand to the ground, plummeting the room into blinding darkness. The lingering image of the room dances in front of Carlisle's eyes as the door swings open, giving him just enough light to make out the approaching form of the true Glacius.

Or at least he hopes he's the real one. Carlisle's eyes dart around, trying to find where in the shadows the double must be hiding, his paranoia back in full force as it shakes his entire frame. "N- no, I'm..."

He hesitates, not meeting Glacius's glowing eyes. He wants so desperately to keep them from fighting one another, to protect his friend from harm... yet he wonders just how much of the real Glacius the double has within him, how much hurt he must be feeling at this supposed betrayal. Carlisle reminds himself that this mimic is not Algidus, but his heart can't help but ache as though he is.

"You should leave, Glacius,' he whispers quietly, fear in his eyes. "Now."

Due to the shaking and the shifty eyes, Glacius is not at all convinced that nothing has disturbed his friend. He scans the room again, only to have his focus drawn back to Carlisle when he speaks up again. There's something in his voice that's deeply unsettling, something that suggests that much more than just his usual nerves is eating away at him. The ice alien steps closer to his friend, placing his hands on the bedside.

"Leave? No, I'm not leaving you," Glacius shakes his head, completely aware of the way the shadows shift behind him, a shape quickly taking form...

... And then a loud CRACK breaks the silence in the room, followed by a resounding shriek from the otherworldly being as his entire body goes rigid with agony. Shards of the alien's icy skin and a stream of freezing purple blood spray across the foot of the bed from a gruesome wound as a jagged, icy lance is punched forcibly through his middle. Wherever the double was hiding--likely under one of the pieces of furniture in the room-- he has seized his chance upon seeing his original's complete focus on the recovering clergyman.

Glacius, however, is not one to be done in by mere impalement. He lowers his head, glares down at the blood-slicked point protruding from his abdomen, emits a powerful growl... and then his whole body shimmers once as he prepares to liquidize and free himself. Unfortunately, his double is all too familiar with these tactics, and has brought with him something to stop the process in its tracks, something that Carlisle himself had told him where to find: he targets the most vulnerable spot of Glacius' anatomy, seeking to overwhelm his coherent thought with further agony. With his opponent's gills flared, the double's free hand loops a long and thick strand of the clergyman's fanged ivy around his lower neck and pulls it tight, digging the thorns deep into those biological vents... and the alien's voice changes from a snarl to a howl, once that quickly chokes over the blood welling up.

With Glacius' resistances temporarily overwhelmed, the double draws the lance from his middle and shoves him forcefully to the ground. The original claws desperately at his neck, trying to remove the barbs that have sunk deep into his throat while the double pounds mercilessly at his icy armor. It isn't until he's cracked through Glacius' skin in multiple places and left him beaten to pulp that he seems to stop, straightening up as seething breaths billow from his gills... and then raises his arm, allowing it to take the form of a lance again, clearly intending to end this morbid display right here and now.

One would think Carlisle is getting used to having Glacius' blood sprayed across him, but no, he isn't. He's horrified as the true Glacius is impaled before his very eyes, freezing liquid spattering across him, dotting his glasses and skin. He's so petrified that he can't move, can't think, can't breathe. It's in that moment that he realizes he made a grave mistake in not warning Glacius immediately, in hoping for a more peaceful resolution.

This is his fault, he thinks. His head aches along with his chest. "Please, don't—" he whimpers as a sharp pang runs through his skull.

Unable to see in the darkness and terrified of what is happening before him, Carlisle is absolutely immobilized by the brutality on display. He can't even tell one alien from the other in the darkness, their silhouettes melding in the light from the doorway, the only tells as to what is happening their glowing eyes and the sounds of strangulation. He has to do something, but what? How is he supposed to help with it being so dark?

"S- stop, please!" he cries, drawn to his senses by another strong throb behind his eyes. He's not trapped in the dark, not completely helpless. There must be something he can do.

He conjures a ball of light into his hand, and in the pale illumination can see one Glacius rising over the broken form of the other, his arm forming a lance... and he knows in that instant which alien is which. Even at his most threatened, Glacius would struggle to kill, and absolutely would not turn on another of his kind, not even one trying so desperately to kill him, to take his place in the world.

His fingers curl, his eyes wide with abject horror as a singular thought runs through his head in that split second. Do something. His voice rings out loud and clear, invisible tendrils of influence reaching through the room, grasping at everyone in their path.

I said stop!

Influence snakes through the room to coil around the minds of the two beings locked in conflict, and one of them, his mind already overwhelmed, acquiesces immediately to the command. Glacius' body stops shaking, his hands stop scrabbling at his neck even as blood continues to spill from his shredded gills and various wounds. Something very different happens when the words manifest in the double's mind, however.

In that moment Carlisle will know that he's touched upon something far deeper than he could have perceived with his own human senses. It's as if he's touched his fingers to the surface of a placid lake, and now the ripples spread forth, wider and wider, spreading out in every direction until a powerful current surges forth. He has touched upon the ice alien's will, an actual metaphysical force that has kept them going time and time again when their bodies have been broken--the force that has made countless abominations and would-be threats ultimately back down from their conflict-- and it will not be subdued easily. Even now a deafening reverberation has picked up, something like an alien heartbeat, stubborn and strong and full of life, pounding so loudly it seems as if it's trying to drown out the conflicting words.

All this is perceived in the clergyman's mind; with his eyes, the double stands above Glacius as if frozen in place, but his eyes still burn with intent. The thundering sound and sweeping current intensifies, and the ice alien answers back against the would-be command.

Why?

Edited 2017-01-24 04:28 (UTC)

Carlisle stiffens as his own influence wraps around him, and he fights to keep it from overwhelming him, dominating him in the same way he would anyone else who suffered under his compulsion.

Well, almost anyone. A presence makes itself known as his magic flows throughout the room, an uncontrolled current against a torrential force: it is strong and intimidating, shaking him so much that he almost buckles beneath its will. Carlisle brings a hand to his head, the sudden impact of such a flood threatening to drown him as it demands an answer.

"I won't let you do this!" he shouts over the thundering in his head, battered by both his own influence and the fortitude of the other Glacius. "I'm- I'm sorry, but I can't!"

This is the end of suffering, the double attempts to rationalize--is he arguing with Carlisle, or with himself... or both? His, and mine. Let us bring it all to a close!

"He is my friend!" Carlisle roars, ink trailing from the corner of his mouth. He pushes his glasses to the top of his head with one hand, the other curling against itself as he bites back another painful throb behind his eye.

"You, you said you wouldn't hurt me!" he argues, trying to find a reasonable solution, desperate to find some way to settle this other than the obvious solution. His head aches again, fighting him, pushing what control he has nearly out of his grasp. "By doing this, you make yourself a liar! What good are you without your word?!"

The hurt questioning seems to strike straight through to the double's heart, for at that very moment, the thunderous pounding shudders and slows... and with it, the rebellious current stops pushing back quite so hard against Carlisle's mind. He is, after all, based on a being who cares for the clergyman, and for a moment he balks at doing anything that could threaten that friendship...

... But he cannot turn back, now, as he questions himself on something else--what good is he without his old life and his friends? He's already gone so far--there is no way he will be allowed to live for the transgression. Ending the life of the ice alien is the only way--it's a sad reality that has been drilled into his head by the depraved beings that created him. The ice alien gives a furious hiss, raising his arm again, but his will has been sapped, weakened by internal conflict. There's strength enough in his arm to punch through his victim's skull, but likely not enough left in his hearts to turn back an accursed force.

Though the internal pressure in Carlisle's head is still on the rise, the external force that balked against his influence wanes. He'd hesitated before, tried to get Glacius to run; the results of his mistake are laid before him, and he knows he cannot fail again.

He hasn't even time to murmur an apology to this other Glacius, a being created by the false gods, but so influenced by the original's memories within him that he would listen to the clergyman's pleas, even if only long enough for Carlisle to get a grip on him with his cursed gift. Within this shade is Glacius' thoughts, his memories, his feelings, their camaraderie; that fondness for Carlisle is his downfall, and they both know it.

Carlisle's command is soft, but firm, a quiet whisper against the storm brewing in his head: Leave this place, and do not come back.

Edited 2017-01-24 05:15 (UTC)

And just like that, the stubborn, angry heartbeat slows to a low and gentle underscore to the clergyman's own thoughts; the raging current calms under his hands, allows itself to be directed. Why did he come here? What was he hoping to accomplish? Even if he kills Glacius, he won't be accepted--word of his deed will spread and he will be scorned one way or another. He should leave this place, lest he show himself to be any more of the monster that he never wanted to be turned into... and he shouldn't come back, lest his desperate actions hurt his friend any further.

A long, low hiss escapes the double's gills, his arm lowering slowly and shakily, as if a few last reservations are trickling out of him. Then he turns to move from the room, his head lowered on that long curving neck, his arms dangling limply at his sides, his steps plodding as he is moved by a will not his own. It's the same sort of posturing that Glacius had taken on when his will had been subverted by detestable Rage. The lance of his arm drips a trail of his double's blood as he goes, never to return to Carlisle's room.

As for Glacius, he remains motionless on the floor, still a prisoner to Carlisle's earlier command. His beaten body doesn't so much as stir as he lays in a growing pool of his own blood, more of which is bubbling sickly up out of his lowermost gills as his breaths slow.

Carlisle is motionless as his command subdues the other Glacius, unchanging as he watches the effects of his curse manifest before him. He closes his eyes as the imposter departs, uttering a word of remorse into the deafening silence that follows. People have good reason to be afraid of him when even the strongest will can be enslaved. The difference between himself and a true monster is in the choices he makes, in how he uses his abilities; however, he can't help but feel the weight of his actions on his heart as he turns his attention to the real Glacius.

He bites back both physical and emotional anguish for the moment, trying to focus on what must be done rather than on the stabbing pain behind his eyes. He falls to his knees beside his wounded friend, setting his light on the floor as he tries to determine what needs his attention first. There is limited time, both for Glacius and for himself.

"You're going to be fine," he mutters, placing his hands along the alien's middle, one at his spine and one on his chest. "I need to hnn close this. Please don't die. Please."

Edited 2017-01-24 15:42 (UTC)

As Carlisle collapses by Glacius' side and illuminates his broken form, he'll see that in addition to being mottled with various smaller injuries, there are two gruesome wounds: the ragged, bleeding hole in his abdomen that he's just noted, and his shredded, strangled gills--also bleeding. The fanged ivy is still coiled tightly inside them, having not only torn up their gelatinous protective covering, but have ruined the countless fine filaments inside. He seems to still be able to breathe out of the other six--albeit very slowly and raggedly--but it's clear that the injured organs have been ruined beyond repair, blood bubbling sickly up out of them with each faltering breath. Despite the agony of it all the ice alien lays listlessly on the ground, not unaware of his suffering, but unable to act on it because of Carlisle's earlier command.

That might be a blessing for the both of them, however, because it means that Glacius is unable to react to the highly painful burning sensation associated with Carlisle's healing; the otherworldly simply lies there, broken and unresponsive... an utterly pitiful sight, yes, but it hopefully makes the clergyman's job that much easier. It isn't until that gaping hole has been almost completely mended that the compulsion begins to ebb from his mind... and then things quickly go downhill.

With his faculties returned to him, so too rises up the brunt of the badly injured alien's desperation to free himself from the thorns still tangled tightly up in his respiratory organs. He starts to cough painfully, clawing at his throat again--but he can't see into his own gills to pull the thorns free, and each shuddering inhale only seems to make his situation worse, pulling the barbs in tighter and further tearing apart his operculum. It isn't long before he's outright hacking, more purple blood spattering over his hands to the ground, and then the noises become frighteningly harsh and loud, until each booming cough beats against the inside of his ribcage, making it feel fit to crack. He'd beg for assistance if he could, but there's too much blood in his throat, and even if there weren't he's too overwhelmed by his suffering for much coherent thought.

Edited 2017-01-24 16:56 (UTC)

As Glacius starts hacking, Carlisle's channel ripples back against him; he squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to focus as ink continues to spill from his mouth. The main hole may be closed, but there is still much to do, and he must focus on the gills next. Carlisle opens his eyes once more, struggling to focus as he searches for the contaminant. It's around the back of Glacius' neck he finds it, spotting a thorny vine emerging from the folds in the alien's neck: the barbs are curved, latching into Glacius' gills like the fangs of a beast.

Carlisle's hands shake, guilt washing over him in that instant. Fanged ivy.

Glacius starts coming around, purple blood pouring from his ruined gills, yet Carlisle is petrified. This is his fault, truly and irrevocably. It was his plant -- he was the one who'd told Glacius about it, where to find it, what it looked like. The alien would have been better off if they hadn't agreed to live together, if they'd never met, if—

He's drawn from that precipice of immediate despair as Glacius hacks painfully, each inhale like agony, each cough excruciating as blood spills from him in tandem with the ink from Carlisle's own mouth. The clergyman knows that feeling far too well, and cannot let his friend suffer. He's still needed, if only for now.

And then there's a flurry of motion: Carlisle tears open the drawer to the nightstand, grabs his pruning shears, and gets to work, his tongue failing him as he tries to keep himself on task, resolute. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm so sorry I did this and I'll fix it and then you don't ever have to speak to me again but please don't die Glacius just please don't die—

The freezing blood coats his hands and mingles with the ink oozing from his fingernails, making the handles of his shears slick, but he works out the vine bit by bit, careful not to rip the barbs from Glacius' neck, turning the tendril this way and that to keep the thorns from tearing through him further.

Even as overwhelmed with agony as Glacius' body and mind are, he does seem to react to the clergyman's aid. When the human's hands first go to his neck he shudders, goes very still... and then when he feels the first few barbs gradually get worked out of his gills he starts to turn his head this way and that, the better to expose the regions that still need to be seen to, desperately trying to garner help from his trusted friend. It's a grisly process--lots of his gill filaments are coming out with the thorns, so tightly entangled as they were-- and he's unable to keep from coughing painfully here and there, his neck quivering against Carlisle's hands... but he'll be better for it when it's finally over. Already some of that maddening pain is leaving his mind as the vine loosens, and the clergyman's touch seems to help him focus, as he's trying to draw steadier breaths.

And then the vine is finally out-- a long, sinister tendril, completely coated in the alien's clearish purple blood. Amidst it all, he'd been aware of the human carrying on as he works, but he couldn't understand it--he's unaware that the clergyman was speaking in a damned language, thinks he's still just too overwhelmed to parse anything. And truthfully, that is a part of it; though his middle is no longer sporting a large open wound, and the thorns have been pulled from his gills, he's still been through a lot--he needs some time to recuperate. The massive alien lays on the ground panting vacantly, blood still bubbling up from the ruined respiratory organs and trickling from various other minor wounds... everything feels awful and, barely conscious as he is, he makes a transparent bid for of solace. His hand scrounges around for whatever part of Carlisle he can reach--his knee, his hand, anything--and then grips it weakly.

At first, Carlisle flinches again from Glacius' touch, so certain the alien will drop dead right then and there if he reciprocates that bid for solace in any way; however, with unbridled remorse upon him like a thick, heavy blanket, he returns the gesture only a moment later, placing a bloodied hand atop Glacius' as the alien reaches for him.

"I can fix this, Glacius," he sobs, pawing at his throbbing eye with his free hand. "I promise, just- just don't die. I'll do this and you'll be fine and I'll leave and then you won't be suffering but please please please don't die."

Still holding Glacius' hand tightly, he places the other one in the middle of the alien's back, using his energy to reach into the Glacius' core. Carlisle starts his channel slow, trying his damnedest not to overwhelm Glacius with that stinging, burning sensation that unfortunately comes from his craft, but determined to mend his friend regardless. His own energy is shaky as he expels it, but his grasp on it is tenacious -- he must control this. Glacius' life may depend on it.

He starts with the smaller wounds first, easing into it as he repairs bruises and cracks in the alien's form, damage done by the double's violent assault once the original was grounded; thankfully, Glacius' icy armor seemed to take the brunt of the onslaught. His gills are the far more worrying injury, and one Carlisle isn't sure he can fix.

But he must try, he urges himself through the raucous thunder in his head. He takes in a deep breath -- almost immediately chokes on it because of the ink pooling in his mouth -- and pushes energy toward the open wounds. The thorns did what they do best, having latched onto the filaments in Glacius' gills, leaving holes and tears within the alien's neck. Carlisle's hand tightens as he works to repair the damage, one wound at a time. His head pounds explosively, harder and harder with every passing second, sapping him of his strength; the sharp pangs that run down his neck and into his middle leave him feeling as though he might wither away if his head doesn't kill him first.

Still, the clergyman keeps channeling, his teeth grinding together as he chokes back an agonizing breath, conviction pushing him past the brink. His energy finds another puncture within the alien, but Carlisle can practically feel it within his own abdomen: one hole, two, three, four as the claws latched into his side, much like the fanged ivy—

And then there is nothing, the channel ending abruptly as Carlisle collapses, his eyes staring blankly ahead, his grip on Glacius' hand suddenly slack as he falls atop the the wounded warrior before him.

That's the way they spend some time, then, both of them too worn from the horrible ordeal they've just went through to so much as move a muscle. Glacius does stir before too long, however--he's pushed through brutal beatings and grievous injuries before, and with a lot of his wounds mended and the burning from Carlisle's healing channel fading, he is able to return to a state of consciousness. His lowermost gills will never function again, at least not without Healing Ice, and his throat still feels raw and awful... but he can breathe through the others, and he can think more clearly than he could with the agony from so many sources overwhelming him all at once. He takes a moment or two to do just that, cycles some breaths through his airways, then lifts his head shakily from the ground and regards the cleric draped across his body.

At first he assumes Carlisle is just resting as he had been, but then he notices the lack of warmth from the human's body, the blank gaze of his slate-colored eyes, and the utter lack of strength or weight to the hand that had been over his own... and he becomes afraid that something far worse has happened while he recuperated.

"Car... Carlisle!" Glacius coughs out, his voice wasted, as his entire body tenses underneath the human's prone form. He attempts to shake him, but there's no movement, no response. Raw fright, the likes of which the alien has never known despite the terrors he's had to face down--despite how often his own life has been at risk--grips him, and he forces himself to move despite the exhaustion of his body.

This can't be happening, is all the alien can think as he desperately tries to disprove the worst of his fears, even as he worries that he may only end up confirming them. Using lessons learned from his repeated visits to the clinic, he takes the clergyman's hand in his own and uses his other to try and check for a pulse, pressing his fingers to the man's wrist... and after some time he does feel one, but it's faint, so faint. Still feeling concerned and frantic, Glacius moves to check his neck as well just to be absolutely sure that he's not mistaken, that he's not only feeling what he so desperately wants to feel--and sure enough he can feel his heartbeat there, as well. Despite the fact that he's addressed his immediate, worst fear, the ice alien is still far from settled.

He moves the human off of him as carefully as he can, then forces himself up to his hands and feet with a groan of exertion, stubbornly continuing to push himself despite his body's warnings that it could easily do the same thing that his friend has. An urgent hiss rises up from his throat as he removes the human's shirt--sorry about the breach of privacy, but he's petrified that he's going to discover some grievous wound contributing to his unresponsive state, slowly sapping away at what little strength he has left. When he doesn't see anything save for those dark violet scars, Glacius at first doesn't understand... but then he looks down at himself, notices the lack of most of his wounds, puts that together with the ink seeping from his friend's mouth and eyes and fingernails... and he understands.

Carlisle had put so much energy into healing whatever of the alien's wounds that he could--and so soon after the ordeal with his own double, which had already been so taxing. He had clearly expended almost everything that he had left on the alien's behalf, and aside from being deeply moved, the otherworldly being couldn't imagine what the repercussions of that could be. Would he ever wake up, or would his already diminished strength continue to wither until this claimed him? Could he even do anything to stop it?

Now it is the alien's turn to feel raw, unfettered sorrow and guilt. He bows his head, lets it drop into his hands for a moment. He should have been more alert, shouldn't let himself get caught off guard. He was supposed to be protecting his friend-- he never should have even left his room tonight. Though he's honestly no longer sure how much good he's doing the clergyman, or if all he's really doing is bringing trouble down upon his head, at least has sense enough to realize that simply up and leaving him now would be one of the worst possible things he could do. They can figure out where to go when Carlisle isn't passed out and helpless; for now, he owes it to his friend to stand by him and look out for him when he can't look out for himself.

So, using what little strength he has left, Glacius hefts the clergyman in his arms and tucks him securely back into his bed, then sits down himself, trying to do whatever he can think of to keep himself awake so he can stand guard. And that is how the alien spends the next day: slumped in a chair by his friend's bedside with only his guilt and sorrow for company, neglecting his own needs as he tries so hard to look out for the human; wishing for nothing but that the clergyman might wake up again.

The first sensation Carlisle becomes aware of is the throbbing behind his eyes, a heavy pulsating so strong that it managed to breach even the depths of his unconsciousness. Next, he realizes how stiff his fingers are, his hands uncooperative as he tries to flex them. That's not unusual for a man of his particular condition practicing what he does. As his idle mind tries to discern if that's sweat or ink on his brow, it occurs to him that he feels feverish: his muscles spasm and twitch as his body shivers in the chill of the room. The temperature isn't out of the ordinary -- he does share an apartment with Glacius, after all.

And then he feels worry, though he can't remember why. The vague glimpses in his mind's eye become clearer the longer he thinks about it. There was the double -- the other Glacius -- and fanged ivy, and...

And the inexorable guilt that this is his fault. Carlisle's body jerks as he snaps awake with a new feeling: concern so turbulent that he can think of nothing else.

He turns his head to the side, his bleary eyes taking in the darkness all around him. Of course it's dark -- there's no lamp. His vision is blurry -- his glasses are missing. His body aches -- he has no energy. Aural exsiccation. It takes him a moment, but he manages to sit up, feeling weary beyond his years. In the silence, his voice calls out: he almost doesn't have one of those either, given how raw his throat is from all the ink he's been coughing up in his sleep.

"Gla... cius...?"

Attempting to be on red alert despite physical exhaustion has left the alien feeling strange and disconnected, but the sound of the clergyman stirring and calling out is enough to fully bring him back to reality--it's what he's been waiting for all night and all day, after all. All of Glacius' muscles tense and he struggles to sit up for a moment, feeling various aches and pains from what wounds Carlisle wasn't able to heal; none of that deters him from leaning forward and reaching out in the darkness, answering the clergyman's pained call.

"I am here," the ice alien responds, his own wasted voice suggesteing he's clearly doing his best to keep his words to a minimum. His airways connect to all of his gills, even the ones have been rendered nonfictional by brutal injury--so utilizing them is still quite painful. He rubs at his throat, offering Carlisle a glass of water that he'd set on the nightstand to hopefully help soothe his.

Those eyes alight in the darkness, green and bright despite Glacius' obvious exhaustion. Despite knowing he should keep his distance -- this is his fault, Carlisle reminds himself -- he reaches to the alien for some form of comfort, desperate to be forgiven for the mess he made, for Glacius' suffering, for everything.

His fingers bump into the glass of water in the shadows; it's not what he was looking for, but he does take it, wrapping both hands around the glass before bringing it to his lips. It soothes neither his throat nor his head for long, and does nothing for his guilt.

"Thank you," he mutters. "Are you—?"

No, of course he's not all right. What a stupid question to even ask.

"I'm..."

No amount of apologies will fix what's been done, what damage the double managed simply because Carlisle didn't warn Glacius to the danger immediately. What a fool he was.

"Um."

So much for words.

Carlisle's starting and stopping and second-guessing himself leaves Glacius to fill in the blanks... and after everything they've been through at the hands of the doubles, he is not exactly optimistic. He wrings his hands together, his gills fluttering--starts to speak but gets cut off in a cough. He can still feel lingering pain from the barbs in his gills; he needs to let them rest.

Taking some time to allow the respiratory fit to pass, he then casts a quick glance around the room, his glowing green eyes fall on Carlisle's communicator. Picking it up, the ice alien struggles with the tiny keys for a moment before finally managing to punch in a message, which he holds out to the human to read:

you suffer because of me
i'm sorry

Carlisle takes the communicator, puzzled as he finds his glasses and slides them on... and then even more despondent when he actually reads the message.

But with that hopelessness rises anger and frustration and bitterness, all so strong despite his fatigue. They emerge like beasts from a cave, ones that have been caged there far too long, and use his moment of weakness as a means for escape.

"You... you're sorry," he starts, his breath picking up, rasping in his throat. The light of the phone in his hand shakes as he trembles, unable to soothe his inward rage when he's fighting the chill and his head and his consuming guilt. "You're sorry because I suffer when I'm the one who did this to you? When I'm the one who didn't warn you immediately? When I'm the one who has the damned plants that he used against you?!"

He chokes on a lump in his throat, trying to swallow it down along with his ire. It's not Glacius he's mad at; it's never been Glacius.

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