LOG: don't forget the popcorn (CLOSED)

[ployboy]

Who: Malcolm, Meredith, Tim
When: 2 September, night
Where: Apartment B1
Summary: The gang watches Pyre's act in slow-mo, full HD. You know, for science.
Warnings: Immolation/discussion of, discussion of drugs, discussion of death, referenced child death, some graphic descriptions of burning (to be updated)

At this point, it's been about a week since he rested. Honestly, actually rested. The old memories had come back to haunt his sleep the first days the circus was in town; he'd broken a little clay pot that had done nothing to him but get in his way one midnight after a bad dream. He was still ashamed about that, still kind of brusquely ducked his head around the others when they occupied the same space. But he'd been running on fumes then, even fully skipping coming back to roost after a promising night... out.

Anyway.

Tim had told them the hype: the fame of the circus for its dangerous acts. He had all but read them all of the reviews of the Fenix Down Extravaganza. And...

The final act hadn't disappointed.

Tim's stomach had twisted uncomfortably. He had seen the other two in the crowd. He had skipped out of the tent, nearly fleeing, as soon as the lights came back on under the big top.

And now it was Dark O'clock again in apartment B1 and Tim hadn't said much of anything-- he'd been busy hauling a secondhand (but operational) computer tower and monitor to the common area. That's where the good TV is. And that's where he's hooking those cables up to, phone up and resting on the coffee table, a good looking thumb drive next to it.

He's tired, but duty calls. And, Tim comes to the conclusion with a short-lived pang of dread, he has company tonight.

God, he's sorry.

"Neither of you are squeamish, right?" He tries, navigating clicks to synchronize screens.

"If you... are, then you might not want to leave your room until I give the green light." --a beat-- "I caught it on video."

Comments

[abrightboy]

"There aren't many substances that smell like gasoline, but it doesn't take much of it to produce the telltale odour and it didn't have to be coming from him," Malcolm muses. "There are ways it could have been real and used this... revival magic you're talking about, but there are also ways it could have been staged using technology that's been around for decades. Illusions, misdirection."

[ployboy]

"Sometimes you gotta swipe the golden idol," Tim chimes, not-- entertained by the idea of a quick swap of bodies under smoke and mirrors. A trade of a charred body for a fresh one. But he's not as disturbed by the notion as he figured. Maybe it would be a relief to learn the dead stay dead in this world.

(It should be a larger relief to learn Pyre never dies at all.)

I will be reborn and rise as the phoenix!

...is what would be heard through the speakers but. Y'know. Silence. It was all horrified screams from here on out. The man lights the match, the video flashes red with the burst of flames.

Tim flinches, and pauses. Because Meredith had wanted to get out as soon as possible from the show and, as far as he's aware, she's a civilian. He addresses her again, numb and dull, "I'm going to slow the video starting here. I want to see what burns, and if he should have died. You don't have to stay here."

[henchgal]

"I know I don't have to. I'm going to anyway. Yes, it's going to be hard, but I'm not leaving you two to watch this alone." The tone of her voice is mildly defiant. The difference here is...well, these are her boys.

Besides, she might have some insight to bring to the table, based on her experiences.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm’s attention is on the screen but he gives her a sidelong glance.

“Why do I feel like you’re more concerned about what we might do with the information than us viewing the not suitable for children content?”

[ployboy]

"If we learn it," he adds, ignoring the remark on children and supervision, feeling resolve swell at Meredith's stupid, stubborn solidarity, "we don't fear it. If we don't fear it, we don't feed the monsters."

So what's Malcolm's angle, he wonders.

Surprising himself, he figures he can ask later and expect a straight answer. Malcom-- was a straightforward guy. Tim sighs. It's half of a yawn. It's whatever, and something else for that mythical time of Later.

The feed advances. The screen plays the beginning of a man burning to death. The more flammable the material, the sooner it's gone. Even slowed, there's only a fraction of time before the man on screen begins to, well-- melt.

Usually, Tim would give himself that second to recoil, to sort through the horror and revulsion. Usually.

"Ever see anything like this before, Malcolm? It's all looking in order to me."

[henchgal]

Meredith stares silently at the screen. There's a part of her in the back of her mind that notes that it's weird that she can just sit there and watch this. Another part notes that she's probably hurting herself in the long run, stowing away her feelings like this isn't healthy.

And the main part is actually doing the watching, staring at the man on fire. She's quiet, but not because she's in shock. She's trying to catch all the details, to prove she's useful, here.

[abrightboy]

Malcolm spends all his time fighting monsters, endeavouring not to become one and looking into the abyss, as it were. His angle is protecting the vulnerable from those that would prey on them.

He’s not sure, yet, where this fits into that paradigm.

“I’ve seen burned bodies,” Malcolm replies. “The immolation of the flesh is realistic,” he tells them. “Humans are a bunch of moist hydrocarbons. Hydrocarbons burn. It’s the moisture that gives it that ‘melting’ effect,” he explains clinically, gesturing to the screen.

Oops cw referenced child deaths and getting a little graphic on burning bodies

[ployboy]

So that's where the bubbling under the skin comes from, and the rupturing of blisters. Tim nods absently, pretty sure he's heard those words before, same cadence and everything. Some zooming in, to crop out scenery and strobing lights, and Tim can make out what he's pretty sure are sheets of skin. Peeling, falling, charring. "I've seen a person burn up and personal before," he confesses.

Almost immediately, he feels like his throat's closed up, like his tongue's too heavy in his mouth, like he can feel the lick of flames against his scalp and the revolting itch of-- he runs his fingers through his hair, limp and lifeless from a long day. He can't keep it at bay, the idea that maybe this is how Hillary and Matthew Armstrong died.

Maybe some shrapnel got to them first.

Who the hell brought kids to an active

but they still died, still burned in that car.

So, no, Robin never saw someone burn, not up and personal before. Not --he'd seen a lot of burned bodies, a lot of melted bodies. He's not Robin anymore so... it tracks.

Sometimes people even rupture.

He clicks steadily through the frames, hardly pausing, a new rush of intent driving him.

"We agree he wouldn't survive this much longer, right?"

[henchgal]

"With most fires, it's smoke inhalation that kills, not actually being burned. There's not as much smoke from his clothing, but by this point the level of burns he's sustained...yes, he'd probably be dead."

Her voice is quiet, and she's curled in around her plushie like a self-protective hedgehog..

"There's some distortion on a few of the frames. You see it, right?"

[abrightboy]

“The severity if the burns to his face and head and probably internal burning in his lungs should be fatal. Would magic cause distortions in the picture?” Malcolm asks.