abraxaslogs | voices shine

Entry tags:

voices shine

Who: Dean Winchester, Garrus Vakarian, Commander Shepard
When: Sept - early in the month
Where: Hassan-Muller Collection, Free Cities
What: The Gang Gets Spooked
Warnings:

"So let me get this straight."

Outside the museum, dusk is falling, earlier than it has in the last couple weeks. Fall is coming, even in the Free Cities' dry atmosphere. After everything that went down last month, the chill in the air feels more ominous than it probably should. Or maybe Garrus is just damned paranoid about it all.

It's probably the latter.

"We're going to spend the night. In a potentially haunted museum."

His arms are folded, and he's staring at the building instead of the companions gathered here. Like he expects something spooky to leap out of a window, or the front doors. If you'd asked Garrus Vakarian if supernatural things were real before he set foot in Abraxas, he would have probably laugh in your face. Now, though... now he has a bad feeling about all of this.

"Full of wax figures. To find what's screwing around with their spirit boards." Finally, he turns his head to regard his companions. The skepticism is all but dripping off his words. In both his voice, and the reverberations underneath.

"Yeah, I don't see anything going wrong with this plan. Especially not after the weird spiritual crap last month."

He'll do it though. He just has to voice his misgivings. Like an adult.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He's been looking into this phenomenon for a few days now. Scoping out the rumors, following leads, testing things — working the case, and damn does it feel good. When's the last time he had classic ghost hunt situation? How long's it been? Years, now? Abraxas is all big ass beefy monsters, and while it's been fantastic for his overall muscle mass and cardiovascular health, he's really missed the more basic staples from back home.

Thus, he arrives appropriately kitted out with a rifle on his back, packed with salt rounds. With rune-carved salted iron fixtures tucked away in his satchel, and everything from extra iron crowbars to night-vision goggles along with them.

Garrus eloquently summarizes the situation; Dean's mouth scrunches up a little more with every validly listed point.
-overnight
-haunted museum
-wax figures
-spirit boards

At length, he nods firmly, just the once, and returns a very pleasant, "Yup."

Pretty much any time anybody outlines the job out loud, it sounds exactly this insane. Boy oh boy, it's just like coming home. He reaches out to give the guy a companionable slap on the shoulder, and offers a too-wide, probably not very reassuring smile.

"Look, it's gonna be fine. Probably." Most likely. Pretty sure. "If anything gets too handsy- here, use this."

To each of them, he offers a similar rune-carved salt-lined iron token. Just in case.

Businesslike, Shepard holds out her hand to Dean in a silent command: toss it. When he does, she examines the little token, front and back, in the same professional manner with which she has checked the breach of a shotgun, and then pockets it.

"Nothing we can't handle," She assures them both, "Could be worse. Could be raising the dead, or... infecting people with mind-controlling brain fungi."

She thinks she's funny. The Thorian's least-loved cousins might still be vomiting spores all over some remote islet somewhere out there, and Shepard's making jokes.

Shepard herself is dressed remarkably lightly, for those who don't know her. There's a sidearm at her belt, firmly holstered, in deference to Alliance regulations, but her clothing is little more than standard army-issue field uniforms, in deference to Free Cities regulation. They're padded, the body-armor light and close-fitted, and on the whole she is lightly armed, and lightly armored— and quite capable of reducing the nearest twenty meters to dust and rubble at a moment's notice.

Not that that's the plan, here. Dean is the specialist, and Shepard has always appreciated her position on any team as the heaviest and bluntest instrument possible. Unless he advises a general pulping of the immediate area, there's not likely to be a call for it, after all.

"Or hey, it could be Rachni again. You want to give up on the wax museum job, go fight some spiders, Garrus?" She's a little too casual about this, now, cocking her head slightly towards Garrus with a glance that's turning sly, "Wouldn't want you to have to do something scary."

But her eyes glow dimly in the dark, red fire moving behind the seams of her scars, the ghost of an unborn future that may never come to past. Misgivings and sanity are for weenies. Embrace the chaos, boys.

Edited (this is what i get for tagging at 2am) 2024-09-14 05:56 (UTC)

"Handsy. The wax figures could be getting handsy. That's all we need..."

He accepts the token, turning it over in his hands, before tucking it into a shirt pocket. Easy to access, in case he needs it. Out of the way if he needs to draw his weapon - the crossbow might not be much use indoors, but he's capable enough with his hands, figuring there's probably actual physical people involved here. It's absolutely wishful thinking, and no, he does not wish to discuss it.

"Is this thing - " The token. " - a weapon or some kind of shield?"

Look, even if he's wishful thinking, he's got no issue deferring to the guy who supplied the, well, supplies.

And then Shepard has to go and bring up the Thorian and the rachni. In almost the same breath. He drags a hand down his face. Suddenly it feels like being back home, on an assignment. And they are probably going to run into more horrors. Who even makes statues out of wax, anyway? What's the point? Literally use any other medium, and it would probably be less weird.

"No, absolutely not. We're not going to go chasing spiders. Not again."

He'll be the first one to start for the museum doors, then. Grumbling like they're back in the middle of somewhere cold. Only to stop before opening them, and looking to Dean for confirmation.

"... Unless you want to do the honors?" The man is the one with the spooky experience, as far as he knows.

Shep gets an underhand-toss of one of the little tokens practically the same moment she holds out a hand for one. Seamless, easy. They're a little heavier than they look, being made out of iron and all, but they're still only a few ounces. Easy enough to stuff 'em in a pocket and forget about 'em until you need them.

More than a little wry amusement hovers around his mouth watching her give Garrus a hard time — it's familiar. Hunter camaraderie familiar, the kind of lighthearted needling only people who've served together can really do. Makes him miss Sam, for one sterling second, but he stuffs that feeling all the way down under his bed and focuses himself back into the moment.

"They're less for the creepy wax things and more for spirits in general. Salt and iron repel them where I'm from. Did a little digging, and it turns out those same things are used in combination with runes here. Haven't gotten to try it out firsthand myself yet, but uh- in theory, you touch one with it, it should get 'em to back off for a little bit." Maybe that part about it being theoretical isn't very comforting, but he seems confident enough. He did his research. Talked to some people — from Cadens and from Solvunn. Did some reading, dug into the lore, left 'em out around some of the more high-activity areas and got reports of a reduction. They seem up to snuff.

Mental note to ask about that spider story later, though. Sounds like it's a good one, and he does love a good shit gone awry tale. Especially if one party's telling it and the other party does not want them to tell it.

Garrus earns himself a pleasant mock-salute.

"All yours, boss. I'm right behind you." No real spooky supernatural guidelines about walking into haunted museums, other than probably don't do that. Seeing as that's not on the table, it's free rein.

"Something going to have to get a lot tougher than wax to get the better of me," Shepard tells Dean, nothing loathe to take point. She likes being in charge, likes leading the way— likes stealing the limelight, so that her sniper can come in behind, where nobody can see him coming, "Right, let's go over the goals here."

The vestibule of the museum is a quiet, liminal space, bracketed on both sides by doors. It's meant to cut down the volume of noise traveling between the outer and inner spaces, or perhaps more relevantly the amount of dust and grit blown in from the gritty Caden's environs. Shepard pauses a moment to wait for the rest of them to filter in, and for the door to swing shut behind them; the museum ahead of them is dark, lit only occasionally by low exhibit lighting that casts strange shadows up and across the crenelated ceilings. The air is close and quiet and waiting.

"Mission parameters: we need to shut down the misbehaving spirit boards, make a record of whatever they're saying, and put the wax art back where it belongs. Ideally without having to pay for damages," Which they would then have to pay for. Or the Free Cities military levee can, and Shepard can have a formal reprimand. Whatever, "Who's got the recorder?"

Because they each have one of Dean's little salt-and-iron talismans, and of course the standard-issue binding device meant for the spirit boards, but the little grammaphone was nothing more than tin, veneer, and a miniature New Magic motor, of some kind. Shepard knew better than to carry something so easily broken on her person. Hers was not a delicate hand.

"Damn, glad to have you on the case, then." Seriously. For all the weird crap he's been through, having someone who's actually dealt with this brand of weird crap is more than welcome. Even as he shakes his head at the mock-salute, ducking inside with the others.

He pauses, once inside, scanning the area. Nothing immediately jumping out to eat their faces. Nothing immediately screams, or tries to attack. That's a good thing. Probably. But it doesn't do a lot for his tension. The talisman from Dean is a welcome weight in his pocket - it never pays to be unarmed, unprepared.

The door sounds ominous when it closes.

"Me." He'd picked it up on instinct - the tech guy, usually, and without Tali, the role fell to him back home. He's careful when he pulls it out of the case it'd come in, holding it out for the other two to look at. "If we've only got the one, I'd say we stick together. Take longer to cover the grounds, but..." Better than one of them being caught without this thing. Or the binding device.

Right?

The way Shep talks brings a quiet, nostalgic little smile to his face — slightly pained, mostly fond. It reminds him of his dad. Dean's never been a military man himself, but his father had been in the Marines. John raised Dean and Sam the same way an enlisted man would raise a military brat, and he never really lost that edge, even when he transitioned from Soldier to Hunter. It's nice to have somebody capable and competent leading the charge here, nice to not have to be the one to do it — he's capable of leading, but it's never been something he wants to do. He'd rather step back out of the limelight, turn over the responsibility to someone he trusts can handle it. Rare, that he gets to take the weight of it off his shoulders.

Glad again when Garrus steps in with the equipment, and the strategic input. They seem like a well-oiled team, the pair of them. Should be easy for him to integrate himself into it for this one, after just a few minutes of observing how they work together. Where their respective strengths and weaknesses are. He'd done it once before, but the fight against the Thresher Maw was a long time ago, and a hell of a lot more chaotic. Less of an intimate and close-quarters setting than this.

"Yeah, good call," he agrees with a nod. "First rule of hunting: don't do it alone. Always have somebody at your back. These things have an unfair advantage one-on-one, and they absolutely will use it against you if they can."

It's a rule he often breaks himself, especially in Abraxas, but the monsters here tend to be more of the animal variety than the supernatural variety. Spirits are simultaneously more and less dangerous, depending on how prepared you are and what type of apparition they are. Though it seems like they share some similarities with the ghosts he's used to, he's not fully aware of what they're capable of here yet.

"I can do the binding if you wanna play point guard and keep 'em off my back, Shep. If we keep the big guy on tech with the recorder, it pretty much covers all our bases? Until shit hits the fan, anyway."

Because there's no such thing as an uneventful hunt.

"Do it," She tells him, with a sharp nod to reward his initiative. By contrast to Dean, Shepard more often catches flack for taking the lead a little too often. She likes to be in charge, and makes no secret of it, "Seems we have our assignments, gentlemen. Let's go to work."

The interior doors are glass and wood, very prettily made by some worthy eccentric, once upon a time. The museum itself is... very silent. Waiting, holding its breath. Shepard's boots are loud against the floor, and the dim shadows obscure all detail. She regards the notion of proceeding through the dimness with some suspicion, deciding between illumination and stealth.

"Visibility's bad. Winchester, you're the expert on these kind of threats," Her tone is even, thoughtful, almost bored. There's the ghost of a rifle in the flex of her hands, but nothing more to show Shepard's tension, "Reports say they don't move when anybody's watching them. How likely are they to react with hostility to being lit up?"

"No plan ever survives first contact..." he grumbles. "You'd think it would, once. Out of professional courtesy."

But that's old, familiar territory. Complaining about things you can't change, so at least you feel a little better about the whole thing. The three man team is also filling into old patterns too. He wishes, though, there were flashlights. The good kind. The kind you could just call up on your omnitool.

Hell, while they're at it, why not wish for an omnitool?

Once they're through, he's on tech. Examining the little recording device closely. The weird change in his eyesight doesn't seem to have affected close range vision, thankfully. He keeps his steps light, in line with the others, to keep their forward approach quiet.

"No readings yet. Did any of the staff say if they were hearing anything, specifically?"

They wander in, crossing the threshold into a deceptively innocuous reception hall. It is dim, and he's already halfway through pulling his night dorky ass vision goggles down over his eyes by the time Shep points it out.

"Spirits where I'm from don't tend to give a crap about mood lighting. Might have a slightly easier time screwing with you if you can't see, so some of 'em kill flashlights or pop lightbulbs, but it doesn't have much of an impact on their activity levels." They do love to freak people out by doing the whole flickering light routine, but that's more annoying than harmful — unless you're battling epilepsy, or something. "But, uh- if it helps, I came prepared. Got some night eye drops if either of you want a hit of these instead."

Hunter habits. He keeps a fully stocked supply of useful things like that. Would've brought a few extra pairs of goggles, too, if he thought about it, but the eye drops are the best he can offer on short notice.

Most of his attention drops to digging around in his hunting bag for them preemptively, and so he sounds a touch distracted when he rambles out an answer to Garrus.

"Staff're saying they hear dead loved ones calling their name. Hard to say whether or not what we're dealing with is actually the people they lost, but my money's on it being something else doing the mimic routine to screw with people."

Nine times outta ten that's how it goes, but hey, he's been wrong before.

Finally, a triumphant little noise escapes him as he holds up the eye drops that shifted to the very bottom of his freakin' bag, because of course they did. He'll hand them over to either Museum Hunting Buddy if they're interested.

Shepard regards the notion that she might put anything like an unproven, medically unknown substance brewed by a (trusted and skilled, no doubt) mercenary practitioner into her bare mucous membranes, even for the sake a dubious tactical advantage. Then she notes, turning to look at Dean directly in the dimness, that he himself is wearing goggles. A solid endorsement there, Winchester.

"Any idea how that stuff reacts to alien physiology? Or cybernetics? My eyes aren't the originals." Shepard tells him, drily, "I was just gonna use a flare."

But it isn't necessary, just yet and Garrus' grumbling raises an echo off the polished floors that deserves an answering scoff.

"We'll go in dark for now. No point in starting something before we have to, or putting them off the haunted house routine, since that's what we're here for. Keep close and uh... Garrus?" She grins, and gestures with her chin as she turns towards the mezzanine entrance, the exhibit halls yawning dimly ahead of them, "...Try to exhibit a little flexibility? I know you're capable of it."

Sorry, Dean. Garrus does a double-take at the goggles, and has to turn the noise in the back of his throat into a cough. Whatever he was expecting, night vision goggles like that weren't it. He hasn't seen a setup like that in... well, they're vintage where he's from.

"Yeah, I may be able to eat the food here, but not sure about anything else." If it would even work. He'd gone through a lot of testing with Nadine for medicine, too.

Then it's back to frowning down at the device he's carrying. Mandibles tap idly against his jaw in thought. If staff are supposedly hearing dead loved ones... what does that mean for their little team? Are they going to fall into the same trap? Mimicry, too. But maybe they're out of the monster-ghost-whatsit's area of expertise. No way to know until it happens -

His head snaps up. "Really? My flexibility?" He doesn't have eyebrows to raise, but the tone is the same. "Because I'd say to be careful, Shepard. Some of these exhibits might be a little out of your reach."

Leave them for the ghosts to eat, Dean.

He's about to make some kind of comment about how technically they're all alien on this planet, and the drops they hand out at Nocwich seem to work for pretty much everybody, but then Garrus goes and makes that noise, derailing his entire train of thought. He shoots the guy a flat look, and stuffs his drops back into the bag.

Go ahead and laugh, big guy, but he's the one with perfect vision right now, okay.

Meanwhile, Chuckles and Peanut start ping-ponging zingers back and forth, and while it doesn't register as flirting quite yet, he's definitely eyeballing them a little. He's picking up a vibe. A wavelength, if you will. A seed has been planted, for later examination.

"You two wanna start over there and work clockwise? If you can see the way, that is."

He adjusts his goggles Very Pointedly.

"Oh I think you'll find there's nothing here outside my reach, Mister Vakarian," Shepard says, and then clears her throat at Dean's suggestion— yeah, alright. Focus, "...Keep your ears open. We don't want to miss the target."

The spirit boards, of course, are at the far end of the museum. It was the old trick: with the recent fuss, and the turning of the seasons, it behooved the prudent curator to put the most desirous artifacts near the back. And if that should (by purest coincidence) parade guests past every other worthy display, including the gift shop? All to the good, surely.

Doesn't make for a pleasant walk, though.

Shepard's used to moving in near-dark, and the floor is level and smooth— she stumbles, turning a corner, over the outstretched hand of a prone wax figure, reaching out from below a display-case. Cursing, she briefly lights the area in a flash of blue— her biotic corona. The pale, gormless stare of the waxen face looks back at her, a reflection of blue fire dancing briefly in its glassy eyes until the light fades, and it's only visible in silhouette against the white-tile floor. A child-sized replica, doubtless of some royal so-and-so important to some political something; she hadn't gotten a very good look.

"...Son of a bitch," Shepard mutters, "Well, that's one."

He actually winces a bit, and shifts his grip on the device to idly scratch the scarred side of his face. "Sorry. It uh. The goggles caught me off guard there. But yeah. Clockwise seems like a plan."

And then it's all business. Sweeping the device around in an attempt to zero in on some sound. And wondering, in the back of his mind, if those they know are going to get swept into this. But they're unknowns, he keeps reasoning. "Oh, it's mister now, but - "

Whatever he was going to say there cuts off as biotic blue flares to life. Immediately. The device temporarily ignored as his free hand goes to where his crossbow is strung. He's spun on a heel, ready - and -

"... Look, I'm no judge of art but that? That's just a horror vid prop." Hold on, though. "Guessing it's not supposed to be on the ground."

Oh, it's Mister Vakarian now, is it? Like Mistah Sheffield? He's watching you two, okay. Keep it up. Go ahead. Keep it up. The countdown timer to a roast is ticking steadily down — especially Mistah Vakarian, for punking him out about his kickass goggles. In the meantime, Mission Mode kicks in. He's a professional, he's on the job, he'll act like it — at least for a few minutes.

All three of them stare down at the unnecessarily spooky wax prop reaching out longingly for them, for a moment — until something cool dances across the back of his neck. He stays stoic, stays still, keeps his mouth shut, but his eyes lift and begin to keenly scope out the area around them. Looking for movement, looking for the telltale shimmer of a manifestation, looking for the sight of his own breath in the air in case the temperature's plummeting — nothing. Nothing. The absence of anything is, ironically, more unnerving than a full-blown apparition might be.

He leaves the two of them to decide between themselves whether to right the thing or leave it for after, and instead wanders two or three feet away, head cocked, ears alert. Something hits them, and he holds up a gentle hand at his companions, a silent signal, followed by a murmur of, "You hear that?"

It's--

Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, ominous footsteps.

In vids and suspense novels, someone like Shepard might've said something like no, what? Shepard, a veteran of dark corners where deadly monsters lurk, does nothing quite so stupid— she listens, nods once sharply, then touches Garrus' shoulder in an old signal— get to cover, hold fire.

It doesn't have to be a ghoul, ghost, or possessed wax figure, after all. It could be a janitor or something. Probably better not to perforate the sanitation staff.

"Flare!" She warns, all business as the marble of light winks into existance in her palm. This had been the first skill Abraxas had given her, and she's well used to it by now; it makes a low, bowling arc, a glowing laser-dot casting harsh, flickering shadows upwards as it rolls smartly— and then bursts into an intense, sustained glow.

The hall is abruptly lit by noonday brilliance, only very slowly fading, to reveal...

The recorder wavers. Something coming through he can't quite hear. Even if he tilts his head slightly to one side - trying to track it while his eyes move back and forth between the device and the room around them. You hear that? He frowns, venturing: "Someone speak-"

Footsteps.

He jerks to a halt. Jaw snapping shut so fast he's surprised he doesn't hear it click. The device dropped into its pouch, hands grasping for his crossbow. He doesn't fire. Keeps it steady, level. Ready. It wouldn't do to open fire on some poor soul just cleaning. So he waits for the signal. Waits for the darkness to clear.

Maybe he should have taken the damn eyedrops. He'll buy Dean a drink to make up for it.

The light blazes up, and the things clustered at the end of the hall glow in waxy, pallid brilliance. One or two of them even waver ever so slightly, as if the sudden intrusion of light caught them mid-motion. They stare back sightlessly, but Garrus swears he can hear whispering.

"... Oh what the hell is this."

"You know," Shepard said into the stunned silence, the light of her magical flare still dimming ever-so-slowly to a dull grey glow rather than the blinding flashbang it had been, "I don't think I've ever said this before, but...I prefer husks."

Husks didn't have particularly human faces, they didn't stare at you out of glass eyes, faces slack and waxy. And, of course you could kill a husk. Whether or not the wax figures counted as alive, they weren't meant to be destroying them.

"Dean, you have a better view," Shepard's voice is still calm enough to seem almost angry; she's at work, now, the teasing tone from earlier put aside, "Give me an observation: do they move when they're actually seen, or just when they think we should be able to see them."

The flare dims, gutters, and dies: the abrupt darkness is a slap.

Shepard's flare illuminates the hall, a dazzling light that's momentarily blinding behind Dean's night-vision goggles. He rears back, squinting, blinking through the flash, and when his vision clears, he... almost wishes it hadn't. Clustered at the end of the hall, a dozen genderless, smooth-skinned wax figures huddle like someone just interrupted their prayer circle.

He's been doing this job for thirty-odd years, but he's still not above acknowledging when something is objectively creepy as hell. He doesn't know what a husk is, but all the same, he mutters a dry, "Me, too."

Fun fact: this is not the first time Dean's done a job in a haunted wax museum. The one back home was a solid decade ago, and it was populated by figures like Gandhi and Abraham Lincoln and Paris Hilton. Recognizable faces took the job from being mostly uncomfortable to kinda comedic. There's no such relief here, not for him, not when he doesn't know the vast majority of the historical figures they're trying to recreate.

The flare dies; the light goes too dim for either Shepard or Garrus to see — but Dean can.

A weighty silence follows the request as they wait, and he watches, and seconds tick by. All of them are still, unmoving, as he stares.

Except for the one in the front, which cocks its head to the side so, so slowly it takes him a beat to even realize it's moving. And then, equally slowly, with a deliberateness in the movement, its raised hand begins to sway back and forth in two-inch increments.

"It's waving at me," he declares, his tone nearly matching Shepard's. Annoyed, unamused, businesslike. "They're screwing with us. This is a distraction."

The longer they spend worrying about the wax figures, the less they're focused on the spirit boards powering them.

Edited 2024-10-03 17:18 (UTC)

Shepard and Dean make the same tactical assessment in the same moment, without need to discuss it. Distraction tactics, from inanimate objects. Sure, why not? Her life was weird enough for this.

Still, nothing used distraction tactics if they had the option to intimidate, or actually bar progress.

"Spirits or not, they're made of wax. If they get too handsy I'll tear 'em apart," Shepard says, with no doubt that Dean and Garrus know exactly how she means. Even Dean had seen her go up against the Thresher Maw, after all, and knew what she was capable of, "Let's pick up the pace. Spirit Boards are at the back: double-time it, people."

"What the hell."

He's said it before. He'll say it again. Not that he doubts their combined abilities versus a bunch of blobs of wax. It's still weird as hell. It still makes his plating crawl up his spine. "This is so much worse than giant spiders..."

That's muttered under his breath, but the sentiment about the rachni is universal in their crew.

"All right. I was wrong about the eye drops." As he falls back in step with the others. His crossbow stays aimed in the direction of the figures. Maybe it can pop off a limb if he hits right. Provided they don't get down on the ground and scuttle. And now that he's thought that, clearly, that's going to happen. Isn't it?

"Dean? Take the lead? We'll cover you."

Shep's not wrong — they're made of wax. They aren't the strongest vessels on the planet; if necessary, anybody could probably decimate the whole pack of them. The issue is, those wax figures aren't the real threat, it's the incorporeal thing piloting them. It doesn't so much matter if they melt down every wax bastard in the place, those things could just fuck with them in other ways. Double time it is the right call, before those spirits get any brighter or deadlier ideas.

I was wrong about the eye drops earns a sideways grin from Dean, a totally mission-inappropriate wink and finger gun, but it only lasts a second before he's back on task. He just appreciates the satisfaction of being right sometimes, okay.

But also... please don't mention the scuttling thing out loud. Please. That's so freaking creepy, some members of this party have a hard enough time sleeping at night.

"Aye aye, Mistah Vakarian," he agrees pleasantly, just a touch distracted by the shifting around of his rifle from strapped to his back to held up and loose at the ready. And away he goes, taking one careful step after another down the hall, edging beyond the cluster of uncanny valley humanoids in frozen poses, mistrust lacing every bit of his posture. None of them move. Not one. Not a single one. Like they're trying to gaslight him or something. He keeps his eyes on them even as he passes three, four, five feet — at around six feet down the hall does he finally turn to face forward again, only to jerk in an aborted startle when he comes literally face to face with one.

"Son of a-" He chokes, only barely refraining from pulling the trigger.

Mother fucking god damn stupid piece of shit jumpscare asshole mannequin bullshit- He tips it over onto the floor petulantly, and then defiantly strides over it toward the spirit boards, muttering under his breath, "I freakin' hate these stupid things."

No shots fired, no weapons discharge necessary yet, so he shoulders his rifle in favor of pulling out a handy-dandy pocket EMF meter. It's not exactly like the one from back home, he's had to workshop a little, screw around with crystals and New Magic tech from busted hardware pilfered from a few vendors around the city, but it works, more or less. Usually. With some degree of error. Hopefully it's reliable enough to help them pinpoint the problematic board(s) a little easier.

Shepard jerks around when he startles, shaking her head against the cloying tide of frustration. Wind it all, tighter and tighter, eventually she'd snap and take off someone's head— something's head, hopefully. Dean steps over the body he's tipped over, but Shepard pauses to put her boot on its prone shoulder and shove it aside with a whispering hiss as its buttons scrape against the tile. She's had enough of getting grabbed by the ankle, thanks.

"Well, this is just embarrassing," Shepard opines, taking up a guard-position at Dean's back as he works. It's more about hearing and intuition, scanning the low, dim corners, but her eyes catch the slow, jerky shadows in odd moments and unlit corners, "Oh no, I'll go through a damn derelict Reaper, but it's the wax museum that gets me to jump. Wrex'd laugh his ass off."

It's going to be a long night, coming down off this one, that's for sure.

"It's just Garrus - " It's like you can hear the whistle as Mistah Vakarian, by rights a very good jab, goes sailing over his head. At least it's a convenient distraction momentarily from thinking about scuttling shapes in the dark. Like rachni. Scuttling like rachni.

He falls in behind Dean and Shepard, easily. Pulling out the device again now that the tension has settled somewhat. It wiggles, slightly, like it's recording something. He hesitates for a step or two, lifting it closer to see if he can hear anything. The wiggling gets stronger the closer they get to the wax figures. Makes sense, if there's some kind of spirit wearing these figures like coats.

Dean's got eyes on the figures, he keeps his own peeled for any movement in the dark. Granted, he can't actually see in the darkness, but motion is motion, and if something moves, he can at least spot that. Probably. Maybe. In theory.

The call comes - he drops the device, going for his crossbow again. Keeping that thing on a chord was probably the best choice he'd made, if things are going to keep popping up, and he's going to kneejerk react to weaponry. Can anyone blame him?

"Candle?" he supplies, helpfully, in the silence that falls on realizing it's another figure. "Son of a candle?"

Shepard's commentary earns a snort, too. "Well, to be fair, the Reaper had the decency to keep the lights on. Museum can't even measure up to a dead genocidal space lobster."

Where did he pick that one up? Don't ask questions.

"I was picking up signals closer to those things. They're probably what the staff have been hearing whispering - whatever it is in them."

If only he had time to express his deep disappointment about Mistah Vakarian not sticking the landing. It's alright, though — he is, by now, extremely used to his jokes and references bouncing off the unimpressed shell of an alien that doesn't really get it. Granted, Castiel's gotten better at pop culture these last few years, but... boy, there sure was a time.

The little device in his hands whines and pops, beeping out irregular and intermittent noises — until he waves it over one particular spirit board, and the whole thing lights up like Christmas, whistling and beeping a tiny little cacophony of noise.

"Gotcha, you son of a-" pause, and then incredibly flat look back at Garrus as he lamely finishes, "Candle."

Just. So dumb. Just so dumb. Perfectly his brand of dumb. What a gift, what a treasure.

"Alright, I think I can start binding this one. Odds are it's gonna piss somebody off, so I wouldn't be surprised if they started sending in the troops. I'd appreciate it if you two could multi-task your flirting with keeping 'em out of my personal space for a few minutes." Which- hey, it ain't judgment. If anything, he sounds mostly amused and perfectly pleasant about the whole thing. Ahh, young love. How sweet to behold, here in this... haunted wax museum of death and jump scares.

Logistically, a lot of that protection detail's gonna come down to Shep. The moment Dean starts his methodical, studious recitation of the words, Garrus will hear those whispers grow louder — familiar voices, unfamiliar words, urgently murmured phrases that need to be caught on record for later study. And, right on time with the sound, the wax figures will all turn in perfect, twitchy tandem — every single one of them pivoting abruptly to stare at their little group. Shit is, as they say, about to pop off.

"Maybe they can process it into something readable, back at base..."

But then Dean is, despite his wisecracks, doing something practical. Shepard has never expected actual respectful behavior from her men, only the respect it was meant to signify, so she turns her back to Dean even as he gets work.

Multitask their flirting, was it? Could be worse.

"Roger that," She replies, and inhales long and slow. The room shifts, going from innocuously creepy to outright hostility in a single sharp moment. Ironically, she's more comfortable this way, all eyes on her, an objective in her hands. She'd like very much to charge into them, take the fight to the enemy but... she waits.

If they're attacking, they aren't creeping. And if they're attacking... they're fair game. Downright relaxing, that.

"Ready," She calls, and the whispers are a rising tide of spiders, pooling around them in every darkened corner. The spirit board under Dean's hands bucks like a live thing, and the wax figures lurch into an ungainly, limping charge. Shepard falls back on old training, "Contact!"

Darkness had made the room seem larger than it was. Biotic light, and the concussive sound that follows make sit seem smaller, and more full, than ought to have been physically possible. The first three wax figures meet Shepard's wrath only ten meters from Dean's position, and go to pieces at the first wave of force— a display case nearby shatters in a phenomenal spray of sparkling glass, with its own spirit board rattling within it like an eager dove.

"You said you always wanted to fight through an antique shop, right?," She asks Garrus, in the echoing wake, as she kicks aside the twitching arm of a dismembered wax body, its hand still grasping blindly as it goes spinning amongst the legs of its fellows, tripping them one over the other, so that they go down in a heap, "It's pretty close."

He catches that flat look out of the corner of his eye, and his face flexes in a grin. Even gives a brief laugh in answer. Oh yeah, he nailed this. But overall, he doesn't look away from the hall in general. Best to keep an eye out.

At least until "multitask flirting".

Then he has to look over at Dean, then Shepard. Just for a second. "We were flirting? That was flirting? I wasn't even trying."

Does he sound proud of himself? Just a bit. Just a little bit. Then it's back to work. Back to his full attention on the hall. Which turns out to be just in time. The figures lurch into motion at the same time the sounds build to something he has to wince at. It's too loud. It's too damn loud and he swears he hears -

Biotic light blooms and it's into motion he goes. The crossbow thwacks, and the force of the bolt hitting home drives the wax figure back into a wall, taking at least one of others with it. Pinning the first there like a bug. One comes up on his left, jerkily reaching for where Dean is reciting the words. Garrus drives a bony elbow into its wax face, then kicks it down the hall.

"I just said it was classy!" he calls back. "I didn't say I wanted to!"

In a move Wrex would be proud of, he promptly smashes his head into another wax figure. Glancing back to check on Dean's progress.

The words flow from his lips in a manner that isn't quite fluid, but he's got enough experience wrapping his tongue around archaic and dead languages for the purpose of spells and rituals, he manages to make it work. The spirit board in his hand bucks abruptly, smashing him directly in the goddamn nose hard enough that he nearly interrupts his ritual flow with a curse — but he manages to bite it back, a little newfound frustration edging into his voice as a trickle of blood trails down toward his lip.

Then comes the concussive force, and he whips around, still clutching the spirit board, to get a look at the debris and detritus that follows. His brow screws up in a clear what the hell was that, but the ritual words keep on flowin' despite his bemusement. He's a goddamn professional, okay.

He takes a knee, carefully pressing the spirit board to the ground with one flat palm. The other hand goes digging around in his pocket for the satchel of salt he'd been carrying, and with it comes the extremely delicate process of spilling out runic sigils in salt. Something begins to hum, a low and resonating sound, the kind that one can feel in the hollow of their chests, a tinnitus whine of mounting energy signalling a spiritual discontentment that gradually mounts with every new rune he marks in salt.

It's climax time, Scooby Gang. One final flash of light, one last ripple of energy — and one last desperate resurgence of wax figures, who give up on getting to Dean and instead content themselves with trying to latch hands onto any part of Shepard and Garrus they can reach —

— until, at last, they freeze in place, motionless, silent. Just wax again. Just false, fake dummies, and no hint of life behind those unsettling features.

All is dark again, black and blank and silent. The only movement is their three pairs of feet, and the crunch of broken glass under her boots. Shepard holds her hand up, focusing, and a point of light blooms at her fingertips— more native magic.

It's a mess; two display-cases are frames without glass, there's a pile of wax figures crowded in the doorway and against the wall, slumped over each other and over the other displays. They seem mostly intact, except for the one Shepard had dismembered, and the one with the crossbow bolt sprouting from its head like a macabre unicorn's horn. Shepard laughs, regarding the chaos.

"Well, that could've gone worse," She decides, turning to face Dean— and smirks to see the look on his face, "Keeping it together back there, Winchester? You look like you've seen a ghost."

She thinks she's funny, bless her heart.

Yeah, it could have gone worse. It could have gone a lot worse. That doesn't mean he's particularly enjoying this outcome. No, not because they apparently won. Not because it's done, and Dean came through in the clutch. That's all very good.

"If we're all in one piece..."

He'd love to look over his squad here. Make absolute sure everyone's on their feet, not horribly damaged in some way. Shepard, he can hear laughing. Dean, though, he can't actually see. Or hear. And why not?

Because the bloom of light illuminates an absolute dogpile of wax figures. Several of them with their hands clamped down around various pointy bits of his anatomy, so if he pulled away, it would be painful. Even if they're just wax. One has its hands holding onto his fringe so tight it's pulled his head upward, looking square at the ceiling.

"... I could use a hand. An actual, human hand."

The look he shoots Shepard is, just... so very flat. So very, very flat. He's taken up a mission with a couple comedians here. Is this what Geralt feels like every time they work a hunt together? Maybe he should learn something from this.

Buuuut he won't! So anyway.

With a groan perfectly befitting the forty-something year old he is in his mind thanks to the Singularity, and absolutely not at all reflecting the thirty-something he actually is physically, he muscles his way back up to his feet, plucking up the spirit board to return it to its rightful place as he goes. He gets it delicately positioned around the time Garrus makes his plea, and holds up both of his hands palms-out as if to say no touchie.

"He's your boyfriend, Shep. I'll let you be the one to get all- you know. Handsy." Is that technically a pun? Doesn't matter, he delivers it with the same amount of satisfaction as a pun.

Shepard rolls her eyes and smirks, showing him the relevant finger, but goes to fish said boyfriend out of the thick of it. Brace your foot, firm grip, and pull. Easy as pie.

"Let's get these back where they belong and do the report, so we can get paid," Shepard says, when Garrus is back on solid ground, "Dean you deal with the glass first, me and Garrus'll start moving bodies."

Then it's down to simple labor; hauling wax bodies, one or two at a time, finding their niches, labels intact. Shepard finds the storage closet meant for the blank-faced ones, and it's still half-full, faceless heads looking back at her as she shoves them in and stacks the limbs neatly next to the dented torso of the one she'd torn apart. Clean sweep; there's the one under the furniture to remember, and a few other ambushes that had never sprung, their presence denoted by empty spots in dioramas. The glass gets swept up, the spirit boards straightened and all in all it takes longer on the cleanup than it did for the mission.

It's gone midnight by the time they're done, and by then the place seems less unsettling, if only because they've been in it for long enough to get used to the place. Shepard, at least, is more than ready to be out of there.

"Alright, good work boys. Let's get the hell out of here and catch some sleep. Good work— and Dean? I'll be tapping you in the future."

"Hilarious, Winchester. Don't worry... You're not my type."

It comes out a little more irritated than he meant it to. But that's only because his neck hurts, and he feels stupid, stuck by wax figures. It'd be fine if they hadn't got him by the sensitive bit sticking out the back of his head.

That done, he's into motion. Hauling the damn things two at a time. If he's a little rougher with them than strictly necessary, no one will blame him. Or, at least, they shouldn't. So there. He does pull the arrow out of the head of the one he'd shot. Just in case the staff are going to get uppity about it.

"You two are going to sleep after that?"

He's sure he will, though. After all the crap he's sure they've seen? This probably doesn't even rate. But someone has to take back their comedian title, here.

The post-battle pleasantries and banter commence. Shep gets a click of the teeth and a finger-gun; any time, put me in, coach. Garrus earns himself a scoff and a cheerful, "Your loss, pal."

Which is to say, it's mutual — he's already got an alien boyfriend of his own to tend to these days, waiting up for him a few blocks down the road as we speak.

They clean up. They pack up. And, in good spirits (no pun intended), they roll out.

The museum's only a little pissed about the collateral damage.

Good job, team.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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