For a moment, Jon isn't sure he's seeing things right.
That wasn't quite right. He knew what he was seeing, who he was seeing, and that he wasn't just catching a face that was ever-so-slightly familiar. The knowledge makes the mind reel back to process, lay the facts out on the table.
Gerry was here, so it only made sense that other people he'd known, no matter to what lengths, might appear. The Unknowing had put their consciousnesses into a blender, turned them into nothing, everything, an amalgamation of confusion and disappointment and grief and terror. It was the last thing he'd known, before the White-Haired Woman pulled him into her office. He still couldn't remember Tim Stoker's face, no matter how much he tried.
Daisy, however, he remembered quite clearly.
A tense relationship, which was saying something, compared to all his other ones in life. She'd tried to kill him, and he wasn't ever sure if she'd take a shot at finishing the job. The scar on his neck aches in recollection.
She'd also picked him up from the airport once, and, in-between mannequin-slaying and his gauntlet of travels and research, he can almost recall a joke or two shared, an obscured sight of an almost-snicker on her face. Some episode of a radio drama played once on a car radio, and the shock of someone so vicious, so brutal being so thoroughly hooked by it. A monster, but a monster just the same as he. Possibly the only person here who understood the tenuous grounds he stood on with being a person.
Perhaps the grounds feel tenuous currently because his legs weren't feeling terribly stable. Dangerous, yet familiar. A sharp rock jutting out of the sea near the docks.
Jon rises from his seat sharply, and he calls out, almost desperate in his attempts to cut his voice over the bustle of the crowd. He's hurrying over, but he's still apprehensive - don't close any distance too quickly or firmly with a Hunter. He's not looking to crash.
no subject
That wasn't quite right. He knew what he was seeing, who he was seeing, and that he wasn't just catching a face that was ever-so-slightly familiar. The knowledge makes the mind reel back to process, lay the facts out on the table.
Gerry was here, so it only made sense that other people he'd known, no matter to what lengths, might appear. The Unknowing had put their consciousnesses into a blender, turned them into nothing, everything, an amalgamation of confusion and disappointment and grief and terror. It was the last thing he'd known, before the White-Haired Woman pulled him into her office. He still couldn't remember Tim Stoker's face, no matter how much he tried.
Daisy, however, he remembered quite clearly.
A tense relationship, which was saying something, compared to all his other ones in life. She'd tried to kill him, and he wasn't ever sure if she'd take a shot at finishing the job. The scar on his neck aches in recollection.
She'd also picked him up from the airport once, and, in-between mannequin-slaying and his gauntlet of travels and research, he can almost recall a joke or two shared, an obscured sight of an almost-snicker on her face. Some episode of a radio drama played once on a car radio, and the shock of someone so vicious, so brutal being so thoroughly hooked by it. A monster, but a monster just the same as he. Possibly the only person here who understood the tenuous grounds he stood on with being a person.
Perhaps the grounds feel tenuous currently because his legs weren't feeling terribly stable. Dangerous, yet familiar. A sharp rock jutting out of the sea near the docks.
Jon rises from his seat sharply, and he calls out, almost desperate in his attempts to cut his voice over the bustle of the crowd. He's hurrying over, but he's still apprehensive - don't close any distance too quickly or firmly with a Hunter. He's not looking to crash.
"Daisy? Daisy!"