[OPEN] While we're on the subject, could we change the subject now?

[apocryphalarchivist]

Who: Jonathan Sims and YOU!
What: Open prompts for the end of summer!
When: August
Where: Around Marrow Isle
Warning(s): Cursed objects, potential descriptions of gore (More warnings pending)



1. Looking towards the future, we were begging for the past

With a sound of effort, Jon drops the last of the tools he'd been carrying too many of, letting out a winded wheeze as he tries to collect himself.

It's been quite an undertaking, collecting ins and odds from Calloway's Curios before they fell into hands, not knowing what they are or what they're capable of doing. He's not certain of the particular qualities of a few of these things, but he's seen enough things and read about even more to know when something is simply here to cause problems.

Sprucing up the unused shed behind his cliff-side home is proving to be even more of an undertaking, considering he isn't especially gifted at carpentry, but sometimes you've just got to make due.

He's so engrossed in his work that he doesn't notice the presence of anyone outside of Grimmly the Dusknoir, the large Pokemon lingering, watching with what can only be described as single-eyed skepticism. The red eye follows Jon as he moves to collect the scattered metal rods of the lock-system he'd purchased, once again trying to carry all too many things at once.

To say the least, he's far too distracted to notice anybody coming up the short path to his home - especially as, with his heavy carry load, he staggers, stumbles, and topples back, dropping the rods in a spectacularly-noisy explosion of parts around his person.

Grimmly bellows with strange, wavering, ghostly laughter, the mouth on his stomach throwing his upper half backwards, with no regard for the daggers Jon glares his way.

"Oh, laugh it up, you shit, very funny. You could be helping with this, you know, you've got two perfectly good hands!"

2. Well, we knew we had the good things

Amid all the bustle he's been dealing with recently, Jon manages to find time to write and hang a flyer on the bulletin board.

Seeking assistance from the technically inclined for a repair project.

I am in possession of three tape recorders, and need someone who could potentially lend me a hand with fixing the wiring within the machines, as well as potentially making their power sources able to plug into a wall outlet. The tapes are in pristine condition, and I will only need assistance with at least one recorder, though all three being repaired would be preferred. Offering a reward of 200B for assistance.

If interested, please contact me via sending stone or telephone. Thank you.

-Jonathan Sims

With a reward like that, it's clear he's pretty serious about getting these fixed. He'll answer just about any call about them - be it someone who's ready to help him fix these, someone with questions about them, or friends with concerns about the devices. (It may be easier said than done convincing him not to fix them, if one even could, though.)

3. But those never seemed to last (Closed to Neil and Martin)

After meeting Martin on the beach, Jon was in more of a hurry than he'd care to admit to get to Neil and confirm dinner plans. Everything's smoothly in motion, and as ridiculous as it feels, Jon's more excited about this than he can rightly recall having been in a fair bit.

He's never been an incredible chef, but he's gotten a handle on home cooking since arriving in town, and throws together a plan quickly enough to have everything just about ready. It only takes a short trip out to the markets to have the supplies for everything: lemon chicken (the citrus specifically chosen for the occasion), mashed potatoes, and supplies for a light salad, hopefully making for something of an exceptional welcome-to-town dinner.

The sun is only just dipping towards the horizon when he's wrapping up, and judging by a quick glance to the clock on the wall when a knock at the door rings through the house, Martin's at his most punctual that Jon's ever seen him. Maybe he's as excited about this as Jon is? (He surely hopes so.)

Leaning as close to the kitchen's doorframe as he can while not straying too far, keen to finish wrapping things up as quickly as possible, Jon doesn't hesitate to call out towards the front of the house.

"Come in!"

4. Oh, please just last (Wildcard)
Want this guy somewhere, sometime? Shoot me a PM here or on Discord to plot, or just go wild and drop something!

---

[EDITED EXTRA PROMPT]

5. Beneath the Watcher's Eye

The more time passes, the more Jon feels his resolve beginning to slip.

At first, it's simply accidental, compelling people for statements when they're not looking to share. It sustains him, he feels terrible about it, and there's another sore spot to try to navigate around on this cursed island. The more time that passes, however, the few statements that are offered by the call of his bulletin-board posts simply don't provide like they used to. More often, the fatigue hangs heavy on his bones, even without the work to wear him down. Thinking grows difficult, and simple ordeals feel as though they've gained ten new steps overnight.

He tries to fight it off; he really, truly does. The itch sinks deeper into his bones with each passing day, though - no amount of reading old statements or reading books on things that had happened in town scratch it.

There comes a point with all itches that you've simply got no choice but to scratch it.

He adds his flyer to the bulletin board once more, crisp and neat. Sending stone calls are acceptable, events that have happened within Pumpkin Hollow are valid pieces of information to offer, and anything of any magnitude will be heard. The net is as wide as he can possibly cast it.

Waiting for the net to fill is an impossible task, however. Despite himself, he begins to hunt.

His search doesn't have the physicality or brute force of a Hunter seeking prey - but in energy and approach, they're shockingly alike. He's patient, calculated, and mindful. He stays out late during the nights of shore leave from the Mipha's Grace,, finding new haunts to insert himself into. Restaurants, taverns, bustling public events, and coffee shops are his most frequent targets; if he finds the perfect candidate outside of one of those spaces wearing marks that are heavy enough, though, he won't be picky.

Once he finds scars adequate enough, he sinks into action. The approach is simple and polite: if there's too many people around, he'll ask to step aside. If it's a quiet space, he'll move to stand near, to sit across from, to linger by whoever he's got his eyes on.

And then, he'll speak. The supernaturally inclined feel static begin to build in their ears, and even those who aren't get a sensation of their own, unnatural and tingly, something akin a sleeping limb beginning to wake up.

"You have seen something great and terrible, something beyond comprehension. Tell me your story."

[Extra notes: this is my general prompt for Jon taking statements! You can play this any way you want to. If you want their CR to stay positive, your character can show up at his house and deliver their statement normally, talk afterwards, whole nine yards. For anyone who'd prefer negative CR, though, or want to have Jon take a statement but have characters who would keep that to themselves, put him wherever your character might be and have him compel it out of them!

Additionally, closed to close CR: characters are welcome to bust him compelling statements out of someone! He is doing it fully intentionally this time, and while he'll generally see himself out while emotions run high from the person he took it from, he can be caught by someone who knows what's happening. He won't target people he's friends or generally friendly with intentionally, but it can happen accidentally. Hit me with anything! \o/ ]

Comments

[lofi_charm]

At the shout, Martin lets himself in, taking a look around. It's clear someone is using this space to run a business out of their home, with the waiting room replacing a living room and the desks arranged like a reception area.

"Uh--- do I just---"

"You can come around the desks," adds a second voice, lighter than Jon's but with a slight hoarse quality to it. God, he even sounds hot.

"Oh--- s-sure," Martin agrees, doing just that. He enters the small kitchen to find it... quaint, and tidy, with one mismatched chair pulled up to the table. There's Jon, setting the table, while a short, older man with crisply styled black hair, round glasses, and the best ass Martin has ever seen mixes a salad together at the counter. Martin's shoulders shrink as he begins to feel like he's taking up too much space, conscious of the fact that he's the tallest and widest person in the room as much as he is a third wheel. "Hi. You must be, um. Neil."

"That's right!" Neil smiles. "Do have a seat, my friend, we're nearly ready."

[apocryphalarchivist]

"The walk over didn't give you too much trouble, did it? Getting out of the Oak & Iron can be a bit of a challenge when the sun starts going down," Jon talks idly as he arranges everything just-so, forgoing bringing the plates of food over in favor of the salad bowl once Neil's finished with it. It'd give everything an opportunity to cool, anyhow.

"Apologies for not thinking to buy any type of bread, by the way. Realized as soon as I got back that I forgot something, and I still can't bake anything to save my life, unfortunately."

Towards the Future

[misbegottendreamer]

"Oh, muthsera, are you quite alright?" she asks, as she hears the clatter of rods on the ground. She immediately begins feeling around for them, in an effort to help pick them up.

[apocryphalarchivist]

Jon groans, more defeated than in pain; it takes everything in him to peel himself up off the ground. He can't let the combination of eating shit be combined with letting someone who can't see try to pick up his mess for him.

"I'm alright, don't worry," He manages, straightening out his back, before joining her to pick up the rods. "I'm, ah--- sorry you had to see that, but you haven't got to trouble yourself with these. I was just giving the Pokemon a hard time about it because he's always sitting over there, looking terribly smug."

A beat, and he finally gets a good look at who's come to join him. He thought she seemed familiar - turns out that was for a very good reason.

"What brings you up this way, if you don't mind my asking? I hope all that wasn't so visible from the road that it took you out of wherever you'd been headed before."

2. Well, we knew we had the good things | Sending Stone

[crushed_pearls]

"What's up you meme-loving fuck?"

Pause.

"I have no idea why that was so god damn aggressive. Anyway, had someone read your flyer to me since, you know, I don't have fucking eyeballs and you don't write in Braille. Tape recorders I can do. If it was a plow I'd be fucked but since it's complicated and annoying I can more or less handle repair instantly. Power supply you're on your own for."

[apocryphalarchivist]

"Honestly, the aggression's kind of growing on me. What better way to know exactly who I'm talking to?"

A pause, and a clattering of plastic from his end of the sending stone. He's clearly fiddling with one of the busted tape recorders while they talk.

"That would be amazing, though. I'm still happy to pay, even if it's instant. Think you could repair a single battery, as well? Or is it more... mechanism-specific? I hardly know where things like electricity and storage of it fall in place with technical repair. I've been considering seeing if one of the local mages could just, augh, I don't know... throw some charged crystal into the compartment and call it a day for the next eighty years without frying it."

well, we knew we had the good things

[theydrewfirstblood]

When John sees the note about the tape recorders on a trip into town, he jots down the phone number. It's been a minute since he handled anything electronic, and he hasn't met many people from his point in time and place.

Hell, maybe those tapes have music on them.

So, when he gets home with some new supplies to help him make arrows for his monthly tributes, he digs the scrap of paper with the number out so he can call the guy.

When the other end picks up, the deep male voice on the other side is soft, pleasant, and just a little bit faltering.

"Uh, hi--hey, uhm, can I speak to Mr. Sims? It's about the bulletin board posting regarding the repair project."

[apocryphalarchivist]

With the sending stones in town, Jon hasn't received a phone call proper in a while. So much so that, when it rings, it surprises him, and that surprise lingers in his voice when he answers the phone to a voice that's distantly familiar - another long-time resident of town, he assumes, though not one he's spoken to extensively as of yet.

"Oh--- oh! Yes, this is, thank you for the call," Jon manages to smooth out his surprise, standing and pinning the phone to his ear. "I've still got two I'm trying to fix, one way or another. I've managed to get one repaired, and it's fully functional, but--- it's on a limited battery life, and while I could certainly get the other two tapes and play it on the first one, they are... incredibly stuck in the tape players. Is that something you'd be able to lend a hand with?"

5. beneath the Watcher's eye

[redlightgreenlight]

Daisy warned her about Jon, and so had Gerry, and yet, here she is, watching him talk to people at the Oak and Iron, watching them tell him things they might not actually want to tell. It's very interesting watching the Eye at work, how it compels information and draws energy from the individual. Eventually, she's seen enough.

"Hey." She slips into the seat across from him, which has just been vacated by a distraught older man. "Neat trick you got there."

[apocryphalarchivist]

"Mm?"

Jon, still processing the information as a tape would rewind, glances over. He wasn't expecting anyone to join him - typically, people around him and whoever he's spoken to always seem to assume bad news has been shared, and steer clear. He only loosely recognizes the new face; someone he's seen around town, but never spoken to directly.

Regardless of familiarity, though, she's seen right through him. That sits poorly, and his expression, previously having been blank, shifts to something more uncomfortable, a tight-lipped frown pulling at his lips for a moment. Those who Watch never care to be seen, themselves, and he's no exception.

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about."

Pokes the Watcher's Eye 3 Stooges Style

[xiaoxiuya]

As a cultivator of Cang Qiong Mountain Sect, Shen Qingqiu had a mandate to protect the common people from all manner of supernatural threats. Although he was not, ahem, a front-line fighter in the same manner of some of his martial siblings, still he ran his fair share of night hunts, and encountered all manner of demons, ghosts, and things that go bump in the night. There were even more than one entirely human occultist and serial killer in the mix, because Airplane sometimes had aspirations of being a real writer and tried to play with people's expectations now and then. So: he knows what a predator looks like, especially in a setting such as this.

"Mister Sims." His voice is soft and sweet, but his hand is like iron as it falls on Jon's shoulder. "I was hoping to see you again. I owe you an apology, you know." He steers Jon aware from the coffee shop he'd been about to enter, and instead towards a tavern further down the street; one that is nearly empty just now, waiting for the dinner hour rush when the miners get off work. A darkened booth in the back would be the perfect place for what he has in mind.

"I had a most illuminating conversation with Mister Blackwood," he continues, still in that sweet-soft voice. "You poor fellow! Why didn't you simply tell me that you were under a curse?"

[apocryphalarchivist]

What a sharp contrast, between the voice and the hand on his shoulder, steering him away. Jon balks, stopping in his tracks - and, despite having been well in motion towards that door, stumbles along with the hand that steers him. There's a flash of panic, a distinct recollection of what Shen Qingqiu is able to do with that hand upon the right nerves, even in a fleeting second... but that panic is overwritten by complete, utter confusion.

He's apologizing? To him? Because of Martin?

This week was getting more bizarre by the minute.

"Wh--- it's--- I-I wasn't--- thinking clearly," Jon stammers. Any composure he could've managed from the jump was scattered the second he was pulled from his task, and re-calibrating from such a certain path doesn't come as quickly as he might like. "Martin told you I was cursed? I mean, I... suppose that's one way to put it, but..."

The movement of his legs and the changing scenery finally catch up to his mind, and he takes a look behind them. The coffee shop is nearly entirely out of view. So much for that visit - it'd likely be closed by the time whatever this is has sorted itself out.

"Where are we going, exactly?"

watcher's eye

[goodweather]

Jon has chosen well. If most people's Fears start as water, then this one has whiffs of Web and Slaughter like beer, Lonely like absinthe, and Spiral like the extremely combustible Everclear.

He finds him at dusk. Phil's finished his shift and is meant to be headed home, but Jon has found him in a moment of respite and pulled him aside to a quieter place behind some establishment. Phil is happy to help someone who seems to need help, even as something off about the situation prickles at the back of his neck--which grows, sprawling across his skin when Jon asks, tell me your story.

Well. Phil doesn't exactly keep it a secret anymore, but what a way to start.

"I..." How does he start?

When he beckons, the words come: "I was a weatherman back home, too. Every year the station wanted me to cover Groundhog Day, a weather ceremony in a small town in Pennsylvania, called Punxsutawney."

He takes a breath.

"This thing that happened... it wasn't that long ago, technically, but for me it's been decades. I was a worse person then. I was as big of an asshole as you could be without becoming a criminal. Shallow, annoyed, impatient, inconsiderate, all of it. I was everything. So I hated this, too. Thought I was some kind of big shot above it all. But I had to go. So I packed my things, since it was far enough to be a road trip kind of thing, and I went. Drove north in the Channel 5 weather van with Larry the cameraman, who I'd been working with for years, and Rita Hanson, my associate producer then. I only opened my mouth to complain. You could tell they were both fed up with me, but telling me to shut up would only make me worse.

"So we, uh... we get there, and I don't really remember a lot here, but it's not really important. I go to my BnB. It's not a big place, but it's still the nicest one in town. It's basically a house owned by an old woman named Mrs. Lancaster, renovated into a BnB. I don't say hi to anyone except to check in, and I go upstairs, and I pass out. And, um... I wake up, at 6 AM, by my alarm. One of those loud, abrasive, standard-sounding ones, you know? The one you get from the digital clocks with red numbers."

Phil keeps talking. For something that apparently happened ages ago for him, he describes this day in excruciating detail; not just events like the wake-up call or elaborations on how much he fucking hated this town, but things like the pattern of the carpet and the wall, the names of the books that were in the shelves, Johnathan who said hello to him every day when he left his room, precisely who was in the downstairs lobby and what they were having for breakfast. He talks about the couple from Cleveland that comes downstairs talks about a blizzard on the way. He talks about Mrs. Lancaster's busted coffee pot. He talks about running into the marching band, running into Debbie and Freddie Kleiser (then unmarried) and them wanting a picture and getting the sheriff to take it. Jon's statements usually pull forgotten details to the forefront, but Phil has not forgotten any of this. He even recites everything that these people say to him, word for word.

He talks about finally getting to the ceremony. About meeting Rita (though they'd also done 'the flood story' together before this one), Larry pissing him off by counting down from 5. He quotes word for word the entire ceremony's proceedings. He talks about the diner. He recites everything there, too, about meeting Rita there, about the sheriffs coming in to report them getting snowed in by 'a blizzard donut,' and Phil storming out because he refused to believe he was trapped in such a shithole, and almost freezing to death out there. About running into Rita at the bar again. trying to proposition her, and failing because Rita is too smart to fall for dicks like him.

"So I stormed off to bed," he says. "I was prepared to leave in the morning. The roads would be clear, and we could go home, and I could quit and move to a different station and never have to cover GHD again. But when I woke up, it was... to the alarm again. And the wakeup call, and the news guys covering GHD on the radio. It wasn't February 3rd. It was February 2nd. Groundhog Day. Again."

[apocryphalarchivist]

Jon listens, intent and calculated, as Phil's story unfolds and the spiral of the repeats unspoken wind deeper and deeper. There's a different feeling and a deeper, more visceral fear to feed on that comes from Phil not only knowing these words by the Archivist's influence, but by his own memory.

February the 2nd burns in the man's mind with the pronounced scars of a branding iron, even from merely delving into the first day of it - it barely takes any pull to stoke the flames and cause it to awaken one more. One day's worth of horror pours forth days, weeks, perhaps months worth of endless winding torment of a day truly never gone past.

The silence is only broken when Phil trails off, but Jon doesn't leap to it, despite looking clearly hooked by every word he says. He folds his hands on the table, neatly, and Compels, tugging ever-so-softly for the information to pour fourth.

"One day gone, but never truly. And what does your next February the 2nd hold?"

[Malevolent Voice] Fuck your eyes

[listenforbirdsong]

"Hey! Dickhead!"

Jon Sims does not know Mairi Miann, but boy does she know him. The water genasi is drenched and dripping onto her summer gown, fin-like ears pinned down in an expression of anger. She is blue-skinned and tall, nearly as tall as Jon, with strange eyes that speak of deep, dark water. She grabs him by the shirt, immediately getting him wet as well.

"Are you the one going around forcing people to tell spook stories?"

[apocryphalarchivist]

Jon had just been outside his home, preparing for a short trek into town - coincidentally, this time, no Fear-feeding involved. He looks alarmed when the unfamiliar face draws close, too close, and staggering back doesn't work when she grabs at him. Oh shit,, she's strong.

(Well, well, well, if it isn't the consequences of his actions.)

"I--- I beg your pardon?" His response isn't graceful, nor does it even address her accusation. He's floundering, panicked, and so, so very caught off guard. "Ma'am, I don't--- i-if you could just calm down, I---"

Beneath the Watcher's Eye

[hadnoright]

When she told him that everything Avatar about him seemed to be progressing as expected, she probably should've seen this part coming. Maybe that's what she gets for trusting him to actually self-report how bad things were getting, forgetting just how bad they both are at doing just that. Forgetting just how readily Jon hid it before, even if he did get busted eventually.

It's the mark of the Eye popping up on people it didn't used to be that she catches, in the end. Even then, she hopes that maybe it's just an uptick in volunteers, but... never the optimist, she starts a little hunt of her own, anyway.

Which is why Jon will feel eyes on him, as he's finishing up with another statement in sit-down shop of some kind. Not from another table, but from the window, looking in from outside where Daisy leans against a lamp post. Waiting.

[apocryphalarchivist]

It's a miracle that the feeling of eyes upon him doesn't interrupt Jon's statement-taking; even with her so far away, the weight of her stare feels like it's practically bearing down over his shoulder. From the elven woman who spirals deeper into panicked explanation with every moment, he lifts his gaze, only once, to Daisy, before looking back.

Well, there goes any good excuse to make an attempt to slip out the back.

Once he stands slowly, with a word of thanks to the woman as he does, he sees himself out, and brushes out of the crowd, quickly vanishing as though he'd never been among them at all. The door clicks quietly closed behind him as he leaves.

Best to get the inevitable out of the way.

"I don't usually see you out this way at this hour," Jon calls over the short distance, pushing forward casualness as firmly as possible. Even if he's been caught, he's still deflecting. It's hard to tell if it's more habit or sheer denial at this point. "I'd ask if you were looking for a stop by the pub, but unfortunately, I was just starting to head home for the night."

beneath the watcher's eye

[cacophonish]

There's a musician out on a street corner. The sun's down, and though a few may pause to listen here and there, it's just a brief stop on their way to their actual destinations. A pub, a tavern, home, anywhere but out on this random, desolate corner.

It seems more like he's amusing himself than actively trying to make some brass with his busking, and the lack of any dedicated audience means that he is, for all intents and purposes, alone.

Sometimes, he performs a folk song, something local and well known by the residents. Sometimes, he performs music from his own world, covers that might be familiar to those from a similar time and place. And sometimes, he performs his own original compositions, the greatest hits from a band that never made it big. He performs with the kind of ease that comes with a lifetime of practice, and there's a casual confidence to the way he strums the guitar and sings his tunes. If one were to really stop and listen, they might catch something odd here and there, like... The wrong word? A bit of nonsense in the middle of a lyric just about everyone knows by heart? A little something that doesn't belong? It's like, for a moment, there's a prickling feeling of wrongness, but it's hard to pinpoint why and maybe it's just the imagination. Must've misheard him.

Anyway, he should be an easy snack for Jon!

[apocryphalarchivist]

At first, it truly was just a prowl for him, another opportunity to seize some terror and get his energy back. The man busking looks familiar--- possibly a face that he's seen over the course of the year--- but that's merely from a distance. As Jon does draw closer, he settles on no answers, try as he might.

He recognizes Jeff. He does not recognize Jeff. He recognizes these lyrics, but only for minutes at a time, before something trips his understanding into confusion.

Something isn't right.

The Mark of the Distortion isn't something that takes him long to pick up, but even that provides few answers - much to the delight of the Fear, he's sure. Is this the man he recognizes, or something wearing his face? Are the doors here entirely where they ought to be? (What is the name of this song!? It's certainly on the tip of his tongue on purpose.)

He fishes into his pocket, and once he finds a Brass piece, he drops it into whatever container Jeff's sat out, stepping back to linger. As soon as he stops playing, there's a million questions that Jon wants to begin to press upon - the first one that finds its way out isn't the most pressing one, but it's something that was nagging at the back of his mind to the point of feeling like it was beginning to gnaw.

"What is the name of the song you were playing? I think I've heard it somewhere before."

Beneath the Watcher's Eye (Voluntary) | CW cannibalism, self-harm, self-harm in the other sense

[restingslasherface]

Statement of Agent Jean, regarding the hiring and disciplinary practices of R-Corp. Statement taken live from subject morning of Thirteenth August, year unverifiable due to multiple conflicting calendars. Statement begins.

"I know this won't help me move on. But, hahaha, hahahahahaha, HAHAHAHAHA -" Jean coughs several times, from deep in their chest, and chances a sip of coffee to clear their throat. "But it already isn't moving on, so maybe a saner perspective could. Could help? I certainly don't want to go to Captain Zelda first, she has enough horrors..."

Here we are again. A cup of coffee, Jean's rhythmic stirring of it, never quite looking Jon in the eyes or those eyes or those eyes over there or those eyes over there or those eyes over there or, in fact, those ones, over there. Jon, and perhaps only Jon, can make out faint music emanating from Jean's voice.

"I've told you a bit about Lobotomy Corporation. This...is sort of about them, and it starts at my time there, but it's not really about the Abnormalities or our Employees. We had a contract with another Wing, with the Fourth Pack of R-Corp specifically. Pack...their terminology could get a bit unhelpful. The Fourth Pack is the overall command of that army, sure, but each individual platoon is also a Pack, is the thing. Rhino Pack, Reindeer Pack, and Rabbit Pack, under Captain Nikolai. Before you ask, they weren't animal people, just...animal themed. The Rabbits were the worst of them, crazed and bloodthirsty, looking for any excuse to kill everything that moved, so of course we were contracted with them, under Myo. Here, I have a sketch."

"On our end, the expectations couldn't be simpler. The Manager presses a button, and alarms go off. You have ten seconds to evacuate the Department before the Rabbit Team deploys and the doors are fully sealed. They don't open again until everything is dead. They were expensive, they were ruthless, one time they shot me in the ass, and they were worth it, every time. Every single time."

They pause. It is not a silence, because they do not stop stirring their coffee, but they pause, and they are in no hurry to resume. When Jean finally does, the music has changed.

"It's like I said about the train, though. The Fourth Pack attacked the Library, is the thing, Comrade Jon. They had to. They needed to, they didn't have a choice, not if they wanted to continue their way of life, not if they wanted to avoid corporate execution, they had to attack us, and the Floor of Language gave them battle. I...I gave them battle. And the Library showed us the way of life they were so desperate to preserve. I can't. I can't un-know it. I wish I could un-know it, so I wouldn't have to try to understand it."

A deep, shuddering breath.

The spoon stops moving entirely, poised beneath a single finger, held upright in the cup.

"The Singularity of R-Corp, the 'technology that can violate the known laws of physics', is cloning from backup. Their soldiers can preserve an earlier version of their self, and that version can be printed again as a full adult, with all of their experiences. But the laws of the City say: additional copies of any given subjectivity may not survive for a period of longer than 24 hours, or all instances of that subjectivity will be summarily executed. No endless armies, but backups, well, that could be useful, right? But they don't simply use it for backups. When an R-Corp soldier dies, R-Corp rents an area of subjective time from T-Corp. Within the area, two weeks pass inside of twenty-four hours, and this may be observed with minimal lag from outside. I watched, Jon. The Library made me watch."

"They made so many copies of Myo, and they were thrown into the bubble. No weapons, no armor, no food, no water. And I watched. Myo had done this so many times before that all of her were actually looking forward to it, and I. Watched. Her tear into herself with teeth and fists. You'd think it would be an all-out bloodbath, but they had to survive those two weeks, do you understand? All of her were hunting herself, and they were rationing the corpses, sipping sparingly of the blood. Planning tactical betrayals and ambushes. And I watched. I watched during lulls in the battles when Myo talked to herself, bragging, swaggering, each one promising she'd be the next Myo. I watched them die, and be consumed. I watched them become victorious. I watched Myo break herself enough to be a new Myo, and be chosen as the next Myo, and then I gave her battle again, Jon."

Jean lets the spoon go. Their face is so distant.

"...But the thing that haunts me is she defended it to our faces. She spat our sympathy back at us and demanded we retract it. Said we had no right to judge. That she's happy. Isn't that odd? That's the part that really scares me."

"I'm not certain anything human lives in that City."

[apocryphalarchivist]

Jon listens attentively, and while he listens, he writes. Jean's every word is recorded on paper--- something he's happy to provide a copy of, upon request. The silence in the room has an extra level of weight to it, when both the sounds of the stirring and the pen stop, the final period jotted after their last word.

He stews, quietly, processing the information. There's a few gaps - notably, he hasn't placed his pen aside.

With this statement, entirely voluntary, from a dear friend, he's well within himself still to offer compassion, but he does pry. He's content on the information he has - but there's something else, just beneath all of it. Perhaps, if not for himself, Jean needs to see those pieces.

He speaks, and in doing so, continues to write. The tone is conversational; he's clearly not really paying attention to the writing, despite it coming out completely legibly.

"If you don't mind my asking," He offers, giving them an out, but the threads of compulsion still pull the tangles loose softly. If they're inclined to share, he'll make it easy for them. "Why were they attacking the Library? Wouldn't something with such a great expense have an equally weighted reason behind it? Not saying that the reason is warranted, or right, considering the grander scheme of the way the City operates, but... I wonder."

Ghost Moment [On the Bluffs, post-humous]

[pumpkinhollowites]

When Jon's spirit breaks free of the haze of separating from life, he'll find a man sitting on the edge of the cliff outside his home, should he go a-wandering. Not much else to do when you're haunting, after all. The figure is short of statue, but visibly not a child, and he doesn't have that haze that the living have when one wanders the island as a ghost. He doesn't seem to notice Jon that much.

[apocryphalarchivist]

The cliff's edge, coincidentally, is the first place Jon wanders to. It's a spot he's routinely used to clear his head, and he has a lot to roll over in his mind. Imagine his surprise when he turns the corner of his humble home, and finds that spot already occupied.

He's tentative, but the differences are too clear and too unusual between them for him to resist looking into it. He steps forward, clears his throat, and lifts a hand in an awkward side-wave.

"Ah--- hello? Sir?"

Watcher's Eye

[prince_of_beasts]

It's obvious Dimitri's got a history with violence. Even seated in the downstairs of the Oak and Iron, he carries the sword at his hip with the effortless self-awareness of a limb. It may as well be a bodily part of him when he's never seen without it. An observant onlooker might notice how he keeps his back to a wall, monitoring sightlines the rooms entrances and exits. His demeanor seems casual, but any sudden sound or movement snaps him to alertness, calculating threat and reaction.

That assessing gaze sweeps over Jon, with a polite nod when Dimitri sees his attention's returned. (His demeanor is casual enough, but -- is that a twinge of threat? The Eye's suspicion of a rival predator?)

It's not hard to get him talking about it. He's not ashamed of his past; he hesitates for the benefit of his listener, not himself. It's an unpleasant story. Are you sure -- ?

Well. As long as you're sure.

It's quieter once they step outside the Oak and Iron's bustling bar area. Late summer means the light lasts long into the evening, but the breeze is cool, carrying the beginnings of the night's insect chorus. Dimitri stands against the tavern wall, crosses his arms, and pauses again, contemplating where to begin.

"What do you know of the Kingdom of Faerghus, Mr. Sims?"

[apocryphalarchivist]

Sometimes the choices that he draws to aren't the ones that seem like they would provide the greatest ease, and Dimitri is no exception. Marks weigh heavily upon him, a variety set upon a banquet table, but the sword at his hip hangs proverbially over Jon's head.

Perhaps there's an extra level of care to this one that Jon offers, in the wake of that threat. He starts the Compulsion conversationally, not pulling it out of him with great force. Precision is required not to pierce anything that would cause those Marks, so heavy in their Slaughter that, upon the mere mention of the kingdom's name, he can practically see the tragedy unfold then and there, nor anything that might put him on the business end of that sword.

"Nothing at all, unfortunately. Feel free to begin there."

Wildcard -- after the Blight

[xiaoxiuya]

Strange as it is to contemplate, Shen Qingqiu and Jonathan Sims are apparently some kind of social intimates now. That, or Sims is just luring him out behind his house to kill him, but Shen Qingqiu is trying to avoid making any assumptions about the man now he's technically sworn to assist him. If nothing else he seems to have a healthy respect for Shen Qingqiu's strength and combat techniques, so that probably takes murder off the table.

What was it he invited Shen Qingqiu over to come look at? Some kind of cursed artifact?

[apocryphalarchivist]

Jon's train of thought is simple, as he guides him around the side of his home, to the small shed just out back. It's nestled behind his home, just at the edge of a small garden he's attempted to keep up, and looks, ostensibly, like it should merely house tools for that very purpose. Before he moved in, it may very well have!

Now, however, those illusions of normalcy are immediately thrown off by the metal lock carefully installed on the front of it, which he has to fumble in his pockets to find the key for.

"So, I'll warn you in advance," Jon starts, glancing back to Shen Qingqiu once he manages to find that key. "Granted your history and, ehm. Area of expertise,, you may find these items I've stored away unpleasant to be around, and I apologize for that. Many of them are a mystery, though, and I had thought, well. Maybe I was overdue having a professional come and give their weigh-in."

So maybe he's trying to fluff up Shen Qingqiu's ego a little bit to take the edge off of witnessing these deeply cursed objects. Who could blame him? If it helped him to not immediately chase his new acquaintance off, it was worth a try.

The lock, taking minimal fumbling, makes a loud thunk as it opens, a metal bar drawing out of the frame. Jon pushes it open, and clears his throat awkwardly, waving Shen Qingqiu along.

"And here we are."

Jon's own personal "artefact storage" is small, but ever-growing. The walls of the shed are lined with shelves, and each item is kept with sufficient spacing from the others - seemingly for fear of a reaction, should they touch.

Among the items is a wicker basket with strange fruit that seemingly not gone bad despite age (judging by the dust collecting on them), a pair of scissors that bear all-too sharp a point at the end of its blades, a strange coin, a stone pendulum on a lock of silver hair, and one of the tape recorders he'd bought, lacking it's tape, but clearly not trusted.

And, towards the furthest wall, sits a meat grinder.

At first glance, it looks no different than any other meat grinder. It's cast-iron frame looks almost entirely new, the silver polish shining in the light that filters from the door. The handle is made of a finely carved wood, tying together the look of a thoroughly professionally-crafted item. This look is diminished by the heavy chains that bind the handle, wrap around the grinder itself, and embed into the wall of the shed. Jon clearly went to great lengths to make sure this grinder has no ability to leave this shed under any circumstances.

"Well, browse as you like," Jon offers, stepping aside. It's spacious enough for two people to not bump into one another while they look at the shelves, but no larger than that. "My explanations for most will be brief, I'm afraid, but I can tell you all that I can about any of them. I bought them from Calloway's Curios. Hate to give the man any money, but... I didn't want one of our unsuspecting neighbors buying them and using them, with no prior understanding of the effects they may have."

Beneath the Watcher's Eye (before word gets around about the statement-taking)

[takethatnature]

"Have we met?" Wilson asks, incredulous at the nerve of the vaguely familiar man. Another Ocularum member, he thinks, but they haven't spoken before. The question's mostly rhetorical anyway, defensive against the cold sting of Nightmare Fuel in his fingertips and radio static at the edge of his hearing. Not what he expected on his way back from the library. Wilson brought an axe in case of monsters, a torch to hold back the darkness, but neither seems like the right tool to ward off a fellow Pumpkin Hollowite with an impertinent question.

He makes a juicy target, and a multifaceted one. The short, pale, bristly man with the curly spikes of hair is riddled with marks. Buried, Desolation, End, Flesh, Hunt, Eye, Slaughter, hints of Web and Lonely and Stranger and a frisson of Vast. The deepest is Dark, entwined with a Spiral tag-along; where Wilson comes from, the two are never far from each other, but Mr. Pitch is the one calling the shots. It's that well that Jon's drawing from now.

Wilson finds that he can't leave it there, can't stop at giving his nosy neighbor the brush-off and walking away. Or maybe he just doesn't want to. Doesn't he want to make sure this guy knows exactly what he's in for with that question, pile detail after gory detail onto him until Wilson's no longer the only one who wakes up frantic and drenched in sweat from thinking about it? If he told his entire story that way they'd both be here until sunrise, but he can at least pick out one of the worst parts and gift-wrap it.

"It had been one hundred and eight days since I'd seen the sun. I don't think that last world had a sun. It was covered in fireflies, I'd been catching those for light, but I was starting to run out." Wilson pauses, preparing an educational tangent. "The advantage of firefly-powered lighting is that it's hands-free and noncombustible. Mount it on your hat and you can fight, you can use tools, you don't have to worry about burning down an entire forest if you use too much of it or put it down in the wrong place. But fireflies barely breed in the Constant at the best of times. I had to get to the portal before I drove them locally extinct."

"It was covered in huge spiders, but that was fine, they distracted the clockwork automata that wanted to crush me and fry the pieces. Once the dust settled I patched myself up with some improvised spider-venom salve, loaded my most important items into the teleportation machine's baggage compartments—" —calling it the Teleportato or the Wooden Thing would undermine the effect he's going for, even if it has no other proper name that he's aware of— "—and let the shadow hands come up and grab me. No amount of experience could ever get me used to those things. On pure instinct I try to run away even if I wanted them there, but I can't get more than a step or two before they catch me by the arms and legs and then I'm up to my neck in pure darkness wrapped around me and it pulls me down through a hole in the threads of the world."

[apocryphalarchivist]

Should Jon know him, he shows no inclination of confirming or denying either way. Of course, he has seen Wilson before, in those Ocularum gatherings. An inventor, a scientist, but no one that Jon had spoken to directly. Often times, these close ties would have had him think better of muddling his social spaces, and find someone with less personal consequence to him.

It was impossible to deny the draw of all those weighted, heavy marks, though, so widely varied that this man is only a few short of a fear catalogue, and so easily leafed through with the right place to look. His gaze is intent and hungry, and, ever attentive, he listens, until it is his turn to continue to pull the story free.

"When you are pulled through this hole and torn from the world, where do the hands take you, Mr. Higgsbury?"

Beneath The Watcher’s Eye (tw for nonconsensual Statement-giving)

[glassaxolotl]

A man has been watching Dedue for the last several days.

Dedue is someone who takes great care to blend into the background. Historically, when strangers have looked too long at him, it hasn’t been for good reasons. So he is hyper aware that, no matter where he goes in town, there is a pair of wide, piercing eyes that stay completely fixated on him.

It is a gaze that digs into his skin, cuts down to the bone. But even worse is the feeling of inevitability that accompanies it. Because, despite having no interest in talking this person nor any trust in his own safety if he did choose to interact, a part of Dedue feels like he is going to tell this man everything. He doesn’t want to. He really doesn’t want. But he is going to eventually. It’s just a matter of time.

On the third day, the man finally approaches him. Dedue feels frozen in place. He wants to flee, but his body won’t will it. Instead, eyes pointed at the floor rather than meeting that painful gaze, Dedue whispers softly, “I do not want to say it.” His hands shake. “Please. Do not make me say it.”

[apocryphalarchivist]

It would have been the right thing to do, to let this man go. Jon has the opportunity to do so - it would be so simple, so easy, to release him, apologize, and go about his day. It takes a great deal of resistance to deny the call, even the first one, and Jon doesn't get many changes to rethink these things. He could finally decide that enough is enough, and that he's finally committed to denying this "calling" of his.

It would be easier if he were not so, so very hungry.

The glimpses of marks had been easy to catch in passing, and easier to hone in deeper and deeper on. Perhaps that had been his mistake, not leaping at the first opportunity, making this so much more personal by stalking his prey to these lengths. Maybe he'd been trying to talk himself out of it, grappling with the understanding that this is wrong. Or, maybe, he'd been feeding on the chase as much as he is the capture, sowing that paranoia of attention ever deeper with each passing day.

None of that matters now. Not how he will feel afterwards, nor what he might have told himself to make peace with this before. He sees that which is not his lying just beneath the surface of Dedue's mind, and he rejects any opportunity to give this poor fellow mercy - he must have it.

"Tell me," Jon presses, quiet and fierce. When he'd approached, he'd given Dedue a modicum of personal space - another step is taken closer, denying even that small kindness. "Tell me everything of what you have seen."

2

[craftlife]

At the concept of not only repairing technology but getting paid for it, Deon practically vibrates out of his skin. He makes arrangements to go repair the tape recorder and shows up at Jon's place, cheerful as can be.

"Hallo," he says with a smile, his caracal ears pricked forward. "I can't say I've seen a tape recorder in quite some time, but it shouldn't be too difficult to fix."

[Deon is most likely a triple threat of Flesh/Hunt/Slaughter, if Jon is in the mood for a meal.]

[apocryphalarchivist]

Of the people who have helped him with this project thus far, Deon is something new entirely. Jon does his best to not let his attention drift up to those pointed ears - and, instead, invites him in, even if his smile is a bit awkward. (Don't worry about it, Deon, that's just his face.)

"Hello! To be honest with you, they were a bit outdated in my time, as well. Part of why I haven't got the slightest idea where to begin with it. ...Aside from the water damage," Jon starts to explain, and once Deon is inside, he closes the door behind them, stepping over to the little desk situated just beside the door.

Among all the clutter is a sea salt encrusted tape recorder, sat beside a similar one in a more remarkably-new state. He offers it over, after chipping a flaking piece of congealed salt off of it, frowning thoughtfully as he does.

"It's in a bit of a state, as you can see. I've got one functional one, so in theory, we only really need it to be opened, but... I'd like to have more operational ones, if possible. Relying on one without any sort of back-up is just waiting for disaster to strike."