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

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

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/ ]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Daisy follows, falling into pace well enough despite his long legs. He gets a pointed look for that comment, and a response of: "Of course I'm not. But that doesn't make it not a problem, Jon. You know that. Or you wouldn't be sneaking around like a gangly little creep to do it."

She somehow says the phrase 'gangly little creepy' with a weird kind of affection, despite it also definitely being insulting.

Well, there goes any coherent defense he might've had for himself. Instead, he sputters, offended and outraged.

"I am not sneaking around like a gangly little creep! I am---" A frustrated gesture, vague, but somewhat in his direction. "Walking around entirely normally! What, are you going to accuse me of fucking lurking next?"

He is. He is sneaking around, and he is most assuredly lurking. He hates it, but she is absolutely right, but that doesn't make him want to admit it any more than if he truly wasn't.

Daisy half-heartedly gives him a sideways shove. "You're absolutely lurking! You think I don't know hunting when I see it? Sure, for you. Eye types, it's different. But that's what it is. You lurk. You sneak around. You ambush."

And walks away fed but still not entirely satisfied after months of lacking the Fear needed to really scratch the itch.

"I get it. Believe me. I get it. But c'mon."

Jon lets out a huff, sharp and agitated, but falls back in right beside her. No amount of offense can form an argument to that. Of course a Hunter would recognize exactly what he's doing.

"The statements I've got aren't doing enough anymore," Jon finally admits, though it's clear he's taking no pleasure in doing so. "I've reread old ones, I get new ones occasionally from volunteers, but it's... I think the word you used once was stale. I'd been making do for the most part, but I pulled one, accidentally. Genuinely an accident, so you can keep any suspicious glances to yourself. A fellow who stopped by West Dream Analytics, and got to talking about what led him here. It was---" He lets out a sigh, his resolve crumpling gently. "It was the best I've felt in months. I hadn't realized how bad it'd gotten until then."

For what it's worth there are no suspicious glances, this time. She believes him. A single slip is all it takes to start falling towards rock bottom.

Erin would call it a relapse, she thinks. She's not sure if she can bring herself to do the same.

Her tongue drags over her teeth and she sighs. "Last time I slipped up. I killed three people. Plus injured another three. And afterwards? When it was all over? I was the healthiest I'd been in over a year. From— skin and bones to peak condition. Just like that."

She snaps her fingers.

Jon's raised hackles and defensive readiness lower at last, slowly but surely. There was a rational level of him that knew, even from the jump, that she would understand... but that didn't stop him from the knee-jerk defense from being caught in the act.

"It's never been easier to think, too," Jon sighs, finally spilling into full admission. "I haven't felt like I have to drag myself up from a sad little heap any time I sit down, and the energy gets me through days. A week, sometimes, if it's something hefty enough. But..."

He trails off, and the guilt breaks past that guise of perfect rationalization. There's always a catch.

"But you're still putting these poor bastards through the same thing that made me try to kill you. And you know it's horrible."

She's not sure if anyone's started to get nightmares, now he's doing it more. She's not sure she even wants to know, choosing instead to be grateful that, if they have, she's seemingly still got her protection thanks to the contract. But it only took a few months to drive her to a breaking point when she had those dreams, and they both know it.

Daisy may do almost unmatched physical damage to her victims, but Jon does almost as much mental.

Jon moves his hands from his pockets, folding his arms across his chest. There's the sticking point, the bit of it that he's tried to put out of sight, and therefore, out of mind. It was only a matter of time before doing so bit him in the ass.

"We don't know if the nightmares stick like they did back home," His defense has little actual push back. It speaks very clearly that he hasn't bothered to check. "And it's... necessary. There's too much going on to have me any less than fully at the ready. Plus, what if there's a through-line? Something specific that's happened to people, that points to why they've been brought here? Shouldn't we try to understand that? The Ocularum, they--- intend to research that. It could get the barrier down, sooner rather than later. It's difficult now, but wouldn't a breakthrough like that be worth it?"

His justifications ramble on, and he's clearly not only been thinking long and hard about what he's doing, but has tried to seek whatever validation in doing so he can find. It's flimsy, even still.

The look he gets at the nightmares comment says more than words could. Withering, unwavering.

"Say you're right," she says, not willing to truly wade into the mess that is the question of which organisation's approach is the right one. She barely understands it all, even having chosen to stand behind Dahlia. And its not what matters to her, here and now. "Then, yeah. Maybe it'd be worth it. Well done, you justified the means. But what if you're wrong? About it helping. Or about it being worth it! Then what, Jon?"

She shakes her head. "I told myself that everything I did? I did for the greater good. For justice. But that was all just lies. Me— justifying myself."

Her look is only met for a fleeting second. Another crumple forms in his foundation. He's pushed back much more effectively against other concerned words, threats, or judgement; they didn't know what he was going through, so what did it matter? Daisy's perspective leaves his argument no stronger than wet paper. She knows.

"I-I don't know what else to do, though, Daisy. You know it's not that simple," He tries to argue. "So there's the chance that the statements don't have a connection, I--- I know that's possible. I do. But... I--- it's just--- the more this happens, the longer I go without, I feel ravenous. I feel like I get weaker by the minute, at a point. I-I worry that it's going to kill me. That doesn't mean much here, but--- if it starts right back up after I die, what do I do? Die every day or so? A-and, God, I mean... the longer I go, it starts to feel like it's out of my hands. I'm not even thinking about it. I-I'm there, and I've found someone who fits the bill."

The longer he explains, the more his composure wanes. True senses of justification are slipping away - it's crumpled into plain, simple need, as out of his hands as needing air feels.

Her hand appears on his arm, firm but careful to avoid the claws.

"Hey. I know." The hand squeezes, still careful. "I've felt it. It's like— starvation and withdrawal all— tied up in a nasty little bow. You try real food and it doesn't touch it. It just keeps eating away at you. Like acid but it's your soul it's burning through. Taking what you won't give. And no one else gets it. No one else can get it. Not really."

There's a reason why, even the first time they had to confront him about this, Daisy pushed the least. Melanie, Basira, they didn't understand the need of it. How it was like denying yourself food even as you wasted away. Always hungry. Always ravenous.

"I almost died more than once 'cause of it. It's— it might be the worst way to go." And she's died a lot of ways, most of them horrific. "I'm not telling you to starve. I'm telling you we need another way."

Jon settles, visibly; the touch does wonders for the nerves that were escalating faster than he could catch up with. It's hard to feel like there is another way, especially right now, but Daisy is here. Clearly, she's alive.

He's got the knee-jerk impression that it's easier to side-step feeding the Hunt properly, but even if that were the case, she's the only one who's truly heard him out, and still believed there to be an alternative. Even after he's laid it all out, there's no sense of just figure it out coming from her.

"What other way is there, though? I-I don't even know where to begin. I'm worried that I've gone and--- made it an unsolvable problem, by letting myself fall this far out of hand. Turned myself into an obligate monster, with no other solution but--- to pull everything I can from these people."

"I thought the same. We feed on fear. Can't change that, not now. But we can work around it. I know I've got it easier with the animal hunting, but..."

Even that's a struggle some days. Like she said, it gets stale.

"I can still give you statements. Got a lifetime's worth. Even if maybe you lose the kickback from the dreams. And if there's people who I've hurt—killed, even!—that have listened. Understood. Then there'll be people here who'll listen to you too. Who may give you what you need so long as they know you need it."

Jon takes that in for a moment, nodding slowly. He's been cagey about the details as to why he's needed to take statements, never particularly showing his full hand to those he doesn't know all that well, all for the sake of maintaining the guise of being human. Maybe it was time, at last, to let that go - at least enough that he can forsake hunting.

"...I'll put up a new post on the bulletin board," He finally agrees, after a tentative moment. "I'll reword it, and make it clear that it isn't just some--- academic flight of fancy. And I'll take you up on those. You've helped with so much already, I didn't want to impose, but..."

He trails off for a moment. A thought crosses the mind, one he's weighed before; a way to lend a hand back to the one she's offered so readily. Before, he'd been too uncertain to actually offer it. There's just enough resolve to try, this time.

"I don't know if it would run the risk of going too deeply for you, as well, but--- should you ever need a... a proper hunt. Especially with you giving me statements before you were even certain if the nightmares wouldn't come back, it's only fair I put that on the table."

"Good. I know it's not easy, Jon. But you've gotta try."

The agreement even makes Daisy relax, a touch; a subtle drop of tension from her shoulders. For all that she so often would have people think she doesn't, she cares. So much so that not caring is a defensive mechanism against how hard it drags her in once she does. Caring can be dangerous. Caring can make you do stupid things.

Not for the first time recently she hears Jon's voice in her head, talking about how scared he'd been in the forest. She's not sure if that makes the offer more or less inviting.

"It's— a little risky. But. I'll think about it. See if I think I've got it in me." To restrain herself at the end, that is. She might. "...thanks, either way. I appreciate it."

They're close to her place, now, so she adds, "Alright. You wanna come in? We've got tea and stuff. And if you're not too stuffed from the last poor bastard I can give you something. Tide you 'til the new notice hopefully works."

"Wouldn't have offered without knowing just how risky it would be," He's quick to assure her. "Just let me know, and all, ah. Clear the schedule."

Even if he half-jokes at the end, there, he's not only fully aware of the potential of dying by her hands, but in a way that would feel all-too-familiar. It might not be something he could offer when they're not quite so thoroughly deathless, in case of incidents - but maybe that was something she could work towards?

He's certainly not going to turn down her offer, though, even if he does look surprised to see the cozy little house just down the street. Time sure does fly when you're busy having awkward, stressful conversations.

"Sounds lovely, though, if it wouldn't throw any wrenches in your evening. This probably going to sound worse than I mean it to, but for every new Pine Devil statement I take, they get less... substantial. You're chased through the woods, it catches you, you die. As terrible as it feels to call someone's horrifying experience predictable..."

"Got no other plans. Erin'll be back eventually, but for now she's out." And it's not like there's anything she'd readily offer Jon that she'd be worried about Erin overhearing, anyway.

For now, she fusses in her pockets for her keys. That's still weirdly mundane to have to do.

She snorts a laugh, she can't help it. "Oh it's definitely terrible. But I'm not surprised. Guess there are a lot of those to go around."

"You'd think, this far in, it'd start getting creative with it. Maybe start using tools. Use a can opener once or twice, for God's sake."

He's actively leaning into the terrible of it all now, for horrible, bastardly comedic effect.

This would be so much funnier if she could joke that she'll pass on the suggestion without it ending in Jon accidentally prying the information out of her.

But she still barks a laugh. "A can opener?"

If he could know the mercy Daisy was giving him, he'd be infinitely appreciative. It's amazing how their continued friendship will occasionally crop up a new situation of "I didn't need to know that about Daisy Tonner's sex life" - but maybe there's some statistical outliers there in the form of Erin Peters that need to be accounted for.

Her laugh gets one back out of him, the jokes starting to crumble the tension of the prior topic, slowly but surely. It's amazing what a simple moment of levity can do for the nerves.

"It's what came to mind first, I don't know! Anything would work, at this point!"

"Not sure you can work any tools with hooves. Unless you like. Stick them on? Somehow?"

She cannot be thinking about the Pine Devil with tools taped to her hooves when she sees Dahlia next. She cannot. Jesus christ... she's still shaking her head with a laugh when they reach her place and she lets them in.

Sorry, Daisy, that's a special problem outfitted neatly into a hilarious mental image, crafted just for you. Raw, animalistic power, with tools it can't manage to use. A modern tragedy for the times.

"Maybe it'll get special little straps for the tools. I don't know, Daisy, work with me here."

His playful needling simmers once they're inside, and he lets out a breath. There's a weariness to it, an exhaustion that's just caught up with him.

"...Thank you, by the way. For, ah... I don't know. Not trying to kill me about all of this? That's been a popular response."

( OOC: omfg i came to reread this and found out i never got a notif for this reply?? dreamwidth notifications constantly reigning hell upon me >:O )

"How's it going to get the straps on with the hooves, Jon?"

Inside, door closed, locked up behind them. Daisy tosses her key onto the side table and kicks her boots off, before loosely beckoning Jon towards the archway through to the kitchen.

"Been there. Done that," she says dryly, then snorts softly. "Seriously, though. Least I could do. This isn't. New, to me. You know? We both went through this once already. Didn't like it when Basira acted like I was any better then. Sure not going to start doing the same now."

Edited (wrong photos lmao) 2024-08-17 16:14 (UTC)

"Did we? Can't say I'm surprised, but you knowing makes the process easier, at least," Jon half-jokes, following along. Once they're in the kitchen, he gladly takes one of the bar-stools for himself, settling comfortably against the counter.

"Not a shock to hear Basira was cutting you slack that she wasn't keen to offer anyone else, either. I think anyone could have seen that coming."

"Mm, yeah. She hung onto the idea I wasn't in control. That I didn't know. For..." she sighs, heavily, "a long time. And then it was about. Aiming me at the right people."

She automatically falls into making tea. It won't be anything special, but it'll be warm and it'll be tea.

"Though by then— I was wasting away. We all knew I... wasn't gonna make it long. Like that. Basira just didn't understand that was the point."

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cw: vague reference to suicide