abraxaslogs | Recording #004

Entry tags:

Recording #004 | The Voice

WHO: Jonathan Sims et al
WHAT: DOOM
WHERE: The return from the Horizon, and the dungeons.
WHEN: From July 24th to August 12^th
WARNING: Body horror, eyes, execution talk, mention of self-harm.
NOTES: Always up to add something more specific for any asker. I'm in the group disco at all hours, or on plurk as TheHats.

Jon wakes up outside the rim of the crater with a sense of gentle, falling disappointment, staring up at the sky. He simply lays there for a while in the long grass, hands folded on his stomach, unmoving. It's one of the guards accompanying the mages that first notices he's awake, and they're swift to pull him to his feet. The guard who grabs his wrist to recuff him makes a startled sound when one of the three broad scars across Jon's throat opens and blinks lazily at him, and when another eye winks from the back of his neck, the guard escorting him back to the group pushes harder than necessary, sending him to his knees.

It's there he goes still, frozen, his eyes – all of his eyes, in their dozens now, every scar opening to show a different shade of iris with pinprick pupils – go wide as the voice sounds inside his head, for him alone, a dead language hissing like static between his ears.

H̷̨̀͂É̴̩̩͋L̷̘͂͝L̴̳̹͐Ö̴̠͉́ ̴̱̽͝H̴̡̱̎͝E̸̥̻̍̄L̵͈̽͜L̷̙͛͒Ọ̶́̔
̶̬̾Ý̸͓̖͝O̷̦͐U̴͈̿̒ ̷̳̔̀C̴̳̰̚A̸̰̔N̸͎͕̈́ ̸̗̦̂U̶̼̖͌Ṋ̶̛́ͅD̸͌̕͜E̴͖̩̅̽Ȓ̴͔͚̔S̸̘̔T̷͎͔͊͐A̶̰͑̎Ň̴̬͝D̷̙̂̐ ̸̨̦͂̊M̴͖̾Ě̷͔ ̶̹̙͆Y̷̺̱͛E̸̟̓͗S̶͎̀̒ ̸̧̥̆F̵̝̯͗I̷̛̯̔N̶̡̪͠Â̶͙̩Ĺ̸̖̭͝L̵͎̩̇Ý̸̲͈ ̷̙́ͅB̴̻̙́̈́È̶̖͖Ę̴̩͒̄N̴̺̋̑ ̵̛̮͠W̴̻̃A̴̗̞̍̕Í̷̻͝T̷͚͒́Ì̷̙̃͜Ṅ̴͖͖̂G̶̺̩̃

He doesn't answer when he's ordered to his feet,

Ç̵̥͗͑Ą̷͖͂N̴̨͈͝'̵̥̇̂T̶͔͍̕ ̶̬́͌T̵̹̔͘Ą̸̲͊͝L̷̺̓̚K̵͖̚ ̴̼̿́M̷̟̉̓Ǘ̵̠͐C̴̖̔H̵̜́ ̸̤͛Ṋ̸̄͝O̸͉̣͒̔W̵̱͐ ̸̱̻̅̚V̸̥͝͠Ẽ̷͚R̸̎͊͜Y̴̠̋̕ ̶̗̎E̵̡͒X̴̟̀H̷̘̀̓Ả̷̪U̸̞̦͊S̸̘̜̍T̶̡͙̀Ȋ̵̘N̵͓̬͂Ğ̵̢
̷͓͈͆I̷̅͜ ̵̯͌̒W̴͓͜͠I̶͔̝̍L̸̨̯̀́L̴̢̟͆͑ ̸̱̿Ș̷͆Ẹ̷͖͝Ṉ̸̼͊̎D̵̦̃ ̷̯̗̇͝M̷̤͐Ẏ̷͎ ̷̬̑Ȩ̵͍̏̏N̸̤͋V̷͚̺̾̇O̴͔̮̍̃Y̷̦͝

or rise when they yank his arm.

Ť̵̞̈́R̵̛͉̀Y̴̳͠ ̷̡̹̃N̶̘͆̉O̸̡͕̅T̵̨͗́͜ ̶͉̏́Ṭ̵̋Ȍ̸̺͓̚ ̷̢̬̽L̵̼̱̚O̸͙̾̔O̴͚̠͗͠Ḱ̸̢̕ ̷͉͈̔H̸̙̜͑̾E̶̻͒̈́ ̷̱̭̇̔I̵̻̩͗̾S̷̤̊͂ ̴͓̥̊Ǹ̶͍͇̍Ȍ̶ͅT̵͙̈́̄ ̷͕̎̓M̷͚̗̀E̴̝͛A̸͈̅N̶͓̏T̵͓̒̈́ ̸̰͙͌͌T̶͍̗̑̏O̶̡͙̽̑ ̸̠͆B̷͔͔͠E̸̼̔ ̴͙̍̓ͅS̶͉̽̏Ė̶̠̘̑E̴̪̓́͜N̷̻͍͐͝ ̸̤̉͊Ẉ̵̓̒I̴͍͋T̸̡̾H̴̖͉̎ ̶̗̠̀E̴̞̋Ẏ̴͖E̸͇̔S̴̩̕͜ ̸̀͜Ḁ̶̺̂͑Ṡ̶̯̘ ̸̱̈́͆O̸̝̓̃P̸͍͉͝Ę̶̪̚N̴͓͐ ̴̭͑Ḁ̵̱̆͂S̶̜̭͌̋ ̵̟̽̎Y̷͚̽O̷͔̙̔͒Ü̸̘̎R̸̺̚S̶͔̬̈́̚
̶̪̬̏I̸̢̝̓̀T̴̓ͅ ̸̳̃͛Ẇ̵̫̱Ȋ̶̘͔̇L̷͍͗L̸̦͊́͜ ̷̫̆͠H̶̤͍̾͝Ų̵͂̀R̶̰̳̈́̋Ţ̸͇̓ ̶̢͚̾L̵̳̍͛ͅĪ̸͎̜͝Ķ̴̗̈́̽Ē̴̡ ̷̜̀̚Ś̶̨̮T̸̢̎͜A̶̹̗̾̊R̷̝̄I̵̳̼͐̚Ǹ̴͖̥G̷̼͆̓ ̷̤́͠I̴͎̍N̷̫̻̎T̸̡͆Ỏ̵͔̱ ̷̣̽T̵̮̠̓H̷̦͒̇Ẹ̵̤́̒ ̷̪̔̄Ş̷̑U̴̹̫͆̔N̴̗̱͗̋ ̷͔͚͋̌

He's frozen in horror, listening to something other than their gruff orders,

W̴̨͗̈͠Ȃ̴̝̦I̸͍͕͂̿͝T̷̹̫̮͑ ̸̱͇͛̒͒F̴̧͕̬̋̏Ö̵̹͚͒R̵͔̔̃ ̶͉̲̂̂͑H̸̯̪̊Ī̴̳͚̈́̒M̴̢̼͔͊̚
̵̏͜S̶̖͂͝È̸̳̰̥T̷̿͜ ̸̫̮́̅M̵̺̒E̷̦̍͝ ̴͓͙̽̈́F̴̦͊̐̄ͅR̸̯̕Ẽ̵̘̆E̸͎̻̓ͅ ̵̼̊̀͌

and when they finally get him up, he staggers where he's pushed, stands where he's left, numb, pale, and breathing fast.

He's still just as unsettled when they're returned to the cells. He manages to retreat to his bed, although there's no sleep for him. The new eyes don't all shut, not when he wants them too, and he twitches at every voice. Twitches and relaxes again when he realizes they're safe, he's only hearing them with his ears.

It takes him until the next day to begin to breathe easily again, and even then, the equanimity he displayed before the Horizon is gone. Instead of sitting by the bars to see who's coming down the corridor, now he paces, jaw so tense his head aches. It's not the Eye. He knows that much. What it is, what it might be, he doesn't know. And he fears.

Threaded | Flat

If Coraline had been an Autumn Courtier, that fear coming off of Jon would have been a fantastic source of Glamour for her. It's still good, as is, but more importantly it serves to alert her that Jon is pants-shittingly freaking out.

So when she comes up by his side, darting to stand between him and the guards without heed to put a hand on his arm, it's only a tiny bit to harvest that Glamour (Jon won't even feel anything). Mostly she's legitimately concerned, and she's letting that vulnerability show on her face when she gives his arm a soft squeeze.

Everything was coming up Homelander these days. The dream, the visit, the Singularity as the mages called it - had been wonderful and much-needed. The feelings of home, of victory, had lingered for hours and it still hasn't fully dispatched as he makes his way down to the dungeons.

No, those feelings linger. Warm him, when boredom and the trivial struggles of this world gets to him. When he wakes up to the sounds of someone else in the room, when he eats the food that tastes nothing like Campbell's and when he smiles tightly at the other... heroes.

But that's not why he's here. In the dark. While most people top-side are welcoming, smiling and waving at him like they are supposed to. He's down here, because that one roommate had betrayed Thorne.

Homelander stops in front of the cell, hands clasped behind his back. "Jon?"

The delay between arriving back from the Horizon and making his way down into the dungeons is purely practical. The execution has a date. Stephen's no good to anyone marching down to the cells with a head three quarters full of concern for the multiverse, quarter of fury over circumstance. So, even with the calculation muddied by the unsteady twisting of his mood, he'd still come to the conclusion that taking a day to gather his thoughts and reorient himself to the situation as it stands was a necessity as much as it was an expense of limited time.

But a day or so later make his way down he does, feeling his mood sour away from the carefully reconstructed neutral he's set himself in as his ability to reach out for magic is dampened and snuffed out by the descent.

There are a few people he ought to be talking to down here - and will check in on later. None of them are quite as pressing as this one. Stephen makes his way to the cell he'd last seen Jon occupying and— stops. A stride or two off from dead centre, whatever he might have had ready to say to him dries up before it makes it out of his mouth as he's blinked at by an eye that isn't where it ought to be.

Given what he knows about Jon Sims, eyes where eyes shouldn't be isn't the most promising development fresh out of another dimension.

"That's new," he says by way of introduction, tone tight.

[ It's been about a week since a bunch of fresh faces have shown up. Roland's been working his way through the prisoners, getting what information he can out of them like he's done with the freer "guests" upstairs.

One thing he keeps hearing is about this Simms fella-- a man who one person tried to tell him had made an attempt on Ambrose's life and was now condemned to death for it. He's heard other things, about what the man looks like. It hasn't prepared him for the sheer number of eyes. Two's the right number, though Roland's known some good men who had half that many.

More than two--

He represses a shudder, at feeling so seen. Keeps the mingled curiosity and horror from his face. He's a gunslinger, not a squeamish untrained boy. ]

Hile, Jonathan Simms.

[ The customary "long days and pleasant nights" doesn't seem a fair greeting for someone condemned to death. ]

He doesn't really stop at the cell. The elf runs by the cell, letting his fingers slap against the metal bars. It is just as he is about to run completely by that he grabs onto one of the bars and literally pulls himself backwards to look in.

"Martin was holding out on me." Nero comments, at first, as he looks the man over. He notes the various eyes that are sprouted all through his skin. "Here I thought the two of us were getting close with one another."

He slides his hands up and down the bars, as he draws himself closer. His lips curl into a wide, pleased smile. "Hi, Jon. I'm Nero."

The Horizon, on its own, had been a lot to handle all at once. Sam has been spending most of his time back from it checking in on all those he had met, but if he'd been honest, Jon was one that he's had on his mind since waking up. The conversation they had, yes, but also the knowledge of what Sam didn't know while they were in the Horizon that he did now.

That Jon was imprisoned for 'assaulting' Ambrose. That he was set to be executed in just a few days time. The urgency around the situation hangs heavy on Sam, especially now, which is what finally pushes him down to go check on Jon himself. And it's not Sam's first time down here, either, so there's a lot he comes to expect to find when he makes it to Jon Sims' cell.

Except that extra sets of eyes? Yeah, that's not it. Sam pauses outside the bars, brows raised - shocked isn't exactly the best way to put it, but unexpected fits pretty well.

"I'm guessing you didn't have those before."

Phoenix isn't doing too hot after the Horizon himself. The whole experience has made it starkly clear to him that not only is he far from home, but there is no sign that he will ever go back, and his daughter has been left behind by another father.

But there's someone who needs his help.

Phoenix smells of cigarettes when he comes down to the dungeon--a habit he broke, but has been driven to pick up again from the stress--but he's brought food. Decadent, buttery pastries that range from full of jam or cheese to meat. A man on death row ought to eat well.

He's good at feigning a smile when he finds Jon. "Hey there. I'm glad to see--" He stops abruptly, his smile flickering. "What... are those eyes?"

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