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.

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"Lucky you."

Not just the one he'd seen. Many. Many where many shouldn't be, all acting independently. They're not his - though they are now. But it seems as though he's yet to learn how to use them. He remembers that feeling: struggling to operate a piece of yourself that should be under your own control, fingers shuddering through motions where they once were steady.

"They've not happened before?"

Is it linked, this and that, an entity from elsewhere and the place the Singularity sent them. Was it given strength there?

He shakes his head.

"No, never. And I'm still detached - I can't feel the Eye, not since whatever Ambrose did after I questioned him. I don't think they're from it, despite being... thematically appropriate."

There's a pause here, the memory of a total disconnect from the familiar presence of something other fresh enough to afford it a moment of contemplation. Even if separation from Jon's package deal entity is likely a welcome reprieve, it's indicative of a power Ambrose has that is too great for comfort.

Finally, and with some humour tucked into the dry, wry wording, "So much for not relying on your Eye in the sky."

Because he's assuming that's what happened. Knowledge sought and found and Ambrose unimpressed by the intrusion. There's no judgement. To the contrary. It's only at all funny because they'd spoken about it before Jon went so directly against his own advice and because, given the opportunity, Stephen's sure he'd have done the same thing.

Jon leans back against the wall, giving up on the eyes in his hand for the moment. They're not as disorienting if he's holding relatively still, anyway. He matches Strange's dry tone with an off-center smile of his own, rueful and short-lived.

Like Jon himself, apparently.

"That was an informed decision."

"Informed by our host's courteous charm or his tendency to abduct people from across the multiverse and imprison them in uninhabitable conditions if they don't meet his standards?"

It's not an earnest question. What's done in done and ultimately, they know more than they did because Jon pushed the limits of Ambrose's welcome.

But the price for that knowledge is steep.

"I hope you're not exerting too much energy preparing yourself for an early grave."

"Before the Horizon, I was getting the best sleep I've had in years." Before the Horizon. Not before his sentence.

"How was it for you, coming back from that?" he asks, with something slightly different in his tone. A circumspection, or even hesitancy.

It's not the most promising response. The subject shifts and, for now, he follows it.

"Fine. As extra-dimensional travel goes, that was about as tame a time as I've had." The Horizon was— something. But he hasn't come out with any extra eyes or arms or toes that he's noticed and that puts him ahead. And if it put a mirror up to his mental state, that's for him to deconstruct when he has the time.

"Can they all see?"

Waking up to that can't have been pleasant.

"Yes." Jon frowns, touching just under the one in his throat. "I'm trying to decide if there's something meaningful about all my scars keeping watch."

"But you heard nothing, as they brought us back to the portal?"

Oh. It's only now that he realises Jon's earlier hesitance wasn't a misguided attempt at tact for Stephen's sake. He'd asked because he wanted to know, and perhaps because he wasn't sure if he wanted the answer.

There's something more he hasn't said yet. Something that's taking some building up to.

"Are we talking about news, or something else?" He'd heard plenty. The number of people bustling back to that portal, it was inevitable that some of them had had something to say. But he gets the sense that isn't the question here.

He shakes his head, and gets up to join Strange at the bars at last, tucking his hand under his tunic as he moves. So far, it's the easiest way he's found to not get motion-sick just walking.

"Something- someone spoke to me," he says softly, looking studiously at the rust on the bars. The eye in his throat fixes on Strange's eyes, though, shutting briefly when Jon swallows. "After I woke up from Horizon."

He can feel the stare, see it in his peripheral vision, but he doesn't meet it. Keeps his attention fixed on Jon's face as he resolutely avoids eye contact and explains what happened.

For words so entirely innocuous, he's certainly managed to make them sound ominous. Stephen does him the courtesy of not entertaining the possibility of the mundane this time.

"To say what?"

He won't recite. He remembers the words - well, the translation - perfectly, but he's been tricked like that before and he's not a stupid man.

"It's something trapped, or claiming to be trapped. It said that it has been waiting, and that reaching out was exhausting. It will send an envoy, someone hard for me to look at." He taps his chest - that was certainly meant for him in particular, not general broadcast, he's sure. "It told me to wait for the messenger. To free it, the voice." Jon's focusing on keeping his voice quiet and steady, but he's also barely blinking, pupils - all of them - constricted down to points.

Trapped. That could go one of two ways given that they're standing in a dungeon full of people who are largely there by merit of existing. Trapped, if intentionally and depending on the point of view, can be a theft of freedom or a safety measure. Half the time the product of fear, founded or not, and the other half of greed.

Only one of them down here is covered in eyes and held for the crime of seeing too much uninvited. And what does that say about whoever it was who chose to speak to Sims, of all of them?

... All of those eyes with their pupils tight as pinpricks. Stephen packs his theories and questions into a holding space marked for later and shifts his priority to the present.

"Hey." Firm. A request for focus. His expression is steady if a little pinched around the brow, gaze fixed on Jon's face, waiting to be met.

It takes Jon a moment to pull his focus back, to look up again. He feels ill talking about it, giving it voice in any detail at all. Cold sweat prickles at his hairline and his upper lip, stings in the eyes open in his back, under his tunic.

"I know- No, I don't think it was any of mine," he goes on, forcing himself. "Most of them can't speak - they aren't alive, really, they aren't people. It could maybe be the Spiral or the Web... But I think it was something else. Something native to here."

"Then we watch out for that envoy and in the meantime do what we can to figure out what we're waiting for."

It's not a lot of information, but Stephen at least still has access to the library. If it's a thing of Thorne's imprisonment he doubts there'll be much to find, but if it's a creature of renown maybe so. Infamy earns credit for the faction that brings it to heel. He'll look for whatever clues he can find that might match up.

Voice still carefully level, carefully low. Gaze shifting away from its resolute meeting of Jon's only to briefly check his surrounding.

"It'll have to act soon or keep you alive long enough to play the role of key. Either way, time to resign yourself to living a little longer."

There's an unfortunate lack of mirth in it, for all those words shouldn't not be a joke. He'd set out down here to let Jonathan Sims know that there would be no execution for as long as himself and the other doubtless many opposed had any hope for a say in the matter, but he'd found instead a man seemingly ready to walk himself to the gallows when the day came.

No such luck. By his will or against it, this place has other plans for Jon. Maybe the rest of them will only be a safety net.

Strange couldn't have used a worse word if he'd tried. Jon takes a sharp breath, so deep it hurts, and looks down the corridor as far as he can before answering, voice low and tense.

"I have been that key before, and I almost destroyed my world. I will not do it again. If that means a noose, fine."

Oh. Landed right on a nerve, and it doesn't take the other man long to tell him which one. Stephen's expression sombers as he's confronted with the intensity of the reaction. His answer is out as soon as the declaration's made.

"It won't come to that."

There's a basic level of hypocrisy here that he can't acknowledge without accepting the potential need for sacrifice - which he won't. That's for last resort only. Right now, they don't even know what they're up against. But the severity of Sims' response, and his earlier allusions to peace after the passing of his sentence, demands a question.

"Do I need to put you on watch?"

Determined people will do desperate things. And Jon seems incredibly determined not to play passageway for yet another unknown thing to make its way into the world.

Jon turns away from him, shoulders rigid under the thin prisoners' tunic, but stops himself. Exhales. The eye that opens vertically up the back of his neck looks at Strange, this one a soft, cloudy shade of blue.

That question's too logical to ruffle his feathers like this, even Jon can see. But it hit hard on his own conflicts.

"No. You might've, a few days ago," he says honestly, voice tired. "But not now. If there's a way out of here... I'll take it. I know I shouldn't."

This time, when a new eye opens, he meets it for a moment. Holds that pale gaze for the few seconds it takes the man to speak before instinctively looking up to the back of his head when he does.

A few days ago. So there's been an influencing factor to his change of heart. Whatever it is, it's enough to equal and mollify his violent refusal to be a pawn for whatever's waiting for his help in its chance at freedom.

I know I shouldn't, he says.

"You don't have to justify an unwillingness to die."

That said...

"What changed?"

An unwillingness to die. Jon nods faintly at that, with a twist to his mouth. That's part of what landed him here in the first place. But that choice was quite a while ago.

"My... Martin. My..." He scowls at himself, folding an arm around his chest. "Ambrose-" And that name is a sneer of anger now. "-brought my boyfriend here. He's three cells that way." He points with his head as he turns back towards the bars and Strange. "Which is why I have been trying to keep my voice down. He's been brought here from almost two years in my past, before our relationship, and he doesn't know I'm on the chopping block because I haven't been able to bring myself to tell him."

Oh, shit. He manages to keep most of the wince under wraps, but the downturn at the corners of his mouth and furrow between his brows refuses to be smothered altogether. Colour him immediately, overpoweringly grateful that he's not had any opportunities to date since his life slid sideways into sorcery.

"Yeowch." It's out before he really has the chance to vet it, caught off guard by the whiplash of the mood. Not as if it's any lighter, but there's something so absurdly relatable about the miserable situation Jon finds himself in that he can't help but empathise. All it would've taken is one variation in the timeline... With empathy comes a slip away from pragmatism, and with that comes— well. Yeowch.

"Sorry. That's—" Dealing with a death wish is one thing. Dealing with a man who's trying to juggle a good five or six nightmare scenarios at once, one of them being the sudden appearance of a boyfriend who's still a not-yet-boyfriend and another being not having yet managed to let that not-yet-boyfriend know that he's on death row, is something else altogether.

Stephen's bedside manner hasn't had enough practice for this.

"Bad."

He can help with a disembodied voice asking for a rescue, can even help with an out for an impending execution. An acquaintance dealing with a cross-section of the cross-temporal, multiversal and interpersonal, though? He's got nothing, and too many seconds of stretching silence makes that abundantly clear.

Edited (cursed mdash...) 2021-08-19 12:19 (UTC)

The flat look he gives him is eloquent. Bad and an extended silence is as good a summation as anything else might be.

The eye on the back of his neck disappears back into a thin red scar as he rubs his hand across it, craning his head back for a moment. The tension he carries at the nape of his neck is days old now, and feels like a bruise.

"If you find any option to get him out of here, I'd be very grateful."

Any such option for himself, still only an afterthought.

Ah. Good. Just like that, he's given purpose again. Stephen shakes off that brief stupor with a nod.

"Yeah." Of course. "Does Ambrose know what he's done?"

Has he already come to gloat? Is there any point in going to plead a case?

He's careful to keep his voice hushed - no longer for the sake of any guards who might be lurking around, now for the man three cells down who doesn't know he's being spoken about.

Edited 2021-08-19 14:18 (UTC)

He shakes his head tightly. "I don't know. I haven't heard anything from him. My instinct is that he wouldn't have gone fishing in my world again by accident, but he could have been trying for my predecessor again."

And if he manages to pull Gertrude through that well, Jon thinks bitterly, one of them will probably kill the other and he's not certain who he'd back.

It's an unsettling way of putting it - gone fishing. The fact that Ambrose is capable of fishing through the multiverse at all is bad enough, but accurately? Not always successfully, not always pulling up who he wants, but at least having a confidence that he's casting his line in the right direction. Stephen's jaw sets slightly, then he nods.

"Well, if he doesn't know then it's worth a try. I'll see if I can get an audience."

And if he does know then he'll have to find out one way or another - either way, straight to the top of the ladder seems the most straightforward approach.

"Anything else you need while I'm here?"

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the_archive - 2021-08-23 03:40 (UTC) - Expand

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