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whump-a-la-mode · 3 years

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Escape: Part 2

This is a bit different from what I usually do. @equestrianwritingsstuff recently posted a one-off piece, and I got a little bit obsessed with it. So, with her permission, this is a continuation! The original post can be found here.

Summary: After being captured and forced into a torturous reform program, Villain attempts escape-- but throws it all away to save the life of his foe.

CW//Attempted conditioning, denial of food, denial of water, intentional self injury, broken glass, blood, mentions of car crashes, collars, chains, firearms, attempted murder

“Okay.” The sigh was sharp, enough so to make Villain bite their own tongue in apprehension. “Let’s try another one.”

Nosey shuffled through the stack of papers piled before them on the desk. Villain glanced down at the pile-- noting its sheer height. He wasn’t expected to go through all those, right? No, that would certainly take all night.

“Here.” The hero before him settled on one of the pages, picking it up. “This one should be easy.”

Villain muttered something under his breath, laden with swears and insults.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Mhm.” A haughty exhale. “Here. If you get this one on the first try, you can go back to your cell and... I don’t know, do whatever it is you do. I’m tired of looking at your face.”

Back to his cell. That made Villain perk up, nearly straining against the cuffs holding him firmly to the table.

“Okay, let’s just get this over with. Here’s the scenario. You’re walking along the street, and you see someone hit by a car. The car does not stop, and the victim is thrown onto the sidewalk in front of you. They are clearly alive, but severely injured. Do you:

A: Use your healing powers to treat their injuries.

B: Search the surrounding area for a civilian with medical training

C: Contact the Heroic Civilian Treatment Team to take the victim to hospital.”

“Um...”

Villain felt the hairs on the back of his neck stick up, despite being half wetted down with sweat.

If someone had been struck by a vehicle, the obvious answer would be to help them as quickly as possible. As soon as injuries like that were inflicted, the clock was already ticking.

The heroes were terribly resistant to him using his powers in any situation-- that was somewhat the whole point of the Villain Containment Practices. But in this case, it would certainly be an exception, right? Their whole job was supposed to be protecting life.

“Uh- I- I think A.” He at last croaked out. “Use my healing powers to stabilize them, then find a civilian doctor to get them to the hospital.”

Nosey sighed.

“A situation like this should always be deferred to us. Using your powers is never the answer.”

They placed down the paper, hastily rearranging the messy stack of them.

“Let’s go back to the gym. I’ll let you off with ten laps, this time.”

Villain gulped, phlegm sliding down a dry throat, as a pair of guards advanced to untie him from the table.

“C- Can I have some water? Please?”

“You’ve already lost your food privileges for the day. Do you really want to lose your water, too? You get water once you’ve earned it. For now, we’re going to the gym.

At this rate, maybe you should just become a permanent resident in our program.”

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The glass was mocking them.

Villain was certain of that, even as he kneeled on his cot of a bed, half delirious, half exhausted.

The glass of water sat on a small table at the bed’s end. Just a glass, hardly even filled halfway. Haphazardly placed under a faucet for a few moments without thought.

He knew he had to drink it. He didn’t have much of a choice. Tomorrow would only bring more questions, more laps, more push-ups, more lectures. It would be terrible, certainly, but the small amount of liquid would make it at least the tiniest bit more bearable. Give him the tiniest bit more strength.

It was all he had. He’d spent the day watching his classmates-- that’s what the heroes called them, they were fellow prisoners, at best-- eating their meals, while he sat at an empty table.

Just because he had started a fight didn’t mean he should have to starve. Besides, they had it coming. Stuck up ass.

Villain frowned, cracked and dry lips sticking together, and reached forth to pick up the glass.

He needed to drink it, but as soon as he did, it would be gone. He would have to earn the next few drops through countless tears and buckets of sweat. At the very least, right now, he had control. He had a choice.

Not a very good one, but...

When had he gotten to this point? Having a crisis in a barren room over a half-glass of water? He was supposed to be a villain. Others were supposed to fear him.

Besides...

Villain’s hand shook, water sloshing, even as he was careful not to lose a single, precious drop.

He didn’t know how much longer he could survive like this. Endless exercise, endless questions. Maybe they would never let him out. Maybe they wanted him to die here. Hell, they probably wanted him to die here. One less problem, drained of strength until they no longer had enough to breathe.

This was one long, drawn out execution. Even if it wasn’t, he could hardly imagine a situation in which they allowed his parting. In which they considered him at long last “reformed.”

Villain had to leave. He had to. He was leaving here either in a glorious escape, or in a body bag. Or, worse: In a hero’s uniform.

He downed the water, feeling the heavenly moisture fill his throat. It was the best thing he had ever tasted, despite the fact that water had no taste to it.

It was far less pleasant than what would come next. He knew from unfortunate experience that there were only two things that could get him out of this cell: Going to ‘class,’ or having an emergency.

The first wouldn’t work.

There was no camera in the room, he had searched long and hard to confirm that fact. At the very least, he didn’t have to do much in the way of acting. Not yet.

He swung his unsteady legs over the edge of the bed, standing, stumbling halfway to the end table.

Before throwing the glass to the floor.

It was a miracle, that the heroes allowed him glass dishware. The cup exploded, a thousand shining pieces scattering about the floor.

Now, for the unpleasant part.

Villain gritted his teeth, throwing himself onto the broken glass, ensuring that it dug into his flesh, his legs and his palms. At the very least, his screams were genuine.

“Help! Help!” He wailed. “I’m hurt! Help, please help! Oh god, that’s my blood, oh god oh god...”

There was no camera in the room, but the door was plenty thin, and in this facility, screams carried far. To ensure this, he let out a few more cries, carrying them on until the door lock was frantically turned, the door thrown open on its hinges.

Hero’s inhale was quick enough that she nearly started choking on her own breath.

“V-Villain, oh god, that’s- That’s your blood?”

Of course it was, dimwit. It was flooding from his skin, wasn’t it?

“Y- Yes. I tripped, um, oh god, oh...”

The swaying and slurring of his words were not pretend, either. Dehydration and hunger made sure of that.

“Can you walk?” How was there so much concern in her tone?

“Don’t know.”

“We need to try. I can carry you, but- We need to get to the infirmary.”

The hero hurried to their foe’s side, arms under his shoulders helping him to his feet. He could walk on his own, not well, but he could-- though Hero had no need to know that.

“Okay.”

“It’s a pretty long walk. We can take it slow, okay?”

“Yeah.”

That was exactly what they did. Their movements were so painfully slow that at times Villain wondered whether or not they were moving at all, but, after some time, they did cover some distance. The few people awake at such an hour steered clear, seeing a villain covered in blood and wanting nothing to do with it in the slightest.

The infirmary was on the bottom floor, Villain had seen it on his way in, making note of its placement. Of course, Hero wasn’t about to make him struggle down all those stairs. No. She went straight for the elevator, stepping into the isolated box with her foe and letting the doors closed.

This was it. The elevator ride would only last a few moments-- it was now or never.

As subtly as he possibly could, Villain placed his hand upon his injured leg, the minty thrum of healing powers knitting together the slices. Though, it did nothing to dry the blood that had already seeped out.

He was healed, and Hero was alone. Trapped.

By all accounts, it was a fight that Villain should have lost. He was exhausted, stomach left empty for far too long, and veins severely lacking in blood. Hero had the benefit of being well-fed, well-rested, all of it.

But that explanation left out one thing.

Villain was desperate.

He watched the small, digital screen count down the floors.

4...

3...

2...

Now!

The strike may not have been powerful, but it was aided by the sheer speed at what it was launched. Villain’s fist collided with Hero’s temple, knocking her sideways, stumbling. He wasted not a millisecond in preparing his next strike, hearing the crack of a cheekbone beneath his knuckles.

Hero let out a cry, holding her face where a bruise would certainly bloom in the hour. Limbs still soaked in scarlet, Villain swung out with his leg, catching Hero in the knee, sending her to the elevator floor with a hollow crash.

The elevator doors opened.

It was the fastest Villain had ever run in his life, he was certain of that. His legs were little more than blurs of red as he sprinted forth, tearing through a lobby that was nearly barren. An infinitesimal distance between him and freedom.

“Oh no you don’t!”

His legs came out from under him, his face striking the tile floor, almost certainly giving him an identical blessure to Hero.

The voice-- it was Nosey’s stupid, avian squawk. And, too, their polished boot struck Villain’s back.

“You really thought it’d be that easy?”

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The metal chafed horribly against Villain’s neck, somehow making his throat’s desiccation more acute. He laid his head against the thin carpet, spine aching terribly. The movement shifted the chain latched onto his collar, the slight clinking noise making his heartbeat stutter.

Tied up like a dog.

“Is this really necessary?” He grumbled, shifting himself to a sitting position, gazing upwards.

To Hero’s bed. Her legs dangled off the side of the mattress, hands gripped into fists around gathered bedsheets.

“We’ve been over this. That cell was a privilege, and you’ve lost it.”

“And so you chain me to the wall like a dog.”

“Exactly. You need to be under my direct supervision.”

“Yeah, whatever. Did you really have to stick this stupid collar on me?”

“I’m no happier about this than you are. But I’m not giving you free reign of my bedroom. You already tried to kill me once tonight.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“Whatever. Unlike you, I actually have things to do in the morning. So, if you would please let me sleep?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“If you do something for me first.”

“You are in the worst possible position to make demands, right now.”

Villain’s sigh tore at his throat.

“I just want some water.”

“Just that? Wait. You’re not going to smash the glass again, are you? I’m way too tired for that nonsense a second time tonight.”

“Just don’t put the water in a glass, then.”

“You actually just want water?”

“Yes.” He added rather pathetically. “Please?”

“I... Fine. Then you’ll let me sleep?”

“Mhm.”

“Fine.”

Hero stood, glancing suspiciously at her captive as she made her way across the room. As if he could do anything-- the chain was maybe three feet in length. He could barely lay his head down.

She maneuvered to her kitchenette, returning with a plastic cup-- filled to the brim with that precious liquid. She placed it before him. He was already drooling.

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Goodnight, Villain.”

“Goodnight.”

Was that really all it took to domesticate him? A glass of water? It hardly mattered. As soon as Hero turned off the light, bathing the room in shadow, Villain downed the liquid as though his life depended on it.

Perhaps, it did.

It wasn’t long before Hero’s steady breathing had turned to soft snoring. Villain shifted himself into the most comfortable position he could manage. Even that, however, was far from being pleasant, with the chain threatening to strangle him at any moment.

That wasn’t what kept him from sleeping, however. He needed to sleep. He knew that, he wasn’t stupid. He would need his energy for the next day of lessons, of shouted orders and lectures.

That was all his life would be from now on, wouldn’t it? Orders and exhaustion and being forced to earn the most basic of needs by answering moral quandaries incorrectly.

Villain wanted, longed, to cry. To let out all the horrible emotions that had stuck in his chest cavity, threatening to drown his lungs in sorrow. But that would break the conditions of the deal.

He had to be quiet, or else he might never again be allowed water.

It was that dread in his chest, that hopelessness, that forced him awake.

So, he laid, still, listening to Hero’s snores as his own body refused to allow him unconsciousness.

Snores, and...

Footsteps.

Footsteps? Villain tensed, holding stock still, pricking his ears for the noise. They drew louder, louder, before stopping. Stopping outside the dorm room door.

He held his breath.

The door opened gently enough that the hinges made only the slightest noise. Then, the footsteps were inside.

Villain shrunk down in the corner, making himself far smaller and quieter than anyone of his status should ever have had to be.

Two sets of footsteps. Growing louder, coming towards the bedroom. The bed.

Hero.

“Are you sure we need to do this?” An unknown voice, whispering.

“If you want this plan to work, we don’t have a choice.”

That voice, that voice was not unknown. It was loud, terribly high pitched, terribly-

Nosey.

“We really have to kill them?”

“We won’t get the chance if you keep talking. Just do it, don’t chicken out on me, now.”

“Okay, okay.”

Villain’s heartbeat shivered.

The cocking of a gun. That horrible sound, that precursor of bloodshed.

Then, the shot. Two pairs of footsteps, fleeing, slamming the door behind themselves.

Villain gulped.

It was no doubt what had happened-- if he had had any doubts, they were quickly drowned out as Hero’s breathing hitched, then quieted to an almost imperceptible level. Growing slower, weaker by the second.

They are clearly alive, but severely injured.

In the scenario, he had had three choices. But this wasn’t a training scenario.

Now, he only had two.

A: Praise his lucky stars and use the opportunity to escape. There was a fire escape, just outside the window. He would be gone into the night before anyone knew any different.

Or...

B: Do the right thing.

Villain threw himself against the chain about his neck, collar threatening to cut off his airways. He spun about, gripping the chain in clammy fingers, pulling and tugging and-

Her breathing was getting quieter, weaker.

He pulled harder, muscles straining with the effort. The chain was anchored to the wall with a spike, drilled in. There was no way he could break the chain, no way he could break the spike, but-

Villain’s heel slammed through the plaster and drywall, chain flying backwards at his face. He hardly made note of it. Spike and chain and all dragging behind him, he tore to Hero’s bedside.

It was almost fortunate, that the lights were off. He couldn’t see the extent of the wounds.

He placed his hands upon her head, that minty feeling rushing to his fingers, his palms, her skin.

Using your powers is never the answer.

No. No, that wasn’t true.

Rules didn’t matter. Training didn’t matter. All that mattered was doing the right thing.

#villain whumpee #hero villain whump #conditioned whumpee #whump community #whump

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bubonickitten · 4 years

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Summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: tumblr // AO3

Chapter 10 full text & content warnings below the cut.

CWs for Chapter 10: brief panic attack; some vague JonMartin apocalypse angst. SPOILERS through S5.

Chapter 10: Pending Arrival

It’s okay, Jon tells himself, forcing himself to breathe the way Martin taught him: Four seconds in; hold seven seconds; eight seconds out.

Well… okay, it’s not okay. It’s very, very not okay.

…but – four – it – five – will – six – be – seven… okay, exhale.

Some time later – eight minutes, thirty-six-point-eight seconds, he Knows, though he didn’t ask – his breathing evens out and his thoughts clear with it.

That interaction with Martin wasn’t unexpected. There’s little reason to expect things to be different this time around, especially this soon after Jon woke up. He knows this.

There is a wall between him and Martin right now, constructed from a lifetime of rejection and loneliness that Jon himself contributed to for far too long. It’s been recently expanded by a mountain of grief, loss, and mourning – what should have been years’ worth condensed into the last six months – and it’s been further reinforced by Peter Lukas’ manipulations.

It will take some time to coax Martin away from the Lonely. Hopefully it won’t take as long as it did the last time, especially now that Jon knows that the hypothetical threat of the Extinction is not as imminent as Peter claims, but still: Martin needs time and space. Besides, Jon simply can’t force the Lonely out of him with a few words and a prayer. Martin has to choose to reject it of his own volition, or it will always cling to him.

And most importantly: Martin deserves to make his own choice. Jon has no right to take that from him, any more than he did when they passed through the Lonely’s domain.

It would have been nice to be able to physically see Martin, though. Or even just hear his voice outside of his own head. Memories can only provide so much reassurance, and for so long.

Jon had every intention of continuing yesterday’s strategy meeting this afternoon, but already his brief conversation with Georgie and painfully brief interaction with Martin have left him fatigued. The migraine he had expected yesterday failed to reach fruition, but the threat of it still lingers, accompanied by a painless but still unpleasant sensation of pressure in his head, making him feel off-kilter. As of right now, he can still pull on the Archive to speak. Sitting down and strategizing, though, is another matter entirely. Planning ahead has never been part of his skill set. Anxiety, sleep deprivation, and a supernaturally-imparted speech impediment aren’t doing him any favors.

“Let me guess: you’re out of commission.”

Basira looks him up and down, taking in his hunched gargoyle posture in his desk chair, his half-lidded eyes, his restless hands: one resting uneasily on top of his desk, fingers twitching and tapping with no discernible rhythm; the other wound up in the scarf Georgie gave him, still draped over his shoulders.

Jon can’t tell what characterizes her more in this moment: frustration with him, or simple exhaustion. Despite his own hypersensitivity to how others perceive him, he has a feeling that in this moment, it’s the latter.

“I think it can wait until tomorrow,” says Georgie, perched on the edge of Jon’s desk.

“Fine,” Basira concedes. “Tomorrow, then.” She knocks twice on the doorframe. When Jon looks up on reflex, she catches his eye. “Get some actual sleep tonight, Jon. It’s not just your personal mental health on the line here.”

“She is right about you needing to sleep,” Georgie says as Basira leaves. He avoids eye contact. “I’m serious. You look exhausted. I can get you a sleep aid –” Jon shakes his head slowly. “Why?”

With a sudden burst of energy, Jon stands, grabs her hand, and leads her to the entrance to the tunnels. He waits until they’ve both descended the ladder and the trapdoor is closed behind them before he turns to her and blurts out:

“…too afraid to go to sleep.”

“I can sit next to you while you fall asleep if you –”

“…would serve no purpose except to start me having the nightmares again,” he mumbles, sinking into the nearest chair.

“You’ve been having those for a long time now,” Georgie says, following his lead and sitting across from him. “And you’ve figured out how to cope with them. What’s actually scaring you?”

Jon bites his lower lip and bows his head.

“Then I would watch – once again –”

“– paralyzed with fear –”

“– tried to scream but I couldn’t find my breath, I couldn’t move –”

“– I couldn’t talk to anyone –”

“– unable to move its body, though – its eyes darting around wildly –”

“– unable to move – to cry for help –”

“– unable to look away –”

“– could only stare at him as he slowly, achingly crawled towards his doom –”

“– being unable to reach him –”

“– stare at it, knowing how your – friend suffers, knowing how powerless you are to help –”

“Slow down. You’re worried you’ll go back to how you were before?”

“…could only watch from the sidelines, getting a… a –”

He stops, leaning forward with his head in his hands.

“What is it, Jon?”

“And the worst part was that, somewhere in me, I – I liked it –”

“– it drew me in almost as much as it disgusted me –”

“– getting a… a sad vicarious thrill from –”

“– when people look at me… that fear“ – Jon’s breath hitches – “it feels amazing.”

He looks up at Georgie.

“Underneath all that awful fear, it felt like… home,” he whispers in a haunted tone. The shame crashes over him and he breaks eye contact, ducking his head again.

Georgie is quiet for a long moment. Then, she leans forward, reaches out, and takes his hand. He flinches and freezes.

“It sounds to me like you don’t want to like it,” she says. “People sometimes have feelings and urges that they aren’t proud of. Things that would hurt other people, if acted on.” She takes a breath. “But… I think it says more about a person’s character when they fight back against it.”

“…a presence within myself, inside my being –”

“– will strip us of what it means to be human, and leave us something alien and cold.”

“I know your circumstances are… different –”

“…it was the product of an otherworldly evil and called to me,” he says miserably.

“I know,” she says again. “There’s something in you, something that came from outside of yourself, and it’s trying to change you. Consume you.”

“…should have fought harder against the temptation –”

“But you’re fighting it now, aren’t you? You want things to be different.”

“I suppose I had to believe that the darkened natures of our terror could be kept in check – a rather feeble hope, for my own salvation –”

“– as if it might ward whatever awful thing waited inside that door.”

“For what it’s worth, I don’t think it’s a feeble hope. This is the most sure I’ve ever seen you be about anything.” She jostles his hand until he looks up at her. “You’re not a bad person, Jon. You’re taking extreme steps to make sure you don’t hurt anyone. It might not change the things you’ve done in the past, but neither will beating yourself up over it.”

Jon laughs, wincing when it comes out sounding a bit tear-choked.

“I try to think that I’ve left my past behind, but that sort of denial doesn’t help me sleep.”

“Maybe not. But you don’t have to deny the past in order to move beyond it. You can remember your mistakes and learn from them without letting them define you. And I think… I think you’re going to have to do that, if you want to move forward.” After a moment, Jon nods. Apparently unconvinced, Georgie adds: “Also, I don’t know if you need to be told this, but getting better means actually taking care of yourself.”

Jon chuckles at that, some of his tension bleeding away. “Thank you for indulging me, you’ve been very patient.”

“Stop that. You’d do the same for me. You have done the same for me.” He opens his mouth to argue. “Yeah, you’re not great at comforting people, I know. But I’ve seen you try.”

He must still look dubious, because Georgie sighs heavily.

“Do you remember when I was going through that medication change in uni?”

Jon nods warily.

It had been before they started dating. Jon has never made friends easily, but somehow Georgie had managed to tolerate his company long enough for him to start letting his guard down. At that point in his life, she really was the only one who he could confidently call a friend.

So when the antidepressant she had been on for over a year lost effectiveness and she had to start the arduous process of finding a new one, Jon had a front row seat to a depressive episode – and he felt irretrievably lost. He had no script to follow; he worried incessantly that he was making things worse, that he wasn’t making himself useful enough, that he was intruding on her personal space and she just didn’t have the energy to tell him the truth. He would pace restlessly and trip over his words and lapse into uncomfortable silences, wringing his hands and brooding – being more of a nuisance than a help, he was certain.

“You didn’t know how to help,” Georgie says, as if reading his mind. “You couldn’t make me better. I could tell it was driving you mad, not having an answer, because there was no simple answer. It was just… something that had to be lived through, coped with – and you’ve never been able to tolerate that concept, I know. You’re not good at waiting.” Jon huffs – only because she’s right. “But,” Georgie says emphatically, “you spent time with me, even though I was no fun. Brought me takeaway, set alarms to remind yourself to ask me if I’d taken my meds, did all this – this reading and research on how to support a loved one in crisis, which was” – she chuckles – “very you.”

Jon focuses intently on the weave of his scarf, petting it absently with his free hand, tracing the knit with his fingertips.

“You stayed anyway, even though you were uncomfortable. You didn’t say as much, but you’re fairly obvious when you’re anxious. At one point I told you I didn’t want you to fix it, I just didn’t want to be alone, and… you respected that. Which surprised me, to be honest. I was certain you’d be stubborn about it, act like you knew better than me.” Jon smiles at that. It was a fair assumption for her to make, especially back then. “Probably never would’ve considered dating you if you hadn’t proven me wrong then.”

“Until he became me –“

“– moody, short-tempered, constantly on edge.”

He gives Georgie a wry look as he says it, though, and she laughs.

“You’ve always been moody and on edge, including then. That wasn’t a new development that grew up overnight. What I’m saying is you’ve never been just that – which is why I have expectations of you, because I know what you’re capable of.” She gives him a serious look. “Like I told you years ago, you need to stop seeing things in black-and-white – including when it’s about you. Not everything has a clear-cut answer. You’d be happier if you could make peace with that.”

“And he was aware of it always – could not disagree,” Jon says with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Of course I’m right,” she quips back. “But you’re trying, and that’s all I ask.”

The ensuing silence is a comfortable one. Jon uses the lapse as an opportunity to search for a way to ask after Melanie.

“Statement of Georgina Barker regarding –”

Jon pauses. There’s really no way of saying the next part without accidentally drawing on more than one statement, but… Georgie is safe, and the phrase only appears a couple of times in the Archive, so it shouldn’t be too powerful.

“Statement of Melanie King.”

There is a reverb to the words, but the lightheadedness that comes with it is mild and passes quickly. Georgie appears to notice the odd tenor of his voice, tilting her head slightly to track the sound, but she doesn’t pursue it.

“You’re asking how Melanie is?”

“I wanted to check in with them, find out what happened.”

“She’s… having a rough day. I don’t think it’s my place to say more than that.”

Jon nods again: I understand. Then, he repeats again: “Statement of Georgina Barker.”

Georgie leans forward, elbow on knee, chin propped up by her fist. Her other hand continues to hold Jon’s, but she loosens her grip somewhat. The crease between her eyebrows is familiar to him – Georgie is taking her time to inventory her thoughts before speaking. He waits.

“I’m… hm. It’s been a lot to process,” she says carefully. “I think I’m doing okay for the moment? I’m mostly worried about Melanie. I’ve been worried about Melanie, but… after what you said about quitting – it’s complicated things a bit. It’s – it’s something we needed to know,” she adds, seeing Jon’s guilty expression. “I’m glad you were honest with us. Actually, I think Melanie was surprised that you told us about the, ah, second way to quit. It… hmm. It doesn't fit with the image she has of you.” Jon snorts at the delicate phrasing, and Georgie gives him a sheepish smile. “Sorry, but she still thinks you’re a self-serving prick.”

Jon shrugs, unperturbed. He already knew that, and it’s not like he’s done much to dissuade Melanie of that assessment. Not yet, anyway.

“Oh, but she told me to reassure you that she isn’t going to kill you in your sleep, so that’s something? I told her that’s not why you pulled an all-nighter, but she said to let you know anyway.”

Jon laughs, and Georgie’s eyes crinkle when she returns a smile. After a moment, though, it fades.

“I did want to ask, though… did Melanie find out how to quit in your future as well?” Jon nods. “In that case – I’m not sure if you were planning on it, but in case you were… don’t tell me just yet what her decision was where you came from. I’ve been tempted to ask, but I haven’t talked it over with Melanie yet, and I think that’s her call to make. Okay?” Jon nods again. “And… she’s still angry with you – with a lot of things, really, but especially this place, and she sees you as inseparable from it.”

“They’re not entirely wrong,” Jon accedes.

“I did talk to her about it. She asked me to let you know that she does want to talk to you – I know she has some questions to ask – but that she doesn’t want you near her right now. She’s trying to sort through her feelings towards you – figure out how much of it is a you problem versus a her problem versus a both-of-you problem. She needs some space to do that. And it’s not the only thing she’s working through right now.”

Jon can appreciate that. Honestly, it’s better than he could have hoped for. Last time around, Melanie had eventually softened on him, had even tentatively called him a friend – but at that point, everything in his life felt like too little too late, and she deserved better than to have him poison her life again. He really had only been looking for someone to help him parse Martin’s intentions – Jon has always struggled with anything less than direct, explicit communication – but Georgie was right to be angry with him. Regardless of his intentions, he was inseparable from the Institute; there was no way for him to ask for advice that didn’t involve dragging Melanie back into exactly the kind of toxicity she was trying to escape.

When he left that day, it was with the intention of staying out of both of their lives from then on. They both set a firm boundary, and they deserved to have it respected. But he had plenty of time to brood during the apocalypse, and there were so many things left unsaid between him and Melanie and Georgie. Even if the world hadn’t ended, he probably wouldn’t have approached them again – they seemed happy, and showing up on their doorstep to talk, even if it was just to apologize, would have only been for his own benefit. It wouldn’t have felt right to intrude on them again and open up old wounds just for the sake of securing closure for himself.

Now, though? Truth be told, he could use some space, himself. He’s rehearsed it many times before – all the things he might say to the people in his life, both living and dead, if he had a chance to see them again – but now that he actually has that chance, everything he’s drafted in his head feels inadequate. It may take some time to get his thoughts in order before sitting down and openly discussing his and Melanie’s fraught relationship.

“So… Martin?” Georgie says, snapping Jon out of his thoughts. “Have you seen him yet?”

Jon makes an uncertain tilting motion with his hand, finding no succinct way to explain that yes, he did have a brief encounter with Martin, but it was a one-sided conversation, and Jon expected as much, but it still hurt; and moreover, Martin was invisible when he visited, no doubt intending to just see for himself that Jon was awake, check in on how he was doing without being noticed; and Jon wishes he had been able to do the same, to have some irrefutable physical reassurance that Martin is alive and real and here and now, because it’s been so long, and…

“…he seemed determined to avoid – me,” Jon settles on instead.

“You care about him a lot, don’t you?”

“I need him to be okay –”

“– the easy, charming man I’d fall in love with.”

“Oh,” Georgie says, sounding stunned. Jon meets her eyes and gives her a quizzical look. “I just – knowing you, I figured you’d still be in denial about how infatuated you are? Or, at best, you’d grudgingly admit you maybe, possibly had a little crush? I was not expecting a declaration of love.”

“Everything about being with him felt so natural that when he told me he loved me, it only came as a surprise to realize that we hadn’t said it already –”

“– and together it seemed like we would get past our pain.”

“Holy shit,” Georgie murmurs. “You’re absolutely besotted. I mean, I knew you were, you talked about him all the time and you’re not as subtle as you think you are – but actually acknowledging it?”

“…honestly it’s one of the few decisions I’ve ever made that I completely understand,” Jon replies, not bothering to hide his small smile.

“Wow. You’ve… changed more than I thought.” Georgie mirrors his expression, but then she falters, chewing the inside of her cheek for a moment. “Can I ask how it – if it…” Jon’s smile fades too, but he makes a beckoning gesture: It’s okay; go on. “Regardless of whether things worked out between you, I… well, I have a hard time thinking you’d come back to this time if it meant leaving him behind in your future?”

Jon looks down at their linked hands, expressionless as he begins to construct a response.

“I’ll skip over the bit where –”

“– taking me in his arms and giving me the last and longest hug I would ever get from him –”

“– he was gone. Just gone. And I was alone again. There was no one I could talk to about it –”

“– I had plenty of time to mourn him –”

“– it took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor, as I slowly dragged myself away from the edge of my lonely grave.”

Georgie gives his hand a reassuring squeeze, which he returns gratefully.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I… I’m glad you have this second chance. You… are going to tell him how you feel this time as well, right?”

Obviously, he wants to say, but it’s not as simple as he wishes it was. He frowns thoughtfully as he searches for a way to explain the situation.

“…he’s been so lonely –”

“– embraced the loneliness like an old friend –”

“– for a creature of the Lonely, the urge is to isolate, never to communicate or connect –”

“– I wanted to say something reassuring, to reach out and let him know I was still there –”

“But it was like this last time you woke up, too.” She waits for his affirmative before continuing: “So you can do it again.”

“…I managed it eventually, but my inability to speak –”

“– I found him difficult to talk to at length.”

“But,” she persists, “you aren’t going to give up, right?”

“…I knew he would return eventually,” Jon says.

“Good,” Georgie says with a relieved, somewhat exasperated sigh. “I swear to god, if you’d gotten fatalistic right there, I’d have had some words for you.” Jon chuckles. “Seriously, though – you’ll figure this out. You’ve always been stubborn. Every now and then, it’s even an asset.”

“I’m grateful to her, of course.”

“Again, don’t mention it. As long as you keep trying, I’ll support you. I might set limits on how much I’m willing to get involved with the actual supernatural bits – I haven’t decided just yet – but when I need to step back, I’ll tell you. I’m not going to ghost you just because you don’t grovel.”

Jon groans at the pun, which gets a self-satisfied grin out of Georgie.

“Oh, shut up. It was a good one.”

Right, I forgot: comatose people don’t need pens, Jon thinks irritably to himself the next day, turning his office upside down looking for a writing utensil.

He’s so thoroughly preoccupied with rummaging through his desk that he doesn’t notice Basira standing in the doorway until she clears her throat, startling him so badly that he jumps and slams one of his fingers in the drawer. He yelps in pain and pulls his hand back, shaking it out to distract from the throbbing. A moment later, the realization crosses his mind that it’s the same finger he’d tried to cut off the last time he was here.

It’s a coincidence, he tells himself before his mind can wander too far down the rabbit hole. He has enough to worry about without getting caught up in the hypotheticals of time travel and sci-fi tropes about the changeability of the past. Besides, the Coffin hasn't even arrived yet; there are still a few weeks before the original date of his failed self-amputation attempts.

“Sorry,” Basira says, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Honestly, I figured you’d just know I was here.” Jon has nothing to say to that. Trying to explain the fine details of Knowing has never been a pleasant experience, and he couldn’t tackle that subject now even if he’d wanted to. “What are you looking for, anyway?”

“…think of me as an idiot who turned up to give a statement without a pen,” Jon says distractedly, opening another drawer and sifting through it. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“Pens?” Jon nods without looking up. “Yeah, I threw them all out – don’t give me that look, Jon. Half of them didn’t even work, and the others looked like a puppy’s chew toy. Anyway, most of what I threw out in here got touched by the Flesh. You didn’t want any of it back, trust me.” Jon grimaces. “Yeah. Anyway, there are boxes in the supply closet – but I think I can do you one better.”

She tosses something at him. He notices the movement belatedly and just barely manages to catch the thing, nearly dropping it.

“Guess knowing things also doesn’t extend to being able to catch without fumbling,” Basira deadpans.

Jon looks down at the phone in his hands, then back up at Basira.

“Got the Institute to cover it as a work expense. I have no idea where the one you had before the Unknowing ended up; I’m assuming it blew up along with everything else.” Basira leans back against the doorframe. “I’m sure texting will go about as well for you as typing has, but Georgie downloaded a few AAC apps for you to try.”

He gives Basira a tentative smile.

“You’re welcome,” she says with a curt nod. The look she gives him then is curious – almost like she’s still trying to get a read on him, debating how much closeness she can risk. Then her guard goes back up and her tone turns authoritative again. “You can practice with them later. Meeting’s in a half-hour.”

Before Jon can respond, Basira turns and leaves.

It’s uncertain how the Archive will take to this newest workaround, but there’s only one way to find out.

“Here, let me take –”

Jon unceremoniously drops the box of statements down through the trapdoor, where it hits the ground below with a dull thud and a puff of dust.

“…or not,” Georgie finishes.

“Was that really necessary?” Basira calls from the bottom of the ladder.

Completely pointless, Jon thinks to himself a bit giddily, ignoring the stabbing pain in his temples with relish. The Beholding can complain all it wants about him mishandling statements; right now, he’s too tired and too delirious to care.

He’d had plenty of time during the apocalypse to develop methods of coping with the Eye’s intrusiveness. The most emotionally satisfying one he’d happened upon basically amounted to random acts of spite. It had no material effect on anything – aside from triggering varying degrees of headaches, but he already got those anyway. It was no different than a petulant child slamming a bedroom door, but it gave him that fleeting feeling of being in control of something, and it felt good.

“Let me go first,” Georgie says. He gives her a questioning look. “You’re using a cane, Jon. There’s a fifty percent chance you’re going to fall on your ass going down that ladder, and I’d rather keep you out of the hospital for the rest of the year.” Jon averts his eyes and frowns. She must interpret it as reluctance, because she clarifies: “You need a spotter.”

Jon signals agreement and she starts down the ladder ahead of him.

The thing is, he wasn’t trying to contradict her. It’s just… well, he’s still getting used to the idea of being cared for again, especially when it comes to insignificant things. Yes, his leg is acting up today, but it’s not that bad – the cane is just to keep it from getting any worse. And if he did fall, it’s not like it would kill him. It would be inconvenient, unpleasant, and probably embarrassing, but too temporary to really register on his distress scale.

Anyway, he’s grown desensitized to physical pain. Or… no, that’s not quite right. What he’s desensitized to isn’t the pain itself, but the experience of being harmed. He’s come to expect it, and these days only the only permanent injuries he receives are those inflicted by one of the Powers. Everything else heals too quickly and completely to feel consequential. Most things don’t even scar anymore, and those that do – well, what’s one more scar?

He knows it’s not a healthy mindset. Even before the world ended, he’d come to regard his body with a sense of detachment. In retrospect, he should’ve known that his rib wouldn’t work as an anchor. Most days, his body didn’t even feel like it belonged to him. Then, as if to confirm that inkling, Jonah possessed him; the Watcher’s eyes started manifesting on and around him; his presence became synonymous with the Eye to anyone who beheld him. He confirmed on several occasions that he wasn’t able to die. Even the Hunt couldn’t kill him. Jon would end one day, like everything else, but a mundane physical death was beyond him.

He doesn’t Know if that’s still the case now, and he’s too afraid to ask.

So, yes: he’s developed a cavalier attitude towards personal safety. Avoiding minor injuries feels almost on the same level as what temperature the water is before he steps into the shower: relevant in terms of his own comfort, but otherwise unimportant. He’s always spared little thought as to his own comfort, and it’s only gotten worse since becoming the Archivist. And the apocalypse didn’t exactly have much to offer in the way of comfort anyway, especially after…

Jon cringes as he stops to reflect on that train of thought. It took him fewer than thirty seconds to rationalize… well, Martin would have called it self-harm. Or self-sabotage, at the least. Georgie probably would, too, if she could see inside his mind right now. His judgment of what counts as worthy of concern is decidedly skewed, especially to an outside observer. It was easy to justify it to himself when it was just him alone at the end of the world, but employing a mindset forged in hopelessness and tailored to a doomed future is only going to be maladaptive here and now.

He should probably take some time later to unpack all of that. It would be easier if he could write it all out; it’s always difficult to keep track of his own thoughts without a visual aid, but –

“Jon?” Georgie calls up to him. “You can come down now.”

Deal with it later, he tells himself, tossing his cane down for Georgie to catch. As he makes his way down the ladder, his leg does twinge a bit, but it holds his weight well enough, and he reaches the bottom without incident.

“Where’s Melanie?” Basira asks.

“Resting,” Georgie says, handing Jon his cane. “She had a bad morning. I’ll fill her in on everything later.”

“Fine.” Basira nudges the box with her foot. “What’s this then?”

“Statements,” Georgie says. She’d watched Jon throw them haphazardly into the box before coming down here. “Not sure why, though.”

Jon moves the box to one of the chairs that they left in the tunnel last night. It isn’t too heavy – just some pertinent statements and tapes that he thought might make this discussion flow more smoothly. Taking a seat in the next chair over, he removes the lid from the box and begins rummaging.

“Statement of Joshua Gillespie, regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket,” Jon says after a moment, holding up a folder labeled CASE #9982211 and containing the respective written statement. One page sticks out crookedly, and Jon’s heart skips a beat when he recognizes Tim’s handwriting. This had been one of his cases to follow up on.

He shakes his head and sets the folder aside, reaching into the box for the corresponding tape. Instead, his fingertips brush against a different loose cassette, and his breath catches in his throat.

“Statement of Detective Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner,” he says quietly, removing the cassette. “Traffic stop of a delivery van.”

“This is the statement Daisy gave you?” Basira says. “She said you compelled her.”

“I didn’t realize that was what had happened until afterwards,” Jon says softly. He pulls a tape recorder from his pocket and gives Basira a questioning look.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Jon inserts the cassette and fast-forwards, stopping when he Knows he’s reached the right timestamp. His own recorded voice begins to play.

“If you don’t mind me asking, h-h-how long have you been sectioned now –”

“I do mind,” comes Daisy’s clipped voice. Then, immediately: “Fourteen years.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to make a statement?”

“About what?”

“Whatever you like. Fourteen years – you must have seen a number of paranormal things.”

“And you want me to tell you about them.”

“Uh – I-I-I-I-I –”

“Okay,” says Daisy.

“What?”

“Okay. I’ll give you a statement about – how I got my first Section 31.” A beat. “You look surprised.”

“I mean, I was largely asking as a formality. Basira didn’t give me the impression you were the sharing sort.”

“Maybe you caught me in a good mood.”

“Right, well… good. Do you need me to go over our non-disclosure policy –”

“Not as long as you understand my policy: if it gets out, I’ll break every bone in your body.”

“There are worse things that could happen to them,” the Jon on the tape mutters.

Jon hits stop and looks up at Basira. There’s a sheen to her eyes; he does her the courtesy of looking away and not drawing attention to it. After a long few seconds, she clears her throat. When she speaks, her voice is even and impassive.

“So you really didn’t know you were compelling people back then.”

“…he had no idea what was about to happen to him.”

He probably should have noticed sooner, but he was always so fixated on listening to the answer to a question that he paid comparatively little attention to the asking of it. Insensitive of him, really – far too like the detached fascination of the Ceaseless Watcher, in retrospect. The reality that he had the power to compel others didn’t really sink in until after his conversation with Jude.

Jon notices belatedly that the other two are watching him expectantly. He hadn’t planned on playing Daisy’s tape first, but since he already has it prepared to go, he fast-forwards to the beginning of her statement and lets it play through to the end. No one makes any comment in the few seconds it takes for him to swap the cassette out for Joshua Gillespie’s statement.

“So the Coffin makes people want to enter it,” Basira says as the second statement ends. “Is that why you went in, the first time? You were compelled?”

Jon shakes his head no. Daisy had asked him the same question last time. It’s true that the Coffin called to him, but its compulsion never got beneath his skin – not like that of the Beholding or the Web. In the end, going into the Buried was his decision.

“Why, then?”

“…survivor’s guilt,” Jon says. “I should be dead, really – it’s hard to reconcile yourself with avoiding a death that you feel should have been yours.”

There was more to it, though. He takes a minute to rifle through statements, to piece together his state of mind the first time he entered the Buried.

“I felt a great deal of guilt over my involvement with –”

“– the path of the Eye –”

“– when they looked at me, their eyes were full of – anger – blame –”

“– looked at me with a mixture of hate and helpless terror, as though I could do something to fix it –”

“– cut off effectively all human contact –”

“– I decided I had to do something – anything to get out of the fog –”

“– to lose myself in something that is not the absence of humanity –”

“– desperate to remind myself that I could still feel something –”

“– desperate for any human connection.”

He pauses for a breath. Looking back, if Jon hadn’t been so thoroughly claimed by the Beholding already, he may have been a candidate for the Lonely himself back then. Peter Lukas didn’t have to lift a finger.

“I was starting to fear that if I didn’t manage to do something –”

“– I would lose myself – forever –”

“– I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try –”

“– it was – the most human part of it remaining –”

“– to act, to help, to do something –”

“– I need to not lose any more bits of me –”

“– and worst comes to worst –”

“– at least I felt useful.”

Georgie’s eyes are on him now, reading between the lines.

“Did you even have a plan? Or did you just… rush in by yourself, not even tell anyone?” He nods. “Which?” He gives Georgie a pointed look, nodding a second time. “Both? Figures. Don’t know why I bothered asking, really.”

“…but this time was different,” he assures her.

“How did you get out?” Basira asks.

“It took all my self-control to keep a grip on that anchor.”

“Meaning?”

“…her anchor. The thing weighing her down, tying her to this world,” he tries again.

“Something to ground you,” Georgie says questioningly.

“…to make finding my way back – that much easier.”

“And you can do the same thing this time?” Basira waits for his confirmation before moving on. “What about the delivery itself?”

Jon pulls out another folder and cassette, both labeled CASE #9961505.

“Statement of Alfred Breekon, regarding a new pair of workers at his delivery company.”

“Breekon and Hope?” Basira asks.

Jon nods, inserts the tape, and depresses the play button.

“They’ve been in a few statements, haven’t they?” Basira says afterwards, forehead creased in thought.

As an answer, Jon removes one last cassette from the box before tilting it forward to reveal a handful of case files sliding around at the bottom. All of them contain minor references either to Breekon and Hope or the Coffin, but none of them struck him as significant enough to bother bringing the accompanying tapes.

The remaining cassette in his hand, label reading CASE #0020406, is only relevant for the last minute or so of the recording: Martin’s encounter with Breekon and Hope on the day they delivered the NotThem’s table and the Web’s lighter. Jon pops it into the recorder, fast-forwards to the relevant timestamp, and hits play. Breekon and Hope’s voices echo in the tunnel, finishing each other’s sentences in an uncanny back-and-forth volley.

“Hm.” Basira frowns. “And they just… got into the Archives without anyone seeing them?” Jon nods. “I’m assuming we can expect the same this time?" Another nod, but Jon holds up two fingers, gives Basira a meaningful look, and then puts one down. “Only one of them.”

“Statement of the surviving half of the being calling itself ‘Breekon and Hope,’” Jon says. Then: “When that Hunter killed him – took him from me, made us a me – the casket – was waiting – I fed her to it.”

“Do we have to worry about a fight?”

Jon shakes his head no. “We did not kill them, did not lift a finger. We were bringers of their awful fate, not its executors – and we both tasted it together.” He fast-forwards the statement in his head. “I am without him now – can feel myself fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver. But I am no longer tied to the casket, so you can have it – climb in, and join her.”

“So we just, what, let it deliver the thing and leave?”

“I told her that any real danger had passed –”

“– fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver.”

“And then you go in.”

Jon nods. There are more details, of course, but the basics of his plan are the same as they were last time: equip himself with Daisy’s tape, follow the pull of her voice, rely on his anchor to find the way back – albeit hopefully with fewer hiccups this time.

Or fewer lost ribs, at least, now that he has a better grasp on anchors.

Several days later, a visitor arrives in the Archives, albeit not the one they’ve been expecting.

Head pillowed in his arms on his desk, dozing and half-conscious, Jon is roused from a shallow sleep by voices in the hallway, filtering through the open crack in the door.

“This area is off-limits,” Basira is saying.

“I’m just looking for the Head Archivist. Jonathan Sims? He still works here, doesn’t he?”

Is that…

“What do you want with Jon?” Georgie’s voice, sounding genuinely curious, but anyone familiar with her would recognize the protective edge to it.

“Look, is he here or isn’t he?”

It is.

Rubbing bleary eyes and shaking off the remaining wisps of brain fog, Jon stands, his joints cracking in protest. He grabs his cane, heads for the door, and peeks out into the hallway.

Naomi Herne is here, standing in the doorway at the bottom of the stairs between the Archives and the rest of the Institute. She looked his way when she heard the creak of the door opening, and their eyes meet for a brief moment before he reflexively averts his gaze.

“Jon?” She sidesteps Basira and Georgie and starts walking towards him.

He digs in his pockets and brings out his phone. So far, the AAC app has turned out to be a decent workaround. Prolonged use will still give him a headache in much the same way that communicating through illustration does, but it’s helpful for making specific requests, asking direct questions, and conveying simple or general concepts. He’ll accept a headache if it means not being forced to use some convoluted metaphor just to say I don’t know or I’m short-circuiting, please give me some space or I’m going to make tea; would you like some?

“YOU ARE – HERE,” comes the computerized voice as he prods at the screen. “WHY.”

For a long moment, Naomi says nothing, staring at the phone in his hand.

“It’s been over a week since I last saw you,” she says slowly. “At first I thought it must be because you woke up – which was a good guess, it seems – but then days went by and no dreams, and… I was worried.” Jon tilts his head, confused. “What’s with that look?”

Jon opens and closes his mouth a few times, debating on whether to reach for a statement. It feels wrong to be dishonest with her, and a hopeful part of him suggests that Naomi wouldn’t react too badly. She’s seen worse from him, and none of that seems to have scared her away, so…

“…I wasn’t worth worrying about.”

Naomi rolls her eyes. “Why are you so stubborn?”

Georgie laughs at that. When Naomi glances in her direction, she starts approaching the two of them, apparently satisfied that Naomi isn’t a threat. Likewise, Basira drifts off down the hall and into the break room. She leaves the door open, though – Jon Knows she still wants to listen in, just in case.

“He’s always been like this,” Georgie says.

“Figures,” Naomi says, then looks back at Jon. “So, why haven’t you been around? Did you find a way to sever the dreams, or…?” Jon shakes his head no. “Then what?”

“It’s not like I sleep enough to worry about dreams,” he says evasively.

Naomi opens her mouth to reply and at that moment Jon’s phone goes off. He nearly drops the thing as he fumbles to dismiss the alarm. Once the noise is silenced, Jon sighs and looks at Georgie.

“You want me to…?” Jon nods, giving her permission to speak on his behalf. “Okay then.”

Georgie looks at Naomi.

“Jonathan” – Jon huffs at the use of his full name – “has been depriving himself of sleep. But no matter how stubborn he is, he’s still human.” Georgie gives him a stern look, daring him to contradict her. He doesn’t; it isn’t worth getting into this discussion, especially in front of Naomi. “Now he’s started nodding off in spite of himself, he’s been forced to admit that he can’t go without sleep forever – but instead of actually sleeping, he’s decided that the best course of action is to just set alarms at forty-five minute intervals, to wake him up before he enters REM sleep. Which means he’s not getting any restful sleep.” She looks at Jon and smiles disarmingly. “Does that about cover it?”

Jon rolls his eyes – she really didn’t need to offer the detail about his new alarm routine – but he nods all the same.

“And why don’t you want to sleep?” Naomi asks.

“The only thing that worried me was sleeping. I think it gave me bad dreams,” he says.

“Not to be rude, but…” Naomi hesitates before blurting out: “Why are you talking like that?”

“He’s been having… some speech difficulties,” Georgie says, glancing at Jon. He makes a circular motion with one hand: It’s fine; go ahead. “Ever since he woke up, he’s only able to speak in quotes from the statements? It’s… challenging, to say the least.”

“Ah,” Naomi says, chipper, “just some new spooky developments, then.”

Out of habit, Jon glares at her for her word choice, but there’s no real ire in it. If anything, it’s a relief to find that Naomi’s attitude toward him seems unchanged despite said new spooky developments.

“But…” Naomi frowns. “You’ve been having these dreams for two years now, and you said you’ve mostly gotten them sorted. So how is sleeping now any different from the last few months?”

“He’s afraid that things will go back to the way they were before.”

“O…kay,” Naomi says slowly, “but you told me that most of the others have already learned to stop the nightmare sequence without you. And everyone knows now that you aren’t as scary as you look – which, by the way, is it weird that by now it's almost more unsettling to see you with only two eyes? Sorry, not the point. The point is, it won’t be the same as it was before.”

Jon stares fixedly at a scratch on the floor. Left over from the Flesh attack, maybe? He could Know, but –

Focus, he tells himself before his thoughts can wander too far afield.

He isn’t sure how to explain that the other dreamers may not be as forgiving or fearless as Naomi is. Even if they were to find it in themselves to overlook a relapse, even if they don’t start viewing him the way they did before… the prospect of having his bodily autonomy stripped from him again is more than enough to fill him with dread.

It feels too much like the way the hunger pulls him inexorably toward a victim. It will probably feel like how it does when the Archive takes control. And it will definitely feel like it did when he was made a conduit for the Watcher’s Crown. Jonah wearing him like a glove. Locking him in place, forcing his eyes open, hijacking his voice. Making him into a possession, only to cast him aside like a broken toy once he had served his purpose.

“– Jon?”

With some effort, he drags himself back to the present.

“Something not moving but that wants to move. Wants to be free –”

“– stopped being able to move under his own power – walk him like a puppet – directed and controlled –”

“– unable to move – to cry for help.”

Hands shaking, he inputs a response on his phone.

“I AM – SCARED.”

“That’s… okay, that sounds properly horrifying,” Naomi admits. “But you don’t know for sure that’s what’ll happen, right?” Grudgingly, Jon shakes his head no. “So you could be fretting over nothing.”

“So far, so normal, right?”

“Smartass,” Naomi says, but with good humor. “Still, you can’t go without sleep forever – you’re going to have to face it eventually. You may as well get it over with sooner rather than later, and then you’ll know for sure. If nothing else, you’ll get some sleep out of it. But,” she says with a longsuffering sigh, “I have a feeling you’re going to keep pushing it, so…” She holds out her hand and crooks her fingers. “Phone. I’m adding my number to your contacts.”

It isn’t until Jon hands it over that he even consciously processes her words.

“Just so you know,” Georgie says, “he can’t really text, either. Unless it’s in statements.”

“That’s fine,” Naomi says, typing rapidly with her thumbs. “You can just reply with emojis or whatever, Jon. Just something to let me know you’re still alive.” She hands the phone back to him. “And this way I can send you pictures of the Duchess.”

Jon perks up at that.

“The Duchess?” Georgie asks.

“Yep. Adopted a cat last week.” Naomi’s smile is wider than Jon has ever seen it. “She’s settling in nicely,” she says to him before looking back to Georgie. “I almost changed her name, but Jon insisted I leave it as is. Said I shouldn’t deprive her of a title she’d rightfully earned.”

Georgie snorts. “He said the same about the Admiral.”

“Oh, you must be Georgie, then? I’ve heard a lot about… uh –”

“Don’t worry; I’m well aware you’ve heard more about the Admiral than me. Pretty sure Jon prefers his company to mine half the time.” She ignores the indignant look Jon shoots her and holds out her phone to Naomi. “Jon was notoriously terrible at answering texts even before all of… this. Feel free to direct any, ‘Is Jonathan Sims still alive?’ queries to me.”

Jon watches in bewilderment as the two of them exchange numbers. Not for the first time, he wonders how this kind of socializing seems to come so naturally to other people.

“I also wouldn’t mind seeing a photo of the Duchess.”

“What about a group text?” Naomi says. “Spooky-free zone, cat-related updates only. Everyone gets their daily dose of cat antics, I get to honestly tell my therapist that I’m not self-isolating, and Jon can just like things to let me know he’s still breathing. Three birds, one stone.”

“Good idea.” Georgie gives Jon an exacting look. “It’ll give you something nice to obsess over. I’ll have to ask Melanie if she wants to be added, too. She could use the distraction.”

Jon can feel a smile tug at his lips as he hurriedly taps out a response.

“YES – PLEASE – THANK YOU.”

Jon and the others try to retreat to the tunnels as often as possible – every other day, if they can manage it – even if there isn’t a pressing matter to discuss. More than anything, it’s a ploy to throw off Jonah. There’s every possibility that he would grow suspicious if the group only held their secretive meetings just prior to major events. Meeting frequently likely won’t alarm him too much, though. Jonah is likely to write off Jon’s furtiveness as paranoia, or simply his near-compulsive tendency to retread the same ground in aimless circles, obsessing over a single question ad infinitum.

Jon isn’t sure whether he Knows this, or if he’s just become uncomfortably familiar with Jonah’s thought processes. Either way, Jon is well aware of what Jonah thinks of him, of how the man can effortlessly dissect and predict Jon’s every outward action and inner experience. If he's honest with himself, Jonah’s scrutiny may terrify him even more than the Ceaseless Watcher’s.

At least the Eye is alien, operating entirely outside the bounds of human morality and emotion. It and all of the other Fears just… are what they are. Predictable, instinctual, amoral – or operating on a sort of blue and orange morality, at least. It brings to mind something Michael said to him, all those years ago: “Am I evil, Archivist? Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature? When it embodies its nature? When that nature is created by those which revile it?”

Someone like Jonah Magnus, though – born human, raised human, spending several lifetimes embedded in human society – can understand his fellow humans much more intimately than any nonhuman Entity ever could, and he uses that understanding to torture his victims, knowing full well how it feels. On the one hand, Jon and all his other pawns throughout the centuries are nothing but means to an end; he cares little for them outside of their usefulness to him. On the other hand, he isn’t fully detached: there’s no denying the sadistic glee he took in gloating as he forced Jon to open the door.

Even in a world devoid of the Dread Powers, monsters would still exist, and a mundane human monstrosity is almost as dreadful as a supernatural one. Daisy derived joy from the Hunt with more complexity than a wolf would. Jon’s own hunts may have felt instinctual, but they also felt morally wrong in a way that tearing the legs off a spider would never feel to a cat – and he did it anyway. Even Gertrude embodied a certain flavor of monstrosity, despite never fully giving in to the temptation of the Beholding. She did not need to embrace any supernatural power; her ruthlessness damned innocent people all the same, as thoroughly as the Desolation and with as much precision as the Web.

Georgie and Martin – and Helen, even – may have a point about humanity and monstrosity not following a strict either/or dichotomy. Whether the Fears were birthed by humanity or preceded it, in the world as-is they would be toothless without human imagination to fuel and interpret and inspire them. The apocalypse demonstrated that fact rather starkly the more and more the human population dwindled.

Jon shakes his head, interrupting that line of thought. There are more important things to worry about right now. Namely: it’s the third of March, and the Institute is expecting a visitor.

Basira is with him in his office; Georgie is off keeping Melanie company, away from Breekon and any possibility of a confrontation. They’d all agreed to this arrangement last night in the tunnels, and since they’ve been having those clandestine meetings so regularly, it should look like a coincidence to Jonah, rather than a prearranged setup.

And Breekon arrives right on schedule, though this time he cannot catch Basira alone. He comes directly to Jon’s office, dragging the Coffin behind him.

“Jon,” Basira says urgently, not taking her eyes off the hulking figure darkening the doorway.

They must tread carefully – not seeming so unconcerned as to let on that they were expecting the delivery, but not overselling the act so much that Jonah would sense something was amiss.

“I wish I could say that was the last I saw of them – but they did return – started to make deliveries – Breekon and Hope.”

“Where’s the other one?” Basira asks.

“That copper took him from me,” Breekon says balefully. He drags the Coffin over the threshold, lets it fall to the ground with a thump, and jerks his head at it. “So I fed her to the pit.”

“Daisy’s in there,” Basira says, bristling.

“That’s its name? Then sure, ‘t’s in there, whatever’s left. Find out if you like.”

“…get out of my office –”

Jon’s voice crackles with static, and Breekon takes one step backward.

“What are you doing? Stop that.”

“Jon,” Basira says warningly.

“– as soon as they’d placed the box on the floor, they turned around and walked out –”

The static continues to rise in volume.

“I said stop it!” Breekon grunts through gritted teeth, even as he turns and steps back over the threshold.

“– the door slammed behind them” – Breekon does indeed reach for the handle and pulls the door shut after him – “and I was left – with this package.”

The static cuts out abruptly, and Jon exhales heavily, winded.

“What the hell was that?” Basira demands, rounding on Jon. “Did you just – compel him to leave?”

“…apparently this was how it was done now,” Jon says quietly. That at least answers the question of whether he can still effectively use that power. He isn’t sure how to feel about that.

“Knew you could compel people to answer questions. Didn’t know you could compel actions, too.”

Jon shuts his eyes, still catching his breath. There were limits on his compulsion abilities even during the apocalypse; there are bound to be just as many now, if not more. He doesn’t have the mindset for muddling through a complicated explanation right now, though, so he opts for the AAC app instead.

“LITTLE,” he selects from the screen. It should be enough to get the general point across, at least for now.

“Great. I’ll just put that in the ominous column, shall I?” Basira sighs. “Is it really okay to just… let him leave?”

“I told her that any real danger had passed,” he says simply.

“If you say so.” She stares intently at the Coffin, arms crossed. “So, what now?”

Without another word, Jon stands and beckons for Basira to follow. As he locks the office door behind them, Basira tells him to go wait for her at the tunnel entrance while she fetches Melanie and Georgie. He nods absentmindedly, but she’s already left without waiting for a response.

The last time, two weeks spanned between the delivery of the Coffin and the day Jon actually opened it. This time, there’s no need to wait. He still has some preparations to make – there’s no need to visit the Boneturner, but Jon does still want to leave some tapes running to serve as physical anchors. He also has to plan for the possibility of something going wrong, even if he is fairly confident in his ability to find his way back again. Mainly, he’d like to leave a letter behind for Martin, though the Archive might make that difficult.

Other than that, it’s just a matter of mentally preparing himself for another trip into the Buried.

Knowing what to expect doesn’t make it any less terrifying, though. If anything, it might make it worse.

End Notes:

Soooo I thought I'd be able to cover more plot in this chapter, but I was too attached to the scene with Naomi to scrap it, and I wanted that conversation between Jon and Georgie to happen pre-Buried. The result is that this chapter feels a bit scattershot. But that means next chapter I can just focus on the Coffin. Thanks for bearing with me! (Hoping to have next chapter ready by this weekend or early next week. Depends on how busy work is.)

For anyone unfamiliar with AAC (augmentative and alternative communication) devices/apps and wondering why it's different from typing/texting for Jon - the app he's using has preloaded phrases and images he can select from, so he doesn't have to type/text character-by-character. It still has drawbacks for him - difficult to use for long periods of time, less likely to work the more specific he tries to be, like with drawing - but at least there's another communication option for him to reach for now.

Citations for Jon's verbal dialogue are as follows, broken down by section. Section 1: None. Section 2: 009; 036; 050/027/008/153/010/015/009/124/056/128; 112; 045/005/112/131; 045; 020/134; 157; 017; 138/130; 059; 029; 101/024; 135; 094; both 028 & 076; 148; 094; 042; 054; 117/013; 013/009; 150; 013/009/013/007/013; 146/092/151/063; 002/050; 009; 062. Section 3: 038. Section 4: 002; 061; 050; 056; 051; 019/138/013/105/113/013/092/122/102; 019/048/011/123/124/014/145/139; 051; 013, 145; 023; 096; 128; 128 (again); 008/128. Section 5: 014; 113; 002; 032/136/015; 025. Section 6: 096; 006; 002; 002 (again); 005; 008.

The taped banter between Daisy and Jon is from MAG 061. The Michael quote is from MAG 101. A few bits of Breekon's dialogue were borrowed from MAG 128.

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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areiton · 4 years

Note

I was wondering if you could help me out with something - usually I'm more of a winteriron shipper. And also I usually don't like Cap very much. But if I wanted to read some stony ffs post cw, iw or eg fix-it's, ffs in which Tony's not the bad guy and Steve's not the self-righteous dick the mcu turned him into - which would you recommend? I know you read a lot and I adore your writing so I think I might like what you read. If you have the time for this, I'd be very happy :)

Ok, so most of the fixit’s I’ve read are Winteriron or Stuckony, OR are more comic-centric than MCU, so this was tricky BUT here’s what I can do to help you.

(Oh, and shameless self-promotion, we have become something different, beloved (tragic and lovely) and wonderland are my two Civil War fixits because apparently I had a lot of feels.)

Last Train Home by erde (orphan_account)

Steve writes letters to Tony that he never sends. By the time he hands them to their rightful owner, Tony has had a brush with death, has retired as a superhero, and now has a small town workshop of his very own. But it's okay, Steve has gone into retirement too.

Just Far Enough by TheSopherfly

Tony couldn’t honestly remember how long it had been like this. Probably since the day he’d called T’Challa and offered his help. At first it had just been compulsive self-denial: you can’t eat until you’ve drafted your opening remarks, until you’ve finished your research, until you’ve rewritten every last colon and comma and apostrophe in those Accords so that everyone can come home.

Those goals had been realistic. Lately, they’d become impossible. Until everyone forgives you. Until you forgive yourself. Until you make up for every bad thing you’ve ever caused.

He was fine. He was coasting in a dangerous place, but he was fine. He wasn't taking it too far - just far enough.

Over Sea, Under Stars by vorkosigan

Tony gets the phone, but he never uses it and he never intends to. Or, he doesn’t until Steve starts texting him, asking strange questions about medication and mental health, which is when Tony gets worried.

(A texting fix-it that grew beyond all proportion. Deals with depression and anxiety quite a lot. There is even some plot in there somewhere.)

Can't start a fire without a spark

The Avengers might be reunited, but they are holding together with a Band-Aid and a severe case of Tony pretending nothing happened. The superficial truce is shattered the day Steve takes control of Tony's suit and forces him to go to medical in a tense situation. When Tony is ordered to take a vacation, Steve volunteers to go with him.

A Foolish Heart (Is Better Than None) by Myrime

It takes no time at all for Steve to pick up the phone. “Tony,” he breathes, not at all as confident as he used to but it is still too much, too real, and Tony feels himself shatter all over again. “Are you all right?” Tony wants to laugh, but his chest aches with the phantom pain of the dead suit weighing him down, so he cannot move at all. His heart, on the other hand, seems ready to burst, beating so fast and wild as if it hopes it could reach out and touch Steve just by making enough of a ruckus. “Never mind,” Tony says in a voice he does not recognize at his. “There is no emergency. You’re not needed.” He used to be better at lying than this. When Steve calls back, he does not pick up.

#arei answers #vive-lanuit #fic rec #stony #stony fic #arei reads too much

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thcconduit · 4 years

Text

[CLASSIFIED]: ADVANCED ADVOCATES CASE FILE:

ARCHANGEL THE CONDUIT

BASICS

BIRTH NAME: Francis Hayes

NICKNAME(S): Frank, Frankie, but really he just wants you to call him Francis.

DATE OF BIRTH: March 19, 1984 (Pisces)

AGE: 35

GENDER: Male

PRONOUNS: He/him/his

NATIONALITY: American

HOMETOWN: Fort Smith, Arkansas.

CURRENT RESIDENCE: Turnstone, USA. Madison, Wisconsin.

OCCUPATION: ASL interpreter.

ORIGIN

CW: car accident mention.

Francis’ life has been a series of unfortunate events. He likes to think of his life as split in two distinctive parts; before and after the accident he suffered with his parents. Before that fateful event, he remembered his family being quite normal, sometimes distant in a way that happened when everyone was so cemented in their routines, but nothing out of the ordinary. He even has some memories he would consider nice, like going to a theme park on his birthday, or going to Sunday church service.

Things changed drastically after their accident, enough so that Francis often wonders what things would be like had it never occurred. You see, his family was driving down the highway, going to New York to visit an aunt for the holidays, someone he had never actually met before, even though he had been around thirteen at the time. They never actually made it to his aunt’s house, a semi truck plowed into them, sending them careening off of the highway. The impact had been so strong that Francis had eventually died on the scene. He was brought back by paramedics, but there are times where he wishes they hadn’t done so.

He was never the same after that, he lost a lot of hearing in his left ear and would need to use a hearing aid, and was left with extensive emotional trauma. This trauma was only exacerbated by the appearance of strange sensations in his body, something he couldn’t explain. Every time he went to sleep he would panic, waking up in terror, and then he would separate from his body, left to wander aimlessly around his home for hours until he returned.

Dealing with the reality of severe PTSD, and the fact that he was astral projecting was incredibly difficult for the young teen. So many things were changing for him so quickly and he felt isolated from his family. His mother and father turned to religion much more heavily to cope with the after effects of the accident, and often expected Francis to act fine so that no one could see just how they were affected. His parents, and especially his mother needed to feel that everything was fine and would continue to be fine. Francis clung onto religion and what his family expected of him to feel some semblance of normalcy and connection, but he was often left to deal with his traumas alone.

Over time Francis’ mental state only became worse as he learned new things about himself, things he knew would be considered unacceptable. Things he wasn’t prepared to face. One of those was that his astral projection seemed to get worse and he was now losing himself to forces he couldn’t understand. He felt as if he were under spiritual attack, but couldn’t actually go to anyone for help, too afraid they’d judge and ridicule him. Or worse.

He began to develop compulsions and rituals to keep the feelings at bay, and protect him. It was all irrational but it was the only way he felt he had any control. These only got worse until they impeded his ability to be like the other teens in his school. During his senior year, his counselor called upon his parents and told them of the things teachers had witnessed and how panic stricken Francis seemed all the time. His parents begrudgingly took him to therapists, but refused to allow him to take any medications.

Francis got a little better, enough so that he could enroll in college and take Deaf studies and ASL courses. He had known a bit of ASL growing up but never enough to be fully fluent. He wanted to feel connected to others like him.

He could still feel the presence of spirits calling out to him, but he didn’t know what to do, and tried his hardest to close himself off to that. It became too much though, and the first time he experienced a full scale possession was during a final exam where he was taken by a spirit who could light things on fire. He almost burned down the building he was in with his peers, and was kicked out of his college. There wasn’t a clear explanation, but he was deemed a danger, the witnesses had all seen the fire emanate from his body.

His parents, upon seeing this, took in the young man in his early twenties, and decided he should work with them within the church. He was obviously troubled, and needed spiritual guidance. They kept him under watchful eye and demanded he be kept in line. Francis worked as an ASL interpreter within the church, and was heavily involved. Around this time, the church saw the rise of hero teams and leagues, namely the coalition. They disagreed with some of the ways things were handled, feeling that there needed to be a Christian league of heroes that could keep things in line with the morals they agreed with.

There was enough of a push that eventually, one of the megachurches created their own league, The Seraph League, a team of heroes who all upheld Christian beliefs and made it clear that they did. Super powered beings being involved with the church so heavily, and being upheld as paragons, made Francis feel that maybe he could actually use his powers and let his parents know what had been happening to him,

He finally told them about the spiritual occurrences that had happened to him, and his parents looked at him with fear, and a little disgust. Still, his mother agreed that he needed to join Seraph League so that he could control it and use it for good. She saw it as a wicked thing that needed to be put to good use, then maybe it could be considered a gift.

Francis went through the process of joining The Seraph League and was surprised to be accepted. He was given the name Archangel, something that made his powers seem less intimidating, and told the public that he channeled angels, rather than spirits. There was a whole PR team, and a lot of money behind Seraph League, even though they weren’t the most famous or known team. They had a lot of sycophants and followers. Enough so that they held large scale evangelical events.

What most did not know was that a lot of those within Seraph League were actually quite corrupt, and didn’t believe the things they purported to. Francis was frequently disheartened by things he saw, and didn’t know why he had ended up in this place. They saved people, not for the good, but for credibility and brownie points.

This on top of his powers finally becoming stronger thanks to actual use, made Francis spiral frequently. He was in a dire mental state and could feel the fear he was so familiar with overtaking him. He often lost himself in spirits, one time being stuck in time when a spirit paused time and he couldn’t get back. He had been stuck that way for about a month, and when he told his team members, they had laughed him off.

Things just kept getting worse for him, until there was a small period where things cleared up, and he was able to finish the degree he had tried to complete earlier in his life, and settled down with a woman he thought was the love of his life. Francis was still operating in many forms of denial, one such being that of his sexuality, he was dealing with enough, that he didn’t have time to confront how he felt.

He knew that going along with what was expected was his only hope, and so that’s how it had to be. Francis married his wife, and had a big wedding that was streamed to the Seraph League followers, it was the only time he had ever felt his parents were truly proud of him.

After the honeymoon phase was over, they settled into a life of routine, just how he had remembered from his childhood. The only thing was that his powers were still getting worse. He could feel himself astral projecting in the night, out of his control, and much stronger spirits beckoning to him whenever he needed to channel one.

Francis’ old habits returned and his mental state deteriorated once again, making him feel worse than before because he thought that he actually had his life together. He kept on with this for a while, suffering in silence, until after enough time he couldn’t any longer.

He knew he needed a change, he no longer wanted to be a part of Seraph League. They neglected his needs, and made sure to appear as best as they could to the public, and he wanted to be part of something that was actually fulfilling. Still, he was too afraid to do it himself. That’s how he ended up subconsciously channeling a mischievous spirit who could negate powers, and derailed one of their missions completely, ending up in some of his members needing to be hospitalized due to injury.

Francis had almost lost himself completely with this spirit, but managed to get back to himself only to see the extent to which he had destroyed his team. He was apologetic and remorseful, but it was too late, he was removed from the Seraph League dishonorably and was made a pariah.

The backlash was so much that even his wife left him, and this was enough to make him lose it. Everything he had known for years was suddenly gone. He had arrived at the lowest point in his life, his parents didn’t even talk to him because of how ashamed they were. That’s when he decided to get help for himself finally get on medication. He needed all the help he could get to cope.

Francis took some time to himself after everything fell apart, to find himself and began to work as an ASL interpreter for the courts and hospitals. He needed to try and have a normal life, something he felt he would never have. He was mostly successful but he still wasn’t truly happy, there was something still missing.

When he saw the rise of the advocates, he made a mental note of it, hoping that they would be able to see past his reputation and accept him. But he was too afraid to actually put himself out there like that.

Over time though, Francis saw the rise of villainy, cases coming in through the courts and he felt like he needed to help however he could. That’s what made him apply, changing his name to The Conduit, finally being open and honest about the reality of his abilities. Maybe this time he could actually be himself, and use his abilities for good. He’s been in the team for a few months, and that’s all he hopes for. To be able to create a purpose for himself and take control of his narrative.

APPEARANCE

HEIGHT: 6′4″

WEIGHT: 235 lbs.

BUILD: Muscular.

ETHNICITY: Irish, French, Polish

HAIR: Brown

EYES: Green

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: A scar on his his left cheek, as well as a few on his legs and arms and torso.

DISABILITIES: Hard of hearing, PTSD, OCD.

DRESS STYLE: Clean and simple. Well fitting slacks and button ups.

TATTOOS: None.

PIERCINGS: None.

PERSONALITY/PSYCHOLOGY

INTROVERT or EXTROVERT: Introvert.

INTELLIGENCE LEVEL: He’s pretty intelligent, he works as an interpreter.

MENTAL HEALTH: Poor, but he’s managing it at the moment.

HABITS: He has a series of rituals. Bounces his legs a lot. Chews on his nails, and plays with his hair to self soothe.

MANNERISMS: He’s a little fidgety. Grinds his teeth and clenches his jaw a lot. He forgets to look at people’s eyes when talking at times.

HEALTH: It’s okay, he likes to work out and eat well, most of the time.

MBTI TYPE: ISFJ

POSITIVE ATTRIBUTES: Caring, Intelligent, Selfless

NEGATIVE ATTRIBUTES: Distrusting, Scared, Avoidant

LIKES: Pasta dishes, dogs, helping people, quiet environments, animals in general.

DISLIKES: His powers, The Seraph League, rude people, swearing, places that are too loud and overwhelming.

HOBBIES: He likes to paint landscapes and bake.

TALENTS / SKILLS: He can play guitar, but he doesn’t do it often. He only learned to do it because he wanted to prove he could.

FAMILY

PARENTS: Peter and Amy Hayes.

SIBLINGS: None.

CHILDREN: None.

MARITAL STATUS: Divorced.

SIGNIFICANT OTHER(S): None.

OTHER FAMILY: None of significance.

PETS: A corgi named Pancake.

SEXUALITY

SEXUAL ORIENTATION: Gay, although he is in denial about it and in the closet.

DATING STATUS: Not looking.

DOMINANT / SUBMISSIVE / SWITCH: Submissive.

TOP / BOTTOM / VERSATILE: Versatile.

TURN-ONS: A soothing presence, and who knows what else to be honest, he needs to figure it out. Big arms. He liked it when his wife kissed his neck.

TURN-OFFS: Having sex with his ex wife. Arrogance, rudeness.

SUPERHEROISM

ALIAS: The Conduit. (formerly, Archangel)

POWERS / SKILLSET:

Spirit Channeling/Possession Empowerment: Francis is a conduit to the spiritual realm and can channel spirits through his body, who possess him and imbue him with their characteristics momentarily. Largely this manifests in him gaining their abilities, and being able to use them, but at times he will be imbued with parts of their personalities too. He can only channel one spirit at a time, and the stronger the spirit, the more control they have over him. He can lose himself to a spirit he is channeling if he doesn’t do it correctly, or they gain the upper-hand over him. He’s gotten better at his channeling over time, but he still isn’t as great at it as he should be, often too afraid to tap into his full potential. Fear is a tricky game for him, because the spirits can sense it, leading him to potential danger.

Astral Projection: He’s able to separate his spiritual being from his corporeal form and navigate the astral plane. Often this happens out of his control, but he can call upon this ability as well. In his astral form, he is almost see-through and cannot interact physically but can communicate clearly with the world around him. Francis is able to use this ability to sneak around and gather intel. His astral form has a calming aura, able to subdue strong emotions of those around him, and he is able to think most clearly when he is in his spiritual form.

COLORS: Dark grays and black.

APPEARANCE:

His costume when he used to be in The Seraph League was a white bodysuit with a cape that resembled wings, but now it’s a black bodysuit with a black flowing cape and hood. He wears dark colors that allow him to hide easily, and also reflect his general mood. When he’s possessed, his eyes will change colors and if you see his reflection, It will be that of that the spirit that he’s channeling.

WEAKNESSES:

Spiritual control: Francis can lose himself to a spirit if they are strong or willful enough, so he has to be careful of which spirits he channels. They can even try to possess him when he is astral projecting, which would lead to his body being controlled by another being, which would be a hassle to correct.

Dormant body: When Francis is astral projecting his body is essentially comatose and unresponsive, so he is weakened in that sense. If he is under attack physically, he needs to return to his body to be able to do anything about it.

Fear: Francis is afraid of the true power of his abilities, so he’s mostly just scratched the surface of channeling spirits. Often, he will only channel those he is familiar with and not veer off of that too much.

MENTOR / PROTEGE: Protege.

LENGTH OF ADVOCATE MEMBERSHIP: 3 months.

SUPERVILLAIN ARCHNEMESIS: None specifically. The Seraph League?

#bio #about the conduit #advocatetask #this is long im sorry

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