#the choke tma

[fruitisthenewvegitable]

Sometimes I think I’m not of the Buried.

But then I remember the feeling of being under my blanket. Of wrapping a belt or skirt around my waist. The feeling of my friends leaning on my chest at a sleepover. Of wearing oversized and warm clothes. Of closing my bedroom door and pulling the curtains shut so that all I know is this space I’ve decorated for myself and no other. The feeling of being held.

Sometimes I think that the buried is simply not for me. But then I remember all the times that weight on my chest and belly and legs and back has comforted me in a way not many other things can. In a way that makes me feel secure. In a way that grounds me until I am ready to face the world again.

I used to think the Buried wasn’t for me. But then I remembered that without weight on my chest I would simply float away into the outer depths of space, somewhere I would love to see but hate to exist in. And that if I were to pick between never setting foot on the confining grounds of the earth, letting all my worries and fears go, and flying off to the horizon, the border of our atmosphere, the moon, the sun, and the stars, never stopping until I simply couldn’t anymore, or choose the earth. Then I would still choose the earth, for even if it keeps all my discomforts, it still holds the weight that gives me the ability to calm and ground myself until I am ready to face the world anew, so that I may experience the joy of the presence of others and not just the burning core of the stars, for being able to face the things outside my door is what makes me who I am.

And I fucking love who I am.

So I will take the weight and pressure and comfort that allow me to think straight, and once I am calm again I will have my strength back.

[avariceaside]

Space time out with @wolfythewitch's tma oc

[bellpipers]

The sad sleep deprived man himself: Jonathan Sims!

[openlikeavivisection]

archive? WORMS?? TAPE RECORDER???? im normal im normal im normal

[samwise1548]

I can't believe you'd do this!

That you'd LEAVE me like this!

You SWORE to me. You SWOre, yOU BAStard.

[oh-shit-i-spilled-my-genderfluid]

Did some digital art! It’s been a long time since I last did it

[sydneighsays]

Ep 97 when Nikkie vibe checked Jon

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA: Encore #8

Jon: This way.

He leads his team steadily through doorway after doorway in the labyrinth of stone. The others follow uneasily, eyes mostly fixed on the light but acutely aware of the darkness around them. The hallway keeps going and going, twisting and splitting.

Jon: Stay close. He left a lot of dead ends down here.

Sasha: Won’t he come after us once he realizes we’re gone?

Jon: He doesn’t need us. We’ve done enough. With any luck, he can get Prentiss and Jonah on his own.

Jon’s words are confident enough, but his silhouette is stiff. His head keeps flicking between untaken passageways when it’s not set on the map or the path ahead. Tim notices, especially. He could swear Jon’s had them double back a couple times, but it’s hard to tell.

They pass by an inner chamber of the Panopticon, the long drop to the center watchtower that was left half-submerged in cement after the prison closed. The bundles of TNT the other Jon–the Not-Jon–strapped to the stone pillars weeks before are still in place.

Sasha: Where’d he get all that?

Tim: He can disappear doors. I imagine he could pop one up in a demolition warehouse.

Martin: And we’re just leaving that here?

Jon: Nope.

Jon tucks the map into his palm with two fingers and digs a small square device out of his pocket. He holds it in the light for just a second. It’s the spiderweb lighter.

Sasha: Jesus. Are you serious, Jon?

Jon: None of us will be able to put this behind us if the archives are still standing. Besides, if they’re helping Jonah, it can only be good to get rid of them. I was going to go back and pull the fire alarm after you all got clear so the place will be empty. Come on.

Martin: But won’t it… hurt? We’re all tied to it through the Eye.

Jon: It might be uncomfortable, but nothing serious. None of you are that deeply attached, I think.

Martin: What about you?

Jon: *staring forward* I’ll be fine.

Tim: Assuming the place will even let you light the fuse.

Jon pauses, then concedes a troubled sigh. He returns to the map.

Jon: Okay, we need to turn right at the next fork.

His arm instinctively raises when he looks up, casting light on a figure standing motionless in the dead air and staring into the brightness as it flashes on his glasses. Not-Jon.

The group can do nothing but chatter and stumble in total darkness. Martin is the first to reach a wall. He runs his hand along its odd smoothness, searching for a corner–an escape route.

He finds a light switch.

Martin: What?

He flicks it, and he finds himself back in one of the tiny offices of the archives with Tim and Sasha. Tim immediately tries the door and curses. Locked.

~

Jon can barely breathe. His fingers pry at other fingers no thicker than his own. Yet they are as immovable as coils of iron. The scarred hand is fixed at the meeting of his collar and neck, pressed just hard enough to hold him in place. The back of Jon’s head is tiled at an uncomfortable angle against the wall as a reflex to keep his airway open. He kicks at the man holding him, but the rest of him might as well be made of steel, too.

Jon coughs indignantly.

He recognizes that they’re standing in one of the cluttered storage rooms at the back corner of the archives. Piles of file boxes and unused chairs dampen what little noise he can make. The veins in his neck pump against his captor’s fingers at an accelerated rate.

NJ: I think we still need to clear some things up, so you’re going to stay still and listen. Really listen this time.

Not-Jon starts by apologizing. He knew from experience that being honest from the beginning wouldn’t guarantee success. However, he reminds Jon that he did warn him there could be difficult outcomes from the beginning.

Jon doesn’t say anything.

Not-Jon reiterates the stakes. That being able to progress with total control is antithetical to thwarting the forces that seek to consume them. Because they are the only force of absolute control. He says that Jon needs to try harder to keep the others onboard. He speaks more emphatically than before, trying to suppress his frustration.

Jon’s focus has drifted. He just noticed that his doppelganger isn’t wearing the ratty sweater he has been, just a black t-shirt. And he’s sweating.

Not-Jon requires an answer. Does Jon understand how important this plan is now?

Jon stays silent.

NJ: I’m wasting my breath aren’t I?

Jon can’t tell if the grip is getting tighter or if his neck is getting irritated from the tension. It’s a little harder to breathe.

Jon: I knew that I locked the door when we were talking before. You let the others find out on purpose. You counted on them interfering.

NJ: Because I can count on them acting against me more reliably than I can count on you cooperating.

Jon’s eyes narrow.

Not-Jon tells him that a big part of trial and error is managing variables. Looking for patterns in how they fail and complicate things. And the biggest issue by far, across all possible scenarios, in trying to prevent the Fears from winning is…

NJ: You, Jon. Nearly every time. Because despite the fact that you would have willfully stumbled through their plan out of sheer curiosity, you simply cannot seem to stick to this plan that you didn’t make yourself. Even though, technically, you did.

Jon is stung. His face sours defensively.

Jon: You can’t blame me for knowing you too well to trust you.

Not-Jon lowers his head to meet Jon’s eyes squarely–which unsettles Jon, recalling that they’re both supposedly the same height.

NJ: You would know, wouldn’t you?

An uncomfortable beat passes. The hand at Jon’s throat feels too hot.

NJ: I know that you brought your team down into the Tunnels just to lead them in circles. You had no intention of escaping. Not now, anyway. You were more concerned with provoking me. Finding out what I can do. What I really am.

Jon pipes up quickly.

Jon: How was I supposed to stop them from trying to leave? I was protecting them. You were spying on us. You could even see us in the Tunnels! I had no idea what could be waiting between us and the exit!

The way Not-Jon is looking at him is making Jon nervous and talkative. He accuses Not-Jon of not being able to separate the Fears’ influences from his own motivations. Not-Jon replies that that’s easy for him to say. For decades, he’s had no choice but to try to make good from a very difficult place. Jon says that’s not good enough. He can no longer be convinced that Not-Jon is ultimately on their side. The time-worn man lets out a long painful exasperated breath. He sets his jaw, never breaking eye contact.

Not-Jon: Yes. I’m not on your side. Or the Fears’ side. I am on my side. The side where the world doesn’t end. I have learned from the many, many times that I have been in this spot that being on your side does not achieve that. As much as I always hope that things will be different the next time, I have no obligation to work with you, reassure you, or save you. I am here to be the thing that gets you to be on my side, and I will force you if I have to.

Jon feels surrounded by his counterpart as it begins describing the apocalypse that has been lingering in the back of his mind for the past several weeks. If asked, Jon could already vividly recall each domain of intense suffering that had riddled the landscape. He had relistened to it several times to spur himself forward in moments of weakness. But as he hears it now from the mouth of the Archivist, it spreads through his senses like a cancer. A cacophony of wailing and screaming drowns out the pounding in his ears. The meaning of time dissolves in the freezing, burning, acrid wind that whips at his skin and tongue. The individual terror mills, each unique in their unwatchable intricacy, crowd his vision in a kaleidoscope. He is paralyzed. Speechless.

The trance is broken by a soft knock at the door.

Rosie: Mr. Sims?

Not-Jon pauses. Jon is busy reeling.

NJ: *clears throat* Rosie?

Rosie: Sorry to interrupt your reading. Your appointment just arrived.

Not-Jon raises his head. He had almost forgot.

NJ: Melanie.

Melanie has been sitting here for fifteen minutes.

Jon enters, straightening himself up. He pauses, realizing he’s never seen her face before.

Jon: *a little hoarse* Melanie King?

Melanie: That’s me. Do you make a habit of keeping people waiting, or is it just for me?

Jon: Uh–no, I’m sorry, Miss King. I just needed a minute.

Melanie: Hmph. I was beginning to worry you had already heard of me.

Jon remembers the internet fiasco that brought her in originally.

Jon: I… have heard a bit.

He takes her statement, just as it appeared in the tapes. Once she’s finished, she asks what he thinks.

Jon stares into his notepad, at the notes he didn’t take. Her encounter with the avatars lurking in the abandoned hospital and her later history with the other Jon plays back in his mind like microfilm as the fresh imprint of the apocalypse scrolls by further in the background, peeking brightly through the gaps in his memory. He closes the notebook and looks at her.

He advises her to get as far away from the factors of the incident as she can, and to avoid any further supernatural encounters. They’re dangerous, and her health could be at risk. She protests in confusion, but he insists. He says that she might have gotten into this thinking she can handle it, but she’ll find herself in trouble sooner than later. A lot of people have died over less. She asks him questions about other incidents. Professional confidentiality would forbid him to answer, but he feels compelled to overrule it for this. He replies as briefly and vaguely as he can without compromising the gravity of his answers. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes, it gets worse than that. Melanie’s expression becomes less scrutinizing as the conversation progresses.

She slumps back in her chair and searches his face.

Melanie: I don’t care.

Jon: What do you mean?

Melanie: This stuff has been my life for years, and I never even broke the surface. Something serious is clearly going on, and I’m not gonna bail just because there’s a chance it’ll go wrong. Even if it’s a big chance. It’s not like anyone else is doing anything about it.

Jon kicks himself.

Jon: You should really let the Institute handle that kind of investigation.

Melanie: Based on what you’ve said, you honestly don’t seem prepared to do much more than sit and file paperwork.

Jon’s fingers screw together.

Jon: I wish I could.

Melanie: Then, do.

She gets up to leave.

Jon: Wait.

She stops at the door. He speaks in a flattened tone that almost comes out as a whisper.

Jon: Don’t ever contact this institute again.

She scoffs and shuts the door hard after her. Jon exhales. He stares at his knuckles, deep in thought.

By the time he exits the interview room, the others appear to have gone home.

------------

Hope you’ll pardon the change in format. Here’s why, if you missed it. This is actually gonna be more detailed than an outline. Part fic/script, part comic. Spooky story with pictures. Enjoy. Glad to be back making it. Can’t wait for you to see the end of it.

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[ashes-in-a-jar]

I just think the tma universe took the frozen and stiff piece of dough that was Jonathan Sims and knead it and slapped it around and threw it on the counter numerous times until it became soft and warm and ready to be baked

[freindsssssss]

Listening to metal and being autistic is a fun combination because I already can't tell what people are saying half the time so it's like. Youconsee California wiowarrlon Brando's eyes? Fire lyric. Efees blight tryatamylife I doooobeeloSTORM? I agree how relatable. UHDIHHUDHUSJUTGQYHIK? You said it sister. I too was a worm before I was a man.

[burninginthegymplplinko]

MAG 62 - First Edition

doodle 62/200; days left 33/110

oh lord this one was creepy. what psychopatic child sees a magic murder book and goes "is for me? 👉👈 🥺" no- just- what the hell. i live in fear of mary keay

[fruitisthenewvegitable]

Did two different TMA-fear-alignment quizzes and got the Corruption and the Stranger, last time I did them I got the Eye both times, my friend @jane-crow also did them and got the Eye and the Buried because xe’r cool as fuck AND SHOULD ACCEPT THAT FACT BECAUSE IT’S TRUE

[mcskullmun]

Tma/Red Valley End!Clive fic that is essentially a rewrite of the end of s3 e5.

Warnings for:

Choking (like a lot of choking)

Lots of yelling/fear

Danger of burning/fire

References to dead people + corpses

The Undead

Enjoy:

The lights in the cryo-nest are blinding, half murmured curses lost to coughing as he’s wrenched from his cryo-pod and shoved back into cryo-hell. Hands are forcing him into the recovery position as sirens blare from all directions.

‘-ve, CLIVE! Is anyone else fucking awake?! Help me!’

‘Pam…’ he mumbles, feeling something cold trickle down his chin, ‘Pam wh- why are you shouting…? Pipe down…’

‘Oh god’ she breathes, and he feels a warm hand lifting his hair from his forehead, ‘Oh fuck you should Not be- you- can you walk? Clive? Please tell me you can walk’

‘Wha- why’re we walking. Wha’s goin on?’

Clive hears retching somewhere close by, and smells smoke.

‘Landry!’ Pamela yells, over the sound of fire, ‘Landry! Get over here I need you!’

‘Pam’ Rebecca calls back, calm but firm, ‘Shelley’s gone, we need to get out of here Right Now!’

Clive opens his eyes to find the blinding light isn’t the LED variety, but intense and burning flame. Pam is crouched over him, eyes wild, hair still damp from her cryo-pod.

‘This isn’t your fucking show, Landry!’ Pam yells into the smoke, gripping Clive’s shoulder, ‘These people are my friends! Get over here and help me!’

Rebecca wades out of the swirling grey, clutching her arm. Her clothes are shredded but her eyes steady,

‘Pam, look- look at me. You’re not thinking straight. She’s dead. And we’re going to be dead too, unless we can get out of here’

Her eyes dart down to Clive, still curled on his side on the floor in a puddle of Cryo-pod fluid, and her face drops,

‘Shit, Pam- he’s DEA-‘

Before she can finish Clive twitches horribly, coughing.

If possible, her face falls further and she drops to one knee beside him,

‘Is he even breathing’ she mutters, not to him but to Pam.

‘Of course he’s breathing, now Help Us!!’

‘Pam he’s-‘ she lets out a shaky breath, ‘…okay. Okay help me get him up’

‘What’s the date?’ Clive mumbles as he’s lifted to his feet.

‘I don’t know’ Rebecca says, distracted.

‘Rebecca. The date, what year is it?’ He insists, staggering out of the cryo-nest amidst cloying smoke with one arm wrapped around Rebecca’s shoulders.

She turns back to Pam, who’s lost in the smoke, ‘Jesus… Pam, I mean it! Let’s go!’

‘The others’ Pamela says softly, hovering in the doorway as Clive and Rebecca shuffle further away.

A moment of eye contact between the two women, before Rebecca turns and keeps moving, ‘We’re Leaving’ she says finally.

‘Okay… okay’ Pamela follows, helping Clive up the ladder.

As he’s manhandled up and out of the burning basement he keeps mumbling, ‘Wh- what’s the hurry? Why are we leaving?’

‘Because I’m not going to die in fucking Connecticut!’ Rebecca hisses, pulling him up and away from the hungry flames and seeking smoke.

They make it out of the house, staggering down a road that is dusty and grim.

Clive can hear Rebecca’s laboured breathing beside him, and there’s something just subtly wrong in it that keeps him from fully taking in the situation.

‘I- Oh fuck’ he keels forward and retches a thin stream of dark liquid onto the tarmac. It glows faintly in the moonlight.

Rebecca stops beside him, and turns back to the burning building that Pamela still hasn’t emerged from,

‘Pam!’ She yells, ‘I’m not coming back for you! What are you doing?’

‘Becky’ Clive says slowly, eyes still trained on the inky black puddle on the ground, ‘What happened?’

‘The fuck should I know’ she snaps, still staring at the flames.

‘How… how long did we sleep?’

‘I don’t know!’ She rounds on him, and freezes.

She’s just staring at him.

He stares back.

She reaches out and touches his arm, both of their eyes following her hand.

The skin of his forearm is mottled and grey-blue, still wet with cryo-protectant.

‘Becky… what- what did they do to me?’ He breathes.

Or…

He’s aware his heart should be going mad right now. What with the adrenaline and the running and the smoke. But it just… isn’t. He puts the back of his hand to his mouth. Nothing. No air. No breath.

‘Oooh god oh shit oh-‘ he watches the world swim around him as his heart fails to go into overdrive and his breathing fails to quicken. It’s the strangest panic attack he’s ever had.

Pamela staggers out of the smoke, eyes streaming,

‘I had to check the computer before… had to know’ she chokes out.

‘How long was it, Pam?’ Rebecca says evenly, hiding Clive’s kneeling body with her own.

‘20 years… 4 months… 9 days…’

‘What?!’ Clive splutters.

Pamela responds softly, ‘It’s 2064’

‘Ffffffffuck!’ Rebecca yells into the night.

‘That’s a long way off a thousand years Pam!’ Clive shouts, but it sounds distant to him.

‘I know, I’m sorry’ she says helplessly.

‘Wel- well maybe… maybe… maybe we can go back in-‘ maybe this isn’t real. Maybe it’s all some horrible nightmare.

‘No one’s going back in there’ Rebecca says firmly.

‘No no no please’ Clive mutters, ‘lets just wait and see. I’m sure it’s just a hiccu-‘

An explosion rocks the house as flames erupt from every opening, windows, doors, vents, and masonry and roof tiles crumble and fall.

Eventually the explosion dies down enough for them to speak.

Clive looks up. And sees two people staring down at him in horror.

‘Tell me’ he orders, ‘That this has happened before. Tell me we have a cure for this’

He won’t look at his own hands. Paper thin skin that’s the colour… there’s no other description for it. It’s the colour of a corpse.

‘Clive…’ Pam says slowly, ‘Clive you’re not-‘

‘I’m aware’ he says tersely, ‘I am Intimately Aware of how much I am not breathing in this moment’

Tears are rolling down Pamela’s face, carving lines through the soot-stains.

‘What have you done to me?’ he mutters, finding himself crying also, ‘What the Fuck have you done to me’

There’s nothing here. Just a house. In a field. No bullfrogs croak out in the grasses, which are short and yellow/brown. The only sound is burning.

‘I think… I think it is too late to call an ambulance for Mr Schill’ Rebecca says, with a hint of hysteria.

[scatterghosts]

Choked Out by The Mountain Goats // art by Holly Warburton

[toms-topic]

More of the Avatars stuff

Not!Sasha wears a big sweater to hide her abnormal limbs btw

Also her hair is supposed to mimic how Sasha dyed her's blonde 😋(it's pinned back btw I'll reblog with a proper diagram later)

[soupwithsprinkles]

im a firm believer that the song "good vibrations by The Beach boys" is a natural Lukas repellant