#the unmaking of jake lockley

[khonshoe]

THE UNMAKING OF JAKE LOCKLEY:  III. CARVING OUT THE SHAPE OF YOU

The Book of Disquiet, Fernana Pessoa  //  The Creation of Adam (c. 1508–1512), Michelangelo  //  Kara Douglas  //  Gods And Monsters, Moon Knight  // Carving Out The Shape Of You, @mockspector  //  Watch a Masterpiece Emerge from a Solid Block of Stone, National Geographic  //   Carving Out The Shape Of You, @mockspector  //   Watch a Masterpiece Emerge from a Solid Block of Stone, National Geographic  //  Delirium (#1), Lauren Oliver  //  Fruits of Labour (2017), Denis Sarazhin

HUGE thanks to @mockspector for simply existing, being such a lovely person and allowing me to use their writing in this. big shoutout to all my (100!!!) followers, y’all rock.

[khonshuscondemned]

this is all hails fault btw. @mrcspectr

‘give me your hands.’

they are dripping with crimson that sears his knuckles, staining deep into the marrow of his bones, inked into the layers of his skin since… as long as he could remember.

a long time. long time.

give me your hands

he would rather retreat, would rather recede, would rather retire / he’s so tired , when can he rest, when might he rest? his feet, that used to run, that used to flee, to fly, now drag and shuffle and stumble and he cannot seem to quite keep pace anymore. he feels as though he’s fallen behind, falling apart, unravelling at the seam.

give me your hands.

these hands? these hands, that have stolen breath, taken life, spilt blood, broken bones? these hands, that have destroyed, that have hidden, that have betrayed? give these hands ? hands that only know cruelty, that only know pain, that only know to tremble in the face of kindness? These hands, that are meant to be gloved, to be covered- these hands, that are meant to be a sheathed like a weapon, like a blade-

-these hands ? that are meant for blood ?

[iscarusholmes]

@khonshoe how. could you. do this. to me.

the unmaking of jake lockley

[khonshoe]

THE UNMAKING OF JAKE LOCKLEY: II. LOCK AND KEY

Craig D. Lounsbrough  //  The Art of Starving, Sam J. Miller  //  @iscarusholmes  //  I'm Supposed to Protect You from All This: A Memoir, Nadja Spiegelma  //  @khonshoe  //  Memory, Wikipedia  //  Unknown  //  The Oldest Dance, Misba  //  Lock and Key, Wikipedia  //  Enzyme, Wikipedia

[khonshoe]

THE UNMAKING OF JAKE LOCKLEY: I. WHO ARE YOU?

II: Freedom, Book: The Book of Unmaking, Destiny 2  //  One Foot, fun.  // Moon Knight  //  The Art of Starving, Sam J. Miller  //  Bloodsport, Yves Olade  //  Sound of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel  //  Haunting of Hill House  //  Find Her, Lisa Gardner  //  One Foot In Front Of The Other Foot, Emilie Autumn  //  IV: Purpose, Book: The Book of Unmaking, Destiny 2

[khonshuscondemned]

thinking abt jake and record keeping this morning.

i think, amongst the few things he keeps with him in the dashboard of the cab, jake lockley owns a very small pocketbook. i think it has a little mini planner and pages for contact information and a small pad for general notes and i think, when he doesn’t have time to jot something down, he’ll shove receipts and ticket stubs and business cards between the leaflets for later, or for just in case.

i think, he used to put cigarettes behind his ear and replaces it in the more recent years with a pen, tucked halfway into his cap to keep it from falling. he has specific kinds of pens he likes more than others and sometimes maybe takes them as his own. (he’s used to stealing bits and pieces of reality to seclude away for when he’s feeling a little blurred around the edges and needs something that Wasn’t His to help solidify things.)

i think even when he struggles to recall a memory, he has a sort of mental filing system he can search through to try and catch the fragments he’s missing. i think he hates holding on to so many memories, dislikes his role as record keeper and would prefer to focus on his other duties but someone has to do it, so for now he simply scribbles things in spanglish and shorthand and hopes he hasn’t missed anything important.

[khonshuscondemned]

jake lockley used to put a cigarette behind his ear and still occasionally reaches for it send post

[khonshuscondemned]

YOU KNOW THAT HE WOULD BEAR THE WORLD LIKE ATLAS UNTIL HIS SHOULDERS COLLAPSE AND HIS KNEES BUCKLE AND HE IS CRUSHED BY ALL HE USED TO CARRY

                                         - @pencap-poetry​

in my mind, this takes place a little while after the last episode, when everything has settled somewhat back into routine. tonight’s jake’s first night back on the job (being a single income household wasn’t anything new.. and neither was the omnipotent presence lurking over his shoulder).

Khonshu rouses him in the early hours before daybreak, when the moon’s light is still full and the sky is still scattered with stars and not another soul is awake.  (More specifically, two souls slumber on, peacefully unaware of their unusually usual nightly routine.)  There’s no need for hellos, no time to exchange pleasantries (if those sorts of things existed in Jake Lockley’s little infinitely-spaced nut shell of a life), and Khonshu has never been one to enjoy the facsimile of familiarity that follows small-talk.  With the apartment keys tucked into his coat pocket alongside a silver cigarette case and a lighter, in silence the pair embark.  If it weren’t for the fact that he was accompanied by an ancient, lurking and lumbering god, his night could almost be considered peaceful.

 ‘Your work in Cairo is unfinished, wouldn’t you agree, Jake Lockley?’

 Alas, silence rarely lasts.  The weary god’s rumbling tones are somewhat muted, echoing eerily in the abandoned alleyway as his avatar strolls quickly over the tatterdemalion cobblestone, head down and adjusting his cap as he listens with a guarded expression (ever vigilant, unremitting in his wary watchfulness).  Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirps, but other than that the world is drowsy and still and there is no one to act as witness to a lonely deity and a lonelier devotee. 

‘I assume you recall the two officers that discovered your whereabouts in London…  Or rather, the worm’s whereabouts.’  The old god says, his voice reverberant, and Jake’s spine stiffens to attention at the mention of Steven, his posture straining rigidly as he carefully withdraws a pair of dark gloves.  He nods wordlessly even as Khonshu drawls on, the fine fabric creaking slightly in his grip.  ‘They are attempting to regroup, to unify once more behind Ammit.  Though the loss of Harrow weakened their cause, our true message, it seemed, was unclear.’

At this, Jake stops, freezing in place, brows creasing.  Khonshu halts as well, turning those empty eye sockets onto the one third of his avatar he still has access to. 

‘Harrow is dead.’  Khonshu booms, and the solitary flickering streetlight above pops with a spray of electric white sparks in a spasmodic display of seraphics.   ‘We saw to his end ourselves.  Now, Ammit is no more.  Already there have been massacres and innocence lost, the culling begun- if necessary, you will paint our message ever-more clearly in the condemned blood of the guilty.  There will be no mercy, this time.’

Something  fearsome, dark and angry unfurls deep inside the damned man at the god’s word choice, (this hatred that blazes inside of him haunts him like a shadow, twisting sharper with every inhale, poisoning his lungs with every exhale. he holds his breath-), his previously expressionless features briefly darkening in the dimly lit alley, and he ducks his head, casting his eyes further into obscurity beneath his cap.  For a moment, the world is silent once more.  Tense.  For a moment, Jake Lockley is quiet, and then-

‘¿Esta vez?’

It’s hissed, spat, muffling a snort of derision and masking it with something that could potentially be passed off as a cough.  Jake Lockley turns to face the arrogant deity who would- who will, most likely, be his own downfall.  He levels a thundering glare on the old bird and his lips part as though there are words right at the tip of his tongue.  

Silence.

Though Khonshu waits, his avatar does not speak.  His avatar breathes in trembling breaths- his avatar stands with fists tightly clenched- his avatar holds his stare and does not look away.  Dipping his rugged beak, the god regards his devotee, intently surveying the inner battle one Jake Lockley is locked in, and chortles a quiet, mirthless sort of laugh.  The other two sleep on- and the broken man he has currently chosen to act as his Less-Than-Righteous Left Hand is losing a war in his own mind, against no other voice besides the one he’s given to himself.  The fact that his rage has been sparked to a blazing inferno with so few words only elongates the old bird’s pitiless cackle- of course he would take offence at the idea that not enough blood had flowed freely like crimson-copper rivlets-

‘Oh, come now, Jake Lockley.  There is always a time, and a place for exceptions.  Surely…’  Khonshu rumbles, and his laughter turns cruel.  The Left Hand’s steady gaze finally falters, shoulders hunching and shifting, as though reminded of an old wound, older guilt.  The Ancient God continues again as though he had not taken great care of just where to aim his wordly blows so they struck deep and true.  ‘Surely even you might understand the concept of mercy, though you have not known much of it!’ 

It takes a moment for the god’s merriment to settle, for old bones to stop rattling, and Jake seethes inwardly, jaw clenching against those words that are piling up behind his teeth like an intersection accident.  He bites down on them, refusing to let a single one escape.  Khonshu’s faint guffaws are the only sound now, the crickets long since ceasing their nightly song at the presence of such an empyrean threat as a laughing god- and Jake screws his features up more tightly- there is no humour he can find in anything that has been said, not here.  Just like there is no mercy.  (he does find copper on his tongue from where he has bitten into the tip).   Not for the damned.

The laughter stops, suddenly, and the night air seems to swell and fester in his lungs until his ribs creak under the pressure, like the entire world around him is holding its breath as well. 

‘You are to put an end to this culling.’

Overhead, the moon is bright and full.

‘This is the true end of Ammit’s story, Jake Lockley, and it is you who must finish it.’

His gloved hands tremble. You would have me drown in the blood I’ve spilt.