Jonathan Sims (
itknowsyou) wrote in
deercountry2022-06-11 11:03 am
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Entry tags:
o1 . june catchall (closed)
Who: Jon Sims + CR new and old; tap me at
ochrona for a starter.
What: The Archivist arrives in Trench.
When: June, the month of archives and reflection.
Where: Throughout Trench.
What: The Archivist arrives in Trench.
When: June, the month of archives and reflection.
Where: Throughout Trench.
arrival. cw: nudity, confusion, vague 200 spoilers
Things are... hazy, for a while. He tries to move his hand and discovers that he does not have a hand, he has a tentacle, which isn't right. When he panics and tries to flex his fingers, he finds that he does have fingers, but only now that he's come to expect them. When he tries to find his feet, he finds that he does have feet. The man locates his bare and scarred chest, the pockmarked column of his throat, the unfamiliar prickle of stubble on his chin. None of this is right. It's all a step to the left of who he thinks he ought to be, and he...
Who is he? For a moment this is viscerally and terribly familiar; for a moment he thinks of the music they play at merry-go-rounds. This is wrong the way that had been wrong.
Then he looks at the sky, the watery oceanside grey of it, and that too is familiar. He is on a beach. He knows beaches; he grew up in— in Bournemouth.
Jonathan Sims sits up, naked and scarred and so very confused, and cannot understand why he is so shaken to see the sky. He could cry with relief at that familiar watery grey. It means that something about the world is fundamentally right, that the sky is where it ought to be. ]
It worked. [ He says it and doesn't even know why, staring at the sky like a lunatic. He knows that he— he's lost something. His arms shouldn't be empty; his hand keeps closing on empty air, as though there should be something to hold. ]
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[Patrolling for new arrivals is something he can still do without getting lost in his own head.]
[He sincerely does not expect to see anyone he knows out here. Any familiar faces washed up on the shore. He's gotten used to that. Grudgingly, hopelessly accepted it. Frankly, he doesn't recognize the other man at first. He just approaches like always, spare towels at the ready. Prepared to hoist another new arrival onto their feet and help them away from the water.]
[Except the person sits up, and Shiro's smacked in the face with recognition.]
... Jon?
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I— yes. [ He looks, for a moment, wrong-footed and confused. It hasn't caught up to him yet that he's not wearing anything; he is too busy trying to muddle through who he is, and who this is, and what's been done to him. It's all so familiar, and he is so close to understanding. ] Sorry. I...
[ There is some great pressure at the back of his mind, some vast expanse just beyond his reach. His hands shouldn't be empty. He says the only thing he's certain of, held up like a shield against everything that makes no sense whatsoever: ]
I know you.
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[He's already taken a knee. Already offering up the spare robe, sheet, whichever he'd grabbed before coming out here. This is... vaguely familiar. One of them not fully remembering the other. Actually, it usually was Jon, wasn't it? It'd be frightening if it weren't familiar in that way.]
[It means there's a good chance his buddy will come out of it.]
Yeah - yeah, you do. It's Shiro. We've met before... Here. Wrap up in this.
[The robe. They can look for his bag or anything else he might have dropped later.]
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[ It finally catches up to him that he's, well, naked on a beach. Jon fumbles for the robe, scrabbles to tug it over his head. His hair sticks up in pathetic wet cowlicks and sticks to his face.
But he looks and feels more human with it on: less devastated, more flustered and at a loss. ]
Yes, no, I... I remember. Or— nearly. This is all a bit...
[ He gestures, helplessly, as though to say a bit of a mess. ]
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[It's like time didn't even pass. Like they just saw each other the other day. It's not Jon's fault, as far as Shiro's concerned. He just helps with the robe if it gets stuck, and stays hunkered down next to him.]
It takes some adjustment. But it's okay - take your time. [He pauses, glancing around himself.] Maybe we... should get off the beach, though.
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[ Jon sounds vastly more himself for a moment, here, wry in his agreement. He begins to lever himself up to standing, clumsily and with a hurried grab to Shiro's shoulder for stability. ]
Sorry— [ Someone had told him to stop apologizing so incessantly, hadn't they? That's familiar, too. He clears his throat, awkwardly, but doesn't protest when Shiro helps steady him. ] I'm alright. Just a bit... unsteady.
[ A pause hangs between them as dread builds on his face, skirting towards a question he hates to ask. ]
Was I just... were there tentacles involved, a moment ago?
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Yeah, you know? You're right about that.
[His arm snaps out, looping around Jon's shoulders only as long as it takes the other man to get his feet back under him. He remembers - there was hesitancy, something, around prolonged contact.] Don't worry. Everyone needs a hand up when they get here. We can walk whenever you're ready.
[Shiro's grin flickers. But not into something unpleasant. More like... he's trying not to laugh.]
I uh. I hate to break it to you, but calamari may be off the menu for the rest of your life here.
[So yes. There were tentacles.]
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Wonderful. Everything else has happened to me, why not something to do with... squid.
[ But he falters, here, as though he's said something wrong. ]
At least, I feel like— but it's still— so much of it is gone. [ His expression pinches with doubt and concern. ] I'm... sure it'll come back.
[ But he needs to hole up somewhere to pick at that, to examine the fog. So Jon swallows, steels himself, and steadies himself at Shiro's side— one hand on his shoulder for support, but nothing more dire than that. It could be worse. ]
Should I ask where we're going?
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[Maybe not everything that's happened to his friend, but what happened in Deerington for sure. Some of what happened elsewhere. He hadn't wanted to pry into too much of it.]
Like I said - it's okay. Not everyone gets everything back right away. Don't rush yourself. I know - I know it's hard, when you can't remember what you want to. [Or don't want to.] But try and take it easy.
Up to the boardwalk, for now. See if sitting down for a bit, getting some water, might help. Then we can go from there.
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So. What... is this place?
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Trench. It's a city called Trench. People wash up as ... well. Squid.
[That part, he's pretty sure is clear.]
We've all got different weird blood types, some of us with abilities from our blood... and we're just trying to get by.
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We are assigning eldritch significance to O-negative, or...?
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I wish. [But they've made it to the top of the boardwalk. To an empty set of chairs.] Here... I can explain in a minute. I want to get you hydrated first.
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Thank you.
[ For just this one moment, he will sit and catch his breath. ]
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[He's honestly just glad to see someone familiar come back. As much as being here is a trial.]
boardwalk.
He is currently trapped in conversation with an earnest local, who has begun taking oranges from their basket and placing them in Jon's hands. Jon has taken on the startled, faraway look of someone struck by a sudden memory.
With all the dodgy citrus and demonic daydream trouble going around, maybe you should rescue him from this awkward social situation and check on the obvious newbie. ]
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Or run by and steal his bag full of oranges.
Because who doesn't want that to happen to them today?
Because Glitch runs on over, snatches those oranges, and starts sprinting away. ]
Thanks for the free food, jackass!
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[ Jon rears back like an affronted cat, and blinks after the boy who has just stole his...
His oranges. The boy with an armful of oranges. This is familiar; Jon knows this.
Before he can think it through, he has jolted forward to take chase. ]
I— wait! C-come back!
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Maybe he should've held onto it tighter, not his fault is it?
Either way, as Glitch is running he starts pushing people and things in the way of his escape. Try and keep up Jonny boy. ]
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Something else follows in his shadow, but Jon hasn't noticed it yet: a simmer of smoke flecked with flashes of emerald Vileblood. It's an Omen brewing in his wake, listening in as he hisses frustration under his breath. ]
No— I Know you.
[ Glitch will feel it suddenly: it's the weight of being watched by something much bigger and scarier than the scrawny man trying to keep up with him. ]
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At least until he felt that presence. That sensation of having a heavy blanket of dread setting in over him. He's not sure what it is but he stops in his tracks looking around frantically. What the fuck was that? What is it? ]
What the hell?! Who the fuck-?!
Come out, whatever the fuck you are! [ Little did he know who the source of it was. ]
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You... we've met. I just— [ the pressure of being Seen wanes as he tries to catch his breath, which is not very intimidating, ] —want to know who you are.
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His friends still left, every time he made a friend they left, people he cared about--One improvement, of course, had been in regards to those who seemed to most often tempt him into such scenarios. Or so he'd thought.
He nearly drops his own shopping back when he sees Jon standing there on the street, bewildered and laden with fruit.]
... Jon?
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I— yes. That is, I, I think so. [ This is going well. ] I'm sorry, my memory is a bit— we've met, haven't we?
archives.
Things are still— incomplete. Fragmented. (Stolen.) Jon can feel out only the barest shards of who he is and what's been done to him, and just below it all is that sense of loss. He feels blind, grasping for some great understanding just out of reach; he feels as though there is something or someone he's meant to remember, something on the edge of his awareness to which his whole being tries to orient, like a needle turning north or a flower to the sun. He can't find it, can't name it. It's maddening.
There is a condition sometimes observed in deepwater fish, when they are dragged too close to the surface: decompression sickness, the catastrophe of being wrenched out of their native pressure. He feels inexplicably beached and ruined by some absence, fumbling in the lightness of the air, as though he's meant to exist in something denser. It makes no sense.
But when he steps into the Archives, and feels the weight of some unseen attention drape over his shoulders like a mantle, it feels like coming home.
So: still dressed in newcomer's blacks, still looking ragged and salt-crusted and frankly rough as hell, there is a new man in the Archives. He walks the stacks as though in a trance, peers at old Beast skeletons with mingled skepticism and fascination, or drops to sit in your favorite chair with a stack of tomes in his spindly arms. ]
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Most people, at least as far as Willow can tell, tend to their immediate survival needs first. Food, water, shelter. Their welcome bag. Maybe a little rest, and some fresh clothes. She understands the need for answers, of course, but still. Priorities.
She watches as he moves through the stacks, and steps up beside him as he pauses to look up at one of the skeletons with a small smile.]
They're, uh, really something, huh?
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They're certainly something. [ Congratulations, Willow: your new friend is English and incredulous. He frowns at the skeleton of a Bloodhound as though not wholly convinced someone didn't slap the antlers on after the fact. ] Has anyone seen these creatures alive?
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It's not difficult to place the accent, of course, nor is it difficult to imagine he's from a version of England that does not have antlered dogs outside of a Ripley's museum. Her tone is gentle, as though she's expecting she is about to give him a bit of a shock.]
Yeah. There was a lot of them around a few months ago. You might even still see some around; some people keep them as pets.
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Wonderful. [ This is clearly a man who has not experienced anything genuinely wonderful in a while, if ever. ] Is anything about this place not...
[ He struggles for a word. Eldritch? Horrifying? Themed around blood and bones and tentacles? ]
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[She falls quiet for a moment, trying to come up with something that he might find completely mundane.]
The livestock. A lot of the livestock is pretty much standard to what you're probably used to. You're from England, right? We've got a couple horses, a cow, and some chickens at home. All pretty normal. Totally harmless.
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[ Why does that feel horribly familiar to him, somehow. Stiffly: ]
I suppose that's good news, at least. We still have something reasonable to eat.
[ Is that unkind to the cows? Hm. ]
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[It's said lightly - she does realize that most reasonable people wouldn't actually eat an animal someone else is keeping as a pet, even if it is a cow.]
There's, um, a lot of mushrooms and fish in the local food. As far as protein goes, anyway.
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I was in the dream that came before this, you know. [ He doesn't remember much of it, but even so. ] Still, at least for all that chaos, a few constants remained. There was a certain mundane reassurance to modern electricity and supermarkets.
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Yeah? Me too. This is at least a little more consistent - no waking up to sudden winter with frozen zombies or, you know, cows falling from the sky. You're right, though - I miss the supermarket. And the coffee shop.
[She glances at Jon, and gestures vaguely at the shelves with a small smile.]
There's an upside, though - it's, uh, not really all that well organized, but you can read the books here. No glitchy writing, and some of them are actually helpful.
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[ He looks startled, and briefly hopeful, to realize that she lived through the same; she's the first he has met here who he hadn't known there. It means he blinks at her with new interest and attention, and then settles into the conversation a bit more at-ease.
When she says this about the glitched books, though, an odd expression comes over his face: like a man distracted by a memory, unsettled to have just realized something. He'd forgotten the books. The bookshop. The man who ran the bookshop—
He swallows away a jolt of unease and emotion, and looks back to the thing before them. ]
Well. At least there's that. [ In the tone of a man wryly acknowledging a low bar. Just as wryly: ] I suppose I've organized worse.
[ (Nothing has ever been less organized than this Archives.) ]
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[Her tone turns more casual, knowing he came from the dream means he's used to a certain level of... unpredictability. Animals, people, and other objects falling from the sky probably won't even strike him as terribly unusual given some of the chaos that struck Deerington.
Her eyebrows lift as he talks about trying to organize the books, like he's already found some new pet project.]
Good luck with that. I think most of us have just kind of figured out how to work around the fact that this place follows absolutely no logical organizational system whatsoever. You can always find what you need - you just kind of have to feel it out.
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She was there for it all. It sparks a furious little flame of hope in him that she will be able to tell him more. ]
Ah, yes. More dream logic. [ He is clearly not thrilled. ] I suppose it's too much to ask we could be free of that.
[ He hates to confess that it feels so familiar to him, in a way that he does not quite know how to unpack. ]
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What's the old saying? The more things change, the more they stay the same?
[It still strikes her as odd that this is the very first place he's come, and she can't help but be curious about how long it took him to find the Archives when surely there were more immediate needs that most would have considered attending to. She nods to the robes that were clearly given to him on the shore by the Wakers.]
So how long ago did you make it to shore?
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Just long enough to realize this will, by and large, be more of the same.
[ (Shiro corralled him into the very basics of self-care, upon which he took off like a shot towards the place known as The Archives.) ]
I suppose even Deerington's welcome was less disconcerting.
dreamscapes.
If you've encountered the curse now sweeping town— the demonic parasite, the dreaming sickness— you will recognize the look in this man's eyes. You most likely find him in the Archives, where he is rapidly becoming a fixture; it's difficult to tell whether he ever leaves, or sleeps. He looks perpetually ragged, and seems to hang back in the stacks, even when he isn't... somehow off, like this.
It won't be difficult to glimpse the shadowy thing which has attached itself to his back as he drifts among the stacks, his eyes wide and distant with some unseen dream. ]