Jonathan Sims

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So our boy Jonathan has some abilities that list towards the infomod/dubcon end of the spectrum. I want to make sure that I'm not having him do anything to people's pups that they (the players) aren't comfortable with, so I'm going to give a brief outline of his most relevant abilities for your perusal. Pretty much all of these are going to be opt-in; if I don't get a 'yes,' I'll presume a 'no.' (The exception would be 'being able to tell if someone has a Statement,' which is so intrinsic to his character that it probably can't be avoided. That said, he doesn't have to know any relevant details, just that your pup has been Through Some Shit.)

Mildly Omniscient - John will be able to tell at a glance if someone has been through something supernatural, though specifics would require further action, such as taking a Statement, Compelling answers out of people, or digging directly into their brain. He may also have flashes of insight regarding details of people's lives, though whether said insights are useful is up in the air.
Compelling - when John asks someone a direct question, he can put a measure of psychic oomph behind it that compels an honest answer. He isn't capable of making people believe they wanted to answer honestly, so pups are highly likely to notice something is up if they weren't intending to be straight with him. This extends to being able to Compel Statements out of people, forcing them to tell him whatever life story they have that relates to one of the fear-based Entities. This would be intensely traumatic for the victim, and would result in vivid, recurring nightmares in which they relive their experience while John passively observes them. John will share these nightmares as they happen.
Telepathic - John may 'hear' questions that someone thinks but doesn't ask, especially if they are about him. He is also capable of staring directly into someone's mind and extracting their Statement against their will, though that isn't something he'd be inclined to do to a human adversary when Compelling works just as well.
Clear Sight - John may be able to see the results of a supernatural influence on another person, or see past magical illusions.

SO. If you have strong feelings about any of these -- particularly the compulsion aspect, as John will initially be driven to gather Statements in this manner and it could be interesting to not use NPCs -- let me know! I've got some coding below if you want to avail yourselves.

I will also plan on talking all of these through with players OOC before actually having it happen in a tag, whether via PM or discord or what have you. Please feel free to hit me up with any questions or concerns!


<b>Player name:</b> <b>Character name:</b> Are you comfortable with your character experiencing any of the following? If so, to what degree? <b>Compulsion:</b> <b>Omniscience:</b> <b>Telepathy:</b> <b>Clear Sight (if so, what might he notice?):</b> Additional thoughts?

John has collected a large number and variety of scars, mostly courtesy of his work at the Institute, though there are some he's gained since arriving in Darrow. He dresses professionally, so most of them wouldn't be visible to the average person on the street. But for general reference, here's the full list.

Face and Neck: John's forehead, cheeks, and neck are scattered with pockmarks after an unfortunate encounter with some burrowing worms. He also has two scars across his neck: a long, neat line across his throat and a shorter, messier slash a centimeter below that. Most of these scars are faded, but the longer one appears a bit fresher.

Upper Torso: there is a thin slash on his left shoulder, between the joint and his collarbone. Also, more pockmarks, though not as many or as concentrated. There is a thin, slightly jagged scar directly over his heart. There is also an oval-shaped burn scar right over his sternum, a little smaller than a coaster at its widest point.

Arms and Hands: more scattered pockmarks, more concentrated on his lower arms. His right hand is covered in a faded burn scar, as if he shook hands with a fire elemental (which is... sort of what happened). There are a few stray nicks on his lower arms that look like shrapnel wounds, and his right lower arm has one slightly longer scar that looks like a knife wound. There is a jagged ring of scars around the base of his left little finger.

Lower Torso: there are two large scars just below his ribcage, one on either side, bracketing his spine. They're a bit subtler than the rest, more like stretch marks, or like someone has stirred a can of paint. A close examination would reveal that his hair, in that area, is growing in all different directions. In short, his skin doesn't look as if it has been broken so much as disturbed. Also, a few pockmarks, and a few more shrapnel wounds.

Legs and Feet: more pockmarks, particularly on his calves. He also has a higher concentration of shrapnel wounds and a few stray burns.

John might not be keeping his finger on the pulse of Darrow's suburban development plans, but he's reasonably certain that the cul-de-sac and the enormous two-story house that dominates it have sprung up at a speed that beggars belief. Darrow might resist any eldritch certainty he tries to apply to the situation, but he's still confident that none of this was here a month ago.

Granted, it isn't impossible that the developers would have focused on finishing up one house first — a standing advertizement of what's to come, more effective than any 'just you wait' placard they'd otherwise be relying upon. That could explain why one structure stands completed while the rest of the plots are either still sitting empty or in earlier stages of construction. But something feels off about it, and it takes him a few seconds to realize what's really bothering him.

How fast does ivy grow? Not fast enough to cover so much of the brick facade in only a few weeks, surely.

That justifies a closer look. John walks closer, projecting the same casual, I'm-supposed-to-be-here confidence that used to get him into all kinds of restricted areas as a child. The neighboring construction workers don't pay any particular attention to him, which could be down to his acting skills, or could just be down to the locals' tendency to ignore anything odd so long as it poses no immediate threat.

As he nears the structure, he checks for any signs of occupation, but the lawn is devoid of lawn ornaments, gardening tools, or toys. Maybe it is just a model home, rampant ivy growth aside. He briefly considers knocking on the front door, decides that might be too conspicuous (not to mention foolish looking, if it is indeed unoccupied), and instead cuts around the side of the house, as if he's simply taking a shortcut over to the next block.

And if he hesitates, peering into one of the windows at the seemingly bare room beyond... well, an occupied home would have furniture, wouldn't it? And if it's meant to be a model home, then a prospective buyer could be excused for stepping up to the glass to get a better look at the interior.

John had thought that he was prepared for this. It's not unusual for muggy days to give way to stormy evenings, and he keeps a small umbrella in his bag in case the skies should open while he's en route from the Observatory to the Bramford. The arguable romance of getting caught in an unexpected downpour need not apply when one is alone, after all — and it's easier to recover himself after the fact if he can at least keep his head dry.

But this isn't just an unexpected downpour, and the deluge quickly grows beyond anything his little umbrella was designed to handle. The wind kicks up, forcing him to make some hasty adjustments to keep it from turning inside out or being whisked out of his hands — adjustments that don't really take keeping his head dry into consideration. Moments later, a flash of lightning and an almost immediate crack of thunder leave him questioning not just the umbrella's utility, but the wisdom of continuing to hold a metal implement over his head. He'd probably survive getting struck by lightning, but Christ, that doesn't mean he feels like extending it a bloody invitation.

Fuck it. He closes the umbrella and clutches his bag to his chest, hunching forward a little to try and shield it with his body, and breaks into an embarrassed (and increasingly waterlogged) shuffling trot.

By the time he reaches the Bramford, he's shivering, miserable, and hauling what feels like an additional stone of bloody water weight in every stitch of his clothes. Probably looks like he's just emerged from the goddamn ocean, too. He wrestles the front door open, then squelches down the hall, half-blinded by the rainwater still coursing out of his hair. He has to pick out the flat key and cram it into the lock by feel, and the doorknob squeaks under his hand as he wrestles it open.

"Ugh," he announces as he finally steps inside and then stops in his tracks, doing his best to contain his dripping to the little island of their welcome mat. "It's fucking sheeting."

It is a testament to what a quiet year they've had that when the tape recorder on John's desk quietly flicks itself on, his first thought is not that something awful is about to happen, but that Martin might be moments away from slipping into his office for something decidedly unrelated to work. Which, given that Daisy is also in the building, seems less like a bold move and more outright certifiable. He glances from the spooling machine to his closed office door and back, uncomprehending, and then jumps when his mobile begins to ring.

Unknown caller. Probably spam. He answers it anyway, reaching toward the tape recorder as he says a distracted, "Hello?"

"Hello, Archivist."

John stills, head crooked at a harried angle, his free hand hovering inches from the recorder's 'off' button as he belatedly remembers the Eye's preferred menu. Any nascent conviction that the call is merely coincidental dissipates at once, washed away by a sudden rush of dread. He lets the recording continue, straightening in his seat.

"Who is this?" he Asks, the compulsion slipping out of him as the recorder hisses its static protestation.

There is a faint burble of sound from the other end of the line. He can't tell whether it's the caller or some sort of interference; the line sounds thready and weak, as if the call is coming not from a modern phone, but a bloody ham radio. "No need for that," the voice says. Its tone is difficult to read. Perhaps amused. "You may call me Indrid Cold."

"Indrid Cold," John repeats, both for the tape's benefit and to insure he has not misheard. The name doesn't ring any bells, and what little he's heard of their voice offers few clues. The audio quality is rubbish in a familiar, dated sort of way that isn't strictly hard to parse, but the voice itself is... odd. He begins to shape another question, but before he can utter so much as a syllable, this 'Indrid Cold' continues.

"Sasha James. You have forgotten her face. Would you like to see her again?"

John's grip on the phone tightens. He cannot answer; he barely remembers to breathe.

"You will," Indrid continues. "The real Sasha, that is. We both know that certain... imposters... need not apply."

"What?" John finally manages to gasp, caught between stricken and furious.

"I'll be in touch, Archivist. In the meantime, I suggest you keep this to yourself." There is a beat of tinny, polluted silence. "You might start by disposing of that tape."

And then the call disconnects.

John almost drops his phone twice in his haste to confirm both that the call has ended and that he can't return it. Then he lets it clatter onto his desk, staring at the device for a few long moments before his gaze shifts to the tape recorder. He reaches out with a trembling hand and presses the 'stop' and 'eject' buttons in as rapid succession as his current state allows. The machine obliges, offering up the tape for extraction. It isn't until his fingertips brush the edge of the tape that intention and instinct collide, and John jerks his hand back as if he's been burned, his chair rolling a few inches away from his desk with the force of his recoil.

"What...?" he whispers again, face ashen.

There are many unkind descriptors that John could apply to the binge he went on the better part of a week ago. Could, and has done: lord knows he hasn't gone easy on himself over the past several days. But the recollection of Norah's 'highly unbecoming' is what has echoed (hah) in his mind with the most frequency. It was an almost laughable understatement, as if he'd belched in the middle of a church service, or committed some other faux pas that one would only expect from the willfully careless. But maybe that's why it hurt. The inescapable presupposition that he could have controlled himself, should have controlled himself. The implication that it wasn't just harmful, but shameful.

There were other words too, of course: her belief that he wasn't trying to hurt her, the offer to stay with him in case he was frightened, her determination to help. The insistence that he come and see her when he woke. All of it far less bearable than 'highly unbecoming.' He couldn't imagine facing her. Hadn't wanted to.

And then she'd sent him a rather pointed text, not so much reminding him of the invitation as insisting upon it. He was then forced to consider the futility of hiding from someone capable of appearing wherever she chose, and the likelihood of her choosing a far less appealing time and place for a confrontation than 'after work' and 'at the Observatory, where there at least shouldn't be any other witnesses.'

Presuming he hasn't avoided her for long enough that she's staging a bloody intervention.

It's getting on towards sunset as John trudges up the staircase, the trees casting long shadows across the cracked, uneven steps. He's spent so much of the past week hiding in either his flat or his office that his legs protest even this relatively mild exercise, though he doubts the sudden cardio is the only reason he feels unsteady as he reaches the doors. He still doesn't want to do this. It feels, absurdly, like he's about to get a scolding from his grandmother.

But he has no right to be a child about it. John raps twice on the door to announce himself, then pushes his way inside and lets out a quiet cough, eyes downcast and cheeks already darkening with an unhappy flush.

John sprawls on the couch, his eyes tracing the cracks and irregularities that comprise the ceiling's subtle topography, and wonders if staying in his own flat was a mistake.

It's true that Martin hadn't asked him to leave, though John doesn't dare presume that a desire for company weighed heavier than simple manners. Refusing to put him out of his own home, harboring a ridiculous compulsion to be a good guest: these are more likely motivations than wanting John around. It is easy, despite the familiarity of his surroundings and any awkward or stubborn reassurances Martin might offer, to feel like he is trespassing. Not on Martin's space, perhaps (if you want to get technical), but certainly on his privacy.

Because Martin still has nightmares.

It might be more accurate to say that he's started having nightmares, though John really doesn't know. He doesn't know (and refuses to Know) how frequent bad dreams were before Prentiss, at any rate. But if they were rare things preceding the incident, they've been set off in spectacular fashion by the incident. Less thematically varied than his Martin's nightmares, from what he can tell, but far more frequent.

And he is far less equipped to do anything about it. The first night, when he heard Martin wake (or when The Bishop stalked out of the bedroom in feline displeasure), he did nothing, paranoid that any acknowledgment would be embarrassing or unwelcome. But simply enduring it was more difficult than he ever would have anticipated, and now, their second full night together, it's starting to rub him raw. Faint, miserable noises have been emanating from the bedroom for several minutes, and he can no longer convince himself that ignoring it some sort of mercy.

Fuck.

John rises from the couch and pads softly down the hall, pausing at the bedroom door. It's already open a cat's width, more than enough for John to clearly hear the rustling of the bedsheets and another awful little whimper, and he breathes a defeated 'shit' before pushing the door open and stepping inside. He navigates the dark room easily, making his way to his side of the bed and flicking on the lamp. Then he perches on the edge of the mattress, as if he doesn't dare to take more than an inch or two of real estate, and contemplates a brush of his fingers against Martin's shoulder. Contemplates, but doesn't dare.

"Martin," he tries, soft and uncertain. "Martin, wake up."

John wouldn't classify his and Martin's investigatory trip to the public library's rare books cage as a waste by any stretch. It would have been a worthwhile distraction during a difficult time even if it had been otherwise insignificant (which it certainly wasn't). But after assembling and studying the catalogue of title pages they'd collected, John does reach the reluctant conclusion that the books themselves are about as useless as he'd half-anticipated. Many of them are off-brand equivalents of what he might expect to find in the rare books section of a shop back in London: first editions of Jim Henderson's The Strike of the Nail and the like. Ridiculous. Some are harder to pin down, the reason for their inclusion a little less obvious — were the cage easier to access, he might guess that they were simply mis-shelved from their usual places in the general collection. Regardless, he isn't sure anything that they've turned up actually warrants further investigation.

It's a little disappointing. But the more he thinks about it, the more he wonders if they simply chose the wrong target at the outset. Perhaps the collections at Darrow's academic institutions would bear more fruit, if he was at liberty to peruse them.

With the native population restored, gaining access is a little more complicated than simply walking onto campus. He doesn't flatter himself for one moment that blending in with the student body will be an option, so he dresses as academically as he can, intending to pass himself off as a guest lecturer or something. All it takes is a few corroborating details courtesy of his patron — that he's working on a project with Dr. Sokolowski (who was expecting someone before the appointment was cancelled, and who never bothered to relay the cancellation to guest services), that it shouldn't take more than a few hours — and then he's in, a visitor pass hanging like a bloody albatross around his neck.

At least the Eye's assistance saves him the embarrassment (or the conspicuousness) of bumbling about in search of the library; instead, he heads there with a directness that could probably pass for familiarity to any casual observers. The employee behind the circulation desk does a double-take that isn't as covert as they might want it to be, but John's tweed jacket and the visitor pass, by their combined powers, are enough to excuse the rest of him. He's allowed to proceed without comment.

And then he's walking past the more open study area and into the stacks, where he finally allows himself to slow, his posture belying his uncertainty. He knows better than to try and Know how best to proceed, and he has little traditional knowledge (beyond the Dewey Decimal System) to fall back on. With only a cursory fiction section to avoid, the question of where to begin looms large, begging for acknowledgment.

But there's no better way to blow his cover than to start spouting plasma all over the collection, so John deliberately nudges aside the temptation to ask, even rhetorically in his own mind. Instead, he shuffles down the nearest aisle, canting his head to frown at the titles as he tries to get his bearings.

December 25, 2020

John hasn't really done Christmas much over the past several years. The last Christmas he spent in London was whiled away in a coma ward, and the holidays before that weren't anything for the books. He rarely had plans beyond the obligatory attendance of office parties, occasions that weren't particularly pleasant to recall even before grief made it almost unbearable.

Last Christmas might've been a notable exception, if Martin and he had managed to sort themselves out a bit sooner. As things were, he mostly remembers it as low-key, and flavored with the same awkward romantic tension they'd been stewing in for bloody months.

This year, then, will have to be the notable one. At least it's a low bar to clear.

They've acquired a tree: something small and plastic that won't tempt The Bishop into any regrettable acrobatics, but big enough to emit a cheerful glow and shelter almost all of their gifts (save one, which is small enough to fit, in fairness to the tree, but requires a different sort of unveiling than the traditional tearing through wrapping paper). It's not much — he doesn't think either of them are naturally inclined towards throwing themselves into the season — but it's nice.

More importantly, most importantly, they're together. They're together, and they have the day off, and there's nothing to stop them from cuddling on the couch while they half-watch 'It's an Amazing Life,' Darrow's bargain bin attempt at a holiday classic.

Nor is there anything to stop John from devoting the bulk of his attention to tormenting Martin with ostensibly idle touches that are really anything but. Perhaps he's just getting a bit impatient: he had the idea for this particular gift some time ago, and has been sitting on it for as long as he cares to. But winding Martin up is always enjoyable, and a faint smirk tugs at his lips as he lets his fingers drift, feather-light, from Martin's hair down to the back of his neck.