entranceway | Entry #90

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Entry #90

action;

[Everything goes white.]

[It's slow, and it's immediate. It's an eruption of snowy white fur across his forearms, along his back, to contrast the black-brown of the hair on his head. It's not painful, but it blazes in a way nothing else can. The weight of stubby horns on his head, the white-hot torquing of the barbed wire of his nervous system as it rearranges itself, as his organs howl in accommodation of something a human body was never meant to endure. His shoulder blades prickle with an eruption of thorny growths, stark and black as the skeletal branches that always rake the sky in his dreams. A startled, agonized noise wrenches out from the back of his throat, sputtering into an abortive gagging when he discovers that his canines have abruptly sharpened into fangs.]

[That's when the memories begin.]

[He doubles over, hands snapping around his middle. He's taller than he was, larger than he was, and there's a bright sizzle of something in the palms of his hands.]

[Can't think. Can't do anything but - ]

[* ACT.]

[An eruption of white-hot flame bursts from his hands - his paws? It coils up and around, wreathing the Frost Giants in a fiery nimbus. They begin to shriek as the heat starts to melt their blueish skin into slurries of clear, watery runoff. It curls his lips upward into a snarl. His eyes are wet, blinding him with the heated prickle of his own inability to fucking cope. His nostrils are thick with dust. He's breathing in, sitting in, FIGHTing in Asgore's own fucking remains.]

[The interleaving of dualed memory digs into the posterior of his skull like a fingernail prizing away a scabbed over wound. Warm scents of butterscotch and cinnamon, of a crackling fire in a hearth, soft white fur smoothed beneath a large, heavy paw, the twining of horns in with tree branches and the musical chatter of a child's laughter at the sheer silliness of it. The bitterness that clenched in a Boss Monster's gut that left him bedridden for days, and the deep-voiced plea that begged the bedraggled, bleeding, sweating shape on the bed to * Stay determined.]

[Watching one child crumble to dust, so soon after the other stopped breathing.]

[He can no longer tell whose tears are burning in wet runnels down his cheeks.]

[...]

[He no longer cares.]

video;

[If Tim could have his way, he'd be issuing this announcement over text. But he can't - having learned, very far after the fact, that the new, clawlike shape of his hands makes inputting text commands rather impossible. It seems Asgardian technology doesn't account for impromptu goat-human hybrids. So instead, people get something different.]

[Something...very different.]

[On day four, a watery scarlet iris stares hollowly at the screen for several moments before Tim pulls back. If the presence of thick white fur and rounded horns and branchlike protrusions doesn't cement that something has gone really, horribly, terribly wrong, then the tremor in his voice and the glisten of tears down his cheeks certainly should.]

I, uh...

[Maybe it's the eyes - the eyes that, though they've changed in color, undeniably belong to one Timothy Wright.]

Asgore told me - he said that I had to, I had to take it before anyone else did. I didn't know this would - god - I didn't know.

[He's trying not to break down. He's trying not to. He can no longer tell whose guilt is swelling like a tumor in his chest, whose grief is eating at his heart. At the soul he allegedly, apparently possesses.]

I'm sorry.

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[Sit around and wait.]

[Some part of him, or some newly-acquired piece of him, seems to like that idea. Drawn toward it like a magnet. Just wait. Just wait and see how things go. Can't make any judgment calls until things align a little better, right? Just wait. Just wait for another human to fall. For a War to begin, and to end.]

[For someone else's soul.]

[He can't shake it. So he doesn't.]

Not...no. I mean, there's been one instance of - a monster taking a human soul.

[And now he can visualize it. Perfectly.]

[Now that gets his attention. Information. Nothing makes sense, but Tim knows something about what's going on that might make it make sense, and that drags this whole mess back into familiar territory.]

[Jay makes sure the camera's running.]

How did that--I mean, what happened?

[He can remember it. That's the weird thing. The terrifying thing. Missing memories he can handle. Memories that belong to someone else, suddenly tossed into his skull? That's completely out of his area of expertise, and he doubts Asgore is any better.]

[(Don't doors open both ways?)]

It didn't...

[He - it's a story. It's a story, like a fairytale, that every monster hears. But that doesn't mean he has to get into the specifics.]

They died.

[Those were the absolute last words Jay wanted to hear, but at least they're something. Better than flying blind. And maybe it'll lead to something useful.]

[Or at least maybe they'll be prepared when everything goes to hell.]

Was it because they were sharing...souls or whatever, or did something else happen?

Edited 2017-09-02 04:20 (UTC)

They were attacked.

[He knows the story. He knows it intimately (entirely too intimately), and he's heard it as it warped and its iterations repeated and closed and opened again like uncoiling snakes. Heard it like a fairytale, like it was all just a bad dream. Saw it happen, watched ~~his son~~ turn into something unspeakable and that collapsed into dust as he cried.]

[There's something hot and wet running down his cheeks.]

[He paws at his face.]

[Those aren't his tears to shed.]

The...humans. They attacked them. They'd looked - [He can't finish the sentence. It chokes off. They'd looked wrong, in every sense possible, but those were ~~his children~~, and how could he ever claim something like that?] S-so they -

[They killed them.]

Edited 2017-09-02 04:27 (UTC)

[Tim doesn't sound like he just heard that story. It sounds like he's remembering that story. It's enough to shift Jay from anxious to downright terrified.]

Then let's--let's get somewhere safe, now.

[The rational part of his brain is reminding him that they haven't breached the mansion walls, that the sounds of battle are slowly dying down rather than getting louder. The instinct to run is stronger, though.]

[He means to grab Tim by the arm, but he just ends up with a handful of fur and a bit of his sleeve. He pulls anyway, leading up the stairs like he has the remotest idea where "somewhere safe" would be.]

["The humans" attacked them, Tim says. Like he's not human anymore. Like he doesn't even think of himself as human anymore.]

[He ruined it. Must've. Jay picks up the pace, one hand snapping out to fist into the fur of Tim's arm and his sleeve. One part of him wants to jerk away while the other leans into the touch almost instinctively, pitifully desperate for interaction of any sort. And he can't, for the life of him, fucking tell which soul that's stemming from.]

[The thought of Jay trying to move this mountain of fur and flesh is almost laughable; nonetheless, something about that assertive declaration must have worked. Tim moves, obediently, stumbling after.]

Like where?

Like one of our rooms, I dunno.

[His frustration is audible. Not with Tim, but with everything. Not having a real plan. Tim's life being in danger. Tim no longer being completely himself. Those branches sprouting out of his back.]

Something with a lock.

[They'll reach Jay's room first. Would that be weird? Probably not as weird as everything else. Definitely not as weird as passing out on Tim's floor.]

[Can he...]

[It took the strength of seven human souls to form a barrier. It would take the strength of seven to dissolve it. There's a fire guttering in his chest, and he has no clue how to extinguish it. He has no clue how to work any of this, other than to ride on the instinct he shouldn't have - the instinct that comes with the memory of six kids, who trembled. Who quailed. Who didn't want to die.]

[But with what little power he has...?]

[Is that even possible?]

You think that'll stop them? [Or even slow them down?]

[Fourth floor, and Jay's pulling him toward his room because why not. Does he think these flimsy walls will hold them? It's Wonderland, so...]

Maybe. But it's better than being out in the open.

[He lets go of Tim's arm to fish his key out of his pocket. He fumbles with the lock, hands shaking, but he eventually gets the door open.]

[There's something behind them.]

[Jay rushes inside.]

[The room's nothing to write home about, even if either of them had a home to write to: Concrete-block walls, painted white and otherwise unadorned. A pile of unused cameras from the closet next to a pile of tapes, most still in their plastic wrapper. A desk with a laptop and several storage drives. An instrument case, tucked mostly behind the bed.]

[The bed itself might look familiar, with a flimsy headboard and a thin comforter that looks like it hasn't been replaced since '89.]

[If Tim looks back at the door, he'll see something like five extra bolts hanging off of it, mounted from the inside.]

[Tim moves like a man possessed. Like someone hounded by something unmistakable, looming down the length of the hall, reaching for them with spindly, nonexistent fingers. His fingertips tremble, rattling the knob. In he plunges, and Tim - Tim has to stoop to make it through the door, and he has to watch his horns, because that's just what he looks like now.]

[He lumbers inside, as unwieldy as ever with his new body. Somehow, the bare state of Jay's room isn't the least bit surprising. It's no better or worse than Tim's own, and just about what he'd expect.]

[Except the black shadow of a case for some sort of instrument, peeking out from behind the bed. If he were capable, he might have brought it up.]

[Not the time for it.]

I don't...I don't think anyone's followed us.

[The only Giants that were left after Asgore's sacrifice - aren't there anymore.]

[Jay slips around behind Tim and starts fastening the locks. One, two three...]

Didn't see anybody.

[That's because there wasn't anybody, Jay tries to remind himself. They're fine. They're inside, and they're fine, and nothing's following them right now. Not here.]

[The thought's familiar. It's like home, in a way Wonderland hasn't been so far.]

I think this might be the--the first event I've seen where it's...here. In the mansion, I mean.

[Not that this place was safe, exactly, but if he was here, it was between events. Nothing big was happening. All they had to worry about was the Mirrors.]

It...?

[Which it? What significance of it? He's scrambling, mentally, for a purchase that doesn't exist. It, as in It? Does he - is that what he means? If that's the case, why the hell aren't they running faster?]

[It only hits him after the fact.]

...the event. You meant - the event. [Right?]

What else would--?

[Oh. "It's here," he said. "In the mansion," he said.]

Y--Yeah, the event. [Just the idea is enough to shake him.] I haven't seen...I mean, I haven't run into...that. That I know of. Since the Mirror thing was...something else, you said.

[It felt real. It was real, but maybe it wasn't that thing causing it. Not directly.]

[Should've kept his mouth shut. Anything would've been better than rattling him like this. Maybe he could try - try and put up some kind of barrier, something forged of magic. But he doesn't want to risk setting the place on fire. When he'd last burned that white-hot coal in the heart of himself, he'd watched every single Giant howl as they'd crumbled.]

[He hadn't stopped until every last one of them was - ]

[He hadn't stopped.]

[For a while.]

I...yeah.

Sometimes it's just the mansion that changes.

[Or sometimes it's just him.]

Great.

[So the room's not safe. (Of course it's not. There's still a mirror on the wall.)]

[The room's not safe, and if you're in the wrong place at the wrong time, you can turn into a monster--a Monster, capital "M". It's not part of the event, so it won't go away when everything else does, and why does it feel like the rules keep changing?]

[He fights off the instinct to throw himself onto the bed in a fit of frustration. Instead, he turns to Tim.]

[Hospitality, Jay. He's your guest.]

You can...take a seat if you want.

[...]

[He does a quick size comparison. Between himself, a bolstered human-monster hybrid thing, and Jay, rake-thin and sized the way an ordinary human would be. Glances at the surrounding area, and quickly deduces that there's not a single surface in this place he can risk sitting in without possibly breaking it.]

I don't think...

[He slides down the wall before he can stop himself, a mirror to the exhausted slump that had Jay collapsing against Tim's wall only days prior. Wasn't that long ago, but it feels - longer ago than it was.]

[His legs feel jellied, trembling with the fatigue, that tide of post-adrenaline exhaustion. It didn't even occur to him until he finally took his weight off them.]

...thanks.

[God, he looks exhausted. Makes perfect sense, but still.]

[Next step for hospitality - food and drinks, right? Unfortunately, the closet's only been spitting out clothes. Fortunately, Jay still has some of his stockpile from the past few times he snuck down to the feast. He reaches into a drawer of his desk (wasn't sure where else to put the stuff that wouldn't perish immediately, and it's not like he's keeping anything else in there) and pulls out an apple and a pear.]

You want one?

[He...really should be skewering Jay with a more skeptical, are you fucking goddamn serious right now look to befit the absurdity of offering him a pear out of goddamn nowhere. He should be. But the sight of something as small and simple as food turns his stomach, or whatever he has now that passes for one, and he shakes his head grimly.]

...no.

[Truthfully, he can't even think of eating right now. He can't.]

I - no.

Alright.

[Jay dips his head. Well, he did what he was supposed to do, and Tim didn't want it. Jay doesn't take one either.]

[Now what?]

[Now they either wait or gather more information or both. Jay gets a better look at Tim's new form. Thick, shaggy fur. Horns. Branches. He can see now that Tim's eyes are red, in the split second Tim looks up at him, and Jay thinks of the stories he read about the thick glass contact lenses they used to use in old monster movies, how they scratched up the actors' eyes. It's more uncanny than seeing him as a bird, and at first Jay thought it was because the bird was too different to really register as the same person, but the longer he looks, the less he's sure that's really it. He can recognize Tim in the stoop of his shoulders, in the way he carries himself, in the lines of the face, but Jay thinks he sees Asgore in more than just the fur and the horns and the size.]

[The thing sitting slumped against Jay's wall is two people. That's clear, and that's terrifying, and Jay's not sure how to deal with it except by continuing to watch him. (Them.)]

[He thinks those branches sprouting from Tim's shoulders remind him of something. A nightmare, almost definitely. Getting lost in the woods until he can feel branches sprouting from his hands, vines twisting around his spine. Or finding Alex or Tim ~~or Jessica,~~ sprawled across the leaf litter, eyes wide and glassy, with a year-old sapling sprouting from their hollow rib cage.]

Hey, can I...? [He gestures to the branches. Can I take a closer look?]

[There's no preventing the tensing of his shoulders, the way his head jerks up to fix Jay with a look that borders on shocked in its wariness. Can he take a look at him? Like he's...like he's something to be examined. Sit still on the table and don't move unless we tell you to. We're just going to take a look. Raise your right arm...good. Now raise your left.]

[...good.]

[That's him. He knows it. It's not Asgore, it's him, and where he would ordinarily shy away from the memory, he plunges into it, facefirst, submerged beneath the icy chill of hospital beds and windowless walls and people asking him to take deep breaths, the cold of a stethoscope bell pressed to the small of his back, to his chest, to his abdomen. The way they added soft caps to the bottoms of the tables and chairs for his own safety. The cold chemical sting of a plunger, pinching the crook of his elbow, and the scent of burning, crumbling paint and plaster.]

[That's him. That belongs to him.]

[He lets it brick up, and up. Smooth over the contours of an older mind that thinks of souls and dead human children and the sacrifices that must be made, to fight a war no one really thinks they can win.]

[Can I examine you?]

[The muscles in his throat contract as he swallows.]

[But he lowers his head in a small nod.]

[Okay, that was a 'yes', but ~~the thing that used to be~~ Tim clearly looks like he's on edge. Camera in one hand, Jay moves carefully, and it's only when he's nearly at Tim's side that he realizes he's treating Tim like some kind of strange dog or something. Body language unclear. Might snap. Might be dangerous.]

[This is Tim, and Jay is willing to admit to himself that Tim doesn't attack unless provoked.]

[He's not so sure about Asgore.]

[Jay's just a few inches away now, peering over Tim's shoulders, looking at the way the branches sprout through the white fur, splitting the ragged remnants of Tim's shirt. They don't look like horn or bone. They definitely look like wood.]

[After a moment's hesitation, Jay makes what might be a terrible decision. He reaches out and touches one of the branches.]

Hey, Tim, can you...feel that at all?

[Let it be as it is. Let him treat him delicately, like something about to snarl and snap at a hand, like a wounded beast. That's what he is, isn't he? He's a tool in someone's investigation. He's an object, an obstacle to be surmounted.]

[It's a feather-light touch along the branch-like protrusions tearing out from the fabric of his shirt and the bristles of his fur, and he tenses. It's like...he's never had whiskers, but he'd imagine that this is what cats must feel like, when someone brushes up against them unexpectedly.]

Yeah.

[The word is taut, and he doesn't bother trying to smooth it into something it's not.]

[Jay yanks his hand back, recoiling.]

What, does it--does it feel like it has nerve endings all the way up, or...?

[He thought it'd be numb, like horn. What the hell, Tim?]

I dunno.

[Not helpful. Don't be curt, Timothy. Speak up. How does it make you feel, specifically? We need you to be clearer than that, Timothy. You owe us that. We can't help you if you don't try.]

[So, okay.]

Like...hair, maybe? Like, it's not me but it's attached to me?

Entry #90

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this loNELY GOATMAN

WHAT DID YOU EXPECT

jay's yanking on his fur and timsgore's like "yes. this is acceptable contact."

it's super acceptable what are you talking about

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