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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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?

[There's something strange in the way Tim's talking, but Jay can't place it.]

[Regardless, that makes some sense. No feeling in the branches, but sensitive at the base. Like hair, like he said. Now that Jay knows how it feels, maybe those nightmare's will be just that little bit more realistic. Hooray.]

[Then another thought sets in, and Jay's already talking before it has time to get through the "is this weird?" filter.]

Those aren't...from Asgore, right? So--so if we weren't human, we, or I mean, you'd be...?

[Tim would be something straight out of Jay's nightmares. They both would. This isn't just Tim, and Jay Knows it with the same certainty he Knows Tim's Mirror wasn't just writing gibberish, months ago.]

It's me.

[It's a dull admission. There's no other explanation. Who else would that be coming from? Asgore doesn't have that kind of magic in him - no part of him is reminiscent of branches arcing up into the sky with clawlike twigs scratching at the fog.]

[It's him.]

[It has to be.]

Maybe this is just what...magic does.

[It makes it harder to hide what you really are.]

[Just what magic does. And isn't that what Wonderland is? "Magic"?]

[This place toys with their bodies, with their memories. Wouldn't take much for Jay to start sprouting branches of his own, would it? Wouldn't take much for the air to split apart and send him back where he started, to dunk his head underwater until he chokes.]

[Rewind, play back. "There's still magic in this world, Brian. You just have to look in the right place."]

[Jay lets out a choked, gagging noise, catches his balance against the bed.]

[Not part of this. He's not part of this. It's happening to Tim. He's just the cameraman. He's fine.]

Y-yeah, maybe.

[That unbalances what little balance Jay has, and Tim abruptly turns, eyeing the other man warily. Something about that must have been...the wrong thing. The wrong to say, the wrong thing to imply - something.]

[Something else he did wrong.]

You okay?

[The absurdity of it doesn't strike him immediately - asking if the guy who isn't a shambling mess of magic and fur and branches unfurling from his back like antlers is the one who's okay.]

Sorry, things just--

[He's fine. He's fine.]

Just thinking about...It's nothing.

[It doesn't matter. Tim's had worse. Tim's had a thousand times worse. Jay shouldn't have thought about ~~home.~~ Just a mistake. Just another stupid idea. Cut this out of the entry before uploading. Nobody wants to see it.]

[It doesn't matter. He's fine.]

So we just. [Get it together.] Keep the door locked, and we wait. Less than 24 hours now, right?

[...]

[It's nothing. It's always nothing, where Jay's concerned. He'd push it if he could, but right now? Right now, he's simply too exhausted. He glances down at the urn clasped between his claws, and swallows.]

[Not that simple.]

I gotta...I have to give this to his kids. Just - lemme do that, and I'll wait it out.

[And he makes it sounds like he's fucking bargaining. It should be his choice, shouldn't it?]

[Maybe he's just defaulted to the time when it wasn't.]

[Oh. Tim's got more he has to do. They can't just bar the door and be done with it. (And he's still not sure sitting and waiting is even the best idea. What if they're missing something important? What if waiting makes it worse?)]

I mean, it's your call. [Jay shrugs.] How much of a walk is that?

[And is he coming back here, or is he going to wait it out somewhere else? Jay's not in any immediate danger, not any more than he has been the rest of the event, but it doesn't exactly sound like Tim's safe while he's like that. Might not be the greatest idea to split up for the whole 24 hours.]

Not far.

[It's your call. But it's...not, really. He's still beholden to the same rules that's always bound him. He's a danger. Needs to be contained. Needs to be controlled. He set the whole mess of them on fire, and he'd watched them burn, and even now - even now, none of it will come close to the way Alex had gasped and shuddered beneath his grip, fingers clasped fruitlessly over the wet rush of scarlet.]

...not for very long, either.

[He's coming back. That's...good, Jay guesses. Not like he can do much of anything to protect Tim if something happens, but at least he's got a door that locks and a phone-thing that can call for help. That's something.]

[Better than going it alone.]

Alright. Just...knock when you get back, I guess.

Yeah.

[Obedient, respectful. Exactly the way he should be. It'll all work out just fine, right?]

[Right.]

[First he has to scrape himself off from the floor. Pull himself together into something that's vaguely presentable (what a joke), and head out again. There's too many fucking bolts, and his claws are too big to handle them. He fumbles for several moments before he can get the door open properly.]

I'll be back, then. I guess.

[Jay realizes too late that he probably should've gotten the door. Watching Tim fumble with the locks is...uncomfortable, but standing up and insisting on doing it himself at that point probably would've been worse.]

Good... [Good luck? Tim's bringing the ashes of a dead man to his children; good luck is not appropriate here.] Hope it goes...as well as something like that can go.

[Also pretty terrible, but maybe not as terrible as 'good luck'.]

[Good luck?]

[Yeah, sure. Maybe he'll need it. Those sins of his are weighing around his neck more potently than ever, and he's not even the only one who has to live with them. The dust of the king of all monsters is cupped between his paws...between Asgore's paws?]

[He doesn't know anymore.]

[He doesn't say anything else.]

[He can't think of what else needs saying.]

[The door closes quietly behind him.]

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Entry #90

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