[It bubbles through him, welling up like a high tide. Dragging him under like the undertow. The rippling, malicious orb at the center of all of this narrows his vision, rapt and enraptured. It pours into him and through him.
The words press under the palate of his jaw - how Rosie's always said she hates the cold draft in her office, and that's why she wears the gloves. It was easier than explaining where the terror of the cameras, of the stares, of the pressures had caused her to chew down past her nails...
The soft streaks of despair of a student who knows every staff member here knows them and while they aren't watching, picks apart their thesis. The staff know they're just hiding here, in the comforting world away from pressure, but it's always waiting, looking for weakness. How they've started a plan-
The desperate story of the man in the statement room now, who has no idea that in fleeing one fear, he's bent backwards, offering his soft, tender neck to this Institute instead.
To Jonah. All he needs to do is go and bite down, drink deep of the heady, sweet fear laid at his feet.
Which way is back now? Which way is up?]
"Yes, no that's fine. I... will take care of this. Close up wont you, Rosie?"
[It doesn't get easier. It doesn't get better. Not here.
He can feel the soft, viscous barrier of the barrier warp around him as the cold expanse of the pupil draws him in. Elevates his gaze. He starts to feel along the very roots of this place, the lines of focus. The chorus of fears, from the banal to the extraordinary, as his.
They are his due. His right. Here in his domain.]
Exquisite, isn't it?
[Elias' voice curls around his mind, sliding through the edges of it. Something about it pleasing in a way that ripping a statement from his prey was. Something like the first warm coil of smoke hitting his lungs.]
I was wondering when you would come home, my Archivist.
[His breath catches (and does he really even need to breathe anymore? Here in his domain? His home?) but he doesn't look to the man. No, he keeps his eyes up, but his voice is soft.]
Not yours.
[Even if he thought he was coming to check on Algric and Tim, whether he walked in or was led in, it doesn't matter. This place, this in front of him is what matters. He was always going to end up here, in the end. Trying to avoid it, hide from it, was futile.]
The first sensation to actually slice through the holy static howl consuming Jonah's senses is the press of a single finger, delicate and clinical under the bone of his chin.]
Oh, perhaps not in the most technical sense. But I know my work when I see it. I am your maker, the conductor of your choir.
And in that way, you will always be mine. No more special than the hands that molded you.
[The smallest gasp when he feels it; sure Tim and Martin and Algric have all touched him, held him, soothed him, but the sensation of Elias' finger at his chin feels more real than anything has since he arrived. And he's also realizing, for the first time since he came through Hilltop, that he feels full. He'd kept to statements, old crumbling pieces meant to tide him over, and a bit of quick fast refreshment off Tobias, but this place has filled him in a way he hasn't had since the Apocalypse.
Jonah feels sluggish, finally shifting his eyes up to Elias above him. Watching.
Scared.
The slow realization of what he's done, what he's walked into creeping into is bones like a slow oil spill coating his insides.]
[And the Eye drinks it all in. He can feel his own fear pulled in and savoured. Observed for its foolishness, for his weakness. For exactly what it is.
And gives it back to him, sweet and terrible to behold.]
[That finger withdraws if only to gentle set across Jonah's lips. 'Shh.'
And it's less physical, and more, in some ways, the way Elias' eyes meets Jonah's. How deeply he looks into them, what simple, perfect command he takes, sliding along the quivering lines of terror. Letting him know how absolutely futile resistance is.
What a firm grip Elias takes of his Archive, before he opens it.]
[Throughout his years working here, Jonah has become accustomed to horrible pain. But the pain here is like nothing he has ever experienced. This isn't the gentle pull of a compulsion, nor the almost nonexistent threads that led him where he needed to be. His mind is ripped open, shredded in Elias' hands.
It's only made worse because he tries to fight it. Pained sounds escape him because he is stronger than Elias, yes. But the inexperience is doing him a great disservice in this position. He only has the brute force of trying to close his mind back up.]
[He's immensely more powerful than Elias is. He can feel it. He Knows it.
But every where the ocean of force at Jonah's command crashed, ended up shuddering down his own nerves, slicing through empty space. Jonah is a heavyweight.
But Elias is a dancer.
He might even have enough of himself to see himself stumbling along to the dance behind, stepping perfectly where he should in these windmilling strikes.
No. Elias even lets him. Wears him down.
It is a long moment before he even simply focuses his gaze.]
I will say, you are exquisite, Archivist.
[Jonah has no choice. He will think of how he came here. Where he's been. The fear he's known.]
[If they had just let him come from the start, he could have prepared. He could have worked on this. He could maybe stand a stronger chance.
He was always going to lose this battle.
The pressure of the gaze upon him is almost physical, weighing him down gradually until he sits back, head lolling before being refocused to Elias' fixed stare.
Where he's been. How he came here.
His breath quivers, the unhealthy, sickly green filling his eyes like static. It did all start to so, so badly after Jane's attack, didn't it? The ever-growing paranoia, the dead ends. Jon getting lost and turned around in the tunnels, afraid of what lurks beneath them. He'd almost taken the route to the final resting place, but ran from it, his mind not wanting to see what was down there.
Every encounter, every near-death experience over the last three years. Having recently recounted it all, it's fresh on his mind with the knowledge it was on purpose. That Elias had known what was happening and let it.
It's when the Archive gets to the entry marked Daisy that the static begins, filling in the darkness of his shadows, the corners of his mouth. A darkness pools in the corner of his eyes that would almost be tears if not for the fact an Archive can't cry. Reliving the sheer helplessness and fear of that afternoon reaching to his core, reminding him that once he was human.
[The tenderness of which Elias' hand brushes the black ichor as it pools is uncommonly sweet. The dry warm skin across the flesh he's been allowed to retain. A housing to keep the precious records safe.
He can feel the soft sigh. The tension and release of the director of the archive reading a particularly satisfying story. A near miss when something so valuable was nearly ruined by indelicate hands.
Through nearly losing his mind, to dying. Trapped in his own subconscious watching the dreams play out again and again for half a year before waking up to his world almost gone - no Tim, no Daisy, Martin MIA, and Elias in prison. The uncertainty, the isolation. Losing his humanity no matter how tightly he tried to grasp it.
Feeling it slip through his fingers each statement he forced, monster and human alike.
Desperately trying to keep his actions secret.
The billowing panic when he realized they all knew what he'd been doing.
His fingers twitch at his sides. The dark tears dripping like sludge down his front, to the floor, his trousers, staining them.
Martin laughing and dispelling any idea of them getting out. The thought that maybe there isn't anything else keeping him alive; the fear of the End still as strong as it was before he died. The sheer confusion and terror when everyone ran into the tunnels and were set upon by multiple enemies.
The Panopticon. It had called to him as soon as he was within sight of it the first time.
[It does. It's a simple, powerful focus that fills his mind, the true center of the Eye. The pinhole through which something unimaginable peeked. There was so little of HIM left, wasn't there?
In this awful gaze, he could see the tatters in perfect clarity. How little it meant anymore. How weak and fragile those shreds are... How even now they erode...
How much better he could make things for those who relied on him if he just took his place where he should.
And why, through the swirling haze, feeling the Lonely drink into him, numb him, remind him of his failings as he searched frantically for Martin... he Knew, suddenly that the Panopticon was empty.
As Peter's body fell lifeless at his feet, his first sweet taste of murder- It was empty and Elias Does Not Know yet.
[He nearly convulses as that Knowledge pulses through him, underneath what's already being shared.
(And Elias may wonder what that was, what caused his Archive to skip a beat before it resumed. Like nothing happened. But did it?)
The Eye doesn't care about the weeks of quiet. Of peace. No, it revels in the slow creeping dread he felt as he was rooted to his seat, reading that statement aloud, as hard as he tried to stop. Knowing what he was doing and had no control.
His voice is quiet, breath shuddering] -and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend-
[No, the door in his mind buckles and bulges as, a second time, something beyond all comprehension begins to peer through the keyhold. Something just between the cleft of his frontal lobe blinks and begins to crawl out.
The Eye responds to its call.
And Elias stares deep into it, the massive thing pouring through his veins and blood and thoughts and memories and fears and terrors and sick addictions, drawn fluid along spider webs, and as the Archive calls it by its true name, by its concept, calls sweet terror to terror...
It answers, and Elias is struck by the magnificence of this moment of becoming.]
[The terror is there. Not only in the memory, recalled and played out for a fresh audience, but his own, present terror. The struck horror of it happening again.
He does not want to destroy this timeline like he did his own.
It takes all the conscious willpower he has left to close his mouth, not finish. But the memories still play as the Archive is still open. Elias can see it, the fresh new hell that he helped create. The domains, easily separated and classified on the fringes of what was once Scotland, only getting muddled and more chaotic the closer to the Panopticon they got. The collective fear being fed and filtered and siphoned through the Watcher's wandering Eye as he explored.
It is all there and open for him to see. A true Hell, with Elias there in the Pupil.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The words press under the palate of his jaw - how Rosie's always said she hates the cold draft in her office, and that's why she wears the gloves. It was easier than explaining where the terror of the cameras, of the stares, of the pressures had caused her to chew down past her nails...
The soft streaks of despair of a student who knows every staff member here knows them and while they aren't watching, picks apart their thesis. The staff know they're just hiding here, in the comforting world away from pressure, but it's always waiting, looking for weakness. How they've started a plan-
The desperate story of the man in the statement room now, who has no idea that in fleeing one fear, he's bent backwards, offering his soft, tender neck to this Institute instead.
To Jonah. All he needs to do is go and bite down, drink deep of the heady, sweet fear laid at his feet.
Which way is back now? Which way is up?]
"Yes, no that's fine. I... will take care of this. Close up wont you, Rosie?"
no subject
It's beautiful.
At some point, he slid to the floor, sitting and eyes turned upward, unseeing his surroundings but Seeing everything.]
no subject
He can feel the soft, viscous barrier of the barrier warp around him as the cold expanse of the pupil draws him in. Elevates his gaze. He starts to feel along the very roots of this place, the lines of focus. The chorus of fears, from the banal to the extraordinary, as his.
They are his due. His right. Here in his domain.]
Exquisite, isn't it?
[Elias' voice curls around his mind, sliding through the edges of it. Something about it pleasing in a way that ripping a statement from his prey was. Something like the first warm coil of smoke hitting his lungs.]
I was wondering when you would come home, my Archivist.
no subject
Not yours.
[Even if he thought he was coming to check on Algric and Tim, whether he walked in or was led in, it doesn't matter. This place, this in front of him is what matters. He was always going to end up here, in the end. Trying to avoid it, hide from it, was futile.]
no subject
The first sensation to actually slice through the holy static howl consuming Jonah's senses is the press of a single finger, delicate and clinical under the bone of his chin.]
Oh, perhaps not in the most technical sense. But I know my work when I see it. I am your maker, the conductor of your choir.
And in that way, you will always be mine. No more special than the hands that molded you.
[An indrawn breath.]
That said, you are ... unique.
no subject
Jonah feels sluggish, finally shifting his eyes up to Elias above him. Watching.
Scared.
The slow realization of what he's done, what he's walked into creeping into is bones like a slow oil spill coating his insides.]
no subject
And gives it back to him, sweet and terrible to behold.]
Now. Shall we begin?
no subject
...What?
no subject
[That finger withdraws if only to gentle set across Jonah's lips. 'Shh.'
And it's less physical, and more, in some ways, the way Elias' eyes meets Jonah's. How deeply he looks into them, what simple, perfect command he takes, sliding along the quivering lines of terror. Letting him know how absolutely futile resistance is.
What a firm grip Elias takes of his Archive, before he opens it.]
no subject
It's only made worse because he tries to fight it. Pained sounds escape him because he is stronger than Elias, yes. But the inexperience is doing him a great disservice in this position. He only has the brute force of trying to close his mind back up.]
Nn...N-no.
no subject
But every where the ocean of force at Jonah's command crashed, ended up shuddering down his own nerves, slicing through empty space. Jonah is a heavyweight.
But Elias is a dancer.
He might even have enough of himself to see himself stumbling along to the dance behind, stepping perfectly where he should in these windmilling strikes.
No. Elias even lets him. Wears him down.
It is a long moment before he even simply focuses his gaze.]
I will say, you are exquisite, Archivist.
[Jonah has no choice. He will think of how he came here. Where he's been. The fear he's known.]
no subject
He was always going to lose this battle.
The pressure of the gaze upon him is almost physical, weighing him down gradually until he sits back, head lolling before being refocused to Elias' fixed stare.
Where he's been. How he came here.
His breath quivers, the unhealthy, sickly green filling his eyes like static. It did all start to so, so badly after Jane's attack, didn't it? The ever-growing paranoia, the dead ends. Jon getting lost and turned around in the tunnels, afraid of what lurks beneath them. He'd almost taken the route to the final resting place, but ran from it, his mind not wanting to see what was down there.
Every encounter, every near-death experience over the last three years. Having recently recounted it all, it's fresh on his mind with the knowledge it was on purpose. That Elias had known what was happening and let it.
It's when the Archive gets to the entry marked Daisy that the static begins, filling in the darkness of his shadows, the corners of his mouth. A darkness pools in the corner of his eyes that would almost be tears if not for the fact an Archive can't cry. Reliving the sheer helplessness and fear of that afternoon reaching to his core, reminding him that once he was human.
But it continues.]
no subject
He can feel the soft sigh. The tension and release of the director of the archive reading a particularly satisfying story. A near miss when something so valuable was nearly ruined by indelicate hands.
Never the less, he turns the page.
It continues relaying its task.]
no subject
Through nearly losing his mind, to dying. Trapped in his own subconscious watching the dreams play out again and again for half a year before waking up to his world almost gone - no Tim, no Daisy, Martin MIA, and Elias in prison. The uncertainty, the isolation. Losing his humanity no matter how tightly he tried to grasp it.
Feeling it slip through his fingers each statement he forced, monster and human alike.
Desperately trying to keep his actions secret.
The billowing panic when he realized they all knew what he'd been doing.
His fingers twitch at his sides. The dark tears dripping like sludge down his front, to the floor, his trousers, staining them.
Martin laughing and dispelling any idea of them getting out. The thought that maybe there isn't anything else keeping him alive; the fear of the End still as strong as it was before he died. The sheer confusion and terror when everyone ran into the tunnels and were set upon by multiple enemies.
The Panopticon. It had called to him as soon as he was within sight of it the first time.
He feels it calling to him even now. ]
no subject
In this awful gaze, he could see the tatters in perfect clarity. How little it meant anymore. How weak and fragile those shreds are... How even now they erode...
How much better he could make things for those who relied on him if he just took his place where he should.
And why, through the swirling haze, feeling the Lonely drink into him, numb him, remind him of his failings as he searched frantically for Martin... he Knew, suddenly that the Panopticon was empty.
As Peter's body fell lifeless at his feet, his first sweet taste of murder- It was empty and Elias Does Not Know yet.
]
no subject
(And Elias may wonder what that was, what caused his Archive to skip a beat before it resumed. Like nothing happened. But did it?)
The Eye doesn't care about the weeks of quiet. Of peace. No, it revels in the slow creeping dread he felt as he was rooted to his seat, reading that statement aloud, as hard as he tried to stop. Knowing what he was doing and had no control.
His voice is quiet, breath shuddering] -and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend-
no subject
The Eye responds to its call.
And Elias stares deep into it, the massive thing pouring through his veins and blood and thoughts and memories and fears and terrors and sick addictions, drawn fluid along spider webs, and as the Archive calls it by its true name, by its concept, calls sweet terror to terror...
It answers, and Elias is struck by the magnificence of this moment of becoming.]
no subject
He does not want to destroy this timeline like he did his own.
It takes all the conscious willpower he has left to close his mouth, not finish. But the memories still play as the Archive is still open. Elias can see it, the fresh new hell that he helped create. The domains, easily separated and classified on the fringes of what was once Scotland, only getting muddled and more chaotic the closer to the Panopticon they got. The collective fear being fed and filtered and siphoned through the Watcher's wandering Eye as he explored.
It is all there and open for him to see. A true Hell, with Elias there in the Pupil.]
no subject