My name is Jonathan Sims. I work for the Magnus Institute, London, and recently, I have been promoted to Head Archivist.
My work mainly has the do with organizing the mess of an archive my predecessor left behind, as well as recording and investigating the statements as thoroughly as possible. The archives also take in statements, but you’ll have to schedule an appointment if you wish to do so.
Additionally, my assistants, Sasha, Tim… and I suppose Martin may also be able to provide assistance when it comes to archival matters.
Let me know if you have any questions.
//ooc under the cut
blog revamp, this is the new pinned!! check out the old pinned here (the system from that one doesnt apply now though
the cutoff point between the old version and the revamp is january 18th, 2026. also known as: posts made before january 18th 2026 on this blog are under the previous version of this jon and do not apply to the current jon :)
aaaanyway: hello hi here i am it is @iiinkos! i run several other tma rp blogs, all of which are listed in my main blog’s pinned post :)
this is an s1 jon! i don’t have any specific plans for him he’s just there being him :)
there’s definitely gonna be spoilers for most of, if not all of tma tho so. watch out!!!
tags:
statement begins - statement type posts! whether they be submitted by people, written by me (though i doubt that’ll come up), or any other thing, they’ll be under here :)
to satisfy a curious mind - answering asks
the one who has yet to see - posts with jon (aka all of them) lol
technically @pokejon-master and @devils-of-stardust can be younger versions of him? any of the crazy tumblr exclusive shit that happens to the young jons don’t apply, but stuff like his dynamic with his grandma or how he feels about mr spider or just generally how he is without tumblr influence is how this jon would be as a kid
aaaand @some-kind-of-hope is a post canon version under the same rules as the kid jon one! check both of em out if you want (theyre both me lol)
this version of jon is also filipino indian because god help me i love hitting characters with the pinoy beam (projection) and it also makes sense for him to be indian :) however i personally am not indian and am most likely going to touch on the filipino side of his heritage more, so please correct me if i do something wrong
rules:
- shipping is fine. i’d prefer it if we discussed in dms before immediately going to flirt. i can’t promise i’ll be great at it though. also, i’m a huge jmart shipper. i won’t necessarily be put off by shipping him with someone else and i’m open to discussing it it dms, but i’ll probably just stick to jmart. sorry :(
- never do jon x elias stuff with me. it makes me extremely uncomfortable. you can mention the concept of it and jokingly flirt, but when it comes to it, i won't.
- suggestive content not allowed. you're allowed to allude to sex, like if it's in a statement and it happened (ie. timothy hodge) but nothing direct
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[What is reality? A grand presentation of shapes and colors and textures and sounds presented by eyes that saw upside down and ears that willfully would not hear and nerves that did not cry out because they were told to be ignored? What of it is real? A name is real but did you ever have one? Did you need one? Were you called? What color is your blood? Where oh where did you fall asleep? Did you want these answers? Was the call of knowledge of your own volition? Why were you here?]
[Theres an almost silent sound. Words. Words that could be understood]
[Unfortunately for him, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want to trust this place— this thing warping the very fabric of reality around him. He was real. He didn’t trust anything around him. And he had the choice.]
[With every step he took the rooms around him would warp and change. He led himself deeper into the halls, the walls covered in paintings that hung at odd angles and bled paint out onto the floors that shifted and bowed beneath him]
Stop! Please! You’ll only hurt yourself!
[The voice came again, distorted, seeming to weave between reality closer and farther away from him creating some sort of horrible Doppler effect.]
[The more he ran the less he was. He found that he couldn’t even imagine what is own name was. The faces of those he loved. Even his own hands did not seem his own. Who was this stranger that his soul inhabited. Was the soul even his? The halls told him Safety could be found deeper within. Answers to satisfy a curious mind. The voice said otherwise]
[If there’s a place, there’s a way out. He just has to find it. Logic is intact, logic is real, it’s with him. He’ll find it. He has to.]
[He feels his mind fracture. The world becoming indistinguishable from himself.]
[He’s just dreaming. He’s hallucinating. He’s struggling with something, someone drugged him. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. If it is real, then everything he knows is a lie, and he knows that’s not the case. It can’t. There’s a way out because he’s real.]
[Step after step, lie after lie. He’s losing himself.]
[He runs and runs and runs. Until someone runs out in front of him, nearly tackling him with how hard they grabbed him. A face to the voice, and. . . was this face familiar? He’s seen it somewhere, surely. At a job? Did he have a job? In a dream? What this must be. The strange, oddly human person spoke to him now]
Oh my god there you are! Seriously, when I say stay still, I mean it! Now quickly, what’s your name? Do you remember it?
[His struggle to answer brought a pained look to their face]
Oh boy. . . this is going to be rough. Alright you’re going to follow me and you are under absolutely no circumstances to let go of my hand do you understand?
[They didn’t wait for an answer, grabbing his wrist and beginning to walk them in a seemingly random direction]
Your name is Jonathan Sims. You live in London and you are the Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute. Is any of this ringing a bell?
[They do the only thing they can think of. Pick him up and keep going. He’d run himself pretty far into the museum. There was no telling the kind of damage it had done to him, or if it was even reversible. They could only hope.]
[They finally managed get to a part of the museum where they could make a door. As fast as they could they dragged themself and Jon through, nearly collapsing from the effort of leaving the Distortion so abruptly. They set Jon down as gently as they could against the wall, falling back against the other wall and closing their eyes, already feeling the headache coming on. They’ll wait until he wakes up, then they’ll explain. If they don’t have to explain his name back to him first.]
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[What is reality? A grand presentation of shapes and colors and textures and sounds presented by eyes that saw upside down and ears that willfully would not hear and nerves that did not cry out because they were told to be ignored? What of it is real? A name is real but did you ever have one? Did you need one? Were you called? What color is your blood? Where oh where did you fall asleep? Did you want these answers? Was the call of knowledge of your own volition? Why were you here?]
[Theres an almost silent sound. Words. Words that could be understood]
[Unfortunately for him, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want to trust this place— this thing warping the very fabric of reality around him. He was real. He didn’t trust anything around him. And he had the choice.]
[With every step he took the rooms around him would warp and change. He led himself deeper into the halls, the walls covered in paintings that hung at odd angles and bled paint out onto the floors that shifted and bowed beneath him]
Stop! Please! You’ll only hurt yourself!
[The voice came again, distorted, seeming to weave between reality closer and farther away from him creating some sort of horrible Doppler effect.]
[The more he ran the less he was. He found that he couldn’t even imagine what is own name was. The faces of those he loved. Even his own hands did not seem his own. Who was this stranger that his soul inhabited. Was the soul even his? The halls told him Safety could be found deeper within. Answers to satisfy a curious mind. The voice said otherwise]
[If there’s a place, there’s a way out. He just has to find it. Logic is intact, logic is real, it’s with him. He’ll find it. He has to.]
[He feels his mind fracture. The world becoming indistinguishable from himself.]
[He’s just dreaming. He’s hallucinating. He’s struggling with something, someone drugged him. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. If it is real, then everything he knows is a lie, and he knows that’s not the case. It can’t. There’s a way out because he’s real.]
[Step after step, lie after lie. He’s losing himself.]
[He runs and runs and runs. Until someone runs out in front of him, nearly tackling him with how hard they grabbed him. A face to the voice, and. . . was this face familiar? He’s seen it somewhere, surely. At a job? Did he have a job? In a dream? What this must be. The strange, oddly human person spoke to him now]
Oh my god there you are! Seriously, when I say stay still, I mean it! Now quickly, what’s your name? Do you remember it?
[His struggle to answer brought a pained look to their face]
Oh boy. . . this is going to be rough. Alright you’re going to follow me and you are under absolutely no circumstances to let go of my hand do you understand?
[They didn’t wait for an answer, grabbing his wrist and beginning to walk them in a seemingly random direction]
Your name is Jonathan Sims. You live in London and you are the Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute. Is any of this ringing a bell?
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[What is reality? A grand presentation of shapes and colors and textures and sounds presented by eyes that saw upside down and ears that willfully would not hear and nerves that did not cry out because they were told to be ignored? What of it is real? A name is real but did you ever have one? Did you need one? Were you called? What color is your blood? Where oh where did you fall asleep? Did you want these answers? Was the call of knowledge of your own volition? Why were you here?]
[Theres an almost silent sound. Words. Words that could be understood]
[Unfortunately for him, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want to trust this place— this thing warping the very fabric of reality around him. He was real. He didn’t trust anything around him. And he had the choice.]
[With every step he took the rooms around him would warp and change. He led himself deeper into the halls, the walls covered in paintings that hung at odd angles and bled paint out onto the floors that shifted and bowed beneath him]
Stop! Please! You’ll only hurt yourself!
[The voice came again, distorted, seeming to weave between reality closer and farther away from him creating some sort of horrible Doppler effect.]
[The more he ran the less he was. He found that he couldn’t even imagine what is own name was. The faces of those he loved. Even his own hands did not seem his own. Who was this stranger that his soul inhabited. Was the soul even his? The halls told him Safety could be found deeper within. Answers to satisfy a curious mind. The voice said otherwise]
[If there’s a place, there’s a way out. He just has to find it. Logic is intact, logic is real, it’s with him. He’ll find it. He has to.]
[He feels his mind fracture. The world becoming indistinguishable from himself.]
[He’s just dreaming. He’s hallucinating. He’s struggling with something, someone drugged him. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. If it is real, then everything he knows is a lie, and he knows that’s not the case. It can’t. There’s a way out because he’s real.]
[Step after step, lie after lie. He’s losing himself.]
[He runs and runs and runs. Until someone runs out in front of him, nearly tackling him with how hard they grabbed him. A face to the voice, and. . . was this face familiar? He’s seen it somewhere, surely. At a job? Did he have a job? In a dream? What this must be. The strange, oddly human person spoke to him now]
Oh my god there you are! Seriously, when I say stay still, I mean it! Now quickly, what’s your name? Do you remember it?
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[What is reality? A grand presentation of shapes and colors and textures and sounds presented by eyes that saw upside down and ears that willfully would not hear and nerves that did not cry out because they were told to be ignored? What of it is real? A name is real but did you ever have one? Did you need one? Were you called? What color is your blood? Where oh where did you fall asleep? Did you want these answers? Was the call of knowledge of your own volition? Why were you here?]
[Theres an almost silent sound. Words. Words that could be understood]
[Unfortunately for him, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want to trust this place— this thing warping the very fabric of reality around him. He was real. He didn’t trust anything around him. And he had the choice.]
[With every step he took the rooms around him would warp and change. He led himself deeper into the halls, the walls covered in paintings that hung at odd angles and bled paint out onto the floors that shifted and bowed beneath him]
Stop! Please! You’ll only hurt yourself!
[The voice came again, distorted, seeming to weave between reality closer and farther away from him creating some sort of horrible Doppler effect.]
[The more he ran the less he was. He found that he couldn’t even imagine what is own name was. The faces of those he loved. Even his own hands did not seem his own. Who was this stranger that his soul inhabited. Was the soul even his? The halls told him Safety could be found deeper within. Answers to satisfy a curious mind. The voice said otherwise]
[If there’s a place, there’s a way out. He just has to find it. Logic is intact, logic is real, it’s with him. He’ll find it. He has to.]
[He feels his mind fracture. The world becoming indistinguishable from himself.]
[He’s just dreaming. He’s hallucinating. He’s struggling with something, someone drugged him. This isn’t real. It can’t be real. If it is real, then everything he knows is a lie, and he knows that’s not the case. It can’t. There’s a way out because he’s real.]
[Step after step, lie after lie. He’s losing himself.]
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[What is reality? A grand presentation of shapes and colors and textures and sounds presented by eyes that saw upside down and ears that willfully would not hear and nerves that did not cry out because they were told to be ignored? What of it is real? A name is real but did you ever have one? Did you need one? Were you called? What color is your blood? Where oh where did you fall asleep? Did you want these answers? Was the call of knowledge of your own volition? Why were you here?]
[Theres an almost silent sound. Words. Words that could be understood]
[Unfortunately for him, he was fucking terrified. He didn’t want to trust this place— this thing warping the very fabric of reality around him. He was real. He didn’t trust anything around him. And he had the choice.]
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[When the man did he have a name? sits, the room begins to slip. Brick by brick the walls fall, giving away their facade. The floor stretching, stretching, twisting in and around itself until it resembled-]
[The chess board held many pieces. The man now stood in the middle. Had he ever stood up? Time had passed but how much? How did you measure time again? In the periods between knowing what face saw you in the mirror? In the space between the light in your eyes and your soul? Was that your age? Who are you?]
[He’s— he’s real. He’s himself, he’s a person— this isn’t real—who are you? Who are you, oh dear, oh dear, could you be losing— he’s himself. He’s real, and there’s nothing that could— could convince him, otherwise. He’s real. The blood in his hands digging through his palms is real, he feels it. So he’s real. He has to be.]
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
[When he steps into the hallway Ballroom it begins to rain drops of colored glass and porcelain. They fall gracefully, almost as if down a string, and pass right through the man who had entered. Crystalline figures appear in the distance. Human? Possibly. Oh so possibly. They watched the man. So far away they were practically sparks in the darkness yet so close that the flames that held their slipping, glassy bodies together could be felt.]
[But it wasn’t dark. This was a room. A small room with a chess set on the coffee table. Small glass figures were set as he pieces. Would the one who was in the room play? Who was this stranger to this room?]
[Jon wakes up was he sleeping? in a room he sees before he feels. A checkered floor was it the floor? stretches out far, far away from him to some unknowable distance before being warped and flipped inwards on itself and meeting the walls. Walls that were not there. Pillars that stretched up, up, up dripped and drifted upwards like bubbles of hot wax into the ceiling walls? Where did the walls end and the ceiling begin?]
[A sense of unease creeps into him as the room seems to expand onward forever, the back wall meeting three eight tunnels that each beckoned for his precious attention. Which when would he follow?]
- @a-poem-poorly-written
[He frowns. This-- it has to be a dream. Ignore how everything in a dream just feels right, this can't be real. It's... it's not real, so he's not in somewhere that can't possibly exist, and he's safe. He's. Safe.]
[He chooses the second tunnel to his left. He... thinks it's the left. He thinks it's the second. But that doesn't matter. This is a dream. It's just a dream.]
If you take a hard left from here and walk until the path is worn down, and then follow it to the right, you should find yourself somewhere you can get transport back home.
I’m… fairly sure that isn’t a classification system. That is an architect.
Theoretically we’d have a system in place, but my predecessor seemed to not understand the definition of the word “organisation”. We are, however, working on getting things sorted.
There are a few cases that fall under the categorisation of “circuses”, though most are in the discredited section.
"Oh, right, sorry, group thing, I forgot! Ouch, man, that sounds like a pain. Sorry for bothering you during sorting. Have you read anything featuring... hm."
{ Danny takes out his phone and pretends to check a list of whatever the Archivist assumes }
"Covent Theatre Garden... or, the Another Circus? These days it's sort of dubbed Circus of The Other."
{ He sighs and runs a hand through his too-shiny hair. Huh. The guy should lighten up on the shampoo. Why does his eyelid look like there's some paint chipping off? }
"I'd ask if I could look myself but obviously I can't, so. Unless one of your research assistant might know?"
{ He mock salutes Jon when his arm just fucking falls off. Danny closes his eyes- one lid still having that white chip- in what appears to be mimicking a silent tear }
"The universe actually fucking hates me. Sorry about that."
[People have prosthetics. It didn’t look like a prosthetic It’s probably a model he hasn’t seen before. Everything about this stranger has a perfectly reasonable explanation. It’s fine. This is fine.]
I’m… fairly sure that isn’t a classification system. That is an architect.
Theoretically we’d have a system in place, but my predecessor seemed to not understand the definition of the word “organisation”. We are, however, working on getting things sorted.
There are a few cases that fall under the categorisation of “circuses”, though most are in the discredited section.
"Oh, right, sorry, group thing, I forgot! Ouch, man, that sounds like a pain. Sorry for bothering you during sorting. Have you read anything featuring... hm."
{ Danny takes out his phone and pretends to check a list of whatever the Archivist assumes }
"Covent Theatre Garden... or, the Another Circus? These days it's sort of dubbed Circus of The Other."
{ He sighs and runs a hand through his too-shiny hair. Huh. The guy should lighten up on the shampoo. Why does his eyelid look like there's some paint chipping off? }
"I'd ask if I could look myself but obviously I can't, so. Unless one of your research assistant might know?"
{ He mock salutes Jon when his arm just fucking falls off. Danny closes his eyes- one lid still having that white chip- in what appears to be mimicking a silent tear }
"The universe actually fucking hates me. Sorry about that."
[People have prosthetics. It didn’t look like a prosthetic It’s probably a model he hasn’t seen before. Everything about this stranger has a perfectly reasonable explanation. It’s fine. This is fine.]
I’m… fairly sure that isn’t a classification system. That is an architect.
Theoretically we’d have a system in place, but my predecessor seemed to not understand the definition of the word “organisation”. We are, however, working on getting things sorted.
There are a few cases that fall under the categorisation of “circuses”, though most are in the discredited section.
"Oh, right, sorry, group thing, I forgot! Ouch, man, that sounds like a pain. Sorry for bothering you during sorting. Have you read anything featuring... hm."
{ Danny takes out his phone and pretends to check a list of whatever the Archivist assumes }
"Covent Theatre Garden... or, the Another Circus? These days it's sort of dubbed Circus of The Other."
{ He sighs and runs a hand through his too-shiny hair. Huh. The guy should lighten up on the shampoo. Why does his eyelid look like there's some paint chipping off? }
"I'd ask if I could look myself but obviously I can't, so. Unless one of your research assistant might know?"
