#ic. john

[walkpathe-arch]

the emperor divine looks at his newly appointed heir.   then,  utterly unfazed,  he shrugs and sets down the tablet he had been typing on with a vague smile on his face.  it's more funny than it is worth being offended about,  especially because he is not lying.  not about this one thing that is well within his power to do,  but he can't fault @greeksmyth for being skeptic.  they did meet in awfully dire circumstances,  during which john had a)  been accused of being a colossal liar and b)  killed not one but two of his lyctors.  cleaning house,  he called it.  he has been   (   more or less discreetly   )   despairing about it for weeks while sequestered away in his quarters on the erebos,  but that's the thing about him:  it won't last.

gideon calls john a liar

'  i can have it finalized by the end of the day.  the cohort can't very well tell me no,  you see.  emperor privileges,  '   he tells her this while discarding an actual dinner for what technically would be called tea and biscuits,  if only he hadn't spiked the beverage so much it's mostly just whiskey now.  oh well,  it's a little late for parental embarrassment over bad habits anyway.   '  but if you would rather not be a cohort lieutenant..  sorry.  are you hungry?  i called you here for dinner,  after all.  '

[walkpathe-arch]

“what our age needs, what it demands, what it will create for itself, is terror.” / john & herald!viktor

john looks up from his tablet and his vision blurs for a second, numbers and data still burned into his retinas.  he is not eating or sleeping enough, both m and a complain to him on a daily basis — they mean well, he loves them for it, but he doesn't listen, he has cosmically important stuff to do. but maybe he needs to take a breather, because for a moment there he thinks viktor has gone incorporeal and is speaking to him directly from the expensive machinery around them  (or the electric wires or something), but no. he is only momentarily obscured by ulysses and titania, the two once-human-corpses-androids that always follow john around. puppets he can command at will, through a neurolink connecting him to them — but of course, this bit tends to freak people out. this would push him out of the messianic list and into the evil tech wizard one so fast he wouldn't even have time to blink twice.

'' what it needs is less rich egomaniacs bleeding everything dry. ''   john's resentment is bone deep, it sits in his marrow and feels as righteous as god's judgment.  he pushes a hand through his hair, not doing anything to improve the unruly look to them, and glances over at viktor. he looks a little out of it, john can't help but think. which is rich coming from him. he doesn't even remember if it's night or day outside the facility.   '' it can't be good if you're talking about terror. bit out of left field, eh? ''

prompt

[peggies]

prompt. he or them ? their or his slaughterhouse ? it makes for a drawn out battle-wound, stretched and stitched with cobwebs. these thoughts catty corner this whirlwind thoughts as he stood at the alter of a weathered pew. a meeting spot. a holy house.

these lines have been blurred as the scent of incense and confrontation hung heavy, wrapped like a shroud, when this aged door creaked and groaned. ‘  .. rick.  why, i just knew rick grimes couldn't get cold feet. ’ not this wolf. it's almost fond. almost. i take it you know why i'm here. @unabsorbs ‘  of course i do. ’ a folding chair is flipped, and he sits backwards on it's dusty creak. gestures at the pew. ‘  please. sit. ’ it's quintessential in class, the look between rick and john. his eyes study that which hails as a picturesque statue, sturdy in pages of history and leadership 'cross his chest in the way that john's prickled skin is painted in his.. transgressions. [ those he wears as shame ? reminders ? pride. why, of course not pride, that would become one of those transgressions. ] perhaps he's taking photos. perhaps he's capturing evidence. or perhaps, that in the root of it all, the second member of this party of two found a vile envy thick in his throat and it became increasingly difficult to digest. careful, john, those transgressions. and yet he smiles. it doesn't reach his eyes, unfurled and yet dazzled like that of the sun, charm and honey and mingled with the acrid scent. ‘  you're here to talk. negotiate, rather. to be honest with you, my friend, you and your people are a blight on this foundation we've built. built for you. however, the father placed me as your report. your friend. he's blessed me this tedious, diligent task to guide you on your journey to salvation. .. so, go on. negotiate. ’

[walkpathe-arch]

Have you gone mad? (For John).

of course she asks.   it was just a matter of time now,  to be fair,  with each day crazier than the last and not because of the scope of their work anymore.  not even because of the golden eyes and fresh skeleton buddies he had welcomed her to greytown with.  she hadn't left then,  but this is different:  there is blood on his hands   (   not literally.  the whole ordeal had been clean,  hearts lurching to a final stop.  here one moment,  gone the next   ).  cops,  soldiers,  peacekeepers,  every besieging person with a weapon in hand near the facility dropping dead.  the ultimate line in the sand,  an unjust accusation raised to the extreme    (   if they think you are a cultish evil wizard,  you might as well reverse uno card and act like it   ),  us vs them.

the problem is john doesn't feel mad,  quite the opposite.  there's a shake to his hands,  like he has downed too many coffees in a row or done a line.  it's not shock.  it's not disbelief at having killed a hundred people and some.  it's being so close to finally getting it,  the last leap,  the only thing he still can't do  —  reach the soul,  bring the dead back to life.  really back,  not just as skeleton puppets.   '  i didn't mean to.  i didn't know what i was doing  '   he had told p—— with death still on his tongue,  but when he opens his mouth now he can't bring himself to feed rozaliya the same half baked lie.

he is half seated half collapsed down on a chair inside one of the few empty rooms inside the facility,  a hand pressed to his temple and the other busy making an annoying clicking sound with a pen,  obsessively activating the spring mechanism inside it.  rozaliya isn't freaking out,  he thinks  —  not externally,  at least  —  she is not shaking him like p—— did earlier so that must be a good sign, right?   ''  someone who has gone mad wouldn't think this straight, but it depends on who you ask at this point.  ''   john looks up at her with dry eyes   (   he isn't freaking out.  not as he probably should   ),  lets the pen drop down on the table and roll towards the edge.  it's going to break and he is going to let it happen, deliberate.  people like him are not this negligent,  she should know it by know.  he thinks she knows this about him,  has seen him go over pile after pile of research,  run through calculations and formulas enough times to call him thorough and then some.   ''  nothing has ever felt clearer than when i dropped those guys to the ground.  i just need a little more time. ''

rozaliya looks like an iceberg in the middle of the room, all draped in white. he reaches for her hand, the smile meant to be reassuring and as normal looking as possible. '' i'm so close, love. i almost got it right. ''

[walkpathe-arch]

› i have to live with it every day & now someone knows ⁕ misc.

@cybervale comes to him whole this time,   all her organs where they should be,  but she bleeds all the same.  the once reverend daughter hemorrhages on the kitchen floor,  only this time the saint of duty has nothing to do with it,  and so she is not about to collapse like structural failure just occurred.  the wound is guilt itself,  that wretched and useless thing the emperor has long since disavowed,  eating,  biting,  taking its share.  the blood is her dead house.

and now someone knows.  yes,  of course,  he does know.  without judgment or reprimand,  john simply knows.  like he knows that the thing they all stubbornly call pizza just tastes almost but not quite like the original   (   not that it could possibly matter when he is the only one to remember life on earth   ).  he knows she lives with ghosts while he keeps his under lock and key.  a whole solar system worth of them.

''  do you regret telling me?  ''   god asks his saint,  not unkindly,  but he has now stopped stirring a pot of soup and the weight of his millenia old stare falls upon her like an asteroid on a direct collision course.   ''  nobody has the right to use it against you,  remember?  not me,  not anyone else.  and i do understand,  more than i could bear to let you know.  ''   what have you done,  john?  what have you done?  nobody has the right to know.  '' not even augustine and mercymorn are in on it,  in case you feel curious enough to go look for answers in that particular corner.  ''

[walkpathe-arch]

› rozaliya plays with john's hair.

washington dc makes him itchy and eager to fly back home,   especially on clear nights like this one.  the sky should be lit up by endless stars instead of this pale smattering of them,  barely visible without squinting or owning a telescope.  john hates it.  he misses aotearoa like he would a missing limb.  yet there is no going back before the grant is safely in his possession,  before both governments give him authorization and means to get the gears moving on a research that could very well save life on earth.  a sigh builds in his chest  —  half frustration,  half pure desperate need to get on with next stage already  —  but it comes out as a soft exhale when fingers card through his hair,  smoothing the unruly mess back from his forehead and tugging just so on the slightly curled ends along the back of his neck.

'  if you close your eyes you can almost pretend to be in an empty field miles and miles away,  the closest house hours from where you are.  '   john turns his head in @uorboros direction with a smile,  making room for her on the hammock and resting his fingers just above her wrist.  a question,  rather than a demand.   '  sure,  the illusion lasts about five minutes…  '   his smile turns thoughtful,  gaze intent as he swipes a thumb over the knuckles of her hand.

'  i want to show you the southern cross.  and all the sights i grew up around back home.  '

[walkpathe-arch]

› rozaliya slips her hand into john's hand.

this isn't how he would have wanted her first time in greytown to go.   he had wanted to show her wellington,  maybe even his hometown,  do all that normal stuff people use their time with. they are bundled up in a scientific facility,  instead, with a swath of people coming in everyday to see for themselves what he can do.  half jesus healing the masses, half corpse puppeteer.. whatever that means.  he can imagine far too clearly his nana,  his mother and all his tīpuna shaking their heads at him.

they are in one of the few places that have been spared from the weird freakshow of bodies he has put up,  an old storage room that he goes to sometimes when he needs a breather   (   john never sleeps in there,  it's too far from the main hubbub..  not that he sleeps much these days,  anyway   ).  and it's only when @vorohzeya takes his hand that he finally looks at her  —  really looks at her  —  with unfamiliar eyes.  seriously,  he'd understand the confusion.  they had been the usual light brown when she last saw him in washington,  while now they're golden.  well,  that's the thing:  he hasn't mentioned it over the phone.  sure,  he told her about the government shutting down the facility and cutting the power off,  but not about the rest.  it's there on the internet now,  yet it's hardly the same thing as seeing it live.

'  so.  what do you think?  māori pink panther or a less pale version of edward cullen?  '   he returns the hold,  closing his fingers around her hand before she decides she is better off slapping him instead.  he likes her input,  even when he is only cracking a stupid joke that will hardly make anyone laugh.

[walkpathe-arch]

in my blood, shawn me/ndes ( 45 46 )

' just have a drink and you will feel better. ' god even sounds like he believes his own words, one of his small nice smiles fixed to his mouth. it's meant to make @poppyvale feel at ease, it's meant to make him look approachable, less emperor-like. not that the rest of his appearence doesn't do the job fairly well already ( save for the baby bones wedged into his hair, of course. and maybe the eyes, too ). there is no white on him, and certainly nothing that glints and glimmers under artificial lights, just boring black shirts.

the mithraeum is silent around them, the only sound coming through the light clink of john's mug hitting the table on its way down. he has given up on trying to get harrowhark to eat any of the biscuits he likes to keep around, at least, but tea should be a sort of middle ground between water and something with a little more taste to it ( no, it's definitely not a big deal. and no, not having a sweet tooth is not punishable by imperial law. it just would be nice, to see her indulge in something other than plain water for once ). thumb swiping away at a crumb on the sleeve of his shirt, the emperor of the nine houses asks one of his newest saints: ' are you sleeping enough, harrow? ' as if he doesn't distinctly suspect that this isn't a topic she would choose to direct the conversation to. as if it's perfectly reasonable to ask such a mundane question in the middle of a crisis.