Chapter Text
Jonathan Sims died.
Or at least, he thought he had died.
He’d felt his soul leave his body. He saw the apocolypse end around him, the world begin to return to its true state. Martin was crying. Martin was holding his empty shell of a body, his scarred corpse.
He was so, so sorry, but he was already gone. He was in Void, there was nothing but nothing around him. He wasn’t even a Thing anymore, just a him in an ocean of not him.
He felt the Pull of the afterlife, a place of respite from the Fears, and the anger of the Eye about to lose its precious Archivist.
Then he felt something else. A new Pull. A sense of satisfaction, the anger subsiding. A deal made.
He opened his mouth, and made his own terms, and this new Pull, it was more like a person than his own god, it seemed to consider his terms, whatever it was his soul was screaming for, demanding in return, and agree.
He’d only heard static when he spoke. He didn’t know how he was speaking with no mouth. To be without a body outside of the Afterlife, he Knew, was the most unnatural feeling possible. A torture the End liked to impose occasionally on its victims.
This Being, this new thing, not as strong as his own god, but strong enough to do what he wanted, had smiled. It was terrible. It was beautiful.
“It will take a while, and its a bit of a hassle… but an Archivist needs Assistants.”
Trees. A sidewalk. A fence, all towering over him.
A park, he was in a park.
Everything that had happened hit him all at once. He’s incoherent, babbling, sobbing, his eyes glowing green with grief and confusion. The world was here, but he wasn’t supposed to be, how was he alive? Where was Martin? Why couldn’t the Universe just let him rest.
Most assumed this he was another normal citizen who was just having his monthly required public meltdown.
A kind soul approaches him to let him know that it was fine to have his public metldown, but maybe if he could keep the glowing eyes to a minimum, as that recently became a finable offense before five pm. Yes, yes, very inconvient, but it had been on the Radio. You do listen to the radio, don’t you?
Jon was thrown out of his confusion fueled meltdown and looked at the kind soul. The man, dressed in a bit oddly and with eccentric colors, wearing a bolo tie with a purple eye, Looked at him.
He Looked at him. This man wasn’t…he didn’t seem dangerous, but here he was, so naturally Looking at and into him.
The Gaze didn’t feel…the same. Not from this strange man.
It was…Innocent. Non evasive. Only seeking the relevant information, easing past anything that was private. A gaze that only wanted to assist and Voice the information.
That word stayed in his mind. A new word of importance. A Voice, the Voice, Jon Knew this man was the Voice, just as Jon was the Archivist.
“Oh, you’re not from Nightvale?” The man said. “ You’re already fitting in so well, for a tourist!” He said, trying to sound encouraging.
“I’m not…I’m…” Jon felt his head begin to buzz. His vision darkened, and again, he was out cold. He didn’t feel the man catch him.
This time, his soul stayed in the body, and his body, was in Nightvale.