Chapter Text
He had appeared, knife in his chest, bloody and alive. But also dead. Blood did not flow, he remained cold and unbreathing, but his eyes rolled and twitched behind closed eyelids.
As the knife was removed from his chest, the wound healed and closed as though chasing the blade out.
He didn't immediately start to breathe once the knife was out; it happened little by little. Shallow and long breaths, the colour gradually coming back to his face, until he was alive yet again.
Then he started to snore a bit. And so, the man once dead now slept like the dead.
That same man now sits at the interrogation table, battered and scrawny. The clothes that cover his frame are tattered and threadbare. At some point, it may have been a sweater, but as worn and grimy as it is, it's impossible to tell.
Scars litter the skin revealed by the scraps. His long hair is streaked with grey and clumped with grease. He smiles at the mug of tea he is drinking from, but it was a forlorn smile. Bitterness mixes with the sad expression, forming something that may be regret.
He is calm, which is surprising considering how SHIELD had found him.
After the initial confusion and commotion of a random person appearing from nowhere and dead with a knife in his chest, they brought him to SHIELD. And now he sits, sipping on a mug of tea. That is, now he sits and sipping tea, after sleeping for sixty hours straight, then devouring enough food for several people.
An agent enters the room and sits down across from the man. The man kept on staring at the mug of tea in his hands.
When a cleared throat doesn't get a response either, they decide to dive right in. "Alright, I have a couple of questions for you."
"Yes, I know. And I have some answers." He speaks with a British accent, his voice soft and resigned. Despite this exchange of words, he still doesn't look up to them.
The entire thing was pretty unnerving, but this was SHIELD; unnerving, paranormal, supernatural, and the unexplainable was an everyday occurrence.
"But before you start, I'd like to know something."
"Depends."
The man before them tightens his grip on the mug, bones and veins protruding, blemishes stretching. An emotion crosses his face, too quick to be sure what it could have been.
"Was there... No... Was I... No, no..." He fiddles with the mug, twisting it in his hand. He opens his mouth a couple more times, struggling to find the words to ask his question.
The agent leans back in their chair, observing him as he considers either what to ask or the phrasing of the question itself. Finally, after some silence, he seems to come to a decision.
"I was hoping that you could tell me if there was anyone else who appeared along with me." He states it rather than ask, but there is a quaver of desperation behind the careful words, and behind that, he sounds hopeful.
"I can't tell you that." Their words were final, and they hang in the air.
"Did... No, no..." While his voice starts with an urgent and demanding edge, it softens and grows resigned. He leans back into his chair with a sigh, still looking down at his cup, which is now empty.
"Alright, ask your questions."
"You aren't going to ask where you are? Who we are?"
"No, I've been kidnapped before. In general, you wouldn't tell me anything that could cause problems down the line unless you wanted to gloat."
The agent blinks in surprise but just makes a note.
"Let's start with the basics. What is your name?"
"Huh?" He looks up at them, staring at them with a blank look, as though he can't understand someone not knowing his name.
This moment is the first time they can see his face in full, and while it is true they had already seen a photo of him, taken while he was sleeping, from the very slim file that SHIELD had on him, it was worse than the picture. It's also not the worst they've seen. His face is lined, creased from use and hardship. A discoloured line at his throat suggests someone had threatened him with a knife at one point. Circular scars pockmark his skin, their origin unknown. The scruffy beginnings of a beard starting to grow.
He blinks a couple of times, stupefied, and sits up straighter in his chair. "Oh, OOOH, my name, right. Jonathan Sims, the archi... no, never mind. I'm not used to not being known by people." His self-introduction is eager and happy, barring when he cut himself off.
The agent raises an eyebrow, noting what sounds like a title and the fact that he was well known. Sure, this is being recorded, but it helps to keep things in writing too. "Where did you come from?"
"What, the accent didn't give it away?" Again, his tone is light, almost teasing.
"It's not that, but we've looked for any possible matches for your likeness, and we haven't found any leads. So either you completely changed your appearance, you lived off-grid your entire life, or we have a gap in our coverage, which is an entirely different problem. Plus, our systems aren't infallible." The agent sits back in their chair, frazzled by the lack of results, and rubs at their eyes. "Honestly, at this point, I could easily believe that you came from an alternate reality."
The man, Jonathan Sims, lets out a small laugh at this.
"Look, laugh all you want, but we recently had an ALIEN INVASION come through a portal or something, so I'm not discounting-"
"No, it's not that," he said, his tone placating. "You got it, I'm just surprised, is all. I am not from here, this dimension; I'm rather surprised I won't have to do anything to convince you. Yes, I came from a reality that is fairly similar to this one."
"Well then, why did you come here?"
"Why did I come here?" It is as if he was tasting the question. "Why, did I, come here ?" Jon snorts and leans back, looking up at the ceiling.
He lets out a chuckle. It's bitter, angry, and devoid of joy, except for the small, near manic spark of amusement. "I didn't want to come here; I had no plans of being anywhere except my original reality. I don't want to be here. You don't want me here either; you just don't know it yet." There is such bitterness in his voice, so much anger. All for what? The reason that he was here? In this world?
He pushes up and starts to balance on the back two legs of his chair, mug dangling from his fingers.
"And why is that-"
*BANG!* All four of Jon's chair legs were back on the ground.
"Because I'm a fucking monster." The response is so immediate, so sure of itself. Jon looks at them head-on, the lines creasing into the expression that must have been his most used: a scowl.
And his eyes… His eyes are now different. More unsettling. Weary and somehow older, as though they had seen more than their allotted time. No, it's more like he sees too much.
"Could you elaborate?"
"Oh, sure!" It was bright and holds an edge, scowl gone and replaced with a tight smile, lacking joy or amusement. "You see, I was made into a being that feeds off fear and trauma! Simple really! Just sort of tricked into it, honestly!" Immediately the not-really-a-smile vanishes, replaced with a toned-down version of the previous scowl. He looked away again, off to the side this time.
"Uh-huh." They kept their voice flat, clinical. If he was telling the truth, then he was indeed dangerous. He might have been just struggling with a mental illness, but even then, it didn't discount that he should be dead and had healed from a fatal wound like it was nothing. If it was a mental illness, then they wanted to help him.
They consider bugging the higher-ups into getting him some proper treatment. An ID, some money get him back on his feet.
"No, this isn't some sort of delusion, though if I do get out, the whole money and ID thing would be nice. If it's any help, you can use pieces of my actual history for it; My hometown is Bournemouth, and my family are all dead in my reality, so you wouldn't have to worry about any loose ends."
Jon freezes, realizing the possible implications of what he just said.
"I didn't kill them or anything like that." He's frantic and rambling, but the agent isn't listening to them. The agent's face quirks up automatically into a smile in an attempt to stop the man's endless stream of reassurances, but their mind was elsewhere.
Ice stabbed at the agent's stomach. How had he known? He couldn't have known what I was thinking.
Jon looks pacified by their smile, not noticing their distant look and frozen expression.
Jon continues as though he hasn't said anything out of place. "And yes, I know I sound insane; I thought others were as well. Well, some of them weren't sane, but that doesn't discount their experiences. The things that they were dealing with would cause anyone to begin struggling. And honestly? I didn't want to believe them, and I acted like a complete ass. But I really didn't want to admit to myself, or anyone for that matter, that these things I read and heard about were real. And once I accepted it, once I took it all seriously... Well, I had to know the truth, didn't I?" The last part is said almost as though it was a joke, a grim and bitter smile gracing his lips.
He slumps forward, his smile disappearing. "And then once I knew enough, it was too late. Far, far too late." The way he said it would be heartbreaking for anyone else, it is tired and self-hating and resigned, but the agent is well trained.
Still, they let him have a moment of silence, mourn or wallow in sorrow because it doesn't seem like he would answer any more questions right at that moment, but sooner than they thought he would, though, he resumes speaking.
"Then, after all that. After figuring it all out and thinking that I understood everything, that everyone was relatively safe, relatively okay because none of us were ever going to be completely okay ever again... I ended the world."
There is another solemn pause. Jon tightened his grip on the mug, causing the scar that looks like a large burn on one of his hands to stretch in strange ways.
That doesn't sound good, and it seems so impossible. This small man, so tired and worn, ended the world? If he had, it didn't seem like he had wanted to do it; he looks remorseful. "So you killed a bunch of people?" The agent was conscientious about keeping their tone level, even a touch kind.
"No. God, no. That would have been a mercy." His eyes are now glassy, and there are tears in his voice. "I was trying to do that at the end. No, instead of the mercy of death, I just threw everyone into their biggest nightmare, crafted to squeeze as much terror and pain out of them as possible. That's all." He spat the words like they were poison.
At this point, Jon is shaking, whether it is from grief, terror, or the shock of it all.
They hesitate before asking the question that's been bugging them for a while. "Did you mean to do it?"
He looks at them, eyes filled with sorrow. "No, but I did, and then I tried to make it right. Tried to kill them. Didn't end up working, obviously. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here."
He looked so drained now, scrawnier than when this conversation had begun.
"Can we... Can we continue this some other time? Please." His voice is choked, holding back tears. His breathing is the steady, controlled breathing of someone making a conscientious effort to not crying.
"I have just a few more questions; then we will be done." While they are scared, there is an actual reason why their superiors had chosen them for this task.
"No more questions. Not today. Please leave." The voice held an... Echo? Maybe? It sounded different. It was a command.
The agent moves to get up, registering on some level that they had not decided to do so as an attempt to escape, but freezing before they could, as an intense feeling of being seen, of being known, overcome them.
They look up. Jon is Looking at them, his eyes back to looking like they've seen too much. They feel pinned, uncomfortable. While many people have looked at them, investigated them, scrutinized them, they have never felt so naked. They couldn't hide anything from him.
He places his mug on the table.
"Thank you, agent. And I am sorry about your mother." Ice fills their veins. They weren't close, a long and strained relationship where they fell had fallen out of contact for the past couple of years, but during the invasion, she'd been hurt. They hadn't mustered up the courage to visit her, and their mother didn't even know that they knew, much less that they were working with the people who helped stop it.
The world swirls around them, tilting and warping. They had been so sure that no one had been following them. Had they been watched? Their heartbeat is racing now, blood pumping through them. Their breath came in gulping gasps. Were they being followed? Why? What had they done? Had they done something?
How had he known? Could he have known?
And the feeling of being watched was gone as soon as it had appeared. They look at Jon, meeting his eyes. His eyes are soft now, less piercing, and apologetic. While the immediate panic is gone, the paranoia was still there. The small voice at the back of their head now whispers, "they're watching you."
The two of them sit there in silence for a while, the agent shaking slightly.
"I'm sorry, I-I really shouldn't have done that—any of it. I needed a break, and I just... I had to Know." He laces his fingers together in his lap. "I know that doesn't really excuse anything, though."
"I need a break. I'm sorry, again, but all of this happened so very recently for me."
The agent glares at him, eyes shining with unshed tears. They take a shaky breath, stand up, their chair screeching along the floor, and storm out. But right before they close the door, they stop when they hear Jon speaking again.
"I know I have no right to ask this, especially after doing that, but if you find a man named Martin Blackwood, keep him safe? Let him know that I'm alright? That is if I am alright? Or just keep an eye out for him?" The voice is somewhat desperate; the words are edged with a tenderness. "He'll probably be a bit angry with me." He sounds sheepish now, almost embarrassed.
"Please, Mx. Torres." Despite the soft and pleading tones, they are filled with dread. They weren't even out, not really, and yet he had known. They hadn't even told him their name.
The dread was back. The terror. It repulses them. Nausea fills them, and they slam the door shut.