Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Free will is a funny old thing…

Mr Spider’s door closed for the second time.

…isn’t it, Jon?

A piece of paper fluttered to the ground where Alex Betham had been eaten once again.

Can I call you Jon?

Eight-year-old Jon picked up the piece of paper left behind by Mr Spider…no, The Mother of Puppets.

…I’m going to call you Jon.

Mr Spider thanks you for your hospitality.

The Fears were free from the constraints of Jon’s original universe. And yet, as he stared up at the blank, slightly mildewed ceiling of his childhood bedroom in his grandmother’s house, Jon pondered whether the Web had any plans for him – the same plans – as his previous life – his previous universe. The clear memory of Annabelle Cane’s statement that posed the free will question rolled around in his head.

The Web didn’t need the apocalypse anymore.

The Mother had gotten what she wished.

Maybe she didn’t need to compel Jon to take a job at the Magnus Institute this time around. If she even compelled him at all. Maybe she would simply leave him alone. Some part of him doubted The Mother wouldn’t want to sink her nosey fangs into any interesting Entity drama.

He got the feeling that if he tried to get any answers out of any spiders, he would be met with silence. Sure, the Spiral was more than happy to gaslight its victims, but The Web thrived on paranoia and control. If he thought too hard about his place in the new universe and possible role, he would only feed the Mother more than he likely already did.

Sitting himself upright, Jon examined his bedroom one more time. In the corner against the far wall next to his window sat a desk that felt too small for him, even though it would be the perfect size for his eight-year-old body.

It is 5:47 a.m. on a Friday. Edna Sims is fast asleep in her room with no sign of waking before her alarm. There is no change in her current physical and mental condition to suggest that she will wake up earlier or later than 6:30 a.m.

Jon frowned and then scowled.

“Great,” he grumbled, “you’re still here.”

He didn’t know what he expected. A peaceful childhood where he didn’t give his grandmother any more trouble? Complete his A-Levels with outstanding marks? Maybe study a degree that would take him to the opposite side of the planet, away from the Magnus Institute? No. He could never be that lucky, even in his second shot at life.

Nope!

He was stuck with the big stupid Eye that got drunk on fear!

Jon dragged a hand down his face. What was he going to do? The Institute had over two hundred years’ worth of statements, but he had almost exhausted that supply by the time he and Martin had fruitlessly escaped to Scotland. They were dry…stale…almost undigestible. Even if he were to go there now, it would just be more of the same.

It was at that moment he felt his stomach contort and then made a sound he hadn’t heard it make in over a year.

It…grumbled.

Edna Sims sent the Pupil to bed without dinner at 7:36 p.m. the previous night.

Yes, thank you.

He knew that already.

He was there.

“Good lord,” Jon cursed, but he hauled himself out of bed nonetheless and quietly snuck past his grandmother’s room. Edna Sims entered the light sleep stage two hours, three minutes, and 48 seconds ago. She will not wake. Descending the stairs and promptly digging through the kitchen, Jon was surprised to find last night’s dinner wrapped in tin foil. He decided not to touch it, suspecting it to be a trap that his grandmother would use to lecture him again once she woke up.

Instead, Jon went through the cupboard and found a box of off-brand cereal, bags of various grains, dried fruits, prunes, and a packet of Jammie Dodgers. He frowned. Jon liked to believe he wasn’t a picky child or even a picky adult, but he would rather eat nothing than put a prune in his mouth.

Prunes are high in fibre, which improves digestion and gut health.

“You cannot convince me to eat a prune, no matter how good it is for me.” Jon hissed but then stiffened.

The Eye had never done that before, especially not in his last life. It had only ever gifted him with horrific facts perpendicular to what he actually wanted to know. So, really, what it should’ve been doing was telling him whether someone in Bournemouth had choked on a prune and how they suffered the entire time until Terminus claimed them.

Jillian Holloway, age 68, choked on a -.

“It wasn’t a request!” Jon interrupted despite the knowledge continuing to flow into his head. “Urgh.”

Grabbing the cereal, Jon prepared himself a bowl, ate (it tasted like wet sawdust), and washed and dried the dishes before returning to his bedroom.

The late spring night was cool, bordering on cold. The street lights outside of his window cast deep shadows across his curtain. He wondered whether he had been afraid of the shadow branches that almost appeared to reach towards him from beyond the window or if he thought the other children who worried about such things were beneath him. He probably had thoughts like that after his first encounter with Mr Spider.

He probably believed they had never experienced true horror to know what they should’ve been scared of when the sun eventually set and brought out the real monsters.

Now…he was just…sad?

Martin Blackwood, 8, is asleep in his bedroom in Luton. The school hosted a creative writing competition. The results will be announced in the assembly at 9:10 a.m. Martin placed third.

Timothy Stoker, age 11, is asleep in his bedroom in Cowley. He’s happy he finally has his own room since his brother, Daniel, has moved to the one across the hall.

Sasha James, age 12, is awake. She’s hoping that if she’s prepared to leave for school early, her mother will take a detour to the store where she can get the latest Oasis album.

Jon’s face scrunched up as the Eye informed him of the status of his coworkers and friends from his previous life. He couldn’t understand it at all. This Beholding was nothing like the last one. Hell, even during the apocalypse, where everyone kept telling him how fond it was of him, it still didn’t behave as if…as if it cared.

Should he be mourning?

This universe’s Martin was only a boy.

His Martin was gone… Dead…

Probably in his own alternate universe without him.

Tim and Sasha were alive here.

Georgie. Melanie. Basira. Daisy.

They were alive and free.

With his knowledge and power, he could probably interfere in their lives. Maybe even give them better ones than they had. The odds of them winding up at The Magnus Institute would certainly slim considerably.

They might never consider him a friend as a result…but maybe it would be worth it.

Make up for past crimes.

Great...now it sounded like he was playing god.

I don't know... It - It worries me, I guess?  You know, when you do the whole - curse this flesh prison - thing.

He really wished he could ask someone about all of this. He wanted to talk to Martin about it. He was bad enough with feelings as it was. But he wanted to know what on earth was going on with the Eye.

But if he was serious, who could he honestly turn to?! Elias? He would rather stab his own eyes out than deal with that again. Gertrude? Given how deeply he was entangled with his patron, she’d throw him into the Buried or have Agnes Montague hug him before he even opened his mouth the second she caught one whiff of the marks engrained into his bones.

With no obvious options in mind, Jon buried his face in his pillows and opted instead to try and get some more sleep before he would have to go to school again.

A room full of third graders…

This revival wouldn’t be what he initially chalked it up to be.

His morning spent with his grandmother was…odd.

She had passed away when he was 20, halfway through his bachelor’s degree. And after almost 10 years since her passing, seeing her face again outside of pictures, it felt like he was sitting across the Not!Them. Beholding was quick to assure him that the woman across the dining table was, in fact, Edna Sims, but that didn’t help put him at ease.

Beholding then decided to provide a play-by-play of his grandmother’s thoughts on him, wondering why he didn’t sneak out to eat last night’s dinner. She apparently appreciated Jon’s silence. He was usually quiet unless something caught his attention, but silence was preferred. She planned on visiting Merideth at the café later that afternoon before heading to the north side of Bournemouth to check out their charity shops’ book collection.

It doesn’t – feel great having someone look inside your head.

The corner of Jon’s mouth pinched at the memory of Martin’s scolding.

Jon Looked away and returned to eating his second breakfast.

His grandmother didn’t engage with him in any form of thoughtful conversation, and Jon couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t the greatest conversationalist, even as an adult, and he didn’t hold the highest opinion on children either.

Yet, as the methodical click of the antique clock that hung on the wall in the living room filled the house, Jon found himself wondering about the new limitations the Ceaseless Watcher had in this new universe.

The information he could See so far was no longer on a global scale, but he still received answers to any question he could think of and read minds. He doubted he could smite anyone since the scales were balanced again, and he wasn’t exactly rushing to test his luck.

Edna Sims is wondering what she’s going to do with the Pupil once the summer holidays arrive. She’s considering buying more books, but letting the Pupil wander would be less of a hassle as long as he isn’t caught by the police again.

Jon instinctually wanted to argue with her but held his tongue. He also didn’t appreciate the Eye continuing to tell him what his grandmother was thinking.

Although…he couldn’t deny the satisfaction of finally knowing where his relationship with his grandmother stood.

…distant and unwanted.

Just as he expected.

But his mind soon jumped to another topic that caused his eyebrows to farrow for a moment.

Jon suddenly became aware of the strange sensation that overcame him – a lightness within his body that he hadn’t felt since…before the Change. The heavy bloatedness, or constipation – as Martin so eloquently described it – no longer weighed his body down. The overflowing information that came with each “biome”, if he could even call them that, didn’t overwhelm him.

The lightness was…refreshing.

“You will be late for school if you do not begin making headway, Jonathan,” his grandmother informed him.

Jon almost jumped out of his skin at the sound of her voice but could only mutely nod before excusing himself and returning to his room. He grabbed his backpack, which was frankly too large for him—something his grandmother frequently told him he would eventually grow into—and ran out the door with a quick goodbye.

Thankfully, the quiet trek to his primary school was uneventful. Only a few morning car commuters passed; some Jon could even sense had statements, but they disappeared around the bend. Not that Jon had any hope of getting them to stop, even if he tried.

He arrived 25 minutes early when he reached the front gates.

One of the teachers, probably one of the before-school care staff keeping an eye on the other students, decided to man the gate and greet anyone else who came early. Kids such as Jon, whose grandmother didn’t trust him not to wander, kicked him out of the house early just to be on the safe side.

“Good morning, Jon.”

Jon stared at the teacher.

He didn’t remember her name.

It had been so many years.

Ms Holly Simmins.

“Morning, Ms Simmins.”

“It’s good to see you so early. How are you?”

Holly Simmins is excited about the end of the school year because she will be leaving for France to see her boyfriend. She doesn’t know he has been cheating on her for the last 3 months with his neighbour’s wife.

Jon’s face soured.

Not helpful.

“Dunno…” he mumbled.

“Well, I hope today gets better then.” She smiled. “If you need anything, just holla.”

Jon nodded awkwardly but breathed a sigh of relief when he lost sight of Ms Simmins at the dismissal. This morning, he tested some limitations of his connection with Beholding with his grandmother. An individual.

But now he was setting himself up against a crowd, mostly children who had very simplistic fears and likely didn’t generate enough to call upon any of the Entities. As long as there weren’t any avatars around with a sadistic streak.

As Jon Looked around the school, mostly the staff, he was glad that no one had a statement.

Statements really were few and far between when considering the general sheer number of people. He wouldn’t have been surprised if his unlucky encounter with a Leitner was the first encounter in a hundred years.

Well, that wasn’t really true.

Joshua Gillespie would receive The Coffin on the 21^st of March, 1997.

Hmm…

So the Eye remembered the statements from the previous universe…

Interesting…

How was this universe different from his original universe? Jon wondered.

The Pupil lives.

Was that it?

The Eye didn’t respond.

Did that count as a yes?

The Eye didn’t respond.

Did the Web know anything?

The Mother of Puppets is still learning.

He supposed that made sense.

If the Entities arrived in the new universe at the same time he did, then the Web didn’t have the same stronghold as it did before. Whether that meant she would sink her fangs in hard to rebuild her influence or collect data was still up for debate.

Jon really didn’t want to keep a lookout for lurking spiders, but it would be better for his health.

The bell rang for the beginning of class, and the moment Jon could, he opened his notebook and jotted down the information on Joshua Gillespie in the back. Sure, Joshua Gillespie turned out fine after his encounter with The Coffin. To top that off, Jon couldn’t care less that Breekon and Hope had fed the faux avatar of the Buried to the thing, but…he was still curious.

Heh.

He was a real patron saint of his god, wasn’t he?

Going to seek out horrors just to watch.

Should he consider it sick? Morally wrong?

Feed your god, or it’ll feed on you.

It was just a little watching.

Who knows…maybe he could save someone in the meantime.

He would have to investigate.

Chapter Text

Today’s breakfast was scrambled eggs.

Eggs are rich in choline, which promotes normal cell activity.

School had become unfathomably boring, but at least Ms Simmins tried her best to offer harder and harder material to keep Jon engaged. Eventually, she gave up and gave him unlimited reading time as long as he finished his work.

Heather Riley dropped a two-pound coin, which rolled under the last bookshelf at the back of the library.

Ms Simmins returned last week’s test to him. He wasn’t supposed to know that it was an end-of-year grade six test, but suffice it to say, he wasn’t surprised when he received over 90%.

Mr Cummings, the other grade three teacher, is suspicious of the Pupil’s intelligence.

Ever since his return, his second Becoming, the other children have taken to avoiding him. Even his old bullies, whom Beholding had to remind him of, were deeply unnerved by how he stared them down.

They have spent every afternoon after school searching for Alex Betham. They’re worried the police will discover the porn magazines they stole from their fathers at the bottom of the bookbags and send them to prison.

To value their innocence and freedom over the life of a “friend” really said a lot about their character. Also, the vivid images of the magazines that flashed through his mind made him feel sick. He wanted to go home.

The breed of dog is an Alaskan Malamute.

The street was quiet.

Edna Sims does not expect the Pupil to return home for another two hours.

Jon stopped and purposely took a wrong turn away from his grandmother’s house and toward the beach.

The American tourist with the blonde ponytail, Emily Davies, witnessed her childhood friend burn herself to death, along with her home, out of revenge for her parents loving her little sister more than her.

…Jon avoided larger tourist hotspots after that.

Throwing himself onto an empty park bench and staring out into the blank nothingness of the pale blue sky, Jon heaved a heavy sigh. The sigh was so heavy that if a passerby were to hear it, they would’ve assumed the eight-year-old boy was having a mid-life crisis. Who knows? Maybe he’d go grey by the time he reached high school.

Pulling himself further onto the park bench, the unmistakable jangle of coins rattled from his pocket. The coins were mostly silver pieces, with the occasional gold. While Jon couldn’t think of any comprehensible reason for the Eye to point out where he could find abandoned money, even occasionally offering him opportunities to steal (he didn’t), he wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially since he planned on travelling a lot more in the future.

Despite tourist spots being hotbeds for lost change, Jon began avoiding those areas as much as possible after almost hunting down someone for their statement.

At least while it was light out.

“Why haven’t I taken a statement?”

The Pupil does not wish to hurt humans.

Jon rolled his eyes.

Of course, he didn’t want to hurt people. He had learned that lesson as soon as it had been brutally pointed out by Basira and Melanie, even going so far as to threaten to put him down like a dog. Yet, here he was, with no friends, coworkers, acquaintances, or Martin to remind him what being human meant.

Jon huffed sardonically.

Humanity…

Now, that was a philosophical topic, wasn’t it? What did it mean to be human? Even before his Becoming, he was terrible at connecting with people on an emotional level. He could never say the right thing, and sometimes he said too much and screwed everything up. He cared too much about what other people thought of him, but he couldn’t give up his pride, thinking he knew better than those around him. He made decisions for them rather than discussing their options.

…he was the worst…

He was a monster…

There was no denying it now.

He had ultimate power and used it for revenge, petty revenge, and power trips, but…barely any of it made him feel better. And, in the end, he couldn’t even save anyone. Jordan Kennedy certainly didn’t appreciate being turned into an avatar of ants…but it was the only mercy Jon could offer.

A spider crawled out from underneath the park bench. Jon sneered at it and shuffled away. He Knew it was watching him, but it didn’t stick around as long as he expected. The spider scurried away in the opposite direction, leaving him mildly baffled.

The Web wanted to say something…

Jon didn’t have the slightest clue. He wished he knew, but that got him into trouble last time.

“Lord have mercy…” he bemoaned.

“You better not be causin’ any trouble, Jon,” a voice called out. It was deep and masculine.

Officer Jack Maison really hopes he doesn’t have to write another late-night report because of Jonathan Sim’s rebellious wandering. Officer Maison is not a sectioned officer. He has no Story to tell.

Jon didn’t like the implication that the Eye was more willing to feast on sectioned officers than other people.

The Pupil is opposed to the Hunt’s violence.

He was…but they were still people.

Daisy was his friend…in the end, at least.

They didn’t deserve to have to relive their trauma in their nightmares every night. And also, maybe, a little selfishly, he didn’t want to get regularly Hunted down by murder-happy cops. But he was pushing his luck.

He hadn’t taken any statements in the last two weeks since his return, and he could already feel the gnawing pain and weakness on the fringe of his mind. Before, he had never thought about finding an alternative “food” source since he had archival statements to tie him over.

That wasn’t an option anymore.

“Unless sitting in the park has become illegal in the last hour,” Jon replied plainly. The buried sarcasm caused the officer’s brow to twitch.

“It hasn’t.”

“Did you—…” Jon stopped himself from asking a question. He couldn’t deny that he was far stronger than before the Change, and even asking a simple question could be harmful. “Then…I’m curious why you’re here.”

The officer motioned to the empty seat next to Jon, silently asking if he could join him on the bench. Jon nodded and watched as the man sat beside him, took off his cap, and joined him in watching the sky.

“I was on my way back from my break when I saw you – thought I’d see how you’re doing. And if you planned on causing any mischief, I can nip it in the bud. Simple as that.” The man offered an easy smile that unnerved Jon slightly. He wasn’t used to people being nice to him. He knew that, but since he didn’t remember much of his original childhood and the officers he had run-ins with, he felt his defences rise.

Suddenly, Jon became all too aware of the loose change in his pocket and froze.

Would they accuse him of stealing if they knew it was there?

“I didn’t schedule any trespassing adventures, if that’s what you mean,” Jon retorted.

“Well, that’s always good to hear.” The officer waited for a moment to pass. “How are things at home, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Jon raised a sceptical eyebrow at the man.

“It’s…fine.”

“Edna’s giving you plenty to eat? Play games and all that?”

“Yes…she is.”

Officer Maison has noticed the Pupil’s skinny frame and is searching for signs of neglect.

Jon soured at the information and glared at the too-friendly officer. Since the prick had too much time on his hands and was sticking his nose where it wasn’t wanted (and probably dangerous, given what he was), Jon shuffled off the seat and began walking away.

“Hey, Jon! Where are you going?”

“Back to Gran’s.”

“Let me walk you home.”

“No. Thank you.”

“It’d be better to have an adult around. You never know what’s out there.”

As if a non-sectioned officer had the slightest clue what lurked in the shadows! Jon felt his annoyance bubbling. The man’s heavy footsteps were just a metre behind him, despite his best effort to power walk away from the situation.

“Jon—.”

Jon stopped walking, spun around, and stared at the officer with the weight of a stadium-sized, judgmental news conference. Officer Maison flinched at the unwavering and heavy look.

“Officer Maison, what do you hope to gain from bothering me?”

“T-The new support worker at the station, Diana, has a soft spot for kids. I told her about your background, and she wanted to get to know you and maybe offer some help. She’s really hot, and I thought if I could be the hero that saved the troubled kid from a bad situation, she’d sleep with me.”

Jon sneered at the man in disgust.

He shouldn’t have been surprised. None of them cared about him; they just reduced him to a troublemaking nuisance. Even though, logically, he knew his weight loss was because of his lack of statements, the fact that the concern came from an ulterior motive only emphasised his isolation in this new world. This man tried to drag his grandmother’s name through the mud for some cheap lay!

“W-Why did I—?! Y-You—!”

“I’d be more than happy to go with you to the station, Officer Maison,” Jon smiled sweetly, “I’d love to meet Diana.”

Fear wafted off the man as he slowly backed away, and Jon tried not to relish too much in the nourishment that flowed into his body. It wasn’t as filling as a statement, but it was live. Jon Watched as the man fled the park and ran directly back to the police station.

He continued to Watch as Officer Maison stopped at every corner, checking his surroundings, paranoid that Jon was following him. Maison burst into the station, startling his coworkers.

Officer Maison wasn’t able to describe his encounter with Jon properly.

Even when he tried again two days later, the others laughed him off, questioning if they were talking about the same Jon who accidentally had his face flattened by a car door because Officer Jones had momentarily misplaced the kid.

Jon returned to collecting loose change. He occasionally felt flashes of guilt at the fear he inflicted on the man. Still, when he remembered what Officer Maison could’ve done to his grandmother if he had decided to forge evidence, Jon gave himself moral permission to Watch the man…just to See him squirm a little.

It wasn’t Kill Bill. But some petty revenge wouldn’t kill the man.

“Jonathan.”

“I’m home.” Jon kicked off his shoes and dumped his bag next to the shoe rack before heading to the kitchen for a glass of water.

“How was school?” His grandmother didn’t look up from the dictionary she used to help with her newspaper crossword. This was their routine. She didn’t care about his answer. But it needed to be asked.

“Mr Cummings wants you to come in for a parent-teacher conference on Friday after school.”

“Whatever for?”

“He thinks I’m cheating on all of my tests since I’m suddenly doing very well.” Jon was cheating, but he wasn’t about to explain the cosmological details behind having an invasive horror Google in his head.

“If you’re doing well, you’re doing well. What is he even complaining about?” His grandmother replied.

“I…” Jon paused. He wasn’t expecting that. He would’ve thought his grandmother would’ve taken the opportunity to reprimand him for cheating or making her look bad. “You do know cheating’s bad, Gran.”

She scribbled “effervescent” into 5-down. “Are you cheating?”

“…no?”

“Then what’s the issue?”

“You…You believe me?”

His grandmother’s face pinched at the half-question. It screwed up in the same way his face did. It was probably the first noticeable family resemblance he had with his grandmother. She removed her spectacles and looked him in the eyes, examining him for the slightest hint of a guilty conscience. But when nothing happened, she returned to her crossword and sipped her cooling tea.

“Jonathan, if you were sneaky, you wouldn’t have been caught by the police so often.”

Touché.

“Then…you’ll go in on Friday and tell him that.” Jon tried his hardest not to phrase it like a question.

His grandmother frowned, mostly at the annoyance of the chore.

“I’ll write a note, and you can tell him not to bother.”

“He could always come to our house instead to talk with you.”

“I look forward to it.”

Did he get his argumentative streak from his grandmother, too? Probably. It wasn’t a bad trait to have. Something warm blossomed in his chest. Family… He hadn’t felt anything like it before.

It was…

It was nice.

Also, the thought of watching his grandmother grill one of his teachers now that he was proving himself to no longer be a troublemaker made the whole ordeal seem rather enticing. Jon secretly hoped Mr Cummings took his grandmother up on her offer to discuss matters at home.

Joshua Gillespie has returned from his holiday in Amsterdam.

Jon rinsed out his glass and placed it in the drying rack next to the sink before excusing himself and heading upstairs to his room.

Joshua Gillespie wouldn’t move to Bournemouth for at least another year, and Jon couldn’t starve himself until then. He would probably eat the guy alive before he even received the coffin.

The Boneturner’s Tale has been registered in the Chiswick Library under the title “Trainspotting” by Irvine Welsh.

Ah…yes. The book that kickstarted Jared Hopworth’s entire career.

The Flesh was disgusting, but Jon was curious.

Just a little peak wouldn’t hurt.

“Gran…” Jon shouted down the stairwell.

“Hmm?” His grandmother returned. At least she wasn’t demanding that he come down and speak to her face-to-face. She was probably on a good crossword streak and didn’t want to lose her momentum.

“Can I take the train to London?”

“May I.”

Jon rolled his eyes.

Did distance have an impact on Beholding's influence? Did he need to make eye contact with someone while asking a question for the compulsion to take place? Experiments for later.

“May I go to London?”

“What for?”

“I want to go to Chiswick Library.” No point in lying. If his grandmother called the library to check on him, it meant he was telling the truth and, therefore, another point in the trustworthy collum. Then, she would continue letting him wander off without hovering.

“What’s wrong with our local library?” She countered suspiciously.

“It doesn’t have the book I want.” He was being honest.

“And how do you know they have it?”

“They’re in London. They have everything.” Technically, it wasn’t a lie. So long as she didn’t ask him to clarify the second “they”, it was easy to fudge the information through misleading pronouns.

His grandmother thought about it for a long moment.

“Tell me the date you want to go, and if you do some chores on the weekend before you go, I will pay for your fare.”

“T-Thank you, Gran!” And he meant it.

Chapter Text

It was Friday.

It was the end of the week, and Jon and his grandmother apparently couldn’t shirk off meeting the teachers. Mr Cummings, the third-grade teacher who, in Jon’s opinion, was a little too pompous and nosey about the life of a student he had never taught in his career. The man has been bothering Ms Simmins about his tests and even accused her once of plotting something. Honestly, all of it made little sense to him. The only thing Jon seemed to agree with Mr Cummings on (information provided by the Eye) was that the only thing holding Jon back from skipping school altogether and propelling him straight into university was his handwriting.

His fine motor skills needed a lot of work, and reading his own handwriting was starting to get depressing. Sadly, computers were insufficient writing tools yet because they were largely inaccessible and clunky.

Also, if he were to attend university at his age and graduate by the time he was twelve, what self-respecting idiot would hire a kid?

Intelligence was one thing, but work experience was something else entirely.

Although… If Jon were to get into high school early on a scholarship of some sort, would he receive any money?

If he did, that money would be used to fund his…investigations? Experiments? He really didn’t want to call them Hunts around the country. Sadly, he still had four more days to wait for the end of the year to officially announce itself. Jon didn’t need his eldritch deity’s help to know that there would barely be any students in on Monday and Tuesday, the last painful days of the term. He hoped that when the teachers bundled up whoever stuck around, they’d leave him alone to read.

Jon would’ve ditched if given the opportunity (and his grandmother’s blessing), but not attending school, even useless, unproductive days, would likely cost him his skipped classes or scholarship.

Sitting next to him, his grandmother scratched the edge of her purse in contemplative fury. Jon didn’t engage her in conversation. He was smarter than that. As it turned out, the letter his grandmother wrote to exempt herself and Jon from attending the parent-teacher conference, which Jon delivered to Ms Simmins, who, in turn, delivered it to Mr Cummings, was insufficient, and his grandmother needed to come down to the school anyway.

Principal Evan Baughan is elated that his school produced such a gifted student. He has already contacted the local papers about the news.

Jon looked up from his book and around the empty reception area. The other occupant besides him and his grandmother was the receptionist, who didn’t look up from her paperwork for anything, but Jon could hear the faintest sound of footsteps down the hallway over the pencil scratching. There was more than one.

A moment later, Principal Baughan and Mr Cummings entered the sitting room.

“Mrs Sims,” Principal Baughan greeted politely, “thank you for taking time out of your schedule to meet us on such short notice.”

Jon stood alongside his grandmother, glanced at Principal Baughan, then at Mr Cummings, who looked more put out rather than smug (so good news), and then to his grandmother, who shook Principal Baughan’s hand.

“And you, Jon,” Principal Baughan addressed politely, “thank you for coming too. You’re not in trouble, I promise.”

Jon was a little startled at suddenly being spoken to by an authority figure. He was used to being sidelined. The one watching, if you would. It didn’t occur to him that he should’ve been paying attention.

“Do you promise?” Jon asked.

Jon had done a bit of experimenting over the last couple of days after his encounter with Officer Maison. The experiments were mostly on his grandmother. He treated her very kindly in exchange for his curiosity. She thought he was buttering her up for his train ticket to Chiswick Library. She didn’t need to know the details.

He started asking simple questions from upstairs. What’s the time? What’s for dinner? Are you going out later? Can he watch the TV if she isn’t using it? They were all inconsequential.

His grandmother yelled at him for being rude and said that if he wanted answers to his questions, then he had better come downstairs to get them. So, he did. He trotted downstairs and asked her again. He didn’t look at her, and she answered readily enough. The static in his veins and its hum in his ears never came. He was fine for now.

After that, he looked his grandmother in the eyes and asked if she had any plans for tomorrow. She replied that she was having coffee with Merideth but didn’t give any more details than that. She didn’t overshare; she wasn’t compelled.

Interesting…

Jon didn’t conduct any more experiments. He was happy enough with his results. If he wanted to test his ability to compel, he might as well find Officer Maison again. So, suffice it to say, Jon could ask questions again, as long as he didn’t really want the information, which was going to be hard. He was always too damn curious.

Memories of the creeky cabin and the eyes in the sky outside the window flashed before his mind.

…He sounded like Sasha.

Before he knew it, he and his grandmother had been escorted to the principal’s office. Principal Baughan sat behind his desk, gestured for Jon and his grandmother to sit in the two seats before him, and left Mr Cummings to either stand awkwardly wherever or leave. Jon kept his eyes forward but Watched as Mr Cummings tensed at the sudden weight of a million judging eyes on him. Rather than bolting from the room like he wanted, he remained rooted to his spot beside the door.

Maybe if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t catch their attention.

“Thank you again for coming,” Principal Baughan began, not offering Mr Cummings the slightest sympathy at his sudden faint demeanour. “In the last month or so, Jon has shown amazing results, and we are very glad to have him here at our school, Mrs Sims.”

“I was told Jonathan’s cheating.”

Jon smothered the smile that threatened to break across his face. He didn’t think he hid it very well, considering Principal Baughan shot him a mildly amused look and pointed ignored Mr Cummings’ awkward shuffling behind them.

Mr Cummings often bothers Principal Baughan about squabbles and gossip between students or teachers to make himself seem more important than he is. Principal Baughan finds Mr Cummings very annoying.

“Not at all. We conducted a couple of tests, and I have the papers here for your reference. Jon is currently working well above our expectations. I don’t want to waste much more of your time, so I’ll get straight to the point. With the end of the school year approaching, I would like to enrol Jon in our accelerated grade six class in September.”

“And you think Jonathan will be able to keep up?” His grandmother asked.

“I have been in contact with some of our local high schools, and they all informed me that Jon will need to graduate from our school before they would accept such a young student. So, yes. I believe he can do it.”

His grandmother turned and examined Jon. He looked up at her, mindful not to stare, keeping his attention on the creases between her eyebrows. Would looking eager help his cause? Or would looking unmoved embolden his grandmother to believe that her decision was right – whatever that was? Just as Jon was about to open his mouth, his grandmother’s eyes sharpened. Jon startled.

“Yes. That sounds good, thank you. When Jonathan gets bored, he wanders.” It sounded like she was cursing them rather than warning them. That if the school didn’t do its damnest to entertain him somehow, academically, then they couldn’t complain to her about the fallout. Jon thought his grandmother shouldn’t give him that much power to annoy the governing body responsible for a large chunk of his day. But he wasn’t about to file a complaint.

From grade three to grade six…

Jon just saved himself two years from being trapped in school.

He could be on his best behaviour for a little while longer. He just needed to become independent and secure an income as soon as possible. Then, things could start sliding into place.

Tourists flooded Bournemouth train station. The summer holidays were in full swing, and families, complete with disgruntled parents and screaming children, bent and moulded around one another. The sweltering, humid heat pulsed with each body that bobbed past them.

Edna Sims does not want to go inside.

Jon frankly didn’t want to either.

He hated crowds.

It somehow reminded him of the Buried.

“Do you have your ticket?” His grandmother commanded.

Jon pulled out the ticket from his pocket, waving it to her before putting it back in. He patted the outside for good measure before the two of them nodded to each other in confirmation.

“I phoned Edith to remind her that you will stay with her for two weeks in Chelsea. She won’t be able to drive you to the station on your last day, so it’s your responsibility to make it there on time.”

Edna Sims knew a few months ago that she would never have entertained the idea of subjecting her younger sister, Edith Meadows, to the likes of her grandson. It would only reinforce her pompous ego at the reminder that, by not having children, she lived a far richer life than Edna.

“I will. Thanks, Gran,” Jon replied. Bouncing his oversized backpack up so he could readjust the straps, Jon gave his grandmother a small wave goodbye before disappearing amongst the throngs of legs and suitcases.

He had a Leitner to hunt down.

The man stepped onto the train and sighed. The air conditioning on the train offered little relief from the blistering heat. He tugged his clerical collar for some minute relief before the guilt of disrespecting his clothes got the better of him, and he tidied himself up. Glancing at the seat number on his ticket, the man shuffled down the aisle until he finally arrived at his spot.

Hiring a rental car to conduct business around the south of England was all well and good until you had to take the train back to London.

A little boy occupied one of the two seats in front of him.

The boy did not bother to turn to look at him, even as he stowed his briefcase in the overhead compartment or even when he sat down and adjusted his robes.

Perhaps the boy was shy around strangers, and by not acknowledging him, he could avoid an awkward conversation. A situation incredibly familiar to him.

“There’s an empty seat in the next carriage – J2. There’s no ticket inspector assigned for today.”

“Excuse me?”

“I suggest you take the empty seat in the next carriage over, Father Burroughs.”

The boy was looking at him now, and Father Burroughs really wished he didn’t. The train had already started moving, yet it felt like the world around him slowed to a crawl and that this boy…was going to…eat him?

“Wh-What…are you?”

“My name is…” He paused. “I am the Pupil. You do not have anything It wants right now…but you might. Spiritual pride can lead to quite a fall. Be careful. I don’t want to find you later, Father.”

A nice old lady heading up to see her best friend sat in J1. She offered him some tea in a thermos. Father Burroughs accepted graciously with shaking hands.

Chapter Text

Jon had not expected to encounter Father Edwin Burroughs from Statement 0113005 on the train to London, of all things. The man hadn’t begun his exorcist training until 2009 and likely hadn’t experienced anything supernatural until …just now. That was a little awkward…and unfortunate. Thankfully, despite the fright he gave the father, he hadn’t been Marked by Beholding.

Now that he stopped to think about it, Jon recalled Father Burroughs experiencing a greater concentrated attack from the Entities than any other individual before him. Sure, every encounter had some flavour of every Entity to some degree, but Father Burroughs was something else entirely. The sheer amount of terror inflicted on the man was immense, and it was only through sheer force of will that he hadn’t offed himself while in prison.

What caused such…

Could he call it hatred? The Entities did not feel much of anything other than Hunger. But that many blatant representatives marking a single person occurred for a reason.

The Mother of Puppets wished to experiment with her own mass ritual.

“The Mother?” Jon muttered to himself. The Web became aware of the crack in reality around 1096. It likely had thousands of years observing the other Entities trying and failing at their rituals, but that doesn’t mean it figured out how to succeed until much later… Gertrude figured it out around 2015 before she disappeared, but Father Burroughs’ statement occurred around 2009. If the Web really did try to conduct a mass ritual using Father Burroughs…then It already knew and clued Gertrude in to pass on the information to Jonah. Go figure.

“Maybe, if we’re lucky, it’ll leave him alone…but I doubt it.”

But if the man generated enough fear alone, then the Web wouldn’t let such succulent prey go.

Jon sighed and stepped off the train.

Another nugget of information. Another puzzle solved.

And yet…it didn’t mean anything.

Jon knew the story, played his role, and danced the spider’s dance.

Knowing now wouldn’t help him.

Jon allowed the Eye to lead him to his great-aunt Edith Meadows. The woman appeared as stern as his grandmother despite her more youthful face. The Eye had told him all about Edith on the train ride – married to George Meadow, retired, no children or close family to speak of. Edith didn’t get along with Jon’s grandmother because their parents always praised Edna for her excellence, marriage and children, and, to top that off, when Edith married George Meadows, both adamant that they didn’t want to have children, they were isolated by both families.

Edith Meadows only agreed to house Jonathan because Edna promised he would be quiet and scarce. Something Jon had gotten remarkably good at.

“Hello, Mrs Meadows,” Jon greeted, “I’m Jonathan Sims. It’s nice to meet you.”

Edith looked Jon up and down, his hands gripping his backpack straps tightly and standing tall with his back straight. She gave him a small but approving nod.

“I’m sure my sister has told you I and my husband are not fond of children, nor will I hide the fact. I’m doing this as a favour to Edna, so we will see whether you’re all she chalked you up to be. This way.”

Jon rolled his eyes when Edith turned her back.

The drive from Clapham Junction to Chelsea was deathly silent, but that didn’t bother Jon.

What did bother Jon, however, was the heaviness that grew the closer they got. There was no denying it now…Jon was close to the Institute. The heaviness soon turned to a throb. Yet, despite his mouth watering more than he’d like, the longing Beholding inflicted upon him was almost distant.

He couldn’t believe he was asking this, but…did it want to return to the Institute?

The Pupil will seek direct fear.

What? So, because he was going to watch others suffer like in the apocalypse, it didn’t need the Institute?

The fear is secondary. The Pupil must Watch.

Christ…

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose. Well, he supposed it was a decent enough compromise since he wanted to try to help old statement givers and the fear’s victims. He just hoped he didn’t freeze and remain rooted like when he collected live statements.

Great-aunt Edith’s home was a non-descript terrace house, one of many, that stretched the entire length of the street. Edith only waited for Jon so that she could lock her car before walking inside, leaving the door open for the boy. It was a frigid cold shoulder but much less hostile than Jon was familiar with, so he couldn’t complain.

Stepping over the threshold, Jon immediately noticed the cold that lingered in the shadowy corners of the house. When Jon first Saw his great-aunt, she hadn’t been Marked by the Lonely, which meant the fear came from the husband, George. It hasn’t manifested yet, which Jon chalked up to his great-aunt inadvertently acting as his anchor.

George better hope he passes away first.

Was that a horrible thought to have? The Lonely was so insidious it felt more like a simple statement of fact rather than a hard criticism of the man’s lifestyle and current living conditions. Did he want to attempt to save George Meadows? He didn’t know the man; by all estimates, he disliked Jon as automatically as his wife. But could he knowingly leave the man to succumb to his fate?

Ple-please! S-save me! I-I c-can’t breathe…

You…from the Magnus…Help me!

Jon remembered the man inside the Buried. The faint muffled echos of his screams and agony. He tried to save him, looking for him through the compacted soil and jagged stone, but he never reached him. There was no saving him. The man, Jon now Knew, was Zack Musters. Daisy’s partner when they stopped Breekon and Hope before they sacrificed him to the Coffin, which resulted in her becoming Sectioned. Jon had tried to do something, save him… but, in the end, he had decided that he was on a mission to save Daisy, and he couldn’t detract from that.

Zack Musters could not die in the Buried.

But that didn’t make a difference.

Jon abandoned him.

But when he had the power, real power, he could use it to help…a little.

Please leave…I’d like to be alone. Wait. The ants, if I told them to attack you, could they?

Jon knew Jordan Kennedy. He owed him for his help in easing his paranoia surrounding Jane Prentiss. Jon did not know Zack Musters.

Jon did not know George Meadows.

He would leave him to his fear – his suffering – and if Jon had the misfortune of being present when the Lonely manifested…then he would feed the Eye. Feed himself. That was what he was now. What mercy he could offer came at an equally horrid cost. Even if the victim didn’t acquire a physical injury, the trauma would remain in crystal clear clarity until the end.

Even when Jon settled in for the evening, having arrived in London too late to catch the bus to Chiswick Library, he had not seen hide nor hair of George Meadows. The Eye had to inform him that George had holed himself away in his study, reading self-help books to make himself feel better about his isolation, that he was doing something productive, seeking knowledge on how to better his situation. That, maybe, if he found the right book, he’d finally muster the courage to join a book club or pick up lawn bowling. Meet new people who wanted him around.

It took a lot to ignore the Hunger. To not Look at George Meadows in the middle of the night and keep him awake and wondering, feeling judged and anxious.

The Pupil was Hungry.

He just hoped his eagerness didn’t alert any Hunters in the area.

The Lonely was losing a meal. Not that he cared.

Morning came almost painfully slowly. The overcast clouds warmed and thinned as the sun crawled from beyond the horizon, and with nothing else to do, Jon Watched the house. He unearthed the Meadows’ secrets and Watched as the couple stirred and twitched at the sudden itch on the back of their neck and an awareness of their sleeping position, questions flooding their mind on what sleeping position classified as normal. Their tongues salivated despite the thick fuzziness of morning breath. Could the other person in their bed smell their breath? Should they get up and brush their teeth? It was still early. They could get up, brush their teeth and get their head down for a few more hours. Easy.

George was the first to wake up.

He tensed when the Pupil shifted its focus solely on him. Edith relaxed and settled back to sleep.

Pushing himself out of bed, George shuffled, exhausted, to the ensuite bathroom and went through his typical morning routine. Toilet, a quick shower, brush teeth and a shave. However, as he leaned in closer to the mirror, carefully angling the razor under his nose, he caught sight of a shadowy figure behind him, standing by the door, half of its body obscured behind the doorframe. George flinched so hard that the razor slipped and knicked his lip.

The thin remaining layer of water left from his shower only amplified the chill in his bones. He couldn’t bring himself to turn around, preferring to keep his eyes locked on the thing that stood in the doorway behind him. He couldn’t see it properly. The scraps of light that broke past the blackout curtains only emphasised the humanoid creature’s silhouette and veiled its features in the darkness.

However, in noticing its silhouette, George realised how short the thing was. Its short, thin, willowy frame could only belong to a child. Indignant anger flushed through his body. This had to be Edith’s grand-nephew! The little brat thought it would be funny to try and scare him first thing in the morning!

With the newfound courage, George turned around, and his stomach dropped.

There was no one in the doorway.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, George inched towards the door. Surely, the kid was just hiding around the corner and would…maybe, jump out of him – make a loud noise. That sort of thing.

There was nothing outside of the bathroom.

The door to his bedroom was undisturbed. Every time he went to bed, he had told himself that – tomorrow – he would finally oil the hinges but never did. He would’ve heard the…kid if he left the room.

Rattled, George backed back into the bathroom, hoping the confined bathroom meant it was impossible for it to get past him without him noticing. He wanted to run back to bed, wake Edith, and have her reassure him that all of this was just a bad dream.

The taste of iron passed his lips, and he was reminded of the self-inflicted injury. That seemed to have snapped him out of his dilemma, and he returned to the sink to clean the wound. He avoided looking into the mirror, but…the mirror was also a medicine cabinet. He managed to open it, his eyes firmly trained on the sink and got the cream he needed.

Then he closed the cabinet, but he couldn’t help his curiosity. He needed to know if he was just being delusional. That the incident was just a hallucination or a fever dream.

It was back.

This time, two acid-green eyes met his in the mirror.

George’s instincts kicked in, and he spun around again; nothing stood in the door.

Was the thing trapped in the mirror? Was it messing with him? Cursing him? He didn’t know.

Turning back to the mirror, George froze.

He desperately wanted to believe that maybe it was a hallucination or Edith’s grand-nephew playing a sick prank. But four more eyes sprouted on its face. Was this how insects felt when they were trapped in a web? The gnawing dread and terror of knowing exactly what your fate was when it was staring you in the face. He was trapped in the bathroom with a thing he couldn’t see besides the mirror.

He decided he would make a run for it. He would go to the kitchen and grab a knife to defend himself.

And that was exactly what he did.

However, with every reflective surface he passed, the shadowed figure stood just far enough away, watching him and gaining more eyes every time he ignored it, didn’t watch it in turn.

Edith and her grand-nephew came into the kitchen at the same time. Edith expressed her surprise at seeing him still in his pyjamas and clutching a knife like a lifeline, but George didn’t reply. His attention was trained entirely on the boy.

Brown eyes.

But he would swear the boy matched the silhouette perfectly.

“Did you come into our room this morning?”

The boy raised an eyebrow at the questions, but his right hand twitched as if to grip something that wasn’t there.

“No.”

“Do you swear it?”

“George, what’s this about?” Edith interrupted. “Does this have something to do with why you’re sat here like a madman?”

“What did you see?” Jon Asked at the same time.

“I woke up earlier than usual and thought I’d get ready rather than try to oversleep. But when I was in the bathroom…in the mirror…someone – no – something was standing behind me. It was dark, so I couldn’t see its face, b-but when I turned around, it wasn’t there. I-It had so many eyes.”

Jon’s eyes widened at George’s encounter. He hadn’t expected that at all. He had only Watched him from inside the guest bedroom. He didn’t go anywhere near their bedroom.

Did Beholding create a new entity for the sake of helping Jon satiate his Hunger? Or was it perhaps an aspect or some kind of astral projection? It definitely wasn’t something he controlled; he knew that much. Did that mean he wouldn’t have to Watch in person? That he could simply Watch from a distance.

Something inside him didn’t like that thought.

The Eye was getting picky with how the Pupil fed, and Jon didn’t want to be away from the action. If he wanted to save people, he couldn’t do it from a mile away.

Jon watched as Edith rounded the table and pulled her terrified husband into a tight hug. He didn’t stick around to witness the tender comfort of a loved one. His stomach clenched tightly as fog filled his head, and his eyes swelled with tears he didn’t dare shed. He desperately wanted to feel Martin’s strong arms around him and their fingers intertwined.

Having taken in George Meadow’s fear, Jon opted to forgo breakfast and begin his trek to Chiswick Library.

The inside of Chiswick Library was just as Sebastian Adakoya described it. A small, simple library with a splattering of bookshelves and a decently sized children’s section. Sebastian Adakoya sat at the front desk. He glanced up at Jon and gave him a small but welcoming smile before returning to work.

The smile baffled Jon even when he went wanding through the bookshelves, at least until he remembered that he was physically eight years old. He was a young soul taking an interest in spending his summer holiday reading at the local library. Just how many avatars blended so seamlessly into the crowd when they weren’t hunting?

For now, Jonathan Sims was just a little boy.

Jon found The Boneturner’s Tale on a bottom shelf, perfectly hidden from the general public unless it called them or someone knew what they were looking for. He didn’t grab it straight away.

He Looked.

The Flesh holds no interest in acquiring the Pupil. The book is safe.

Satisfied, Jon slipped the book from the shelf and tucked it under his arm. Pupil or not, Jon still wasn’t dumb enough to read a Leitner and tempt fate. One was enough for multiple lifetimes, and he did not envy or wish to emulate the likes of Jurgen Leitner or Gerard Keay.

Three other tomes reside within Chiswick Library.

Jon groaned to himself. Just his luck. Of course, there are more Leitners. How many did Michael Crew check out? Or did he dispose of the Leitners in Chiswick Library after he was done with them? He couldn’t remember.

Michael Crew borrowed four tomes, including The Boneturner’s Tale. Eight people have fallen victim to the tomes before they find their way back to Chiswick Library.

Jon thanked the Eye rather sarcastically despite actually appreciating the information. He didn’t want to think about how cooperative it’s been these last few months. It still had its morbid edge to the information it shared – or overshared – but it was evidently always useful.

The Eye…favours you.

The Ceaseless Watcher’s Special Little Boy.

…inviting the snoop god’s favourite kid.

Jon was a part of the Eye, an extension similar to the Distortion. Even if he still felt like his own person, he had to accept it, especially since he was in this new reality. He was the monster in the statements rather than the victim.

Whatever.

He had books to burn or bury or sink to the bottom of the ocean.

“Now, where are those other books?” Jon muttered to himself, but just as he spun around, two things simultaneously startled him.

Ramming his face into the side of someone’s hip, Jon reeled back at the sudden closeness of another person that the Ceaseless Watcher hadn’t warned him about beforehand. What also didn’t help was the information that followed.

The three tomes the Pupil desires are in the possession of Michael Crew.

The man he ran into held three books against his chest, and his eyes had zeroed in on the one under Jon’s arm.

“If you don’t mind me asking, are you planning on borrowing that?” Michael Crew asked politely.

Jon stared up at the man far younger than the one who had sent him hurtling through the Infinite Blue while he gave his statement. And yet, deep, dark circles encased his eyes, and a tired weariness tightened around his shoulders. The man in front of him was a normal person. A victim. Not an avatar of the Vast. But knowing didn’t change how he felt about the man or stop the recoil at the physical contact and the flinch at the memory of endless falling. He avenged himself against Jude Perry. Brutally murdered her in the eternally burning Tenement Block.

He had never got the opportunity to do the same against Michael Crew. Daisy had done that for him so swiftly that he didn’t think he ever properly processed his encounter with the man.

“Are you okay?”

Jon nodded awkwardly, not meeting his eyes or his Lichtenberg scar. What was he going to do?

He needed to destroy those books, but he didn’t have time or the slightest idea how to explain how and why he knew what he did. Seriously, how do you explain to someone that you understood their situation but that Leitners wouldn’t solve his problem because he was from the future?

That was when the lights burned a little brighter, and ozone began filling the air. Something sparked and flashed across the window. The maddening creature made of lightning seemed to skitter across the glass, taunting them.

Michael Crew flinched at the smell and turned to leave immediately, but Jon, not thinking, grabbed the hem of his sleeve and stopped him.

“Listen, kid, don’t worry about the book, okay. I was just curious. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to leave.”

“I can help you, Michael. But, in exchange, I want those books.”

Chapter Text

You can’t help me. I don’t think so, at least. But whatever it is that calls to me, that wants me for its own, it hates you. It hates what you are and what you do. And if it hates you, then maybe you can help me.

Jane Prentiss feared her Becoming. Her desperation and agony when she attempted to understand what was happening to her only drove her spiralling deeper into the awaiting arms of the Corruption. Love. She called it. Prentiss felt like she finally had a place where she belonged. Even if it was meant feeding off the fear, death and decay of other people.

Jon hated the Corruption.

It promised its victims love and community.

Agape the Dog was the same.

But, for Jon, his Becoming, like Michael Crews, relied on perpetual fear and wanted to understand what was happening to him in an attempt to stop it. The Eye promised purpose and knowledge. Something Jon desperately craved, especially when his life and the lives of his friends were at stake.

He supposed the Vast promised freedom and infinite escape.

He couldn’t fault Michael Crew for falling into its awaiting arms after so many years of being hunted.

Michael Crew wants to believe the Pupil but doesn’t think a scrawny kid can do anything about the Branching Consciousness.

Now that he thought about it… Did he even have a plan?

No. The honest answer was no. He didn’t have a plan. He was hoping some inspiration would take him. For the briefest moment, he contemplated pulling an Adelard Decker and tying the Branching Consciousness to the Web’s Table, and maybe, if he was lucky, when Decker took the table for himself, the Not!Them and the Branching Consciousness could duke it out and smite each other.

The table the Pupil desires is under the possession of Kristof Schmidt in Hegensdorf, Germany.

That plan went out the window pretty quickly, but at least that meant he didn’t have to hopelessly research and hunt down the table. Jon found himself begrudgingly thanking Beholding for the information before continuing on. The Eye didn’t plan for the future. It would only offer answers. So, finding a solution for Michael Crew’s boogieman problem was entirely up to him.

Then again, Jon was never the smartest when it came to forming appropriate plans.

He walked into the Coffin once.

If Martin hadn’t been working for Peter Lucas, if Tim still thought of him as a friend, or if Sasha was alive, then he had a feeling he would be on the receiving end of a week-long lecture and the butt of many jokes.

A pang of hurt flushed through his chest. Lost times. Irreplaceable.

Jonathan Sims is not human.

The lights in the library were, technically, on; however, in the burning summer light, they paled in comparison to the real thing. Thus, only Jon noticed when they flickered and burned a little brighter. The smell of ozone was bound to follow soon. He didn’t have much time left.

Wait…lights…

He could work with that.

Creature of the spiral or not. The Branching Consciousness was a creature made of burning light.

“Listen, you don’t know what these books are about, and if you do, kid, then, no offence, your parents need to do a better job.”

“My parents are dead.”

That was not the point. It also wasn’t helpful, but it did stagger Michael Crew enough that Jon could sneak his point across without causing a scene and drawing suspicion to them. The words came out before Jon even realised he had said it. Had he always been that cheeky?

“You don’t know me, Michael Crew,” Jon began, “but I do Know you, and I believe I have something of a plan to stop that thing.”

“How do you-?”

Jon was becoming impatient.

“Do you want help or not?” He hissed. “If not, just give me the books. They won’t save you.”

The lights burned brighter only once before they returned to normal, and the ozone vanished. Michael Crew froze at the sudden change in atmosphere, and the heavy weight on his arm felt like burning electricity or a thousand scuttling spiders. The kid had so many eyes. Even though he knew there were only two staring right back at him.

Michael could only assume that his frozen, terrified state conveyed something akin to consent to let the little monster child help him with his invisible lightning stalker problem because the kid released his arm. However, his eyes were still heavy upon his, reading his very soul.

“W-Who are you?”

The corner of the boy’s mouth pinched slightly at that, and he was internally debating whether to reveal everything he knew. After a moment, the boy turned his gaze away from him and up at the window where they last saw the Lichtenburg creature. Eventually, the boy returned to Michael and held out the black paperback, instructing him to take it.

“Check those out, and I’ll explain on the way. There are too many eyes here.”

Rather than press the boy for answers immediately, he relented. He took the books to the counter, and out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the boy nodded to the librarian goodbye, left the building and perched himself against the brick wall, still in his line of sight.

When everything was sorted, Michael stepped onto the well-lit street and found the boy staring intently at the sky.

“Well?” Michael goaded.

The boy, finally paying attention to him, offered a small, placating smile and held out his hand for a proper introductory handshake.

“T-Thanks. I’m Jon.”

“No last name?”

“It’s probably for the best that I don’t share it.”

“What? Are you being chased by the government or something?” Michael joked.

“Something like that.”

Well…that wasn’t reassuring. Michael let go of the boy’s hand.

“Uh, Michael Crew – but I suppose you already knew that…but you can call me Mike. I prefer that.”

The boy – Jon – blinked.

“Mike, then.” He nodded and began making a beeline for Mike’s car – a rusty red Audi S2. Seeing such a dated car design made Jon feel unfathomably old. Mike trailed behind him and made a noise of surprise when Jon pulled open the passenger side door and jumped in unceremoniously. “You don’t lock the door when you know you won’t be long,” was all he said.

Suddenly exhausted and drained, Mike gave up, pulled out his keys and climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Well then…where to?”

“Not far. Putney Bridge. Do you know the way?”

“No.”

“I can direct you.”

Heaving a deep sigh, Mike twisted the key, started the engine and began the 15-minute drive to Putney Bridge. The drive turned out simpler than Mike originally thought. They had to continue down the road, then turn off onto Fulham Palace Road and follow it. During this time, Mike contemplated the events that occurred in the library, the strange kid he had picked up, and the possible relation ‘Jon’ had with all of the supernatural crap he had been dealing with.

It wasn’t until Mike found a car spot two blocks away from the main road and three blocks from the bridge that he asked his questions.

“I think I’ve been patient enough,” Mike began, “so, what is the thing that keeps chasing me?”

Jon slammed the door to the car a little too hard, flinched at the noise and then peered over the hood up at Mike.

“It doesn’t really have a name. We… I have been calling it the Branching Consciousness.”

That didn’t explain anything, and his frustration must’ve shown on his face because Jon continued.

“What causes these things to manifest and target specific people is beyond me, but the reason it keeps hunting you is because of your fear.”

“My fear?” Mike cocked an eyebrow as the two of them climbed out of the car and began strolling down the streets. In the middle of the day, there were not many people, which allowed Mike the opportunity to observe Jon a little more closely. Jon walked with purpose and confidence towards their supposed destination but kept glancing around them, scanning the people and the windows for something Mike certainly couldn’t make out.

“Yes. These things are connected to beings far bigger than us, but they essentially feed on fear. The more you fear them, the longer they stick around and feed off of you.”

Mike was quiet for a long while before replying, “I suppose that explains why it didn’t just…break in and kill me. Leave me alive to keep fearing it and feeding it, I’m guessing?”

Jon hummed in agreement before looking up at him, “You’re taking all of this a lot better than most.”

Mike shrugged, “I’ve been looking into this stuff for a while now, and I suppose it’s nice to have someone who can explain it to me properly.”

Jon’s youthful face scrunched in ugly disagreement, but he didn’t respond. He had enough things to worry about. He was walking them straight into enemy territory with the desperate hope the thing could be reasoned with. Given the Eye’s aversion to the Dark, he wasn’t hedging his bets.

The Dark’s ritual occurred in 2015, nineteen years from now. So, while they were still building up their power, they were still closer to their Fear than Beholding. However, that only really applied to human avatars.

“Under there,” Jon directed.

“You can’t be serious?”

Down a residential side street next to Putney Bridge, behind a block of flats, was a small, very minor dam with a large metal sealed gate that prevented the public from walking down the stone steps and drowning themselves in the green, murky, stale water. The stairs led straight into the water, but along the side were huge darkened gaps underneath the walkway.

“What are we meeting? A troll?”

Jon picked the lock easily enough and descended the stairs without waiting for Mike.

“The Sandman, actually,” Jon replied, nonplussed.

Mike stared at Jon, who didn’t so much as twitch when his judgemental eyes met his. Mike looked up at the sky and out at the empty street. Not even the main street, which he could see from where he was standing, had a car or pedestrian enter his field of vision. He was alone with a creepy kid who seemed to know too much and about to meet someone, or something, that could finally put an end to the Lichtenburg creature.

Down into the murky waters, he goes, he supposed…

Unfortunately, there wasn’t some convenient and miraculous little dingy Mike and Jon could squeeze into together before searching the dark crevices underneath the roads. So the two of them resigned themselves to submerging themselves in the cold, thick grim that, despite its thickness, soaked into their clothes and lathered and crawled across their skin.

The sun burned and slowly disappeared the further they swam underneath the walkway, but once the sun had completely vanished, Mike knew they were no longer under the road.

An endless stretch of empty black nothingness was all Mike could see. He had stopped at one point, nervously treading water. He wanted to call Jon to reassure himself that the boy was still down there with him. That he wasn’t alone and lost in the dark waters that felt like they were waiting to suffocate him.

Then he heard a deep, groaty huff and then a long inhale.

Something else was there with them.

Then, a hand grabbed him, and Mike screamed.

He couldn’t help it.

He was so scared. He wanted so desperately to leave.

“You heard it, didn’t you?”

It was Jon. Thank whatever deity might’ve been watching out for him at that moment. He wasn’t alone.

Mike could only gurgle something akin to an acknowledgement.

“There’s a ledge a little further. Don’t let go of me. I’ll guide us.”

“I-I can’t believe you can see anything in this place.” Mike managed to choke out.

“Usually, I shouldn’t be able to. But the sun’s out. And nothing can get closer to their patron than me, it seems.”

Mike thought he heard Jon grumble something along the lines of “That’s not fantastic, but at least it means I won’t have to worry about Helen,” but he ignored it. If knowing more about these things drew more of them to him, then Mike really didn’t want to know anything about whoever or whatever a “Helen” was.

“Careful, there’s a step.” That was Jon’s only warning before Mike slammed his knee against the jagged concrete step. He knew he had broken skin because the disgusting, likely-diseased-filled water immediately began to burn the freshly opened wound.

Jon didn’t offer any reassurance, only holding onto him and helping him onto the small hidden island.

After wobbling up the first step, Mike felt his foot sink into something soft when he reached the landing. Swiping his feet across the ground, it wasn’t hard to immediately identify the texture of sand against his shoe.

“Don’t touch the sand.”

“Why?”

“…They’re as sharp as knives at a single touch.”

“Charming…”

Something cawed in the distance. Mike’s insides froze. The noise didn’t sound anything like a bird. It was wet and sounded like loose, fatty skin slapping against the air. He had dealt with the supernatural. The Lichtenburg creature was supernatural. But it was his supernatural. He knew how to handle it. But this… This was something else.

“Mike…”

“Y-Yeah?”

“If worse comes to worse,” Jon began. Mike’s stomach knotted and tightened painfully, “your best bet is to blind yourself.”

“I-I’m afraid to ask…but what does the worst look like?”

A long pause.

“You’ll know.”

Chapter Text

Two slow, methodical steps shifted through the sand that rolled in waves through the endless expanse of impossible darkness. Mike’s palm was slick with sweat, and his mind plagued him with all of the disgusted thoughts Jon must’ve been thinking at having to hold his hand and guide him like a toddler. It didn’t help that with each step, the squelching slap of wet meat and tearing flesh grew louder the longer they walked.

He felt a prickle on the back of his neck, and if he wasn’t so confident the thing they were looking for was in front of him, he would’ve sworn it was behind them. Turning occasionally, peering into the darkness, Mike hoped to find the culprit for the source of the feeling. The darkness did not waver.

“Wha-What is that?” Mike finally found the nerve to ask.

“The Sandman’s victim, Heather Maine, 78, died of a terror-induced heart attack. The Sandman’s children are devouring the remains as we speak.” There was a hollowness to Jon’s voice as if he was reciting something off a script, his mind a million miles away.

Mike didn’t reply as his thoughts conjured gruesome images of blackbirds tearing away at a mangled human carcass, then multiple shrivelled humanoid things gnawing on a torn-off, saggy, wrinkled arm, and finally empty eye sockets where eyes had been plucked out and swallowed whole, leaving a frozen screaming face behind.

His step faltered, but Jon tugged him along, unwavering.

Time passed impossibly slowly, and he knew they had arrived when the tearing stopped, and a hiss like falling sand from an hourglass echoed around them. A heavy footstep disturbed the sand ahead of them, and Mike braced himself to run back the way they came, even though he knew the sand would slow him down considerably, and there was no guarantee he would even make it back to the water.

Or back to the light.

“Watcher.”

It was The Sandman.

Its voice sounded close to a croak from disuse rather than the sand falling from its mouth.

“Sandman.” Jon returned the faux greeting.

A pause passed between the two creatures. Eventually, Jon spoke again.

“I have come to offer you a deal in exchange for your services.”

“No. Watcher – opposite.”

“And yet you seemed to enjoy yourself, even now.”

“This, different. New. You, also, like. Even I see.” The sound of sand shifted methodically, almost bouncing, and Mike couldn’t help but presume The Sandman was…laughing?

Jon didn’t reply, and Mike wondered what was going through the boy’s head.

“A creature of the Twisting Deceit is hunting my friend here. Can you kill it?” Jon continued, ignoring The Sandman’s comments.

“Deceit, tricky, but yes.”

“I Know two in exchange.”

Mike noticed that Jon didn’t specify what two he was offering. He wondered what two he was offering. What could a creature such as…whatever was hiding in the darkness possibly want.

“Two, now.” The Sandman demanded.

“After.” Jon countered.

The Sandman hissed louder.

“Three.” Jon counter-offered.

There was a long silence, and then there was shuffling in the sand of what Mike could only assume were a dozen bodies. Was that its children? He panicked.

“Very well.” The Sandman eventually agreed. “And that?”

“You’ve had your fill.”

Mike straightened when he realised The Sandman was addressing him.

“As have you, Watcher.”

Jon didn’t reply, and Mike wished he could see the face the boy was making.

“Tonight,” Jon said, a hint of finality in his words. Jon tightened his grip, pulled on Mike’s hand, and turned him around, leading him away in the direction they came. Mike opened his mouth to ask a question, but after everything he went through, the strain on his nerves, the burning sting in his scuffed knee and the threatening presence of The Sandman behind him, the words died in his throat. However, before he could find his voice, Jon cut him off.

“Whatever you do, don’t look back. Do not run. It will chase us.”

Just what he wanted to hear…

There was something about being told not to do something that made Mike desperately want to turn around and see exactly what would chase them. However, just as that temptation came to mind, the hair on his arm prickled once again.

The unmistakable sound of thrashing sand and slapping hands and feet grew closer to them and prickled the edge of his ear. The sound got louder and louder with each step he and Jon took. It would only be a matter of time before its huge limbs (that he somehow knew it possessed) would cover the distance and be upon them. It was trying to get them to turn around. It was trying to get them to run. Mike felt its twisted, eager face with sand falling from its mouth, practically breathing down the back of his neck.

If he turned around now, the darkness would surely rip the skin and muscle from his face and leave him to rub his wounds in razor-sharp sand.

Mike squeezed Jon’s hand tighter.

It was so dark that Jon was nothing more than a phantom hand directing him through the darkness. Mike had never, so desperately, wanted to see someone’s face before. He missed the sun. He missed the heat. He missed people.

Someone…please help.

Pleadingly, Mike looked in Jon’s direction, and another chill shuddered through him.

Out in the darkness, where the back of Jon’s head should’ve been, was a pair of shimmering, white eyes with black w-shaped irises that bore into him, staring, watching, and waiting.

His throat tightened as they continued to stare at him.

He shouldn’t be able to see anything in the dark. But why could he see them so clearly? What did it want from him? Mike’s free hand moved towards Jon, and he jumped when the eyes snapped at the encroaching appendage before returning to staring at him when he dropped his arm. The thing in front of him was not Jon.

He was holding its hand.

He wanted to let go, but then he would be alone in the darkness.

Alone with The Sandman.

He was trapped.

It became harder to breathe.

Do not turn around.

Do not run.

The eyes in front of him, watching him, held Mike’s full attention.

He needed to pull away, cry, scream, run, anything but fear kept in place – placing one foot in front of the other.

He wanted to go home.

He missed his parents.

The parents he killed with a Leitner.

He had no one. Everyone and everything had been taken from him because of the Lichtenburg Creature, and now, he was going to die to something similar.

With no other option, no other thoughts to fry his tired, exhausted mind, Mike slammed his eyes shut and put his life in the phantom hand that led him deeper into the darkness.

He was going to die here.

He had to accept that.

He didn’t know how long he had walked, his body still tugged forward by the thing holding his hand before he could no longer hear the breathing, the sand and the slapping hands and feet behind him. He didn’t care to open his eyes or to check if it was safe.

Even when he did notice, when the darkness no longer felt so oppressive, something else replaced it.

Eyes.

Every flinch, every twitch, every swallow, every sweatdrop was scrutinised and judged.

Mike’s movements became jerky and uncoordinated, but still, he pressed on.

When the thing holding his hand took a sharp turn in a northwesterly direction – not a complete left – Mike wondered where it was taking him.

Just as the thought crossed his mind, the unmistakable sensation of summer heat caressed his exposed skin, and bright light burned red against his eyelids. He didn’t bother thinking about the logistics of how he escaped before he felt his eyes swell with tears of relief. The darkness was gone. The eyes were gone. And Michael Crew collapsed, no longer able to hold himself up.

Mike felt something letting go of his hand and took that as his cue to finally open his eyes.

Mike wanted to weep at the brilliant world around him. Brightly painted Volkswagon Beetles drove down the street, the drivers not sparing them a glance. A clear, gentle breeze brushed up against his cheek, and the chatter and murmur of people blessed his ears.

The nightmare was finally over…

As Mike rubbed the tears from his eyes, Jon clicked his tongue in frustration.

Mike stared up at Jon wearily. His mind warred between visions of the disembodied hand with eyes on the back of its head and the child with a too-stern expression on his face, and from his position on the ground, he now knew, too well, that Jon wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

“There wasn’t anywhere closer to the car?” Jon asked the air, disgruntled. “Yes, thank you, I know we were lucky that we made it out without incident. Good Lord, fine. Have it your way.”

Jon turned and seemed to jump, startled at the sight of Mike on the ground. “Are…Are you alright?”

Mike stared…and stared…and somehow…somewhere…a laugh escaped his mouth. He hadn’t heard such a stupid question in so long, and either Jon was an idiot or genuinely concerned. Either way, Mike didn’t care.

He was free from the darkness. Free from the eyes.

And if Jon’s contract with the Sandman – his promise to him – was true, then he would be free of the Lichtenburg Creature once and for all.

He just needed to wait a little longer.

Seeing Michael Crew’s despair and untethered laughter at his question made Jon more uncomfortable than he thought was possible. The man appeared to be on the verge of snapping under the weight of the horrors he had just been subjected to since he switched between shooting Jon fearful and messianic glances. Jon stepped away, giving them both a moment to collect themselves.

While waiting for Mike, Jon asked The Eye for directions back to the car and updates on his great-aunt Edith and her nervous wreck of a husband. The Eye responded quickly – a ten-minute walk and spending the day relaxing – which didn’t offer enough of a distraction from the reminders that he had just helped Michael Crew.

Michael Crew, the avatar of the Vast, someone who tormented him on the same level as Jude Perry, now sat, equal parts defeated and hopeful, on the pavement with telltale signs of crying all over his face. He…He reminded him of the apocalypse.

Jon remembered he was in the past. He was eight years old. He did not know these people, and they did not know him.

He would only ever be the Pupil.

Michael Crew was human.

An ordinary man who had just gone through something unfathomably traumatic.

Michael Crew will be unable to sleep until he confirms the Branching Consciousness’ death and The Sandman and The Pupil do not Hunt him.

You are not Helen Richardson.

Jon thought he would’ve had difficulty distinguishing between the Avatar Michael Crew and…Mike. But, as he watched the man shakily pick himself off the ground, take numerous deep breaths, and oh-so cautiously check his surroundings, specifically behind him, Jon could only see a meal. A victim. Prey. Mike was not a predator on a similar or higher footing than him – not in this universe.

Jon held all the power.

In his first life, Jon was a victim – a lamb for slaughter, but here, he was an apex predator. The hunter. The spider. The arsonist. The reaper.

The Watcher.

I – finally have the power, so I killed it.

He had the power – still had the power – to kill, and yet…as Mike walked up to him and held out a shaky hand for a handshake, Jon finally believed he could help as well.

Chapter Text

Escaping what Mike could only label The Sandman’s Nest had left him exhausted and hollow as if something had scooped everything that made him Michael Crew out with a jagged melon baller held by a shaky hand before his remains were abandoned in a mortician’s freezer.

The sweet summer sun of the outside world, which he prayed was a concrete reality, did nothing to thaw the ice-cold fear etching into his soul.

Initially, he had cried his heart out when the sun touched his skin after what felt like an eternity, but it didn’t take long for him to remember that his trip into Hell had a purpose – his purpose – to get rid of the Branching Consciousness. That was what Jon called it. That was when flashes of his encounter flickered before his eyes.

Lifting his head and turning to look at Jon, a schoolboy caked in an equal amount of grime as him with cringing shoulders and exhaustion etched deep under his eyes, it made Mike sympathetic to Atlas. He couldn’t comprehend how a child so small had the weight of the world on his shoulders.

“What did you…exchange?” Mike’s voice was hoarse, dry, and scratchy.

So many questions had passed through his mind when he first resurfaced. What the hell was that thing? Why did he need to go there? Couldn’t Jon go by himself? What was happening to him? What was going to happen to him? But those were normal questions. Those questions would take too long to explain and could wait until he had a shower and a cup of something strong.

Then, Jon’s conversation with the Sandman slowly clawed to the forefront of his mind.

At the time, Mike had been too consumed with terror to examine the conversation coherently and critically. He wanted to be out of that endless void of threat and violence the second he became aware of it. But now, safely on the surface, Mike was struck with the consequences of taking the devil’s hand.

Jon might be getting those books in exchange for introducing connections, but what did Mike give for his safety?

Jon scratched his neck at a drying clump of dirt that made his shoulders tense and twitch, but his eyes were still heavy with unshakable certainty. Still, he didn’t say anything.

“What did you exchange?” Mike asked again, this time more determined.

“Victims.”

Mike’s heart faltered, and the conversation returned to him in full force.

“Two, now.”

“After.”

“…”

“Three.”

“Very well. And that?”

“You’ve had your fill.”

Three victims…

Three people who feared…the Sandman? Feared whatever the Sandman served? The entity created and fed on fear, a being so large Jon didn’t have the words to describe it adequately — three people who feared to the same extent that Mike feared his Lichtenburg scar and the Branching Consciousness would be subjected to the same horror he did.

Mike wanted to throw up.

It made him sick to his stomach.

Three people were going to die because of him.

All because he wanted to escape – to live – to survive.

The sick, twisted part of his mind whispered to him — It’s them or me.

Take them, not me.

Did he really have the right to judge Jon’s cold, callous bargaining? Wouldn’t he do the same thing if he was the one standing in front of the Sandman? Mike had been so paranoid and desperate. He went days, sometimes weeks, without sleep. He struggled to eat, and sitting still for long periods made him nervous and itch.

He wanted to be free.

The malicious whisper in his head reminded him that he had already killed his parents. He had brought A Journal of a Plague Year into his childhood home and watched and fled as rot and decay ate his parents alive. He didn’t even try to save them — his family.

…So, what were a few more people if it meant he could be free?

Mike dry heaved once more before wiping away the spittle dripping down his chin. With wobbly arms, he mustered what little strength he had and pushed himself to his feet. His knee still stung, and his leg was likely caked in his blood. He was so tired.

“I—” Mike stammered, “…Let’s just go…”

Jon stared at him with deep concentration, examining him like a bug under a microscope. But, it seemed, once he saw what he wanted, he turned away, unbothered by their dishevelled state and walked out of whatever alley they emerged into towards the main street. Mike immediately jolted in horror at the thought of people seeing them in their condition.

“Wait!” Mike shouted, then cringed at the loudness of his voice.

“What is it?” Jon stopped and asked.

“I— We— We can’t be seen like this,” he said.

Jon blinked, and then his eyebrows furrowed almost comically. Then, as if something dawned on him, Jon frowned, and Mike thought he imagined a hint of a sneer before it vanished under the mask of disinterest.

“Either I guide us back to the car that’s ten minutes away, or I can collect my books and leave you here.”

Damn, the kid was blunt, but Mike knew he was right.

The alley didn’t look anything like the entrance to the boggy dam they used to enter the Sandman’s Nest. Mike didn’t know this part of Chiswick. They could’ve turned up in Kensington or Richmond for all he knew.

Every fibre of his being screamed at him not to leave the alley, not to be seen by other people.

But then, like a puppet, one leg moved forward, then another, and he felt a little better with his mind focused on the simple action of putting one foot in front of the other.

So, Mike kept his head down, eyes trained on his feet, and Jon led the way.

Mike knew that people were staring when they stepped out into the open. The judgment passersby gave him only emphasised what a wretched mess he must’ve been.

His eyes must’ve been comically puffy and blistering red. His fear-induced tears must’ve been visible across his cheeks. He limped from the bleeding and festering gash on his knee, and he was soaked to the bone and stank of stagnant pond water.

And somehow, through all that, the Lichtenburg scar that crawled up his neck, he knew, remained clean and glaring in the daylight.

While Jon, his guide to his car, had only suffered from soggy clothes and stink, Mike couldn’t help but cringe under the belief that all the judgemental eyes were solely on him. He tried to shuffle around the handful of people they passed, but it seemed like he never gave them enough berth. He couldn’t help checking each alley they passed, thinking there might’ve been vagrants down there sneering at him and smugly believing they were also above him because they weren’t in the state he was in.

All Mike wanted to do was hide in his car and go home.

Didn’t Jon say the walk was only ten minutes?

Why was it taking so long?

Jon had even pulled up far ahead of him as if he had all the energy in the world. Mike was envious. Children were different to adults. They had more energy. They were more resilient. But that didn’t stop him from being bitter about it.

Then, the eyes, the ones from the darkness, bore down on him.

Mike flinched.

Jon stopped and turned to look at him.

And Mike’s stomach dropped.

Jon – no – the…the thing in front of him – its eyes were hooded, brimming with swelling fullness that reminded him of a cat that got the cream. He could see satisfaction in how it seemed to witness every misfortune on his body and agonising thought that dug its hooks into his brain. It appeared to preen the more his discomfort grew. Cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. And the only way Mike could describe the boy with haunting, wide yet hollow eyes was that it wanted more.

Mike trembled but couldn’t look away even though his mind screamed at him to move.

Then it blinked, and the chains, the grip on his throat, the weight on his chest, the poison in his veins disappeared.

“…Sorry. It— Uh…” Jon took a deep breath, looked away, and wrung his hands awkwardly. Mike still got the impression that Jon could still see him though. Then he grumbled something that Mike could barely catch. He thought he said, “…another Ma—… if he saw…three already…should move to… Never mind.”

Jon continued muttering to himself even as he stalked off, leaving Mike behind. Mike didn’t know whether Jon was lost in his own little world or wanted to give him some space after whatever the hell he had just experienced, but Mike wasn’t in a rush to catch up.

His heart still thundered in his chest even when his first courageous step in Jon’s direction felt like lead. He pushed ahead despite the aches that wracked his body, and his head moved like sludge.

He had so many questions, but if he was being honest, his paranoia was the only thing driving him forward.

In the state that he was in, was it even safe for him to drive?

The car windows had to be rolled down; the smell was so bad.

Jon propped his chin in his palm, pushing his face as far out the window as possible without looking ridiculously uncomfortable. They didn’t say anything, unwilling to break the silence and address the elephant in the room.

Mike couldn’t fault him in the slightest. Even with the poor air conditioning on full blast to get additional air circulation, it did nothing to combat the stench.

It was as if the…infection couldn’t – wouldn’t – leave until it had seeped and buried underneath their skin.

Mike’s skin crawled. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It took all his self-control not to jerk the wheel off the road to scratch himself. He hated it.

A cloud passed over the sun, and the world sunk into sudden darkness. Mike slammed the brakes, and the car behind him blared his horn.

It was a cloud.

It was just a stupid cloud!

What was wrong with him?!

…but it was so dark…the little voice in his head whispered that sounded like a child.  

Mike gingerly accelerated the car again, desperately trying to focus on driving responsibly.

“I—” Mike somehow found his voice again. He hunched, trembling over the steering wheel. His heart was racing again, and his palms were clammy with sweat. “What’s happening to— What did you do?!”

His voice cracked and had scratched itself hoarse from crying and dehydration. He didn’t have enough liquid in his body to cry again, no matter how much he wanted to.

Jon didn’t turn his head away from the window. The wind rushed past their ears, and for a moment, Mike didn’t think the kid heard him. But just as he was about to demand answers, to take his eyes off the road and look at him, Jon’s shoulders tensed.

“There are only a few ways to—” Jon’s jaw audibly snapped shut, and the sound of grinding teeth made Mike cringe. Jon seemed to wrestle with himself to continue talking. “—throw off an…entity Hunting you…need to…stop…fearing it.”

Jon’s breathing turned ragged.

“The Branching Consciousness is hard…to ignore.” Jon gulped a lung full of air and seemed to regain his facilities. “So, I—” he paused, contemplating, “I redirected your fear to something else and will starve it by force.”

What on earth was that supposed to mean? Redirect fear?

“And what does that mean?”

The tension in Jon’s shoulders tightened, and then he sighed.

“Humans like categorising things — simplify the world into neat little boxes. Many in the past have tried to give labels to The Fears, but… An acquaintance, I suppose you could call him, once told me to think of them like colours. You don’t fear the dark because of the darkness alone. Do you fear the dark because of the monster you can’t see or because the void seems so endless that you think you will never escape?”

Mike shuddered as he remembered exactly that.

Jon took another deep breath.

“The Branching Consciousness is closest to the aspect by the names: The Twisting Deceit, The Spiral, It Is Not What It Seems. It confuses the senses, drives paranoia, and appears to warp reality. Fearing it is like blood in the water. Once it starts, it never stops. However, The Spiral is just one aspect. You were feeding The Spiral, but I made you fear two others. You will stop fearing The Branching Consciousness with your attention diverted.”

“I-I’m not following. You’re saying two completely different things. My fear is what’s making this thing stalk me to the ends of the earth, but now you're saying by being even more afraid, I’m going to be starving it? How does that make any sense?”

“…I can’t believe I’m agreeing with Peter Lukas on analogies,” Jon grumbled, “Picture it like this — you’re bleeding into a glass of water. The density of fear is crystal clear. The Branching Consciousness wants that glass. But since you began fearing…other aspects…I’ve tipped that glass into a bathtub of water. It’s diluted somewhat. You’ll still fear those things. It’ll take time to adjust — it’s so much to take in — but they shouldn’t be able to find you within a crowd now.”

The ‘hopefully’ went unsaid.

Mike didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he should do.

Jon said he was safe.

He didn’t feel safe.

Honestly, he felt like he was the furthest thing from safe.

What had his life become? What was he going to do now?

If the Branching Consciousness was gone, what was he going to do with himself?

In his peripheral vision, Mike saw Jon point at the street he needed to turn down. He could have another crisis later.

He turned onto an upper-class street lined with picturesque terrace houses. Not bothering to find the correct number, Mike pulled the car over, unbuckled, grabbed his bag from the back seat, dug out the collection of cursed books and passed them to Jon. The stack of books practically buried the kid.

“Don’t be a stranger…I suppose,” Mike offered wearily, unsure if he wanted to continue their brief and chaotic acquaintance.

Jon opened the door, and his face pulled into utter disgust.

“I’d rather hope not.”

Mike didn’t know why, but he laughed. Whatever it was that could make such a serious and dower kid like Jon grimace, like his parents just told him he needed to eat all of his vegetables, was so jarring Mike couldn’t help but laugh.

Jon blinked, stared at him, and then, for the first time, Mike saw the kid smile.

“Uh, thanks for the books,” Jon muttered, a blush dusting his cheeks. “And…uh, I know I’m not the best…person to turn to in a crisis, but uh, if you need me, just say so, and I’ll come.”

“How will you — you know what, I don’t want to know. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Jon nodded and walked down the street.

Out of curiosity, Mike watched him. Jon didn’t acknowledge him and the fact that he hadn’t driven off; instead, ignoring him, he walked up the stairs to one of the houses and stopped in front of the yellow front door.