Chapter Text
Everything is spinning. And it is not fun anymore.
They feel horrifically small, unsteady on limbs they've never once had, not to mention the shifting sand beneath them. The Falling Titan, reduced to this. The embodiment of the unknowable size of the sky, the sea, the universe, now trapped in a human body no more than a speck of dust on a ball of dirt and metal. This is embarrassing.
They can't get these stupid limbs stable. They keep slipping and wobbling, letting the Vast itself collapse into the dust. It can't stand up, let alone fly like it allowed its Avatars. Where are they? The Vast is in the physical world now. They should be with them, conducting a ritual. What is this?
"Hey, easy," they hear somebody say. Vast recognizes that voice, the one Simon spoke with. Martin? But how? "You're definitely not used to this. Here, carefully…."
They feel him take their stupid, insignificant hands in his own, equally meaningless, gently helping them to their feet. Blinking rapidly, clearing the dirt and dust from their eyes, they can finally see him properly. A large, careful figure, worrying himself to death in a soft jumper. He's barely shorter than this new form. How embarrassing.
But he's not the only one with them. It can hear giggling, quiet brooding, gravelly mumbling about dirt and pressure. And… something else. Are those… gears clicking?
A quick glance reveals sixteen figures in front of them. One of them is recognized instantly; the Eye's precious Archivist, a thin figure in a worn green cardigan. The rest are harder to discern.
The giggling one is easy. A freakishly tall figure, just as thin as Jon, with a too-wide smile and an outfit compiling a century of colorful styles mixed together mercilessly. The Spiral.
"Where are we?" The Vast asks, voice cracking. They cough, silently cursing this vessel.
"I think the better question is, 'who are we?'" The Spiral replies, tilting its head with an audible crack. Its voice rasps the same way, but it hardly notices. "Not that I'm supposed to be a 'who' at all. But as it would seem, we've all been cursed!"
"Liberated," Jon corrects. Hovering behind him protectively is someone who can only be the Watcher; the insufferable dark academia, the too-many pupils in its own eyes, it all points to one Entity. Jon continues; "You've all been given human forms. Your abilities, they're… muted. Not gone."
Martin swats away a melancholy figure in a clear rain coat, their figure blurred by fog, tears misting their eyes. That would be the Lonely.
And so begins the process of elimination. "Right," Jon sighs. "We still need to figure out who's…." The Spiral begins to raise their too-long hand "…what. Who's what. Happy now, Distortion?"
It lowers its hand.
Dark and Eye sniff each other out immediately, nearly starting a fistfight that attracts the Slaughter. That's six. Somebody is already digging into the sand with their bare hands, undoubtedly the Buried. Sitting quietly beside them, musing about the poor quality of aforementioned sand for graves, can only be the End. Martin has already confiscated two lighters and a box of matches from the Desolation. Nine.
Who's left? The Web (found knitting with string nobody wants to question the origins of), the Corruption (already coaxing insects from their hiding places), the Flesh (…sitting in the sand, staring ominously at Jon's chest), the Hunt (holding a dead snake and stalking another as we speak), and the Stranger. Nowhere to be found.
Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, just in time to miss Martin making a threatening gesture at the Flesh. "Great. Just great. We've already lost one."
He turns his attention to the gathered crowd. "Martin, you're in charge. I'm going to find the Stranger. Good lord…." And with that, he walks off, huffing and grumbling, kicking sand up onto his skirt with every uneven step.
There's a moment of silence before chaos erupts.
The Fears are shouting over each other, each one demanding, in their own way, to know how they've been separated, torn apart, reduced to fragile flesh, humanized--
"SHUT UP!" Martin shouts, startling everbody around him. The Slaughter chuckles darkly, but a glare from the man makes even the embodiment of violence shut its trap. He's done pretending to be the sweet cinnamon roll of a man, and he isn't fond of getting shouted at. "I don't know why you all expect me to have the answers! Obviously I don't know how this happened, it shouldn't be possible! But I can't say it's an unwelcome change. I was getting tired of you all controlling my life."
The Web giggles at that, a high, tinkling sound that carries on the desert air. "Oh, something else is always in control, Martin!" She begins, holding up the spiderweb cat's cradle it had between its second pair of arms. She's likely about to continue before Martin interrupts.
"But not you. Not anymore. And I don't know how much you were part of Annabelle, but I am not letting you fill me with spiders."
"Of course not," it purrs sweetly, thought her fangs are bared now. "I shall perish the thought. Though I maintain that you would have been a lovely spider!"
"He's mine, itsy-bitsy." Martin jolts slightly; he'd forgotten the Lonely was even here. He has to suppress a laugh not a second later, as he processes the insult. For a moment, he forgets to be mad about the claim of ownership. The Lonely's voice echoes softly again; "You had your chance to take him, and you did not."
"Oh, would both of you fuckers shut up!?" The Slaughter snarls, stepping forward to shove the Lonely out of its way. It doesn't try that with the Weaver, though. Those eight eyes were fixed on it with an unsettling aura of I-fucking-dare-you. "The Beholding cunt has something to say, and if I find it important, it's fuckin important!"
The Eye steps forward gracefully, though its eyes are still downcast from the loss of its Archivist. "Yes, I've noticed something odd. Thank you, Frenzy."
"Thank yourself, voyeur prick."
"Charming." The Eye turns to address the gathered crowd like a teacher. "Including Martin, there are fifteen of us here. That means that fourteen of us are what used to be an amorphous force feeding on the fears of humanity."
"Thank you for the history lesson," the Web hums. "Would you like to skip the formal definitions and tell them already?"
"I was getting to that, Weaver."
"I'm sure you were."
"Oi," the Hunt growls. Its ears are sharp, elven, and currently pinned to the sides of its head. "Stranger's gone. What's the fourteenth?"
Everybody stops dead. The low hum of activity and ambient passive-aggressive conversation ceases entirely. Thirteen pairs of eyes (well, probably more than that) search for the outlier. And just as they all land on the same being, half held together by rusting metal and covered with radiation warnings, Martin sighs.
"Well," he breathes, "I was hoping you all knew about the new one already."