#choke tma

[thefleshyougoveggie]

this hole i saw on my walk in the woods is sooo the buried coded

[tivxtl]

Chester??

[tunababyyyy]

early season 3 jon + the admiral, on a mission

[avariceaside]

Space time out with @wolfythewitch's tma oc

[bellpipers]

The sad sleep deprived man himself: Jonathan Sims!

[touch-tone-crowley]

I spent a lot of time on the London underground yesterday and it made me truly understand the fear of the buried.

Being stuck underground in that stifling, itchy heat; feeling it suffocate and press down on you from all sides. The grinding sounds of the trains coming to a stop at every station makes me all too aware that there is no way out. I'm trapped here and so is everyone else on this carriage, with only the harsh, manufactured glow of the flickering lights above.

We are all buried down here and I'm not sure we can get out.

[flowersfrombefore]

Martin Blackwood is so fucking for real because if Jon yelled at me to sit like That™️ in mag56 I too would simply do anything he asked from that point forward including admitting my application fraud.

[just-a-lidle-creacher]

it is dark and i cannot breathe. i can feel the dirt surrounding me on all sides. i don’t know how i got here. i remember the hands. hands on my waist, hands on my chest, hands on my throat. i remember the choking sensation i felt every second of it, that awful fear. i couldn’t breathe, i cannot breathe. i cannot see. i remember a hand on my chin, bringing my lips up to meet his. it wasn’t always like this. there was a time before, before he was so breathtaking. we were friends before we became lovers. we were lovers before the choke. i remember when he first started to smell like dirt. the earthy smell was so strong i could barely breathe. i almost thought he was seeing someone else behind my back, but no. it was just him. i got used to the smell, i got used to the dirt under his fingernails and his far too chapped lips. i loved him far too much to leave. but i should’ve. if i had left, i wouldn’t be here now, with dirt in my lungs and my throat and my mouth. it coats my skin and ears and eyes. i have no mouth, but i must scream. i cannot scream, for the dirt keeps me close. i miss my lover, but he is here with me. holding me close in the heart of the choke.

[freindsssssss]

Listening to metal and being autistic is a fun combination because I already can't tell what people are saying half the time so it's like. Youconsee California wiowarrlon Brando's eyes? Fire lyric. Efees blight tryatamylife I doooobeeloSTORM? I agree how relatable. UHDIHHUDHUSJUTGQYHIK? You said it sister. I too was a worm before I was a man.

[openlikeavivisection]

archive? WORMS?? TAPE RECORDER???? im normal im normal im normal

[samwise1548]

I can't believe you'd do this!

That you'd LEAVE me like this!

You SWORE to me. You SWOre, yOU BAStard.

[thegirlwholikesstims]

the buried

with dirt, cave, and coffin stims

🪦 🪦 🪦

🪦 🪦 🪦

🪦 🪦 🪦

divider by @saradika-graphics

[oh-shit-i-spilled-my-genderfluid]

Did some digital art! It’s been a long time since I last did it

[sydneighsays]

Ep 97 when Nikkie vibe checked Jon

[rainbowchewynuggets]

TMA: Encore #8

Jon: This way.

He leads his team steadily through doorway after doorway in the labyrinth of stone. The others follow uneasily, eyes mostly fixed on the light but acutely aware of the darkness around them. The hallway keeps going and going, twisting and splitting.

Jon: Stay close. He left a lot of dead ends down here.

Sasha: Won’t he come after us once he realizes we’re gone?

Jon: He doesn’t need us. We’ve done enough. With any luck, he can get Prentiss and Jonah on his own.

Jon’s words are confident enough, but his silhouette is stiff. His head keeps flicking between untaken passageways when it’s not set on the map or the path ahead. Tim notices, especially. He could swear Jon’s had them double back a couple times, but it’s hard to tell.

They pass by an inner chamber of the Panopticon, the long drop to the center watchtower that was left half-submerged in cement after the prison closed. The bundles of TNT the other Jon–the Not-Jon–strapped to the stone pillars weeks before are still in place.

Sasha: Where’d he get all that?

Tim: He can disappear doors. I imagine he could pop one up in a demolition warehouse.

Martin: And we’re just leaving that here?

Jon: Nope.

Jon tucks the map into his palm with two fingers and digs a small square device out of his pocket. He holds it in the light for just a second. It’s the spiderweb lighter.

Sasha: Jesus. Are you serious, Jon?

Jon: None of us will be able to put this behind us if the archives are still standing. Besides, if they’re helping Jonah, it can only be good to get rid of them. I was going to go back and pull the fire alarm after you all got clear so the place will be empty. Come on.

Martin: But won’t it… hurt? We’re all tied to it through the Eye.

Jon: It might be uncomfortable, but nothing serious. None of you are that deeply attached, I think.

Martin: What about you?

Jon: *staring forward* I’ll be fine.

Tim: Assuming the place will even let you light the fuse.

Jon pauses, then concedes a troubled sigh. He returns to the map.

Jon: Okay, we need to turn right at the next fork.

His arm instinctively raises when he looks up, casting light on a figure standing motionless in the dead air and staring into the brightness as it flashes on his glasses. Not-Jon.

The group can do nothing but chatter and stumble in total darkness. Martin is the first to reach a wall. He runs his hand along its odd smoothness, searching for a corner–an escape route.

He finds a light switch.

Martin: What?

He flicks it, and he finds himself back in one of the tiny offices of the archives with Tim and Sasha. Tim immediately tries the door and curses. Locked.

~

Jon can barely breathe. His fingers pry at other fingers no thicker than his own. Yet they are as immovable as coils of iron. The scarred hand is fixed at the meeting of his collar and neck, pressed just hard enough to hold him in place. The back of Jon’s head is tiled at an uncomfortable angle against the wall as a reflex to keep his airway open. He kicks at the man holding him, but the rest of him might as well be made of steel, too.

Jon coughs indignantly.

He recognizes that they’re standing in one of the cluttered storage rooms at the back corner of the archives. Piles of file boxes and unused chairs dampen what little noise he can make. The veins in his neck pump against his captor’s fingers at an accelerated rate.

NJ: I think we still need to clear some things up, so you’re going to stay still and listen. Really listen this time.

Not-Jon starts by apologizing. He knew from experience that being honest from the beginning wouldn’t guarantee success. However, he reminds Jon that he did warn him there could be difficult outcomes from the beginning.

Jon doesn’t say anything.

Not-Jon reiterates the stakes. That being able to progress with total control is antithetical to thwarting the forces that seek to consume them. Because they are the only force of absolute control. He says that Jon needs to try harder to keep the others onboard. He speaks more emphatically than before, trying to suppress his frustration.

Jon’s focus has drifted. He just noticed that his doppelganger isn’t wearing the ratty sweater he has been, just a black t-shirt. And he’s sweating.

Not-Jon requires an answer. Does Jon understand how important this plan is now?

Jon stays silent.

NJ: I’m wasting my breath aren’t I?

Jon can’t tell if the grip is getting tighter or if his neck is getting irritated from the tension. It’s a little harder to breathe.

Jon: I knew that I locked the door when we were talking before. You let the others find out on purpose. You counted on them interfering.

NJ: Because I can count on them acting against me more reliably than I can count on you cooperating.

Jon’s eyes narrow.

Not-Jon tells him that a big part of trial and error is managing variables. Looking for patterns in how they fail and complicate things. And the biggest issue by far, across all possible scenarios, in trying to prevent the Fears from winning is…

NJ: You, Jon. Nearly every time. Because despite the fact that you would have willfully stumbled through their plan out of sheer curiosity, you simply cannot seem to stick to this plan that you didn’t make yourself. Even though, technically, you did.

Jon is stung. His face sours defensively.

Jon: You can’t blame me for knowing you too well to trust you.

Not-Jon lowers his head to meet Jon’s eyes squarely–which unsettles Jon, recalling that they’re both supposedly the same height.

NJ: You would know, wouldn’t you?

An uncomfortable beat passes. The hand at Jon’s throat feels too hot.

NJ: I know that you brought your team down into the Tunnels just to lead them in circles. You had no intention of escaping. Not now, anyway. You were more concerned with provoking me. Finding out what I can do. What I really am.

Jon pipes up quickly.

Jon: How was I supposed to stop them from trying to leave? I was protecting them. You were spying on us. You could even see us in the Tunnels! I had no idea what could be waiting between us and the exit!

The way Not-Jon is looking at him is making Jon nervous and talkative. He accuses Not-Jon of not being able to separate the Fears’ influences from his own motivations. Not-Jon replies that that’s easy for him to say. For decades, he’s had no choice but to try to make good from a very difficult place. Jon says that’s not good enough. He can no longer be convinced that Not-Jon is ultimately on their side. The time-worn man lets out a long painful exasperated breath. He sets his jaw, never breaking eye contact.

Not-Jon: Yes. I’m not on your side. Or the Fears’ side. I am on my side. The side where the world doesn’t end. I have learned from the many, many times that I have been in this spot that being on your side does not achieve that. As much as I always hope that things will be different the next time, I have no obligation to work with you, reassure you, or save you. I am here to be the thing that gets you to be on my side, and I will force you if I have to.

Jon feels surrounded by his counterpart as it begins describing the apocalypse that has been lingering in the back of his mind for the past several weeks. If asked, Jon could already vividly recall each domain of intense suffering that had riddled the landscape. He had relistened to it several times to spur himself forward in moments of weakness. But as he hears it now from the mouth of the Archivist, it spreads through his senses like a cancer. A cacophony of wailing and screaming drowns out the pounding in his ears. The meaning of time dissolves in the freezing, burning, acrid wind that whips at his skin and tongue. The individual terror mills, each unique in their unwatchable intricacy, crowd his vision in a kaleidoscope. He is paralyzed. Speechless.

The trance is broken by a soft knock at the door.

Rosie: Mr. Sims?

Not-Jon pauses. Jon is busy reeling.

NJ: *clears throat* Rosie?

Rosie: Sorry to interrupt your reading. Your appointment just arrived.

Not-Jon raises his head. He had almost forgot.

NJ: Melanie.

Melanie has been sitting here for fifteen minutes.

Jon enters, straightening himself up. He pauses, realizing he’s never seen her face before.

Jon: *a little hoarse* Melanie King?

Melanie: That’s me. Do you make a habit of keeping people waiting, or is it just for me?

Jon: Uh–no, I’m sorry, Miss King. I just needed a minute.

Melanie: Hmph. I was beginning to worry you had already heard of me.

Jon remembers the internet fiasco that brought her in originally.

Jon: I… have heard a bit.

He takes her statement, just as it appeared in the tapes. Once she’s finished, she asks what he thinks.

Jon stares into his notepad, at the notes he didn’t take. Her encounter with the avatars lurking in the abandoned hospital and her later history with the other Jon plays back in his mind like microfilm as the fresh imprint of the apocalypse scrolls by further in the background, peeking brightly through the gaps in his memory. He closes the notebook and looks at her.

He advises her to get as far away from the factors of the incident as she can, and to avoid any further supernatural encounters. They’re dangerous, and her health could be at risk. She protests in confusion, but he insists. He says that she might have gotten into this thinking she can handle it, but she’ll find herself in trouble sooner than later. A lot of people have died over less. She asks him questions about other incidents. Professional confidentiality would forbid him to answer, but he feels compelled to overrule it for this. He replies as briefly and vaguely as he can without compromising the gravity of his answers. Yes. Yes. Of course. Yes, it gets worse than that. Melanie’s expression becomes less scrutinizing as the conversation progresses.

She slumps back in her chair and searches his face.

Melanie: I don’t care.

Jon: What do you mean?

Melanie: This stuff has been my life for years, and I never even broke the surface. Something serious is clearly going on, and I’m not gonna bail just because there’s a chance it’ll go wrong. Even if it’s a big chance. It’s not like anyone else is doing anything about it.

Jon kicks himself.

Jon: You should really let the Institute handle that kind of investigation.

Melanie: Based on what you’ve said, you honestly don’t seem prepared to do much more than sit and file paperwork.

Jon’s fingers screw together.

Jon: I wish I could.

Melanie: Then, do.

She gets up to leave.

Jon: Wait.

She stops at the door. He speaks in a flattened tone that almost comes out as a whisper.

Jon: Don’t ever contact this institute again.

She scoffs and shuts the door hard after her. Jon exhales. He stares at his knuckles, deep in thought.

By the time he exits the interview room, the others appear to have gone home.

------------

Hope you’ll pardon the change in format. Here’s why, if you missed it. This is actually gonna be more detailed than an outline. Part fic/script, part comic. Spooky story with pictures. Enjoy. Glad to be back making it. Can’t wait for you to see the end of it.

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[levaagrace]

📢 JON ‘THE ARCHIVIST’ SIMS WAS GROOMED 📢

Call it what it fucking is.