Jon thinks he might actually be having a nightmare. A proper nightmare made by his own sleeping mind rather than the ineffable entity that now governed his existence. The novelty of it makes him push his body to move passed its stupor into the hall. Outside, he only makes it a few paces before he hears unnatural, scrabbling movement: He doesn't have a chance to go looking or even form a hypothesis before the hyena monster rounds the corner. The acid wash of adrenaline makes Jon very quickly aware he's not asleep at all. —That aside, he's long past dreaming about monsters that actually look like monsters. It's far too pedestrian for his mind to have made up.
Jon stumbles back to his room, slamming the door closed just as the hyena creature barrels into it. Screaming rarely helps; Jonathan knows this with precise, statistical certainty. But on very rare occasions it is the difference between life and death, and in most instances it is really the only thing you can do. Bracing his back against the door and clutching the handle he starts yelling at the top of his lungs. After the first rusty croak, his voice rolls out sonorously in a thickly British accent.
"Help—! Help me!Martin! Basira! I'm here—" His voice falters, lost for breath. He inhales impatiently, swallowing past the mad beating of his heart as the creature rattles the door with its weight. "Help!"
B. After Monsters/The Train (CW wounds/medical) Jon would never be lucky enough to escape danger without a bit of mauling. At some point he had been gashed in the thigh during all the scuffing. Back at the platform he collapses into a chair and starts to gingerly unpeel the blood-soaked bandaged, scowling when the wound still looks fresh. This should have healed by now: that was supposed to be part of whole being a spooky monster Healthcare package. Did his regenerative abilities only work when it was inconvenient for him? Ludicrous as that might be, he couldn't entirely discount it.
Jon's a distinctive looking person. An Indian man in his early thirties, exhaustion and the grey streaking through his overgrown dark hair making him look older. Dappled all over him—his face, neck, both arms, legs left bare by the hospital gown—are perfectly circular dime-sized scars, a shade paler than his dark skin. The back of his right hand is stripped with a thick burn scar that heads to his palm.
Later, on the train, Jon is too jittery for unconsciousness. Wearily, he'll flag down a passer by. "I don't suppose you have any cigarettes on you?"
C. The Safehouse Back at the safehouse, Jon can be found laughing over a box of freeze-dried grasshoppers. He sounds a bit hysterical.
((If you're interested in a different scenario, let me know! praecipitanter; Discord Leigh#8762. I can also switch to small text!))
Jonathan Sims | The Magnus Archives
Jon thinks he might actually be having a nightmare. A proper nightmare made by his own sleeping mind rather than the ineffable entity that now governed his existence. The novelty of it makes him push his body to move passed its stupor into the hall. Outside, he only makes it a few paces before he hears unnatural, scrabbling movement: He doesn't have a chance to go looking or even form a hypothesis before the hyena monster rounds the corner. The acid wash of adrenaline makes Jon very quickly aware he's not asleep at all. —That aside, he's long past dreaming about monsters that actually look like monsters. It's far too pedestrian for his mind to have made up.
Jon stumbles back to his room, slamming the door closed just as the hyena creature barrels into it. Screaming rarely helps; Jonathan knows this with precise, statistical certainty. But on very rare occasions it is the difference between life and death, and in most instances it is really the only thing you can do. Bracing his back against the door and clutching the handle he starts yelling at the top of his lungs. After the first rusty croak, his voice rolls out sonorously in a thickly British accent.
"Help—! Help me! Martin! Basira! I'm here—" His voice falters, lost for breath. He inhales impatiently, swallowing past the mad beating of his heart as the creature rattles the door with its weight. "Help!"
B. After Monsters/The Train (CW wounds/medical)
Jon would never be lucky enough to escape danger without a bit of mauling. At some point he had been gashed in the thigh during all the scuffing. Back at the platform he collapses into a chair and starts to gingerly unpeel the blood-soaked bandaged, scowling when the wound still looks fresh. This should have healed by now: that was supposed to be part of whole being a spooky monster Healthcare package. Did his regenerative abilities only work when it was inconvenient for him? Ludicrous as that might be, he couldn't entirely discount it.
Jon's a distinctive looking person. An Indian man in his early thirties, exhaustion and the grey streaking through his overgrown dark hair making him look older. Dappled all over him—his face, neck, both arms, legs left bare by the hospital gown—are perfectly circular dime-sized scars, a shade paler than his dark skin. The back of his right hand is stripped with a thick burn scar that heads to his palm.
Later, on the train, Jon is too jittery for unconsciousness. Wearily, he'll flag down a passer by. "I don't suppose you have any cigarettes on you?"
C. The Safehouse
Back at the safehouse, Jon can be found laughing over a box of freeze-dried grasshoppers. He sounds a bit hysterical.
((If you're interested in a different scenario, let me know!