joel+john

The circus was Russian. This brought up two very different but very important questions. The first was how he could sort of make out the words, because he really had no idea how to read Russian. The second, and slightly more pressing, was how the hell Joel McGreggor knew these people. As far as he knew (and from what he could remember of that book, though it admittedly wasn't much), Joel had never gone to Russia. He didn't know anybody Russian, probably. Then again, it's not like he pressed, either. Joel made it pretty damn clear what would happen if he did that again- he wanted to walk the walk just as much as he talked the talk.

It was funny coincidence that he was mostly wearing clothes that proclaimed some sort of personal identity. A Stanford tee shirt sat comfortably under a zip-up sweatshirt for Yale, and though it probably wouldn't do anything for whatever the circus was supposed to be doing, a bitter part of him laughed at the supposed irony. At least this identity was closer to his education than his job description.

They were on the fairgrounds, but not quite in the big top. People wandered around, though John couldn't be bothered to look closely at what they were thinking. Doing that too much made his eyes hurt, so he tried to look at everything else instead. Other tends littered the ground, with the occasional carnival game, ride, and food stand. There were lines to each of those, too, but John noted that the rides never actually slowed down, but the people that he saw on them always seemed to change, and that face was not a face was not a face---

Walking through the grounds gave him a headache, even if he was at Joel's side. There were too many bright lights and colors, carnival rides that he felt might be going terribly, terribly wrong. He swore that he saw a tent labeled freak show (are those legal to have in the United States, John wondered to himself and maybe a little out loud), and he swore that he saw a tiger (is that legal to have just wandering around, isn't that endangered or something?, John wondered out loud), but he couldn't wander very far. Partially that he didn't trust himself not to get lost here forever, but partially because this wasn't his place. It seemed much less certain than the tall filing cabinets in his Archive.

He was almost sure that it was dangerous.

"I feel like I should take my glasses off," he said to Joel, pulling his glasses off for the third time in the past seven minutes and cleaning them off on the sleeve of his sweatshirt. If he couldn't see something, then it wouldn't hurt him as much. Except... He knew just as well as Joel probably did that if he had a chance to see something, he had to watch. John tried not to leave himself so easy to read. "Um. Where do we start?"

---

This is not the first time Joel McGreggor has been to the circus. It will most certainly not be the last, either; though he does not often toss his lot in with them, he is as much a member of The Circus of The Other as he is still human-- that is to say, questionably, but certainly. When he enters the fairgrounds those present-- those who know-- greet him warmly, comfortably, and Joel smiles back at them with a mouth too full of teeth and keeps his posture relaxed. The air is full of screams of pleasure and screams of fear, a terror too thick and loud to be benign.

Not that he cares, much.

He'd taken the tape recorder from John without really letting him realize he'd had it in the first place. A fledgling archivist-- a fledgling Beholder-- needed a record. Joel was content to provide the record, but on his own terms. This is a favor for John. A favor for Vanessa and Joseph and the Eye. It makes his skin crawl. So, the tape recorder is tucked into his long coat, where it will remain, against his heart.

Joel takes a drag off of his cigarette and glances towards John with an expression that's almost bemused. Holding onto identity through education. He'd admire that; his Ma would've liked this boy.

"Yer prob'ly gonna want those on, pumpkin." His drawl is lazy and lightly affectionate. A favor for the Eye. The Archivist needs to know, and in order to know, he must have the very sense of it ripped away from him. So it goes. So it goes. "Ain't gonna matter much if y'leave 'em off or not, though. Y'gonna see what y'supposed t'see." Joel plucks the cigarette from between his teeth and exhales smoke again, his gleaming eyes glancing over the fairgrounds. The Ringmaster is not present. He is the strongest presence here. He likes the feeling, emanating from all around them and making him feel fed. There will be statements from the circus. John will hear more of it than he wants to, Joel thinks.

John did not want to hold onto him, and insisted this was not a date, so Joel does not put a hand on John's shoulder to lead him. He does not take him by the hand, though he will remain close to him, a presence and an anchor-- what irony, that the strongest feature of the unknowing will be the very thing that John will have to latch onto so as not to lose himself into it. He'd find it cute, if it weren't so god damned pitiful. Joel won't force it, though. John will have to choose for himself, as he's always inevitably going to have to.

He drops the cigarette and extinguishes it beneath his boot.

"Y'stay with me." His tone is firm, and he does not look at John, his attention drifting towards the merry-go-round. He's tempted. Mighty tempted. "Y'wander off'n y'stop bein' my responsibility, got it? Could have a good time. Or y'could endure somethin' y'sister would kill me for leavin' you to." Amusement creeps back into his voice, and McGreggor tilts his head back slightly, breathing in deep and slow as a distant scream comes from the big top.

The tape recorder clicked on thirty minutes ago. He feels it whirring against his chest, some sickening vibration making it hard for him to enjoy himself as much as he'd like to.

"Keep yer eyes open while yer at it, pumpkin." Distant affection. "Can't recommend closin' em fer too long."

---

He put his glasses on about as quickly as he had taken them off, blinking a couple of times like they would allow his eyes to make more sense of the world. The sounds were unnerving at best, and he knew that people were screaming but he couldn't tell why. There were both too many things here that could cause fear, and not enough. If he wasn't careful, he knew that he would lose himself to it just like everybody else was.

The morning after was going to be interesting. Part of him wondered how many of them he would see in his office later. Another, more morbid part of him wondered how many of them he would see in the news.

"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," he said, and for a brief moment, his eyes glazed over. "This isn't my domain, I have little power here-" But, that was weird and only lasted for a second. He shook himself out of it, unconsciously stepping a little closer to Joel. This still wasn't a date, but John was a pragmatic guy. He knew just as well as anybody that if he wandered off, he'd be dead meat. Joel, as much as he didn't like it, was really his only chance at keeping his head on straight.

He fisted his hands in his pockets anyway. If he really, really needed it, he'd be able to grab onto Joel's arm and ride it out. Here's hoping he didn't need it, right?

"Eyes open, yeah. It's kind of useless to be here if I can't see what I'm doing." Not saying that he wouldn't close them anyway, for a moment, but that was human nature. What would happen if he tried to pull that, anyway? Would the big bad clowns come and pluck them out? Oh, Jesus Christ, he just walked onto the set of It, because where else would he find clowns(?) that liked playing with exact and precise fears? Part of him was amused by the concept, but most of him was slightly unnerved. He looked around again like it was a nervous habit. "But, that's not really telling me a lot, is it? There's a lot to look at."

Bright lights and laughter, and something a bit more gruesome behind the scenes. A woman that looked just slightly Not Right looked at them with a vigor, but she probably wasn't going to approach them until John shut up. It'd be rude to interrupt a man that's almost her boss while he's on a date, after all, but she did give Joel a wink, and blew him a kiss when she was sure that she had his attention. Talk later! Fear now!

"I don't know," John said, completely unaware of the woman that looked slightly not right (it was really probably someone that Joel knew, given the whole circumstances of the circus). "Where do you usually start when you come here?"

---

I have little power here. Joel would laugh at the way he speaks it, knowing full well that Beholding is still keeping its grip on its little favorite-- but instead, he simply smiles. He doubts John was even aware of his own words, all things considered. Fledgling is the right word for him-- and the point of this is to make him stronger. He wonders, passively, if he's betraying his own nature by doing this. He doesn't want to have a Beholding strong, does he? And yet. Either John wins or he loses, in a case like this, and Joel knows he'll come out on top either way if John just realizes the point here isn't to break him.

He kind of wishes it were, though.

"Just'a reminder, doll." Joel replies. "Figurin' y'might get a little lost 'round here, n'it's good t'have a little help."

A moment's pause, and Joel scans the area around them. There is a crowd here. Normal people, mostly, with the members of the circus strewn about among them. They've come for fun. They've come for a new experience. They've come to see the Circus. He knows full well that with The Ringmaster not present, he is the most terrifying thing on the grounds, and the sensation of all of it feeding him is only making it better. John is safe, so long as he's close-- as safe as one can be when you're simply throwing your lot in with a more powerful fear. His golden eyes rest on the woman with a neutral expression that splits into one of amusement-- it's always a pleasure to see a familiar face, after all. Joel lifts a hand to tip his hat towards her in acknowledgement, with a mouthed promise of we'll talk later.

John asks his question, and Joel looks back at him with a smile.

"I like the merry-go-round." He says, very simply. "S'a fun ride. Dunno if y'would enjoy it too much, though. An' I'd be pretty worried it ain't yer speed." He places a hand on John's back for a brief moment to guide him in another direction. Any members of the circus who want to see the little Archivist are perfectly likely to follow, and that thought doesn't bother him. "Freak show's always a delight. They pick up new folks every time I visit, so I like comin' to take a look an' meet them every now and again. Ah..." As they walk, he pauses, thoughtful. "Ringmaster ain't in town, so the big top ain't gonna be that much've a show. House of mirrors is an option, if y'got a strong stomach."

He's teasing. He's very much teasing, because John doesn't have to attend any specific attraction to get the ball rolling. Joel's simply got to keep him here and trying to focus on the mess of Unknowing that surrounds him. He has to see through it. Ain't that the real challenge.

"Whatcha think, pumpkin?" Gold eyes do not look at John. His face won't be too clear to the other man, by this point. "Any've those would be fun, I think."

---

John remembered looking at what may or may not have been Joel's face before, a specific look into a miasma that wasn't clear. That might have been something that happened in John's office, and looking at him for too long made his head throb. It was probably a sign that whatever this place was was working, at least passively. He didn't know what was going to happen when he really got up to his elbows in it. He closed his eyes for a moment and swallowed thickly to try and ground himself before refocusing on the space around him.

"The lines for the rides aren't moving. The people in them are changing, but it's like- When you blink, they just get replaced." He did not want to think about the implications of that, so he tore his eyes away from that. Every motion made him want to shrink just a little more, closer into his jacket like it would provide some sort of safety net. In his contemplation, he let Joel usher him basically anywhere. In a weird sense, it felt like he was being watched. There were eyes on his back alongside Joel's hand, and he didn't know what to make of that. Why would they be so focused on him, anyway? He really wasn't anything- For all they knew, he was just some punk ass kid that Joel wanted to torture.

Of course, the Beholding shone on him if you looked at him the right way, but it's not like he could see that.

He fished one of his hands out of his hoodie pocket and grabbed onto Joel's wrist, a brief moment of overstimulation overtaking him. He was still standing, and still mostly coherent, but he just needed a second. House of mirrors sounded exactly like something that somebody would make a statement of. Might as well go right into the belly of the beast. "Um, that last one," John said, not quite able to work himself up to the sounds that made up the word "mirror." He started walking, sort of tugging Joel after him and not entirely certain that he was going in the right direction.

At the very least, this didn't feel all serious and all encompassing. If he didn't know better, he would say that Joel was actually sort of reassuring. That was probably going to change later, a part of him realized, if only by the nature of what he was facing. Somebody that he didn't actually recognize had equal chance to be reassuring and threatening- but, that wasn't the point in the moment. It felt more like he was hanging out with a friend than walking off to face certain doom.

Part of him, the part that kept his other hand fisted in his pocket, the part that twitched to find something to record what he was about to go through, was certain that this was what Joel's plan ultimately was. If somebody was at the edge of their limit, aching for a friend, then they were the perfect sort of prey. John tried to dismiss that part as sheer paranoia as best as he could, though some healthy paranoia could get a guy out of a life or death situation. This thing probably cared more about people that were well connected, right? The thing that would ache if somebody went missing?

"Does this actually hurt you at all?" John asked, mostly to fill the silence and drown out the shouts from further down the line. "The..." How did you describe it again? What was the word that he was looking for? "Feelings. Forgetting. You don't seem as worried as I feel."

---

"Don't that just mean th'lines're movin'?" Joel replies, absentmindedly as they head towards the hall of mirrors. He is... curious, about this one. People see things they shouldn't. See themselves in ways they shouldn't. "New folks on the rides. Line's movin'." It is, technically. He can feel-- he can feel the shifting, the new presences, boiling and shifting and fighting, scraps and shreds in a pit, abandoned at the feet of something nameless and faceless. I Do Not Know You gorges itself. It's up in the air on if the individual people that John sees are the same people at all-- but the bodies certainly haven't changed that much, have they?

The sudden grip on his wrist makes Joel glance down towards him, and rather than allowing John to continue tugging him in some random direction, Joel shifts his grip so they walk hand in hand. He doubts John will notice, but the sense of the Archivist walking with purpose makes him think he knows what he's doing, despite himself.

The recorder thrums against his heart again, and he wonders if John's going to start talking to it without being able to see it. Calloused fingers rub the back of his companion's hand without a thought.

It interests him, that John would choose the mirrors. Perhaps a desire to see himself. Perhaps a need to look into his own face. He might not like what he sees looking back at him-- Joel expects that much, at least. As they approach, various faces look back at them, some with genuine smiles towards Joel, some with expressions of confusion and brief interest-- others looking on in abject horror. He feels it, and he thrives.

("Dad?" // "Who did you see, who is it?" "It's-- my grandmother--" // "You fucking bastard, how dare you show your face--" // "Dad, where have you been?" // "You're not my brother. You're dead." // "It can't be you. It can't be you, you're not real, you're not REAL.")

Joel stifles a yawn.

"Naw, it don't hurt me none." Golden eyes drift towards John's face, and even through the shadow of his hat he's making an effort to let the younger man see them. Gleaming in the dark. "S'what m'comfortable in, John." He uses his name purposefully. He'll need the little bits of assistance if he's going to make it through in one piece, and Joel's considering himself quite charitable to be willing to give it as they walk hand in hand towards the entrance. It yawns before them, an attendant on either side in frivolous makeup and frozen faces in disconcerting expressions. The patrons don't seem to be paying much attention to it. "I ain't worried at all. Are y'that scared, pumpkin?"

Again the lightly teasing. The softest of chuckles as he looks forward again. Eyes on him. Eyes on him in a good way, the sensation of disbelief and horror, the dead walk once more and the longed-for living drifting past without a word. It feels good. He feels good, despite the sensation of a hole in his chest.

"Y'know how y'said this ain't yer domain?" Will John remember that? "This ain't yers, but it sure as hell is mine, and I ain't got any reason to be scared."

Sure he does.
But that's beside the point.

---

There were people talking to them, he swore, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. It wasn't really for him, sure, but... He wanted to know. That wasn't the thing that he should be focused on, given the circumstances. He should be more concerned with keeping his identity in line, but a little bit of him was nagging about how this included his identity anyway. He was knowing, wasn't he? Didn't that give him a right to listen? A right to know?

And Joel was talking, to. Somebody. Named "John." It took him a little moment to realize that that was him, and that feeling came with a lot more discomfort than he was used to. Who knew that his identity would slip so quickly without him noticing. He shook his head, like it would help him brush it off a little better. It didn't, not really, but the thought was nice. It'd be a good idea to have a few more nice thoughts before his head exploded.

The brushing of fingers against his hand was another brief anchor, and it was enough for John to pull his hand up and stare at his and Joel's bound together. He couldn't remember really doing that, but that wasn't particularly unusual in and of itself. This was not going to be the last thing that he forgot over the course of the night. He still stared at their hands, like he was trying to burn the image in his memory. It was good to have as many names as possible to hold onto.

The assistants at the entrance scared him. They looked like they were frozen there, like they couldn't move their faces. John gave them the benefit of the doubt and assumed that they were just wearing masks, forcing the image deep in his mind rather than focusing on it for any longer than necessary. Take a stock of things that mattered- He had his glasses on, his cell phone was in his pocket, he was grabbing Joel a little tighter now- not enough to bruise, but enough to make his presence known. "Your name is Joel," he murmured, not expecting much of a response. It was sort of like he was doing flash cards, back when he was in school. "Your name is Joel, my name is John."

The area with mirrors was dark, sporadically lit so that one could see their reflection in the mirrors that made little hallways. It was a purposeful maze. Every fiber of John's being told him not to go anywhere near it, but he wasn't great at listening to that instinct, anyway. Statement of the Archivist Johnathan Valdez, on his trip to the circus with a Stranger Joel McGreggor. Statement taken live from subject. "Statement begins," he said, in the same tone as his name earlier. He hardly realized that he was doing it, a sense of instinct taking over for him instead.

Joel had said something, though. Something about him being afraid, and something about a domain. John glanced at him out of the corner of his eyes, and though he looked a little blurry out of the range of his glasses, his eyes were stark enough to hold on to. Oddly reassured, John grinned. "I'm terrified."

---

"Atta boy." Joel murmurs, something almost like a purr in his voice as he feels John's grip on his hand tighten. He had described himself as an anchor, and so an anchor he shall be. As much as an anchor can be when it's made out of everything else in the sea. "Your name is John and my name is Joel. Keep holdin' onto that, yeah?" He enunciates, this time-- if only for emphasis.

He gets the feeling that the poor little Archivist is only going to deteriorate through the course of the night. Not that that's that much of a concern, all things considered; it matters that he doesn't Know. It matters that Beholding doesn't know. And yet, the thrum of the tape recorder against his chest under the fabric of his coat continues on as the yawning opening to the hall of mirrors only grows closer; darker; larger; hungrier.

Statement begins.

Been a while since he's been a part of one.

The attendants on either side tilt their heads in unison towards Joel, a gesture of fear or deference or respect, Lord knows that he doesn't. He doesn't mind it much, either. As always, he likes the sensation of it. He wonders if The Ringmaster would be so benevolent in the matter. As John speaks, Joel doesn't bother to look at him, instead simply looking forward and watching as there is movement in the shadows, echoing screams of joy and terror bouncing from glass to concrete to dirt to metal to glass.

"Y'should be."

There is, of course, the temptation to place his hand on John's back again and shove him right into the mirrors. It would fulfill the same purpose, ultimately, but-- What's the saying? Curiosity killed the cat? Does it matter, if the cat's already been dead once before? Joel's golden eyes remain fixated on the darkness ahead of them, his hand still in John's as he pauses to take in another deep breath. The tape recorder thrums like its own heartbeat against his, and he thinks, for a moment, that it might match while he's busy playing protector.  God, he's not going to feel good after this, is he? He could shove John in and leave it at that. But he's curious. He wants to see what John sees. Wants to know what it is that I Do Not Know You will pull out of his skull to rip to shreds and teach him something new.

Still, despite the overwhelming temptation, Joel simply crosses the threshold into the mirror-maze, bringing John along with him in a-- slightly too firm way. There is no room for argument. He's come along this far, and so he must see it through; if he'll see it at all. The second they cross the threshold, it becomes cold. It becomes silent. It is the two of them, and the mirrors, reflections and lack thereof.

Joel says nothing more.

---

Logically, he knew that Joel was still at his side. He could feel his hand in his, and could almost see him at the corner of his eye. He was there, and his presence was felt, and it felt nice.

Joel didn't show up in the mirrors. John didn't know if this was normal or not, either. Did he show up in mirrors at the... In the... Where they worked? John wanted to ask about that later, if he could remember to ask about that later. See if it was something about Joel, or something about the space as a whole. If it didn't impact Joel as bad, would Joel see something different? Or, would he not see anything at all, and would this be a normal maze?

It was quiet. All of the sounds of the circus faded, leaving him alone with his thoughts- and with his companion. John. Jesse. J... Joel? Joel. He could see himself in the mirrors, endlessly repeating upon himself, but he didn't look any different than he had normally. It took him a second to get the gumption to keep pace with Joel, but once he did, he was almost ahead a little bit. After all, as much as Joel could bring him inside, John was the only one that could get them out.

Well, Joel probably could get them out, but he had a feeling that wasn't really the point of the exercise.

The silence was suffocating. First, John tried to grab for an inhaler that wasn't there- but, since it obviously wasn't there, he had to live with it. Since that was that, he tried to think of another way to try and break it. "Am I supposed to be talking?" he decided on, completely unsure if Joel would answer. His voice sounded... admittedly, a bit dazed, but his eyes at least looked alert enough to try and make sense of it all. Maybe that was his real downfall, trying to make too much sense of it. "I feel like I should be talking. It's too quiet. Didn't somebody else come in before us? Wouldn't we hear their footsteps?"

Would he even be able to hear their footsteps over his own? Now that he listened, he was sure that he did hear them, but how could he be sure? They reflected off of each other and off of the mirrors in a way that sound wouldn't have been able to normally, but normal didn't work here.

After all, he was surely alone, but... He didn't feel like he was. Who was he talking to, again?

---

The lingering silence of the mirror maze means that when John speaks, his voice echoes. Bouncing off glass off concrete off metal off dirt off glass. His hand still in John's serves as an anchor... and part of him wonders if he needs to let go to really let John find it. Find himself. Find his lack of self. Granted, Joel is also mostly sure that if he did that he'd be risking the outcome of total death of the ego. The John that walked into the hall of mirrors is very likely to not  be the John that walks out, after all.

A creeping thought. I want to be the Archivist.

"If y'feel like y'should be talkin', pumpkin, then talk." His reply is leisurely and lazy. I want to be the Archivist. I want to be special. I want to be important. I want to be in charge. I want to be the Archivist. Joel squeezes the hand in his and scans the mirror maze. He doesn't bother leading-- he doesn't think John's going to notice if they go through instead of around, anyways. I want to be meaningful. I want to be, I want to be, i want to be i want to be i want to be "Does the quiet bother you?"

He does not see himself in the mirrors, but this is no trouble. There is not even any blurring where his hand meets John's, as if Joel did not exist in the slightest i want to be and the thought should bother him more than it does. He does not need to appear in the mirrors. He does not need to be here for this process; it began when John entered the circus, will intensify in the mirrors, and Joel is simply here to play... guard dog. To drag his corpse back if he couldn't handle it. To take his place in the Archives and be something that somebody--

John steps ahead of them, leading Joel along, and he doesn't protest. i want to be i want to be i want to be They won't hear anybody else, anyways. No other footsteps. No more screams, unless they come from reflections, of which Joel will not be present in. John may as well be alone; how can you be with somebody who isn't anybody at all? The tape recorder thrumming against his chest has either matched or replaced his heartbeat and the sensation of being Watched is making him feel vaguely nauseous, and yet;

i want to be loved

Joel feels his fingers curl tighter against John's hand, scanning the faces around them. John's face, from every angle, from every side, his voice echoing off of glass off of concrete off of metal off of dirt off of glass into his ears. i want to be Memorize the pitch. The tone. The cadence. Keep it. Keep it tight. Keep it close. i want to be Get it right. A death grip on his hand-- feel the texture of his skin, veins and swirls in fingertips, strength or lack thereof, the fabric that covers himself. i want to be i want to be i want to be

"I ain't here." Joel's voice may or may not reach John's ears. It doesn't matter if it doesn't. He pictures the winding tape recorder embedded in his chest and thinks John may very well benefit from that outcome, with a little bit of adjusting. "From what I've heard, talkin' might help y'process what yer seein', but that's up t'you." Joseph would know. Vanessa would know. Hayes-- younger and elder-- would know. He couldn't and cannot well and truly replace the archivist, and could not bear the burden of Archivist, and yet-- and yet. And yet. Joel bares his teeth, briefly, and digs his fingers tighter into John's hand before he loosens his grip and continues to let the other man lead.

A glimpse in a mirror they pass, meaningless and forgotten in an instant, Joel's own refusal-- a younger man, with shaggy brown hair and tan skin, scruff decorating a jaw, sleepless, green eyed and terrified, clutching a tape recorder and staring at some unseen shadow.

John isn't the only one looking in a mirror.

---

He remembered just before Joel spoke that he was actually still in the presence of another mostly human being. Good job, not scaring yourself out of your own skin! "I'm surprised that the quiet doesn't bother you," he replied, trying to make his voice something lighthearted and teasing despite his obvious concern. Of course it bothered him. Being alone with his own thoughts- he wasn't supposed to be the one to do it himself, he was supposed to live vicariously through other peoples' fear. He just barely managed to avoid walking into a glass pane that looked like a regular path, brushing it off and turning around a corner into- surprise, surprise- more mirrors. He didn't eye his reflections much yet, just keeping himself focused on the ground so that he didn't run into anything. "I- I mean. Talking. Hearing your own voice. It's not a bad voice. I figured you'd be all over that sort of thing."

Was he describing his companion, or himself? Was there even a companion to talk to? Would anybody hear him if he started screaming? The voice in the back of his head said that it wasn't there, and that he was alone, but how else was he supposed to describe the feeling of a hand in his? What other rationale would exist for that feeling so certain? He squeezed the hand, just to make sure that it was still there.

He could just barely see reflections in his periphery, and he knew that they were of him and not some other man. At least, rationally, he did- Who else would they belong to? He was alone-not alone, like a physicist's wet dream.

At the very least, hearing the voice that never was was some small benefit. It kept him out of his own head. It would be named Joel, he decided on a whim- it's name was Joel, and his name was John. He took a breath and looked away from the floor so that he could better see his way forward, even if it meant facing down the fears. Talking might help process what he was seeing, so he would do just that- talk.

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be talking about, is the thing," he said, in lieu of anything meaningful about what he was feeling. "Do I take my mind off of it, or do I focus on it? It's not like anything weird is happening. I- I feel bad, but I usually-"

The first strange thing that he saw interrupted him. He caught his own gaze in a mirror, stopping his steady pace to stare at it for a second. The man in the reflection looked a little like he was being seen through a funhouse mirror instead of a regular one- slightly taller, a little skinnier, his proportions a little strange. He wasn't wearing glasses, instead his eyes having a glazed, eager sheen to them instead. Were they always grey? John (his name was John, the voice's name was Joel) couldn't remember. He looked a touch more rugged, in a way, with a confident looking grin and his shirt (a black collared shirt, with impossible stripes and geometry sewn into it in gold thread) slightly unbuttoned. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off intricate fractal linework tattoos running up his arms- and likely covering his whole body.

He moved when John did, tilting his head in the same direction, even if the smug grin didn't leave his face when John frowned. He just barely resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, leading to being... rooted in place, actually.

"I..."

---

"Quiet does bother me." Joel replies with a slight shrug. "S'why I talk so damn much. Easier t'fill it up than keep it goin'." He keeps watch on the way that John walks. Eyeing his gait, and working on matching his own to it without so much as a thought. "An I guess m'just used t'hearin' my own voice all the time. Dontcha think in yers?" His lightly teasing, lightly affectionate tone remains, though he's trying his hardest to make the cadence identical. He doesn't have to think about it. He isn't thinking about it, in truth, swirling thoughts and knowledge and habit bundling themselves up together and dropping at his feet as they walk.

They meet more mirrors. They go through others. Did John notice that they were as much pathways as they were barriers? (Did he notice he was being copied, either?) Joel does his best not to look at them. It isn't that he doesn't want to see his own reflection; moreso, he's wary of it. It'd make him feel sick, he thinks, or else remind him of what else stays out there--

The tape recorder feels like it's pulsing in his coat.

"I think th'general idea'a statements is that y'say whatever it is that feels like it needs t'be said." Joel replies. He feels eyes on his back. That frightened green-eyed young man clutching the tape recorder. Known. Knowing. What manner of fate is that, he wonders? Evidence of being leashed? A suggestion towards what could have been, or what he's denying himself? It makes his skin crawl to think about, but-- that's the point of this exercise. He's going through it as much as John is, but he has the luxury of knowing which identity is his already.

that is to say, none of them at all.

John stops before one of the mirrors and Joel stops slightly behind him, his grip on his hand still tight as he looks towards the reflection. The one standing in front of them is John, first, but not quite. John but distorted. Ah. Ah, Distortion. That makes sense. Similar and yet not to I Do Not Know You, so what else would make the first appearance? Joel's eyes drag slowly over the greyed eyes, the collared shirt and gold thread, the tattoos... and he is fascinated. Things Not Right. It makes sense, in a way--

but beyond that

Joel sees what should be himself, he thinks. Something faceless and empty and stretched thin, body broken; he sees a hole in his forehead, in his chest, in his knee, sees fractals of veins spreading out from them. He is far more monstrous than John. Far more wrong than John is, a body that can barely be called a body with flesh and blood that twists so poorly. What's that around his neck? A noose? Please, God, I'm beggin' ya, give me some kind of way out--!

"You?" Joel's voice does not echo and he does not draw his eyes away from the reflection, though he lingers more on John's than his own.

---

As John blinked, his reflection's eyes moved past him, back to Joel over his shoulder. It looked up and down him, eyes dragging slowly. Appreciatively. In another world, that might have been attraction in its expression- though, that might have been in this world, too. In a way, it looked like it wanted to eat Joel right up! It made eye contact and smiled before focusing back on John.

John, who was pale and confused looking, fascinated by his reflection. "I think in a lot of different voices," he said, watching as his reflection's mouth moved- it looked out of sync, in a way, like he was watching a dub of a foreign film. His own voice was slow and a little mumbled, like he wasn't entirely sure of what he was saying. "Sometimes, people I've never heard before. It's... Weird." Weird, but not unwelcome. He didn't have the words to explain that, though, too distracted by the man like a spiral ahead of him.

Over the man's shoulder, he swore that he saw something else. He couldn't tell what it was, though, and focusing on it made his eyes burn. So, on unsteady feet, he began to walk again, though he didn't tear his eyes away from the reflection. Maybe it was the reflection that he was talking to. It had to be some part of himself, right? Because the voice that never was (Joel, he had named it Joel, hadn't he?) sounded like his voice, but he didn't know where it was coming from. The thoughts couldn't really be his own, even if they sounded like his. He'd seem like a crazy person if he just said it out loud, but... Well, it was a nice grounding force. Like the something in his hand.

"I don't know what needs to be said," he tried, and he sounded a little more certain of this part because he'd already heard it. In his reflection's reflection, on his other side, he saw another figure, but he could pay attention to that in a moment. "There are a lot of things that need to be said, how do I know what the right one is? What if what I think needs to be said isn't what really needs to be said?" Was there a way to know for sure? What would he leave behind, when his reflection consumed him whole?

His reflection's reflection was on fire. Its hair was tousled in an imaginary breeze, its hands charred black with burns. Its eyes were dark, with soot on its face, and it looked angry (hurt, upset, betrayed) compared to the reflection's subtle smugness. It walked alongside them, never breaking stride, but it didn't make eye contact with John. Instead, its face lit up, cracks within it beginning to burn with embers, like he was entirely made of tinder. It wasn't a threat- more, a subtle display of power. John's face burned as he watched, and he lifted a hand to scratch against where the veins would be, were they on his own face. They didn't feel hot under his fingers, but they had to have somehow, right?

"Is it supposed to feel real?" he asked, not sure if anybody was alive to answer.

---

"I ain't never thought in anybody's voice but my own." Joel replies. It's a lie. But lying is the only thing that comes naturally in this skin of his. He feels those Distortion's eyes on him and thinks quietly that he wouldn't much mind the attention-- if it weren't for the fact that he knows the Stranger and the Spiral are too close to well and truly get along. Disaster imminent. Is the Eye any better? The eyes seem to dig into him, and his stomach twists as the creature that his reflection distorts that much further--

John draws them away. Joel blinks, and his reflection is gone, and they walk.

"Well,"  Joel breathes out slow and tilts his head back a little bit, away from the reflection. "Y'could just... start talkin'."  He thinks he prefers the reflection of the Eye looking back at him to the Spiral; he already he feels, some days, like his bones crack when he moves. He'd dread the sensation of feeling them twist. "I figure if y'start talkin' as much as y'can manage, maybe yer gonna find what y'need t'say." They trail along, their footsteps echoing in sync. Joel's attention drifts again, briefly, to the developing reflection that follows them-- can he call it developing, when it isn't there one moment, and present the next?

"So what if what y'say ain't what needs t'be said? Yer gonna get t'the more important stuff sooner or later, aintcha?" He doesn't have to search for himself the second time, either, though what he sees-- doesn't shock him, all that much. There's soot on this one, too, coating his hands and forearms in black that cracks with fire and embers. He sees his own face, contorted in rage fear pain pleasure desperation anger horror grief and he's not. Quite sure. What to think of it. There's a gun in his reflection's hand, an ornate and ancient pistol right where John's hand should be.

Joel turns away from it, and looks forward, feeling the way the tape recorder continues to pulse. In the moment, he thinks his heart has probably stopped beating. Replaced.

Won't it be lovely if this doesn't go to plan?

"'Course it is." He gives his companion a glance and adjusts his grip on his hand again, still holding him tight. He watches for-- what, he's not sure of. Eyes falling out? Skin turning to plastic? Something terrible with spiders and stuffing? Melting? Something. A nosebleed, he thinks, and damage to the eyes. He needs to make sure that John makes it out of the building, if not out of the experience-- Joseph and Vanessa would probably wring his neck if he didn't, since this was his idea in the first place. "Anybody who says s'all in yer head don't know nothin' about how yer head works in the first place, I'd say. S'as real as y'think it is. D'you think it's real?"

---

The weirdest part was that he couldn't tell what was real and what wasn't. It felt like his face was burning, but he couldn't feel it under his fingers. He blinked, and another reflection changed- messy hair, his teeth too sharp, an unbuttoned shirt and suspenders making everything look familiar. The image made his teeth feel too large in his mouth, but he figured that that was a better feeling than his face burning. He couldn't really look away, either, because that ran the risk of something way worse. He didn't really know what that worse was, but he didn't want to run that risk.

"I don't know what I should be saying," he said again. Didn't he do this already? Hadn't he been through that song and dance? The deja vu was making his head hurt, at least enough that he had to raise the hand that was in his pocket to rub his temples. "I don't... I don't know what words I should be using. They keep looking at me, I don't know if it's my voice or theirs talking."

Except, it was all his voice. It all sounded like him. Or, did it sound like a stranger? Was he really saying anything at all? Was he just listening and watching somebody else's fear? That brought up a very, very good question of who he was, but... No, thinking about that wasn't going to help anything. It'd make his head hurt more, and he wouldn't be able to function, and he'd collapse here alone. So, he'd keep listening as somebody else spoke with a very, very familiar voice.

"I don't know if it's real. I don't know if I'm real." The sound was coupled with a nervous laugh, but it wasn't wrong, either. What did it mean to be real? Was it to exist, or was it something else? Was he real, or was the man with the college sweater real? Or was it the man with the black shirt? The man on fire? The man with the suspenders and the too-big teeth and the bones that didn't look right and the scars on his chest- "It's kind of exis... Ex... Looking at the nature of all of everything. It's scary, isn't it?"

That didn't mean it was bad, necessarily, just scary. Made his heart pound and his head throb- or, it would have, if those were things that he had. Did he have those? Did normal people have those? What was a heart, again?

Another reflection changed, this one pale and gaunt, wearing a black leather jacket. He watched the affair sadly, like a skeleton in motion. He wasn't entirely certain that that one was real, either, but that brought them back around to the subject as a whole. What's real? Who is? He could just as easily watch as somebody reached out and took their hand and pull them into the path, but would that make them real? If feelings were real, then he felt cold, and his chest felt tight, like he was having trouble breathing.

---

"They keep lookin' at you?" Joel echoes after John. "Who?" He asks, like he doesn't know. He looks into the mirror and sees the sharp teeth, the suspenders, the open shirt and he sucks in a breath at the realization that the hall of mirrors is antagonizing him with that as much as it is John-- Familiar, isn't it. He would close his eyes, but he thinks his eyelids aren't there anymore. He needs to be grounded. He needs to be the fixed point, the center focus for John to be able to see, and he cannot bring him out of this. Not yet, at least. "Yer the only one talkin', 'sides me. S'your voice from where m'standin'."

Their voices match. Joel knows that he does it unconsciously, but that sharp desire, the ache in the center of his chest that makes him want has said I Want To Be The Archivist and so he becomes the Archivist. In voice, if not in face, if not in gait, if not in posture, if not in clothes. When John looks into the mirror, will he see himself?

"Why not start with that, pumpkin?" He offers, the words held out tentatively like he expects to be bitten. Given the eyes on the first one in the mirror, he sort of wouldn't be shocked by that. Behind the man in the suspenders is something crouched in the shadow, eyes reflecting in the light, bleeding from the mouth, ribcage open to the cold air.

The tape recorder clicks and whirrs and continues on and his tongue feels heavy in his mouth.

"Start with what y'see. Describe it. Talk 'bout it. How it makes y'feel. How it makes y'think. Say. Just-- Just say." Existential is the word John is looking for, but he won't say it out loud. His mouth feels dry as he looks towards the next mirror. "Focus in, John." He says his name again because it may serve as an anchor. He wonders if Archivist would serve the same purpose any stronger, but his mouth will not form the word. His vocal chords feel tight. "Start with that. Start small."

In the mirror is a man dressed in a long, tattered black cloak. He is not pale, but his eyes are sunken, his posture tall and regal. Golden eyes meet golden eyes and there is such sorrow in them, but also-- a sense of relief, almost. A sense of finality and duty and purpose. The hand clutching John's this time holds a pair of dice, thumbing them over and over again in an obsessive, compulsive motion. There is sorrow and there is satisfaction, as his other hand holds the pistol instead, finger on the trigger. He smiles at him. Joel tilts his head in response.

He wants for the young man with the tape recorder and the green eyes. These others feel-- wrong. Sickly. In need of damaging. He wants for the gun.

"John." Joel murmurs. "What do you see?"

---

Who was he talking to? Who was he looking at? Who was looking at him? He heard a voice, and it sounded the same as the voice that was responding, and it was one person but who was that person? He was surrounded by people, but he didn't recognize any of them. They each dressed differently, held themselves differently. The man in the college sweater looked dazed, like he couldn't quite understand where he was and where he was going.

So, he walked. He pressed forward without knowledge of where he was going, thankful at the least that he could see the path before him- and thankful that he could understand the concept of sight in and of itself.

Who was speaking? Who was it talking to? Was John one of the men walking down the hallway? It had to be, but which one? "Don't know who that is," somebody said, desperate for some thread of more. More understanding, more notice, more things to hold on to. Was John the man with animalistic eyes that walked with a sense of purpose, the one with blood on his hands and a rifle strapped to his back? Or, was John the man that walked alone, with dressed in warm clothes but with a thick fog surrounding him? The name could not be placed to a face, and he only barely knew what the name was. "I-" Somebody stumbled on the pronoun, it sounding a little choked in on the way out of a throat. It was summarily brushed it off, continuing anyway. "...Don't know who you're talking to."

His heart hammered in his chest. His eyes were starting to burn, and he at least understood what that meant. Millions of types of pressure closed in on him, and he blinked a few times to try and get his sight straight. They were approaching something- A clearing, maybe, one of those large rooms where one could see themselves reflected a million times. John would be in that room, some distant part of him knew, but he wouldn't be able to say which one. John could have been anybody.

It was an unfortunately common name.

"There are men walking down the hallway," the voice continued, not sounding sure of itself. It stumbled on the words, sounding timid. Frightened. "They share a face, but they aren't the same. But they are the same. But nobody would know if they were the same, because they don't exist. Because they all exist, because they aren't real, because they are all real, because they don't know what real is."

---

"There are men walking down the hallway." Joel echoes after him as they approach the open space. "A hallway full of mirrors and shared faces and potentials." He speaks in a voice that isn't his voice-- his voice has been taken from him, in the moment, or willingly relinquished, because his tongue may very well be John's. There is something between them. There is something strong between them, Joel is realizing, something that makes his dead heart struggle to beat again and something that makes the breath in his lungs sting. He aches for nicotine, for nonexistence, for--

He presses his tongue against his teeth. He sees something more wolf than man, four grasping hands and a maw split in four. He sees a yawning emptiness that embraces him in cool fog and his instinct is to recoil from it in horror. The true one is behind him, he knows, in front of John but behind him, the empty plastic faces and waxworks and reaching hands clutching at his long coat and oh, oh, was the boy with the tape recorder and the green eyes him? Was it him? Was it him or was it the Archivist he had seen at the beginning? Shouldn't he know?

Knowing. Knowing is the point. They haven't found one yet, he realizes all too quickly, the last one and the one that John has been touched with all his life, cradle to the-- grave--

"Web?" He breathes out, and expects to see a spider.

He needs his own voice. Needs his own face. Needs to pull the tape recorder out from where it's settled in his ribcage to replace his beating heart and needs-- oh, i want to be. i want to be like you. i want to be cherished like you. i want to have a purpose like you. i want, i want, i want. He'd be angry with himself for it if he could find it in himself, but while being here hurts, he still has his sense of identity. Still knows that he was born with the name Joel McGreggor and will only die with it if he is lucky. He's still expecting to disappear completely one of these days, wake up devoid of name and face and certainty and-- is that a bad thing? Is it?

Yes, he thinks.

Yes, he thinks that truly surrendering to the nothingness that makes him would be horrific.

Is he as scared of knowing?

"Your name is Johnathan Valdez." He says the words out loud and looks around the mirrors, watching, waiting. Waiting. Wanting. The Mother of Puppets would be the one that gives it away, he thinks, that one or-- or would I Do Not Know You tell it as truthfully? Wouldn't there be irony in that. "Your name is Johnathan Valdez. Your father is Joseph Valdez. Your mother is Aurora Reyes. Your sister is Vanessa Valdez."

I know you, he thinks.

I know you.

"You work in The Usher Foundation, but you never wanted to. You wanted to go to college. Become a teacher. Study a long dead religion nobody knows anything about, because it's what you care about and sharing the passion mattered to you." The name comes to his lips as if it's given to him-- "Jonatas. The journal was a gift. It nearly consumed you. Still might, someday, I think."

I know you.

"Real is whatever it is that you see, too, because you are The Archivist. Beloved of Beholding." That's another they haven't seen yet-- or had they simply passed it by? Joel had seen himself, after all. Perhaps John hadn't. Perhaps it hadn't been his reflection. "Not the only one. But the only one that matters on the ground we're standing on. John."

---

There were many things that the shape formerly known as Johnathan Valdez had to see within himself. In the moment, though, he was focused on what was before him as he stepped into a small chamber. It was lined with mirrors, and he couldn't quite see what was behind him, but he knew that each wall had a different face. The men from before. An emotionless man with dark eyes and darker clothes, a shiny knife at his hip. A man covered in dust, hands twitching like he wanted to shape the world. A man that made his stomach feel like it was being thrown from under him. They weren't important, fading into each other in his eyes, but they too were familiar- faces that he hadn't seen, but maybe that he had felt.

Some of the panels repeated. Others were absent of a reflection altogether. And he stood in the center, turning occasionally to watch them all, like the panopticon of a prison waiting for something to happen, something to step out of line.

He heard the voice that sounded like his, of course, but its words were... jumbled. Parts of them were missing altogether. Static replacing what he was sure was the important parts of the story- the names, the relations, the places where the person in question worked, the things that he wanted to do. It was everything identifying that dissolved into nothingness, leaving a shell of a man standing terrified in the center of the room.

Another man stepped into view when eyes landed on him. He looked like a father, in some respects, his hair a little neater and his eyes shiny gold. He still looked different, though, sharing the fledgling's face and the crooked smile that he wore. He was wearing a deep red collared shirt and a black vest, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his shirt tucked in. He had his hands in his pockets, as opposed to the fledgling grabbing for an arm that may or may not have been there. He wasn't wearing glasses, either, but his skin was inked in delicate threads, lines compounding on each other up his arm and under his clothing. With his sleeves rolled up, one could see neat, parallel scars on his arms- they weren't on display, but they were noticeable. A book was attached to his belt, as was a sheath for a small knife. He had the fledgling's eyes, shiny and gold, but there was something distinctly malevolent about it. In a way, he looked much more like Vanessa than John ever could.

He was John, and he was not John, and he spoke in John's voice, but it couldn't have been John's voice. "You're really doing your best, aren't you, McGreggor? If I didn't know better, I'd say that you were soft for us."

He picked the book up off of his waist, beginning to page through it. The fledgling stepped closer, mostly surprised that one of these things could speak.

---

And there's the spider he was waiting for.

Joel does not so much as twitch when the movement in the mirrors stops again, and his golden eyes meet those of the puppetmaster in front of him. He feels-- foolish. Disgruntled, in a way, a little bit bothered at himself-- he should be reveling in the crisis John is enduring at the moment, and in truth, a part of him is-- and yet some vestige of himself feels uneasy, tense. Foolish. John's grip on his arm feels tighter, somehow, when the two of them are facing the Web; as if Joel could really offer any protection against something so powerful as fate.

When he speaks again, his voice has melted back into his own, though not for lack of trying.

"Soft fer you." He echoes, and scoffs at that-- though can't find the words he means to speak, afterwards. The intention is to reply and berate. After all, he'd been prepared to strangle John in his office for feeling the Knowing forced upon him. The man is just another piece of the Eye, inherently repulsive and wrong to someone like him. But the words won't come out. He means to reply that he's doing this for his own gain, or as a favor for Vanessa or Joseph; they benefit from having their little Archivist strong enough to defend himself against worst than the likes of Hayes and the creeping things in Leitners. But what does he gain to benefit, from aiding Sight? What does he have to gain from this to begin with? Vanessa isn't anything more than a friend. His obligation to her begins and ends with his presence at the Foundation, and if she had him doing something he didn't want to do, he'd buck guiding hand and leave. And Joseph--

The Web pulls the book from his belt and flips through it and Joel does not break eye contact as his grip on John's hand tightens and tightens and the recorder embedded in his chest clicks again.

"So what?" The man's reply comes, finally, something tinged with-- indignation, he thinks, frustration or anger or-- something. It is the sensation of Knowing creeping into his head now, the sensation of a noose around his neck. This isn't his nature. This isn't what he likes. This goes against-- everything he is made up of, everything he is made up to do, and yet-- and yet. His grip on John loosens, slightly. It isn't the Stranger holding him back now, is it. It isn't the Web's sticky filaments coiling around him to yank.

It's the hand in his own, the one he'd grabbed for willingly, because John-- the hall of mirrors is John's space, now, and John needed the help.

Isn't that sweet of him.

"The hell's it matter if I am?" i want to be like you. i want to be knowing like you. i want to be cherished like you. "Th'point of this ain't t'see the man melt." The point of this is to make Beholding stronger. If he isn't outright betraying his own nature, he sure as hell isn't doing the Stranger any favors through this; on their own grounds, too. He should have shoved him in and left it at that, he thinks. Let him deal with it on his own. And yet John had needed the help, and Joel had stepped forward willing to help, serve as anchor and guide and-- what is it between them, anyway? What is it that makes him know that John Valdez' ambition began and ended at the desire to share knowledge with other people? What are you teaching me with this, John?

"I could kill him now if y'wanted me to." He spits, venom in his words, though it feels-- hollow, somehow. Empty of purpose. "S'my domain. My grounds. I get t'choose how this ends. Not you." Is he speaking to the Spider?

---

The voice changed, suddenly, and the fledgling jumped from the shock of it. One stranger was fine, even if the conversation made it seem like there were more. What was he supposed to do with two, especially one that sounded much, much closer to him than the others? He grabbed onto his support with both arms now, feeling like the ground would fall out beneath him if he looked away from the mirror for even a second. It was an old, visceral type of fear, the only thing that registered properly in his head. After all, it was easy to be afraid of things that you didn't know- and as far as the fledgling was concerned, he didn't know anything that was happening.

The Spider laughed, the hand not holding the book shifting to run a hand through his hair. "I mean- You know exactly who I am. How was it that you put it... I mean, you said it so eloquently, too, I didn't think something like that would come out of your mouth!" He cleared his throat, speaking in the same tenor and cadence that the fledgling had before he lost his identity. "My name is Johnathan Valdez. My father is Joseph Valdez. My mother is Aurora Reyes. My sister is Vanessa Valdez. I work for the Usher Foundation, but I never wanted to." The farther that he got in this monologue, the more pleased that he became. "I wanted to go to college. Become a teacher. Study a long dead religion that nobody knows anything about, because it's what I care about and sharing that passion matters. The journal was a gift. It will consume me."

He grinned, a little too sharply. The fledgling flinched, finding his voice stolen along with his face. Was that his face? Did he have a face to start with? He didn't know. Decided that he didn't want to know. That it was easier being a concept than a person.

"I love the Reyeses. Really, I do- In becoming the Eye, do you know how often they turn to me? How easy it is to pull a book with a spiderweb until it falls into the right person's lap?" The Spider gestured broadly at the room around them with the hand holding the book, laughing again. "But you- You're an anomaly, McGreggor. I think I speak for all of us when I ask just what brought you here. ...I mean, it's not like I don't know."

He stepped closer to the mirror, the fledgling moving in turn. While the fledgling didn't gesture, and while he didn't smile, he moved so that they could at least be on the same level as each other. The fledgling's eyes flicked across the reflection in the mirror, and while the Spider spoke, it muttered something about this one being just as real as the others.

And speak the Spider did. Instead of looking at the fledgling, he looked at Joel, his grin turning into a malicious smirk. "I mean... If this is your domain, why haven't you killed him yet? You chose how it starts, but you don't get to choose how it ends. You revoked that right when you came in here with him, didn't you?" He tilted his head, the fledgling moving in turn. "You don't want to see him melt because you know that the mirrors would shatter around you- Either leaving you left with what you could have been, or consuming you with it. The choice was to leave him to figure it out for himself or to come with him and make the effort yourself. You knew exactly what would happen, guiding the Knowing through the process of Unknowing and Knowing again, didn't you? Or, did you really think that there wouldn't be any consequences?"

---

The Web before him well and truly does remind him of Vanessa. And there's something else lingering there that seems more like someone else he knows-- their father, he thinks, and the thought makes a halfway sickened smirk curl his lips. It doesn't surprise him that the Eye and the Web would entwine themselves so thickly-- after all, how well can you plan if you don't know every variable, every shift and potential?

He feels John grabbing onto him with both hands, a clinging child, and the reflex is to place his hand on John's head, curl his fingers gently in his hair. Try to be reassuring. Joel doesn't move. Doesn't lift a finger.

"An anomaly, huh? Ain't that everythin' m'supposed to be?" He wants to spit an insult along with it, but it doesn't come out. He can't-- manage it. Like the words catch in his throat. Some edge of plastic and metal and wire digging into his torso where the tape recorder continues on, listening and listening and listening and Joel. Breathes in. Breathes out. Tilts his head at the Spider in front of him and ponders its words, briefly. Why haven't you killed him yet?

The first answer is easy. "He ain't ready to die yet." McGreggor's voice comes easily and smoothly, the heavy accent and the leisurely tone that remains even in the tense moment of... what is this, anyway? Feeling like he's being watched into feeling like a bug squirming uselessly on a spiderweb. i want to be like you. i want to be you. "F'I kill him now, nobody gets anythin' useful. I get a little more blood on m'hands an' the poor bastard just dies. And I get a few folks mad at me fer darin' to squeeze his little head off." And it is truthful, after all. John is coming into his powers. Only just coming into his powers, learning them, feeling them. He hasn't mastered them yet. Hasn't yet fathomed what he can do with them. So if he dies now-- they do not get an avatar. They get a body. They get a grave. "And yer a puppermaster, so y'know I ain't lyin' to you 'bout that, do ya?"

The second answer is harder. I don't want to. I can't. Joel doesn't bother articulating that part, though.

"An' that's bullshit." He scoffs and tilts his head up, just slightly. "S'my place. My grounds. My--" Here he pauses. Something in the Spider's words digs under his skin, uncomfortably. This is his place, isn't it? This is his domain, the domain of the Stranger, of glass and wax and wire and bodies. This is his--

is it?

How did he know the name Jonatas, anyways?

Golden eyes fixate on the spider, the sheath, the tattoos and scars... and then drift slowly down to the younger man clinging onto him with an absolute deathgrip, an anchor in the midst of a cacophony of Unknowing... and Joel sputters, starts, and laughs.

"Oh," He says. "Oh, I get it now."

The hand in John's tightens and loosens-- but he doesn't let go. Doesn't think he can, in truth, and halfway thinks that even if he tried that John would simply hold him tighter and drag him along regardless. i want to be like you. This isn't his domain anymore because it's the mirrors. It's John's mirrors. It's John's pathway. John's footsteps. Joel is simply following, another tool in the midst of the Knowing and Unknowing that's going to be used for his guidance and his assistance. He'd be flattered, if the thought didn't make him-- uneasy. It isn't like he hasn't lost this free will before-- he's no Danseuse Étoile, but God only knows how many compulsions are his own. The mirror reflects faces and eyes. The mirror reflects Knowing. The mirror doesn't distort enough.

Joel gives a soft whistle, and fixates his inhuman gaze back on the Spider.

"Might not be mine," He replies, "But m'pretty sure it ain't yours, either."

---

"If I had to hazard a guess, I'd say it's more mine than yours, McGreggor," the Spider said. It looked back at the fledgling, something a little too cruel to be pity in its eyes, before eyeing Joel not unlike a predator does when it finally corners its prey.  "I mean... You're no Archivist, you know that. You come in here with a tape recorder in your chest and the Beholding in your hand and you really think that you can be something worthy of its affection? At least I'm a reflection of the guy. Him, but slightly to the left. Or, I guess in my case, a few feet in front of his face."

It laughed. The anchor laughed. The fledgling flinched again, but didn't let go. He passively understood the speech, understanding that it was important but not quite getting the content of the words. Was it something to do with him, or something else? Had the conversation lasted for a moment, or an eternity? Struggling with the concept of time was a waste of it- but, admittedly, it was a little easier for him to process than the scene unfolding in front of him. It wasn't a conversation that needed him anyway, was it?

"But hey, now you get it," the Spider continued, gesturing slightly again. It was more to move its hand than to actually emphasize anything. "For an avatar of the Stranger, you're not really one to notice when it's reflecting the mortifying ordeal of being known. It's probably luck, really, that we happened to find the one Stranger that's greatest fear is being unknown. But, hey, you didn't hear it from me, right?"

One of the reflections began to ripple, though its change was not palpable yet. The fledgling's eyes snapped to it, staring at it. It, at the least, was a distraction from his crisis of space and time.

"So you wanted to be an Archivist. You wanted to know. Curiosity killed the cat, but what does it matter if the cat is already dead and spoken for, am I right?" The Spider tilted its head in the opposite direction, the fledgling following even if he wasn't looking at it properly now. "Watch his fear but not experience it, hope that it brings him out stronger. But what does that mean for you? The ties that bind you physically could very well become the ties that bind you metaphysically. Was that something that you planned, McGreggor, or did you just not think about it beyond the immediate gratification of feeding off of his unease?"

It paused again, watching the fledgling. It seemed to revel in his fear for a moment before giving a dark laugh and running his hand through his hair again. "I wonder what would happen if he doesn't make it out. If he gets so lost that he's trapped here until the end of time. We've established that you haven't really got the power here, and it's not like I'm going to be particularly keen on dragging you out by the lapels. We have an Archivist already, you know that just as well as I do. I wonder, if he dies, do you die here too?" It looked like it knew the answer, but was going to refuse to share it like a prick. "What do you think, McGreggor?"

---

The one Stranger that's greatest fear is being unknown. It isn't ironic, he thinks. A desperate need to be known coming from something that thrives off of being unknown. But-- wasn't that what he reached out for the sake of in the first place, when the bullet in his skull had made it impossible to lift his head, with the wound in his chest bleeding out into the red clay, with the ruins of his knee still struggling to move-- isn't that what he'd reached out for? Fear of the unknown. Fear of the strange darkness and fear of whose faces he would see in the aftermath.

The End could've claimed him just as easily, he thinks, but the Stranger was the one who put the bullets in him in the first place. Chosen. He's spent plenty of time meditating on what that means, but it resists being known, and so does Joel--

"Funny," He says. "A creature in th'mirror talkin' like it'll ever be anythin' but a reflection." Joel's head cants to one side as he doesn't look away from the Spider, pressing his tongue against his teeth. "Whatever happens t'me hardly matters. Yer makin' the mistake of thinkin' I'm somebody important, too." He gives a soft chuckle and a brief shake of his head. "Naw, I die here'n nobody remembers me. Joel McGreggor's an old name in an old journal n'there ain't nobody left to remember me afterwards. That's th'fun of bein' a Stranger. John wouldn't remember me bein' here in the first place, if he made it out alone."

It's the truth, he knows. He leaves tomorrow-- as he always does leave, eventually-- and not a soul remembers his face. Not a soul remembers his voice. A man with no name, riding off into the sunset. Oh, he'd give them some credit, Locke and Joseph might remember. Vanessa might. John might remember he wasn't alone-- but he is inherently an empty space.

"But--" And there's a pause, where he looks back to John before his gaze drifts back to the Spider, "Neither of us are dyin' here. That ain't the plan." He still feels... strong. The circus is still here, isn't it? John's own unease and fear and lack of knowledge is feeding into him. Ties that bind, the Spider said. What kind of ties should he be scared of? "I do have power here, sugar. More'n a could-be does. And he's got more 'head of him than dyin' starin' at his own reflections like Narcissus dunkin' his head in the pond."

The tape recorder in his chest clicks and hums and thrums with his own heartbeat and Joel pushes back against it, if only briefly, and presses his thumb into the back of John's hand. Resisting. Resistance. What does it matter if the cat is already dead and spoken for?

"He'll make it out. M'givin' him more credit'n that."

---

Rather than insulted, the Spider looked amused. "It's funny, what people say to justify their decisions. I'm glad to see you so at ease with what could happen to you. Nobody would remember you. There's nobody left to look for you. Doesn't that terrify you?" It paused for a minute, letting the question sink in the pregnant silence. And then, it shrugged with a grin on its face. "I know the answer. If you're ready for that possibility, then go for it. Be my guest!"

It's funny, obviously. "Think about me as a reflection of him. I have just as much power as he does here, because I am him. Him and me, sure, both put together- but I can see exactly what he does. His power feeds yours, and yours feeds his. A shark leading some prey into the ocean, but the prey letting it wash over him as he learns how to swim. You're fed by him not knowing, but which makes him know less but also more- Are you tired of the metaphors yet? I'm tired of the metaphors. This was way more boring than I thought it would be when I started talking."

It waved a hand in the air and stepped forward again, the fledgling matching its movement without realizing that he was. Rather than looking at Joel, it looked directly at the fledgling, catching him into making eye contact. The fledgling began to tremble, and the Spider laughed. "He'll make it out. But is it the same him that walked in? I mean, is he even looking at a reflection anymore? Does he know who he sees? Or is it just a stranger staring back at him?"

The reflection changed, both the Spider and the ripples in the other mirror disappearing. It was replaced by another familiar man, dressed like he was working out in the woods- or, maybe a desert. His jeans were torn but well loved, his boots the thick, steel toed kind (woefully absent of spurs). He wore a yellow flannel like it was camouflage, a white shirt underneath and the sleeves rolled up once more to show off strong arms. Dark curls looked disheveled. A wide brimmed hat sat, not really concealing his face but ready to move in a moment. His eyes, shiny and gold, didn't quite look like they belonged on a human person. His freckles constantly shifted, moving around on his face like blinking stars.

Rather than look at the fledgling, he looked up at Joel, nodding and tipping his hat with a smile that could almost be considered fond. Like a man looking up at his father, maybe, or coworkers that interact well with one another. He didn't speak- but, at this point, did he really need to?

---

It does scare him to think he could be forgotten. But it's what he's grown used to. It's what he is, an empty space, a void in presence-- what's it matter if Joel McGreggor doesn't exist? What's it matter if a Stranger breezes through town? It terrifies him. He dreads it, just as much as he dreads truly baring his heart and his head to anyone.

i want to be loved like you are.

"I don't expect nothin' better from a Spider." Joel replies. "Y'all ain't the same. Yer not gonna be the same. He's Eye. Yer not. S'how it works." Like he can even say he knows. The Stranger claimed him, but he so easily could have been embraced by the End-- the Dark-- the Eye--

He clears his throat, and makes to say something else, before the face in front of the two of them changes. The one who stands in front of him when the Spider fades is... familiar, but Joel knows instinctively that it shouldn't be. This is his reflection as much as it is John's. A drifter. Golden eyes drag over the yellow flannel, the strong arms, the hat that shades his face... and Joel's gaze meets that of John's for a long moment, unsure of what to think. That is the antithesis, he thinks. The polar opposite of what John should be. The unknown to the known. Kin. John doesn't belong to him. Shouldn't belong to him. Him, or the-- the. Stranger. I Do Not Know You.

And yet Joel gets the distinct feeling he is looking at his own reflection, a sensation of discomfort and the feeling of something crawling under his skin. Is this a facet of the hall of mirrors or is this simply the Spider trying to get its message across? He doesn't know. And his voice catches in his throat.

He exhales, slowly. It reminds him in a painful way of everything he'd seen before. The struggle to make out a face, a features, his eyes drawing over the reflection and away again, like the hot afternoon on a train, baking in the Texas sun and trembling because the person in front of him was not a person and the thought makes bile rise in his throat, makes his hands shake, somewhat, the familiar sensation of old terror-- would John ever experience that? To look down the barrel of a gun and see that its owner had no face, could not be fathomed to have a face, or a voice, and to hear the sound echoing through your own damn skull when the bullet goes through it--

If John must die, let him die peacefully.

The thought occurs to him quickly and suddenly, a moment of mournful grief that is-- misplaced. John isn't dying. John isn't dying here, to be made into a wax figure or a taxidermy or an automaton, he isn't going to be the skin on a dancer or replaced with a Stranger. He is going to Know his way out of this, as Joel intended, and getting caught up in the mess of it now is-- is. is...
Pointless. Pointless! The terror that grips him and makes his hand shake has him gripping John that little bit tighter and struggling to find the words. He wishes, for a moment, that John would-- tell him to speak. Tell him to say something, pull the words out of him by force because then he would feel more grounded outside of his burning eyes and the pounding of his head where he thinks the bullet might still be lodged. His knee blossoms in pain and the place where the tape recorder has lodged itself in his chest throbs in a brief moment of agony. If he must die, let him die peacefully.

"Y'ain't me." He says, gently. "Never will be."

---

The fledgling started crying. He didn't recognize much of anything, and perhaps in another world, he would have been comforted by the fact that it wasn't an active decision. Nobody decided to cry when they were faced with something that was so overwhelming it overloaded every part of your being, but it happened more often than it didn't. He couldn't tear his eyes away- couldn't force himself to look anywhere except for the man in front of him. The man, whose face changed every time that the fledgling blinked. Who seemed interested in the scene unfolding in front of him, like he was scouring the two for knowledge and the best way to exploit it.

And so, the fledgling sobbed. His shaking came to a fever pitch, and a more rational part of him might have wondered if the mirrors reflected emotion as well as the concept of a self. His own fear bouncing back at him, compounded with his anchor's fear and pain and struggle. A part of him that he couldn't understand knew that something was happening. That something caused a phantom pain in his knee, in his chest, in the back of his head. At risk of being swept away, he grabbed onto that pain and held it close to his chest, something else to ground him in an abyss that was constantly changing around him. It could very well kill him.

If he must die, let him die peacefully.

The stranger had a rifle strapped to his back, his hands casually in his pockets as he watched the men in front of him. Presumably, some part of him was reveling in their mutual fear, one of memory and one of a new experience. When Joel finally spoke, he smiled, soft and a little smug. It wasn't so much the predatory grin of the Spider, but it felt wrong. He spoke in John's voice, in Joel's voice, in both and neither. It really was lucky that they just happened to look like each other, wasn't it?

"Is that such a bad thing?"

---

"Naw, it ain't a bad thing." Joel replies, smoothly. He listens, quietly, and over the cacophony of noise that is his own fear he feels John's still, hears the younger man sniffling and crying; quiet, in the simple way that suggests he quite potentially doesn't want to be heard. Most likely because he expects something else to hear him, he'd guess. Golden eyes drift over the rifle and the posture of the other Stranger, and it feels... It feels sickening, somehow. Looking into a mirror, and the mirror looking back isn't quite right. It shouldn't be a shock. After all, this is the very same intention, isn't it?

It's only odd to feel the fear as himself, and not emanating from someone else. He feels himself gripping John a little bit tighter against him, as if he's trying to be protective, and it feels... it feels both right and somehow incorrect, like the improper course of action and yet the only choice he could make.

"Ain't nobody out there who'd wanna waste their days bein' me. Hell, I ain't too keen on it every now'n again." His laugh is bitter, hollow. He hears his own voice from the mirror. He hears John's voice from the mirror. "S'why I wear somebody else's face. Though, f'yer gonna do this t'me, y'gotta answer me one question, huh?" He feels the way he's standing shift slightly in order to pull John that little bit closer to him, his fingers digging into the collegiate hoodie and holding him firmly against him.

"This... thing. B'tween us. Was that always there? Or did he make it 'cause I brought him here?"

---

"You know I'm not that keen on answerin' questions, right?" the stranger asked, but he chuckled anyway. The fledgling's fear was a little more delicious than Joel's, if only because Joel was used to it in a way that the fledgling wasn't. The fledgling trembled and sobbed like a child, and it was more satisfying than it had any right to be. "Let me start by saying that I ain't really doin' this to you. I'm just existing. You're more of a side effect."

He paused and looked back at the fledgling. The fledgling had sort of shifted one of his hands to grab at his chest, like he was stifling an imaginary wound there. His eyes were locked on his reflection, and the stranger laughed slightly, an echo of Joel's. After that moment, it looked back at him and shrugged.

"But, if I had to hazard a guess, I'd reckon it's the second one. You happy with that?"

---

No, he isn't happy with the answer. But he can't really assume much else, given the circumstance, can he? The whole point is that he doesn't know. The whole point is that John doesn't know. He benefits from this, and yet the sensation at the same time is utterly sickening as he pulls the younger man tighter against him. As the reflection's eyes move towards John again, so do Joel's, and he notes the positioning of the way he clutches at his own chest; ain't that familiar.

The Stranger breathes out slowly, and then shakes his head in a gesture that is either resignation or annoyance.

"Right," He says, and the hand that had been on John's shoulder moves to the back of his head, curling calloused fingers in his hair loosely. "That's that, then." Maybe he should've just shoved him facefirst into the mirror maze and left him. "Y'ain't gonna tell me anythin' else useful, I imagine, so why not let the kid start tryin' to get his ass outta here, huh?"

---

"Awful eager to just send me off, aren't you?" The stranger chuckled, but it wasn't really full of malice. He pulled his hat off so that he could mess with the hair at the back of his head, a gesture sort of similar to Joel holding the fledgling's head. He put the hat back on soon after, tipping it with an overexaggerated bow. "Lemme just say one more thing, then, 'fore I head off. This wasn't planned. You'nd him, it's obvious you don't get along, but it's not like you got tricked by a Spider, either. It was a matter of Knowing and Unknowing, and it'll stay like that, too. Whatever you do with that ain't really my business. We trust you, cowboy, so don't fuck it up."

And the stranger disappeared, leaving Joel and the fledgling staring at their own reflections. The fledgling flinched at that, too, the sheer sight of somebody else that he didn't know. Over their shoulder, somebody gently cleared his throat, causing the fledgling to jump and turn and stare.

Something in the new reflection's face made sense. Looked familiar, in a way that nothing else really did. Regardless of whether or not Joel was following, the fledgling stepped closer in tandem with the reflection. He wore a college sweater and thick glasses, and the fledgling's hands shifted to match the reflection's more relaxed posture. The light seemed to settle on the reflection differently, specks of a green glow looking eerily like eyes settling all over his form. His eyes were green, alert and inquisitive, and he looked at the fledgling with more pity than fear.

The Archivist looked up at Joel over the fledgling's shoulder, all six hundred of his eyes unreadable.

---

He is relieved to see the eye.

He is relieved to see the *Eye*.

That, more than anything, is a sensation that makes him feel remarkably sick. The feeling, he thinks, of being a bug pinned on a corkboard; wriggling, writhing, struggling, while something much greater than you picks your pieces apart to examine them in as much detail as is possible, pinning aside limbs and gossamer wings and extra pieces. And yet it is almost a relief after being faced with the Spider, with his own uncertain reflection staring back at him, and Joel swipes his tongue across his teeth and tries to get away from the sensation of how dry his mouth is.

The Archivist means that Knowing is coming along, and Knowing is what John needs to get out of here-- and, Joel thinks, more than likely to get himself out of here intact, rather than as an empty space where a humanoid creature should be. If John is trapped here, and he's tied to the man's fate in the room, what good does that do either of them?

We trust you, cowboy, so don't fuck it up.

Ain't that liable to be a proper mistake.

His eyes burn as they trail over the Archivist's numerous, and he struggles to find the words that should be said. The tape recorder in his chest clicks and whirrs and continues on recording, but he feels-- he feels his own heartbeat, small and weak and declining even as it fumbles back to life, and his grip loosens on John as he fails to say anything at all. This isn't his part to play anymore, he thinks. And what does he have to say to the Archivist that it wouldn't already know how to answer him?

---

After a long, agonizing moment of just staring at Joel, the Archivist nodded. He smiled slightly. "Congratulations for sitting through the mortifying ordeal of being known, man." What more was there to be said? How do you act after finding some facet of yourself, as distant as that may currently be, tied to something that was so solidly against the entirety of your being? "...While I've got you here, be careful with your eyes for the next few days. They're going to feel like they're burning out, and that's entirely my bad."

He looked instead over Joel's shoulder, then, into his reflection in the mirror. An Eye for an Eye, after all, and even if the fledgling hadn't seen it before, it still existed. The Archivist made eye contact with a scared young man with green eyes, an echo of something that could have been (and maybe should have been), and he relaxed his shoulders a little. In a space so dedicated to knowing, it's always difficult to understand what happened if you simply couldn't. What happens when you take away somebody's anchor, the one thing that they have to understand the world? The man wasn't his, or anything really adjacent to him, but he looked... upset, maybe, at what could have been. Sympathetic, maybe.

When his mouth moved, the fledgling's moved with it- a quiet mumble like he was trying to gather his thoughts. Only one voice sounded out this time, straight from the fledgling's chest as the Archivist looked at the man over his shoulder. "Joel. Give me the tape recorder."

---

Joel would laugh at the irony-- he can't imagine what else John might have gained from him at this point, and can't imagine what he's going to walk out of here having to endure. Mortifying ordeal of being known. He is both relieved and repulsed by that thought, comforted and disgusted-- what is he meant to do, really? Embraced by something so inherently against what he is supposed to be. God, this is going to hurt.

"Thank y'for yer apology." He replies, dryly. "I'll make sure t'keep the lights in m'office off fer a while." His tongue presses against his teeth as he feels John relax against him, enough to be noticable, and very gradually debates on if now is the time to let go or not. Golden eyes drift down to the man at his side--

and he jumps, slightly, when John is the real one to speak.

Huffing through his nose, Joel gives a small nod and reaches into his coat. His fingers close around the tape recorder and-- he expects something more painful and bloody when he pulls it from its hiding place, but the end result is instead simply a rustle of fabric and metal and plastic. He hands it off to John without saying anything, and feels slightly awed at the sensation of his heart beating under its own power again.

---

The tape recorder slid into his hand, and he held it close to his chest. An anchor was an anchor, but now and again, you needed something more solidified in knowing than its opposite.

His name was Johnathan Valdez, and he was an Archivist. He could sort through the rest as he went.

Don't get him wrong, he desperately wanted to close his eyes and take a minute to try and sort through his thoughts, of which they were many and many of which may not have belonged to him. It was hard to focus on something outside of this mess when everything reflected back on him. The Foundation was something that existed away from the circus, but it was hard to grab onto it. An endeavor in that was a better way to spend his time than just sitting there and stewing (or, god forbid, waiting for his Stranger to feel enough pity to drag him out), so he started walking, nodding for his Stranger to follow whether or not he was holding on.

"If I ever say I want to come back and investigate more of what's happening, just whack me upside the head," he said, in lieu of any actual explanation for what he was feeling. That would come later, when his head wasn't feeling fit to pop. "Did you have this thing on you the whole time?"

---

"Yeah." Joel places his hands in his pockets. Watches John shift, hold the recorder tight to his chest like a lifeline-- like an anchor-- and feels something make his eyes sting. "I had it with me. Took it from ya when we were walkin' onto the grounds." His voice is calm and even and the gesture to follow is-- nothing at all, really, because Joel follows without complaint. He should be leading, he thinks. He should be... the guidance, here, shouldn't he? It's supposed to be his job to encourage the lack of knowledge, and yet he doesn't argue with John wanting to lead-- their hands are still held together.

"F'y'wanna come back here, I'll be be more'n a little surprised." He replies with something of a huff, a noise that may have been intended to be a laugh and more likely was intended to be something sympathetic. He doesn't know. He doesn't feel like he's learned anything at all, in truth. "You plannin' t'make a statement outta this, John?"

---

It was in his pocket, probably. "I knew it would follow me around," he said, and even though he didn't know for sure, it felt right at least. He squeezed his Stranger's hand, glancing for a moment at the reflections that weren't quite his reflections as he walked past them. "Thank you, for holding on to it. It's a little bit of proof that it's not a hallucination fever dream that we had when we both got high."

He'll remember the name in a minute, probably. He wasn't entirely sure that his Stranger minded the lack of identity right now, given the whole stranger thing, but... It seemed rude, not to refer to a guy by name when John is desperately trying to repeat his name and drill it into his head that that's what his name is. "Probably. I mean, this has been recording the whole time, hasn't it? So we're already halfway there. I'll give it a few weeks before I try and look back on it now, though, I think I might make my eyes pop out if I try it now." A pause, and then another gentle squeeze. "What about you, though?"

---

Joel snorts at his comment-- "Gettin' high an' wanderin' through here happens t'be a very popular occasion, y'know." He responds as he threads his fingers through John's again. "Though I think most folks go fer th'merry-go-round or the freakshow fer that." He exhales slowly with some noise of amusement. He feels... exhausted. As if all the energy has been leeched right out of him and it's taking a great deal of effort just to move his legs forward. "I figured y'would want it, anyway." He bites his tongue for the rest of his schemes-- they wouldn't have panned out, anyway.

"What about me?" The question hangs in the air and the Stranger tilts his head slightly in some confusion as he's not sure how to answer-- though considering he'd just asked about a statement, there's a moment's pause where it clicks back into place. A gentle squeeze of his hand. Joel sighs gently through his nose. "Dunno. Ask me later." When's the last time he gave a statement? He doesn't  think he can remember. There are, of course, plenty of them about him lurking in various archives around the States, but one from him? There's no telling, he thinks. He certainly never gave one to Nieves, after all.

---

"The last time I got high, I just had weird conversations about spiders," John said. He attached the tape recorder to his belt, then ran a hand down his face, suddenly really tired looking. "I think it was regarding morality of Charlotte's Web? I was in college, it was weird." He remembered feeling this exhausted once before, right after his father pulled the leatherbound journal out of his hands. That was a good memory to hold on to, even if it made his chest hurt a little bit from the anxiety. He was tired then, too, like his whole reason for living had just gotten torn away. This was a little easier to contend with, knowing that he wasn't burning his eyes out.

Even though his eyes felt like they were burning. It was something that he knew now, the pressure of trying to learn something that didn't want to be known. He paused once they came to a crossroads in the hall of mirror to try and figure his way out, figure out which way was right. It was easy in theory, poking a little bit with something outside of his knowledge, but the effort made sparks bloom behind closed eyes, made his temples throb as something violently reacted to being put right inside of his head. Though he hadn't noticed it, his nose was bleeding, and he very tiredly tugged his Stranger down one of the paths.

"I will," he said. "Ask you later." And he meant it, though he knew that he'd be able to be gentle about it. He didn't need multiple statements about what happened, even if it wasn't just what he could barely remember. It was more for his Stranger's benefit than anything. Absently, he raised their hands, brushing his lips against the hand that didn't belong to his like it'd be another reassuring gesture. "Come here often?"

---

"Don't remember the last time I got high, t'be honest." Joel replies almost vacantly, as if he's not giving the words any thoughts. "Been a while." It's not as relaxing as he'd like it to be, he thinks. Not as... content, to have his clarity disrupted that severely. He'd prefer a cigar and a bourbon, more than anything else.

They pause at the crossroads, and Joel glances towards John, giving him a moment to brace himself and try to figure out which way to go. In the brief pause, he's prepared to take the lead-- but then John tugs him along, and Joel follows obediently, not looking at the other man's face as he does.

"I would expect nothin' less from ya, pumpkin." The Stranger replies, pulling his eyes away from John at the sensation of their hands moving again. "But I'd really appreciate it f'you would think 'bout askin' me nicely--" A brief pause, and the other man's lips brush against his fingers. Joel feels a sudden tension in his chest, an awe, a desire, a need--

But rather than voicing that, he simply squeezes his hand in return, reaching forward with his free hand and his sleeve to wipe away the blood trickling from John's nose without a word. He exhales, slowly, shakily. god, i want to be loved.

"No, not often. M'a member'a the circus, but they don't see me much. I like to visit when they're in town, though." And they walk on, Joel feeling-- almost somewhat dazed.

---

He only realized that his nose was bleeding when his Stranger reached out and wiped it away. That was another thing that almost always happened when it hurt, his head would swim and his nose would bleed, and Moss and Guill and Hana would get so worried about him. He sniffled in, deep, and wiped his nose again, though his legs were starting to give out from the effort of keeping himself upright. He kept going anyway, because where else was he supposed to go.

"You didn't finish your thought," he said, casually. Slowly. He was leaning on his Stranger a little more than he was earlier now, trying to push through pain and find something solid. "The one about me asking you things." He knew what he was going to say, though. Ask nicely about if he would give it, rather than just ripping it out of him. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that he was teasing his Stranger, trying to make him feel more like a normal human being. Known. Cared for.

But, no, that would be silly.

He had to stop, though, reaching out his free hand to press against the mirrors for a solid surface. He didn't entirely pull away from his Stranger, but he stopped leaning on him, instead putting most of his weight against the wall. It was just for the moment to gain his thoughts and try and put the route properly in his head. The hand not holding his Stranger's instead shifted to his head, rubbing his temples with a firm grumble of pain. As he stopped and considered, his background processes took over most of the actual conversation.

"Hey. Do you ever wanna talk about your feelings, Joel?"

---

"Do I really need t'finish it?" Joel replies, shifting how he's standing slightly with the way John leans on him so heavily. A part of him feels like he's going to need to carry the man out, especially when John pauses to lean heavily against the mirrors. The Stranger's eyes flicker to where hand meets hand and when he pulls away, just slightly, Joel can't help but-- dislike it, like John's weight against him was a comfort. "Just wantin' you t'ask me nicely 'stead of pullin' it outta me, like you and yer Eye seem to enjoy doin'. Makes me sick t'my stomach." And a little worse than that, but what can he say about it?

Golden eyes stay on John's face, trying to see if there's any more serious pain, anything that would have him needing to lift him off his feet and onto his back; short of John collapsing, though, he doesn't think there's anything else he needs to do--

Do you ever wanna talk about your feelings, Joel?
"Aw, pumpkin, y'got my name back?"

He gives a slight laugh. He knows what the answer should be. It should be no, as he is, at the end of the day, a Stranger-- and yet. The man sighs through his nose and makes to help John stand up and walk a little bit more. He doesn't want to stay here. These mirrors don't belong to him anymore. An arm wraps around John's waist and holds him against him without much thought, giving the Archivist the room to still provide the lead while Joel is all too willing to give him more support.

"Sometimes," He says, after a pause of silence. Isn't now the time for honesty? "Sometimes I wanna talk 'bout how I'm feelin' to anyone who might listen t'me. I don't, though."

---

He didn't want to get up and start moving yet. Everything was happening a little too fast, and he still wasn't totally sure of his path, and his entire body hurt. Moving might make that a little worse, and he didn't want to risk it, but here he was- being pushed and pulled like he was weightless. At the very least, the weight against his side was warm and comfortable, and he probably wouldn't throw up on the poor guy.

"I was teasing," he said, even though he definitely wasn't teasing, haha what are you talking about, how dare you assume that, ect. "I know why. I was just teasing, you worry too much." It's not like he didn't have precedent to worry. John probably looked like he was dead right now, and he had an unfortunate habit of pulling things out of Joel, whether he wanted to or not. Joel couldn't exactly talk, either, though- Not about the accidental ability use thing, but about the teasing. That was what this was, right? Teasing about a name. A name that John had definitely remembered the whole time, right?

"You can't prove I didn't have it to begin with," he decided, brushing some blood away from his nose and choosing a direction. Off they go.

Joel didn't want to talk about his feelings, and that was fine. "It's okay, I do," John said, after a moment of consideration. He sounded exhausted- that much, he knew. He sounded like he was just pulled through the wringer. "Is pain a feeling? I'm feeling that. All over." His chest feeling tight, but a strange pulsing in his heart. His temples throbbing, but something hot at the back of his head. His eyes burning, but a hot pain in his knee almost making him want to limp. He could examine all of that later. Maybe once he could sit down. "Don't happen to have any tylenol on you, do you?"

---

"Feel like I've got good reason t'worry s'all." Joel replies as John steadies himself again, reflexively making an effort to keep the man upright and against his own body while he seems to be on the verge of collapse still-- He feels bad for him, almost, but he knows very well that this much is necessary for an archivist to really Know what to do with themselves. The Stranger exhales slowly through his nose as he looks forward again through the mess of mirrors. "It ain't exactly somethin' I'm keen on experiencin' more'n I have to, and y'must be halfway to yer own grave by now."

You can't prove I didn't have it to begin with, John says, and Joel's response is a chuckle, something warm and half-hearted in the same breath, light amusement at... at what, exactly? That John still knows his name, even after his own identity's all but been ripped away from him, and Joel's been left feeling like the victim of a vivisection of his own psyche. His own head hurts, pulsing out from the center of his skull, more a pressure than a stabbing. He'd be gruesome, but he's not sure he has the stomach. "M'sure y'never lost it, pumpkin." Joel relents, finally, and breathes out slow.

They keep moving. Joel does his best to keep John upright.

"Pain is a feeling, yeah." He answers that question, the gold of his eyes drifting to look his companion up and down, a moment spent looking for-- blood? External damage? It would be all internal, the fracture of identity and Knowing and... god, his head hurts. "Don't got any on me, but once we get outta here, I can prob'ly find someone who does." In the Ringmaster's absence, it's his job to be in control. His job to run the show. Danseuse étoile. "Y'think y'can keep walkin', or d'ya need me t'lift you up, doll?"

---

"Archivists tend to have generally decreased lifespans," John said, absently. Like it was more of a random point of conversation than something palpable. He numbly realized that he probably shouldn't be so flippant about his own death, but that felt way too distant to be relevant. To be fair, he wasn't positive where the statistic came from, but he figured that was something he could worry about later, too. He had Joel around to ground him, keep his brain from wandering off into some other world of fun trivia, so he'd try and take that for what it was worth, too.

Pain was a feeling, and it was a feeling that was seeping deep, deep into John's bones, It made it difficult to focus, the feeling radiating out from his head and making everything around him hazy. He was at least relatively certain that he knew the way now- that much was clear, at least, and he was pulling Joel through hallways like it was second nature, but everything hurt. The map was burned into his eyes, but each step within it set him in a feedback loop of seeing himself in six thousand different angles. It was actively trying to stop him from moving. Joel seemed just as out of it as he was.

"I'm too heavy to carry," he said, though he still didn't outright reject the idea. "I can walk just fine, don't worry so much." Something blinked open over his shoulder, but it quickly snuffed itself out before it was noticed. Nothing to see here! In a way, it was kind of fascinating to feel him play off of Joel and the other way around- how, beyond any actual meaning, they worked well together. The stand-in ringmaster and- what was it that Joel had called him earlier? Beloved of Beholding? The memory made another spurt of blood gush from his nose, and John raised the hand that wasn't clutching Joel's to his face to try and stem the bleeding. This shirt would definitely need a wash afterwards. "Just- I'll be okay. Just, tell me a story or something. Keep talking."

Something, something, statement begins.

---

"I ain't known any Archivists but you and Nieves, and y'all are both still breathin', last I checked." Joel replies as they walk, continuing at John's pace, as unsteady and shaky as it is. "Granted, she ain't in the best condition either, so yer theory might have t'hold water." It's a bad joke. He knows it before it leaves his mouth. The weight of the other man against him is just as grounding to him, something to focus on against the haze and static and the mess and the uncertainty, the sensation of tension in his chest that makes him want to look further at the mirrors--

Joel exhales somewhat sharply through his nose. That's bait to stay put, and wouldn't do either of them any good at all.

"A story?" Golden eyes shift from looking strictly forward back down to John, and he furrows his brows as he-- smells blood, and sees John cover his nose, and wonders briefly if he shouldn't deny John's insistence he's too heavy to carry in order to hoist the other man onto his back. "Uh... I got a couple, I guess." He murmurs, looking away again in order to think.

A story? Folktale, maybe. Or-- something honest? No, no, he doesn't want to give his statement when John's in this condition. He wants something-- steadier, something softer, something-- He's got something up his sleeve, he thinks, somewhere.
"Once," He says, hoisting John up a little bit more against him, "There was a hare and a coyote, out in th'west. They were in a chase together; Hare leaves his hole in the mornin' and Coyote chases after him fer as long as his legs can take 'em, and Hare runs'n'runs faster'n Coyote ever can, and always gets away. Problem is, Hare's gettin' tired of havin' to run. He wants t'eat before th'sun goes down. He wants t'sleep in the warmth. He wants t'fuck his many wives in peace and not have t'teach his children that Coyote's a right bastard." He looks towards John again, looking him up and down briefly in an attempt to make sure he's still-- upright and awake? Joel's fingers dig lightly into John's shirt. He continues,

"Hare's faster'n Coyote, but Coyote's got sharp teeth'n all those claws. Hare decides he wants claws, wants teeth, wants somethin' to fight Coyote off with. So he calls out t'whatever's listenin' to 'im-- 'Great spirits,' he says, 'I want t'fight Coyote 'steada turnin' tail every time he comes near me an' my home.'"

Joel pauses again, glancing towards John as he does.