Logs:Who In This Mirror
| Who In This Mirror | |
|---|---|
cn: fosse don't look, mention of antisemitic violence. | |
| Dramatis Personae | 2023-09-25 ""Goddamn shame you weren't there." (followed by checking in with Joshua & Scramble.) |
| Location
<PRV> Holland Farm - Hiawassee | |
One of many such family farms -- though fewer all the time -- in this little Appalachian town, the Hollands' 160-some rolling acres are divided about evenly between peach orchards and yearly rotations of crops. A burbling creek winds along one edge of the property, which extends up past the arable portions into steep, wooded mountainside. There are several acres of vegetable gardens nearest to the farmhouse, producing enough food to feed the family and often with excess to sell locally. The barn and pasture adjoining this are likewise mainly for the family's own use, with just a couple of dairy cows, a pair of horses, and plenty of chickens. The farmhouse itself is a big rambling white affair with a generous wraparound porch, full of rustic charm even in its no-nonsense practicality. The furniture is sturdy and plain and well-cared for, the walls adorned with handmade crafts, children's artwork, and some of Jackson Holland's more whimsical original paintings. The kitchen is vast and airy and superbly organized, always redolent of rich home cooking and of the herbs hanging in bundles to dry. In addition to the main house there are two smaller outbuildings, historically used to house farm hands during the harvest. The sun has set, but the gibbous moon is bright overhead, casting a sheen over the rolling farmland. In pajama pants and ancient Rainbow Brite tee Jackson is up on the roof, tucked on the gently sloping overhang outside his bedroom window with a sketchpad in his lap, illuminated by a soft glow that radiates out from around him. He's twirling his pencil in rapid flit between his fingers, and though the tip isn't touching to his page, hasn't touched to his page for some time, the drawing there is blossoming to life. Ryan (or a stylized version thereof) lying in a field of the verdant wildflowers from the artwork for Shelter run riot across the page in a spill of bright petals and sharp thorns -- only now the petals are fingers, the thorns are teeth, the flowers a ravenous crowd that tears hungry mouthfuls from his flesh, and from the wounds gaping in his scarred torso a spill of seeds ripples out to stretch new roots into the earth and start the process again. Jackson is alone on the roof, until he isn't anymore. Joshua, when he appears, is also dressed for a lazy evening at home -- baggy sweatpants, an ancient soft FDNY tee. He's humming quietly to himself -- Leonard Cohen's "Who By Fire" -- as he drops down to sit beside Jax. He takes the sketchpad off Jax's knees, brows hiking as he looks at Ryan being perpetually consumed by his Jax tenses, startled -- then confused as "Joshua" nabs his sketchpad. He doesn't reach to take it back until the other man speaks, and then a slow frown creeps across his face. He snatches the book back, the movement and color fading from it to leave a half-finished graphite sketch of the same. "Joshua's prob'ly at Ne'ilah now." His reply isn't quite sharp but it's definitely far from warm. "Oh, he was! Is. Was." Mirror leans back against Jax's bedroom windowframe, hand turning up in a dissonantly casual gesture as he continues: "-- Swords swooped in looking to massacre some Jews." Joshua's form is melting and shifting as Mirror speaks -- smaller, now, swimming in their previous clothes, but the small sharptoothed blue face that peeks out is bleeding and raw, skin torn and peeled open like a particularly ugly spill onto the road. "Goddamn shame you weren't there. Could probably have saved a lotta lives." The sketchbook falls from Jax's hands, fluttering open as it drops off the roof. His mouth opens as he looks at Mirror!Shane, but nothing comes out. As his hand flies to his lips, the glow around him is brightening to a ferocious heat. The unShane doesn't shy away from the crackling heat, though his clear inner eyelids do slide shut. "Shit, sorry, I'm misremembering. Stressful night. You were there. At least," they're growing, stretching back into their own lanky form, "everyone thinks you were there." Their head rolls back, eyes tipping up towards the moon overhead. "Joshua got flayed alive doing what you could have done much easier. Did save a lotta lives, though. Way that nightmare went, whole buncha people probably think you're dead." There's a sharp baring of teeth here that maybe, from the right angle, could be interpreted as a smile. "Convenient, I guess. You want to take that out now? Save your people a lot of disappointment." It's not hard, at first, to read the shift -- confusion, then fury, then sharp guilt -- that passes across Jax's expression. This last fades, slow, to a careful blankness. He's looking away and off the roof for a long silent stretch. The heat begins to ebb, and so does the glow that surrounds him, leaving only the bright moonlight to light the rooftop. Eventually he stands, slow and heavy as he pushes himself carefully up on the precarious slope. He's not looking at Mirror, just giving his head one small shake. "-- I'll get dressed," is all he says, quiet, before ducking back in through his window. Mirror doesn't reply. They're melting smoothly back into Joshua, though, and the smile that lingers a moment on his jowly features looks jarringly out of place. Their eyes linger up on the moon, the resuming of their quiet humming following Jax back inside. | |
