Jacob Frye Catch-All

[nothinglikefather]

Who: Jacob Frye + OPEN
What: Various: causing trouble, planning trouble, generally trouble
When: March? March. March is good!
Where: Anchor, different spots here and there.


Sequence 1: Take a Leap of Faith - OPEN

If you could ask Jacob Frye what the best thing about being an assassin was, he wouldn't even have to think about the answer. 

For a start, there is very little about being an assassin that he very much likes. The fighting is fun, but you don't need to be an assassin to get into a fight club, or a gang for that matter. Assassins don't generally fight if they can help it either, they're meant to sneak in, find their target, dispatch them, leave. The weapons? They're fun, the gauntlet is one of his dearest possessions. But it doesn't come close to the thrill of free falling. 

Breath snatched from your lungs, heart beating against your ribs, adrenaline filling every inch of you as the wind whistles past.

It's dangerous, he knows that. One tiny miscalculation can kill you, and when you're leaping from such high points there is no room for error. Maybe that's another part of the excitement. Cheating death. 

He'd done it in the City, of course he had. But somehow in Anchor, that central cavernous space above the park calls to him. So much open space between one side and the other, so little to get in your way. 

Even just stood here, on the ledge of one of the many levels, he feels his heartbeat begin to race. He's picking his spot, working out the landing and simply enjoying the anticipation of it. Anyone passing by might be very concerned to see a man stood there on the very edge, so high from the ground. 

But those watching from below might be surprised to see him fall: arms outstretched and wind whipping at his coat, free-falling and then turning, landing on his back in a pile of leaves the little robotic gardens have been collecting from the green space and helpfully left laying around.

They might be more surprised to see him get out with a huge grin, and no visible injuries, then pull his hat from his pocket and put it back on.



Sequence 2: A Moonshiner Mission - CLOSED TO ANGEL 

He's been toying with the idea for a few days. He's not a brewer, just a drinker, but it can't be too hard. People do it at home in their kitchens out in the countryside. They should be able to do it here, and that way he can actually drink something that isn't either piss or a tequila sunrise.

Not that he can complain about the tequila, it's not that bad and besides, Angel likes them. 

The boys are out, and Jacob's flicking through the binder of information she made them absently, without really taking in anything new. There's diagrams and explanations of complicated scientific terms and chemical reactions. Evie would have loved it. 

"You know a lot about science, right?" He asks her, testing the water. 

Sequence 3: All is Complicated in Love and War: CLOSED TO LEN SNART (and backdated)

Cold doesn't seem the worst for wear, considering he was almost drowned. Jacob has survived a number of things he shouldn't have, he can appreciate that afterwards you normally want a stiff drink. He certainly needs one, after the freezing water and that fight. 

He has questions. A lot of questions, and he's not sure Cold is going to give him any answers. He seems the sort to keep a lot of things close to his chest. Maybe a drink, the offer of a friendly chat will relax the tension. Jacob hopes so, he likes the guy even if he is rather cold and detached. Ha, Cold. 

He sets a drink down in front of him as he takes a swallow from his own. It's alcoholic, which is good.

"You and that guy have history." He prompts, as he takes his seat. 


Sequence 4: Pick Your Own Adventure - OPEN
 

Comments

[nothinglikefather]

Jacob looks at him, eyes widening as if the answer is obvious. It is to him, who feels so intensely and so easily, he would always rather be with people. Especially the ones he cares about.

"I'd rather have them, with me, than never have it at all."

Isn't that natural? To want something good if only for a little while? He wants that happiness, those good memories. He knows the pain of losing people, he remembers too well Edward leaving the City. He knows what Charles and the others went through when he left.

"It happend to me. I made friends. Fell in love. Then I got sent home and remembered nothing at all. But then we all got pulled here. I don't know how and I don't know why. But I'm grateful."

[abheirrant]

"I was elsewhere once."

Carlisle's voice is quiet, but sharp; his hands quake as he desperately wishes he could find some modicum of comfort in Jacob's experiences, but only ends up increasingly frustrated with his current situation. There are so many familiar beats: he made friends, was sent home, remembered nothing, was pulled here. They were reunited. How wonderful for them.

"I was happy, apparently. Whole."

He sucks in a breath; it rattles dryly through his chest as the image from Poison's sketchbook dances before his mind's eye. He looked so lively there, so carefree. That other Carlisle, as he's come to think of him, had an existence to be envied, a fulfilling life in Hadriel.

And at times like these, when he struggles to cope with the loss of a major part of what little life he's eked out in Anchor, he does envy that other Carlisle.

"I must have returned home at some point. I don't remember. I don't remember so many things."

He tries to take another breath, but nearly chokes on it; trembling, he swallows down the knot in his throat, his eyes glowing brighter and brighter with a furious light the longer he stews in his bitter resentment of the man he once was. This is what he deserves for being the Blight Heir, isn't it? But what did he do to deserve becoming the Blight Heir in the first place?

He doesn't know. He doesn't know that, and he doesn't know where Reynir truly is, and he doesn't know how to fully control his Revenant nature and all that it entails, from the volatile self-loathing to the way he rots the walls around him when he loses his composure.

And that's what seems to be happening right now. Carlisle managed to hold it together when he realized Reynir was missing, but the dam is starting to crack as rust speckles the floor and the wall closest to him, circles of decay growing larger with every passing second.

[nothinglikefather]

Jacob stops, refocuses on the present, lets all the colour flow back into the world as his attention goes back to Carlisle. He's not very good at comforting people, he should really stop trying, but this guy is clearly in some distress, and he can't just walk away. He really can't.

Thankfully, he recalls how reticent Carlisle was to be touched, so he doesn't try to give him a pat on the shoulder or anything like that. Besides, he doubts that would really help in the situation. What he does do instead is pull out a hipflask from within his coat, and offer it out. Normally it's got some sort of alcohol in it, but as the only thing available here is Tequila Sunrises, he has tea in it instead. Hot, strong tea. That might be more fitting, in the situation.

"Come sit down Carlisle." He says, gesturing them to a quiet-looking spot they can talk. If Reynir is gone, then lingering here won't make any difference, and he needs to look after the people who remain. This man has lost something important to him, and Jacob can empathise with that, and he can try to help. Bashing things or killing people won't help this time, and so he tries something he's learnt from Edward's disappearance.

Talking helps. Not immediately, but if you share what hurts you, sometimes that pain begins to ease. He doesn't normally do it himself, but good people tried to take on some of his pain, and he should do the same.

"Talk to me. Tell me about Reynir, if you want."

[abheirrant]

Talking can undeniably help, giving the mind both time and means to sort itself out -- and Carlisle realizes that deep down, but he's so mired in a grief he has never learned to truly process that he can no longer tell the difference between his gut instinct and his Revenant nature. As such, he's disinclined to trust anyone, least of all himself and the advice he'd give someone facing the same circumstances. It's just too close to him right now, his chest aching despite his long-dead heart.

Reynir was not only a friend, one of the very few Carlisle had, but it was through their shared dreams that Carlisle was able to escape everything: Anchor, his woes, even the burden of his ruined form. His magic was incredible, offering the clergyman a unique solace that's now gone. He's gone.

The paint on the wall behind Carlisle curls, peeling off; the temperature of the hallway drops suddenly, the air still, dry.

He wants to lash out. It's so much easier to lash out, especially when every fibre of his being as an undead urges him to do so. Why should he be the only one to suffer? Here's this fellow talking about his friends and his lover and all the elements that make Anchor 'not so bad;' meanwhile, Carlisle has so little for himself, and what little he has may yet still be affected by his affliction. The twice-cursed bring misfortune, and how unfortunate it is to be sent home when one would rather stay, offering them a modicum of false hope before stripping it away again. And anyone unlucky enough to remain in Anchor may be attacked by monsters, or irradiated by the wasteland, or even rotted into oblivion, much like the surfaces around him.

Speaking of rotting, Carlisle catches sight of the discoloration spreading at his feet, closing his eyes as his nose wrinkles in private disgust. He should be ashamed for caving so easily to his ill temper. Even now, he's a danger to the one man in his vicinity. Reynir is safer at home, surely. He must believe that... but it still hurts, stymied emotion causing a tremor in his chest.

"I see no point in talking," Carlisle replies, his voice clipped with injury as he turns to leave. "It does nothing to bring him back."

Given his profession as clergy and the confessional he often held, that statement is undeniably hypocritical. It's so much more difficult to apply such practices to himself, as salvation is -- and, as he sees now, has always been -- for people better than he is, people who are people rather than creatures wishing they were.

[nothinglikefather]

What Carlisle doesn't seem to realise is that he is withdrawing himself away, running when a hand of friendship is extended to him. Jacob doesn't often help like this, it isn't his forte. He finds lost people, lost things, he kills people that need killing, destroys things that need to be destroyed. He isn't a counsellor or a priest or any of those people that normally does this. He doesn't even know this man, but he tried.

And now he's having it thrown back in his face.

He hardly notices the paint curling and blackening, he only vaguely registers that the floor is decaying and oxidising beneath their feet. He is too consumed by his own feelings to realise that the source of the rot is the man turning his back on him, the man belitting Jacob's efforts to help him.

It hurts. It hurts in the same way he's always been hurt. Told he's not good enough, not doing it right, not capable. Too young too stupid, too reckless.

And here he is, useless all over again. But instead of feeling small and pulling back, he lashes out. Carlisle has much better control, able to walk away. Jacob Frye does not yet have that ability. He fights, when he's hurt, his mouth runs away from him. And right now, all he wants is to lay into this stranger, a stranger who wanted his help and then decided he didn't after Jacob had opened up to him.

He reaches out, reflexs as quick as a cat, and takes the man by the arm before he's able to get too far.

"You don't-" He begins, before the burn begins. He curses in pain, hand pulling away just as if he'd been licked by flame, and he looks on as the skin of his fingers form evil blisters, as the leather in his gauntlet cracks and tightens, as it breaks apart.

[abheirrant]

As it's been his nature for nearly his entire life, Carlisle is used to withdrawing. When his uncles disappeared, he blamed himself and his affliction for it, and thus sequestered himself to the family estate at nearly all times, save for when his duties called. It was a terribly lonely life, and one that clearly left him stunted when it comes to interpersonal relationships, but it was better to live in seclusion than put others in reach of his curse, wasn't it?

That's what he believed until the day he died, but now knowing what happened to the people of Bear Den when the Blight Heir awoke, he's not so sure anymore. Still, it's what he knows -- bottling it all up and swallowing it down in privacy (and usually with some liquor) is what's familiar. It's better to not be a burden, as he already is to so many, both at home and in Anchor. He's used to that, too.

What he isn't sued to is someone actually stopping him; people have tried to convince him otherwise with words, but for someone to physically grab him when he's walking away is startling, to say the least. He wrenches himself away on reflex as Jacob pulls his own hand back, his leather gauntlet disintegrating before them.

Carlisle's eyes widen with immediate panic. He should leave. He should definitely leave, and yet, he finds his legs practically bolted to the ground, the rest of him trembling as he's gripped with indecision.

New plan: he should apologize, then leave. He's a danger here, he chides himself. What if he rots Reynir's room and takes away all remaining traces that his friend was ever here? But if he goes back to his room, he's a threat to the well-being of his pet and his plants. And if he stays right here in the hallway, he's putting someone else in danger, and he needs to move now and why is he not moving. He needs to leave now and everything is terrible.

All the internal conflict just leaves Carlisle petrified, stewing in his nerves as the stress he was hoping to initially escape catches up to him. He's going to rot a hole in the floor if he doesn't stop. He needs to stop first and foremost, he finally decides. He has to calm down and get himself under control -- a nigh impossible task, all recent events considered.

But Carlisle tries anyway by handling what he can control first. "I- sorry. Don't touch me. You- you shouldn't touch me."

Oh, that's right: Reynir had done just that in their shared dreams, his hand safe to be held in that world between worlds. Despite the agony that was crossing the barren sea to reach Reynir's dream, their shared space -- and how they connected with one another through it -- is one more thing Carlisle will miss terribly, even if he may never admit it.

[nothinglikefather]

The two of them certainly have a few things in common, if only they could talk and allow themselves to realise it. Jacob knows all about self-medicating to cope with the situation he finds himself in, seeking an escape from a life he did not choose for himself, from the burdens he was born with. While he isn't heir to any terrible eldritch powers, being trained as a child to kill people and carry the secret of humanity's true beginnings is a lot to shoulder.

Perhaps it would be easier to shoulder if he had made better connections with people. He makes friends easily enough, but that's because he craves attention, appreciation. Positive affection. He'd only found that when he'd been pulled out of his own world, only to be robbed of it and the memories of it again. It is so easy to ignore how important contact with others can be, the way it can help heal wounds to the heart and soul. Jacob has begun to realise it, now he has friends he loves so dearly.

Talking and opening up about his feelings might have helped Carlisle too, but... here they are.

Jacob hisses, the leather tightening as it dries, putting pressure on his damaged skin, and it's all he can do to try and unfasten the straps and buckles that keep the gauntlet so firmly attached to his wrist. The movements aren't panicked, but there's a speed to them that comes close. He's never, ever, experienced this sort of pain before. It's like dry burning like the moisture and life has been pulled from his fingers and he has no idea how it's happened, that such a slight touch from this man could do that sort of damage.

As the gauntlet drops to the floor, he manages to gasp for breath, eyes wide as he looks at Carlisle. The blisters on his skin hurt, they really hurt, but the immediate pain is easing.

"How...?" He begins, looking from his hand to the man, shock and awe in his voice. He knows about magic, but he doesn't believe in it. He has met people with strange powers: to transform, to manipulate objects, to make rain or fire or some other natural force. He's never met someone who can hurt others like that. With such a small amount of contact.

[abheirrant]

Though he can feel Jacob's eyes upon him, Carlisle's gaze remains lodged somewhere on the floor; the knot in his brow is tight as his voice emerges, his tone as shaky as the rest of him.

"N- necrotic energies," he answers; guilt pushes the words out of him, despite his desire to keep his undead nature hidden. His eyes glow brighter as they land on the ruined gauntlet on the floor, and shame blankets him, weighing down his shoulders. "I don't- I don't control my magic well when agitated. I- I should not have let my frustration get the better of me, and you shouldn't have grabbed me, and Reynir is still gone so what does it matter, and..." He sighs, realizing he's just getting worked up again and not getting to the point. "Sorry. I am sorry. You were- you were merely trying to help."

Carlisle crosses his arms, his hands curling around himself as he tries to center his focus once more, all while fighting down that urge to offer to heal Jacob's wounds. They're his fault, so they're logically his responsibility; however, Carlisle knows better than to offer to do anything that involves even more physical contact right now.

[nothinglikefather]

Necrotic is a new word for Jacob, but he can guess it's meaning. He's had enough to do with necro himself- at least in causing it in other people. He's never heard or imagined something like this though, that someone could cause decay like that in living things just by touching them.

It's both disgusting and fascinating. Jacob should be horrified, terrified, but instead he looks at his hand, lifting it to the light. There doesn't seem to be permanent damage, only blisters to the skin, but it's still interesting. And while he might want to say the Victorian equivalent of that's so cool, everything in Carlisle's manner suggests he doesn't share that same sentiment.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise you could do that." Some warning might have been nice, but Carlisle clearly doesn't want to advertise the fact he can rot people just by touching them. It's probably not a party trick he's very proud of.

"I'm sorry your friend is gone. I liked him too." Jacob says gently. The other seems to be fighting another bout of hysteria, and while the sensible thing would be to leave, Jacob won't. He doesn't abandon people. "What can I do? To help?"

Maybe he should have asked that from the start. Maybe he shouldn't have just assumed he knew best.

[abheirrant]

Carlisle isn't used to genuine apologies, especially when he feels that he's the one truly at fault; after all, he's the one who never learned how to properly deal with loss, who hasn't yet figured out how to fully manage his volatile energies, who tried to storm off without much of an explanation for a man who showed up to help a total stranger. It catches him off-guard, giving him enough pause to consider the follow-up questions rather than brushing them aside. The obvious answer is find Reynir and bring him back here so I don't have to cope with changes to my routine, but that's not a realistic solution. It never is as easy as just bringing someone back from what may as well be the grave.

Well, unless you're Carlisle Longinmouth, apparently. He sighs, fighting the urge to apologize again. It won't fix things, only temporarily soothe the ache of guilt that resonates in his chest.

"Not divulge what I am capable of to anyone else," he replies finally. As Jacob surmised, he's not exactly proud of it. "And— and aside from that, I don't know. I would like memento to aid me in my prayers. Something representative of him, or a possession of his, but I haven't anything that feels truly appropriate. And the one object that comes to mind is in the wastes beyond Anchor."

[nothinglikefather]

"Doubt anyone would believe me." Jacob replies drily, flexing his fingers carefully to make sure that there is no real damage done. It hurts, the skin is dry and the blisters on his joins burn as they press together. "You have to get this under control. If you don't want people to know, you can't pose a threat to them. You have to get a grip."

Jacob knows that his man, creature, thing, is dangerous. That's clear. But there are plenty of dangerous people in Anchor- some of his best friends included. But they have themselves mostly under control, they are allowing people to help them. There are ways to stop them, should the worst happen. He doesn't know Carlisle, but he seems not to have a handle on himself, considering the damage to their surroundings, to Jacob. To his gauntlet.

"Tell me where. I'll get it for you. But you have to assure me that this is something you can control. That you aren't about to... rot this place from the inside out. We don't have anywhere else to run."

[abheirrant]

Carlisle flinches, wounded by the implication that he's a threat to the people around him, no matter how true it may be. He's all too aware he has to get his abilities under control before they overwhelm him, as the calamity he could cause would be catastrophic to the people of Anchor. The colony could look very much like Bear Den: derelict, decaying, in absolute ruins. The people who lived there, unable to survive the irradiated wastes and with nowhere else to go, would be no more than animated corpses under his thrall. He has yet to figure out how to keep from reanimating bodies around him, much to his horror. They were people he knew in Bear Den, people who trusted him; it would be the same here. Qubit, Pratt, Poison, Genji -- cisth, he doesn't like Kabal in the slightest, but the thought of dominating even his will is revolting.

"I can control it," Carlisle insists, in spite of the decay all around him. He wrings his hands, pulling at the fabric of his gloves as he caters to nervous habits, his uncertainty heavy in his voice. "I can, I just— it's difficult. Reynir was- he was helping me, in a way. He- he didn't know, but—"

Carlisle stops himself, not wanting to explain what, exactly, it was Reynir didn't know. That he spreads decay wherever he goes when he can't swallow his anxiety? That he's no longer human? That the sanctuary he found in Reynir's dreams had helped him find a peace he hadn't felt since his death? For as close as Carlisle likes to think they were, there's an unfortunate amount Reynir didn't know, so much the clergyman was afraid to ever tell him. How could he tell his friend he's a monster only pretending to be human? How could he ever broach the topic of being little more than a creature, a necromanced shell of his former self?

Those who do know the truth know from circumstance. Genji helped him wash his mask -- it was inevitable that he would see, and his acceptance was surprising. Qubit made the assumption long before Carlisle was willing to admit the truth to himself. Pratt and Poison knew the other, living him in another world. Were he to tell others, Carlisle fears they would view him the way he sees himself: as an abomination better expunged from this existence. He's been trying to control that deprecating self-perception, as well, but it's nigh impossible when he's become the antithesis of all he ever was, the kind of vile aberration he so despised in life, made all the worse by why he did to his home.

And he may very well do the same here in Anchor. How long does he have? How long until he loses his mind and awareness to his true nature? How long until there's nothing left of Carlisle Longinmouth, and the Blight Heir is all that remains? And should that happen, what can truly be done about it?

He doesn't know. There's so much he doesn't know, and it's utterly infuriating in a way that makes it that much harder to maintain his composure. He pulls in a breath and tries again.

"He didn't know just how much his- his companionship meant to me. I had hoped his unique magic might be able to help me restrain the reach of my own. Now, I... I know not who I can ask for such aid."

And if the fact he's admitting that to a near-stranger says anything, it's that guilt and desperation are strong motivators, keeping him afloat above the abyssal depths that are his fears of both the future and his terrifying potential as a Revenant.