Olivia laughs. "Sorry. It got stuck in my head when you looked at me. I date the Archivist back home. The one from Warren-Hill Institute in the US. Judging by your accent, I'd guess you're with Magnus, though," she muses. "Even so, I'd know the eyes anywhere."
She accepts the mug, delighted by the color. "No, we haven't met. Olivia Fleischmann. The Hostess."
The Hostess, another Archivist, Warren-Hill Institute. Points Jon's yet unfamiliar with, though perhaps these things stem from the same source that him appearing from a separate time does: different places, different people, the same story. Varying universes are something that get no easier to understand when they're this close to home.
At least the first part is easy enough to understand. The Spiral has Distortions, the Eye has Archivists; it should come as no surprise that the Flesh would have it's own chosen. Apparently there's need for more than just Boneturners; it doesn't exactly shock him that different situations call for different professions when it comes to serving the Fears.
"Jonathan Sims, and... no offense taken, of course," he assures her after a beat, and offers a hand to shake--- not his wisest move, electing to shake the hand of another avatar, considering the way that went last time--- before finally finishing with the process of getting everything together. Once he's done, he still lingers, leaning lightly against the counter. "Of the Magnus Institute, yes. I wasn't... aware that other institutes had Archivists."
Perhaps it doesn't really matter much, now that he's here, and it may not even be the case in his own world, but since when has he ever been able to resist the call of looking into the sorts of things that may even apply to him tangentially?
"God, how would they function without one? Who'd pull the statement? Absolutely nothing would get done," Olivia teases. The handshake is harmless, of course. There will be no rending or morphing of flesh today, even if his scars sing at her touch. Her fingers slot perfectly into the mark left by Jude, and she can taste the charred meat in her tongue, smell the sear of flesh on screaming hot wax. Her thumb brushes over the ridges as she pulls away, lapping up his hatred of how it looks. Not how it used to look. A reminder of failure. Poor Jon.
"Mmn," Jon gives the derisive sound with a small shrug. "I guess you've got me there. All a part of this ecosystem, or something."
That loathing, Olivia gets in spades as she pulls her hand back. The dulled touch ensures it; he's more aware of it anytime anyone slots their hand into it, and in his waking life, he's not had enough of a run-in with the Flesh to know that loathing is exactly what she's after. The most that catches on his radar at this very moment, not looking for it as he perhaps ought to be, is that she reached for it by being drawn to that scar. Perhaps he should be looking harder. That's a later-Jon problem. (Hopefully.)
"It's a long-winded story, but to give you the short of it, we stopped the Stranger's ritual with explosives. Apparently, I'd gotten knocked into a coma, but that's close enough to death to bring me here," Jon explains, possibly too-casual. Cut him some slack, he's had a lot of time to think about it. "And yourself?"
"Mmm, Orsinov," Olivia muses. "Good to know about the explosives. I'm certain I could pull a few favors with the Desolation."
Now that Olivia looks at him, she's nearly certain that this is some version of the scruffy, interdimensional drifter that ended up finding his way to Dietrich van Oort's guest bedroom. He'd been found in abysmal shape under the Olentangy Trail bridge, tattered and bloodsoaked and without his memory. Olivia refrains from confusing him with such details. It's not her style. If Montrell were here, he could do that.
Olivia smiles tightly at the question. "Ritual went wrong," she replies vaguely. "You know how it is."
"I do. Well, hopefully you... haven't got any need to call in favours like that here," Jon half-jokes dryly. "I'm hoping we won't be seeing any of her or the circus in town for some time, or any rituals, for that matter. It didn't go so well for the last clown. If you haven't heard the story, I'm sure someone would gladly regale you with it."
He would, of course, but keeping Mendel's name as far away from him after everything he'd done is high up on his priority list. Maybe Jean or someone closer to the incident itself could share.
"I've got a few other customers to check in on, but I'll be back around momentarily. Unless you need anything else?"
"Oh, don't worry, honey, I meant when I get home. Though I will say that my monster-to-monster networking abilities are second to none, if it ever becomes necessary," Olivia teases, chuckling. She didn't get that external liaison position for nothing.
"You go do your rounds. But I'd like to pick your brain a little when you get back." Unsettling verbiage from the Flesh.
Jon doesn't love that, and it shows in the way his face scrunches with distaste for just a flicker of a moment before he's able to catch himself. He corrects it with a tight, awkward smile. "Of course. I'll be back shortly."
True to his word, making his rounds only takes about ten minutes, between some short conversations and topping off hot water, before he's able to make his return. Perhaps he drags his feet just a bit, enough that it wouldn't let on too hard; after all, they're going for a cozy, intimate atmosphere, so he's got to take the time with everyone, right?
Well. Everyone includes getting his brain picked, unfortunately, and return to the counter he must. At least, beyond some Flesh-related discomfort, she's been perfectly polite.
"Need anything? More hot water?" Jon asks as he passes by, glancing back before he scoots a finished tray towards the back of the counter. He doesn't spend long there; he's always been a little overly vigilant, but maybe the Eye's influence has made that worse, these days. "Or are you alright for now?"
"I'm okay for now. I'm taking my time with it. I like to savor things." A smile returns to Olivia's full lips, so red that the crimson devours the eye. "I just had something I wanted to ask you."
Even with how easy that smile is on her, her demeanor so perfectly calm and collected at every beat, it does nothing for Jon's nerves. That's likely the point, Jon imagines. "By all means. What is it?"
"There's something of mine in a shed out by the Bluffs. My understanding is that the shed belongs to you, is that right?" Her smile widens just so. "I'm wondering if I can repay you for the cost of it so that I can have it returned to me."
And there it is. Jon tries to play it off as best as he possibly can, but he can't help the way that his hand tightens against the edge of the counter, that subtle tightening of muscles of a trod-upon nerve.
"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I'm not looking to sell it. I understand your... connection to it, and I can appreciate that much, but---"
Before he can say another word, a hand snaps out and catches his jaw, pressing into his cheeks to force his teeth apart. Dull points from her nails dig into the flesh there. She makes intense eye contact.
"It's not a connection. It's mine. And you can relinquish my property the easy way or the hard way."
Jon's face instantly drops to terror, a sharp breath taken through his nose, and a hand snaps up to catch her arm. He doesn't dare try to pull her away, though - not with the way those nails dig. A sickly vision of his face being pulled away like clay from a block rises to his mind, and try as he might, he can't shake it.
"L--- let go of me," he tries to manage, though it's barely coherent, with how his jaw his held open. His other hand fumbles the counter, searching. For what? A tool to push her away, something to call someone over? He isn't even sure, but he needs something.
"You are never going to see that grinder," Jon shoots back, fear turning to boiling anger the instant that he's free, even in spite of the half-step that he takes back. "And you'd do well to get the fuck out of my shop."
Same shit, different Avatars. He's going to need a hand making sure that thing never sees enough light of day to get found.
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She accepts the mug, delighted by the color. "No, we haven't met. Olivia Fleischmann. The Hostess."
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At least the first part is easy enough to understand. The Spiral has Distortions, the Eye has Archivists; it should come as no surprise that the Flesh would have it's own chosen. Apparently there's need for more than just Boneturners; it doesn't exactly shock him that different situations call for different professions when it comes to serving the Fears.
"Jonathan Sims, and... no offense taken, of course," he assures her after a beat, and offers a hand to shake--- not his wisest move, electing to shake the hand of another avatar, considering the way that went last time--- before finally finishing with the process of getting everything together. Once he's done, he still lingers, leaning lightly against the counter. "Of the Magnus Institute, yes. I wasn't... aware that other institutes had Archivists."
Perhaps it doesn't really matter much, now that he's here, and it may not even be the case in his own world, but since when has he ever been able to resist the call of looking into the sorts of things that may even apply to him tangentially?
cw: gross meat stuff
"So, what are you in for?"
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That loathing, Olivia gets in spades as she pulls her hand back. The dulled touch ensures it; he's more aware of it anytime anyone slots their hand into it, and in his waking life, he's not had enough of a run-in with the Flesh to know that loathing is exactly what she's after. The most that catches on his radar at this very moment, not looking for it as he perhaps ought to be, is that she reached for it by being drawn to that scar. Perhaps he should be looking harder. That's a later-Jon problem. (Hopefully.)
"It's a long-winded story, but to give you the short of it, we stopped the Stranger's ritual with explosives. Apparently, I'd gotten knocked into a coma, but that's close enough to death to bring me here," Jon explains, possibly too-casual. Cut him some slack, he's had a lot of time to think about it. "And yourself?"
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Now that Olivia looks at him, she's nearly certain that this is some version of the scruffy, interdimensional drifter that ended up finding his way to Dietrich van Oort's guest bedroom. He'd been found in abysmal shape under the Olentangy Trail bridge, tattered and bloodsoaked and without his memory. Olivia refrains from confusing him with such details. It's not her style. If Montrell were here, he could do that.
Olivia smiles tightly at the question. "Ritual went wrong," she replies vaguely. "You know how it is."
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He would, of course, but keeping Mendel's name as far away from him after everything he'd done is high up on his priority list. Maybe Jean or someone closer to the incident itself could share.
"I've got a few other customers to check in on, but I'll be back around momentarily. Unless you need anything else?"
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"You go do your rounds. But I'd like to pick your brain a little when you get back." Unsettling verbiage from the Flesh.
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True to his word, making his rounds only takes about ten minutes, between some short conversations and topping off hot water, before he's able to make his return. Perhaps he drags his feet just a bit, enough that it wouldn't let on too hard; after all, they're going for a cozy, intimate atmosphere, so he's got to take the time with everyone, right?
Well. Everyone includes getting his brain picked, unfortunately, and return to the counter he must. At least, beyond some Flesh-related discomfort, she's been perfectly polite.
"Need anything? More hot water?" Jon asks as he passes by, glancing back before he scoots a finished tray towards the back of the counter. He doesn't spend long there; he's always been a little overly vigilant, but maybe the Eye's influence has made that worse, these days. "Or are you alright for now?"
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"I'm sorry, but I'm afraid that I'm not looking to sell it. I understand your... connection to it, and I can appreciate that much, but---"
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"It's not a connection. It's mine. And you can relinquish my property the easy way or the hard way."
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"L--- let go of me," he tries to manage, though it's barely coherent, with how his jaw his held open. His other hand fumbles the counter, searching. For what? A tool to push her away, something to call someone over? He isn't even sure, but he needs something.
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"N--- no."
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"Oh, honey, you're going to regret that. Because I will get it. I'm just going to make sure that it's a really terrible experience for you."
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Same shit, different Avatars. He's going to need a hand making sure that thing never sees enough light of day to get found.