Jay Merrick (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
burntvideocassette) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
entrancelogs2018-04-07 10:55 pm
burntvideocassette) wrote in entrancelogs2018-04-07 10:55 pm
burns my ears when they sing
Who: Jay and you
Where: The Mansion + The Grounds
When: April 8th-10th
Rating: PG-13; the usual Marble Hornets mental health talk, made worse by the event
Summary: Jay's Gradual Relapse: the Rock Opera
Day 2 - Open - The Library - The Lonely Life of the UFO Researcher
He's finally, finally teased a decent laptop out of the closet, one with enough power to render ten minutes of video without taking a day and a half before crashing and requiring a restart. It's an improvement. Hell, it's an improvement over his old machine.
Is that still in his car?
He doesn't think about that. Instead, he sinks into a plush, red couch in one of the reading rooms, laptop open, and focuses on the screen. No entries anymore, so no real use in editing the footage he's taken, but it keeps his mind occupied, and when an event's just crested the horizon and George has seriously just started singing, publicly, on Wonderland's sorry excuse for the internet, a distraction is what he needs. Behind the editing software, he's got a document open for brainstorming, and there's a tall stack of books on the table next to him -- regional American folklore, Germanic folklore, true crime, medical journals, anything that might give him a better understanding of the situation back home. Inside the pocket of his sweatshirt, there's a bottle of pills.
He doesn't notice when he starts humming, and he very nearly doesn't notice when the tune develops lyrics.
Antenna towers and distant hopes
I’ve measured happiness with telescopes
Well, I’ve been face to face with what my future brings
The reels they turn, recording blips and pings
Through the white noise and distortion
There’s a message I can feel
Just give me one sign that you’re real
An orange glow, some blinking lights
Don’t know how most folks spend their Friday nights
Well I’ve seen evidence no one would dare dispute
Witness accounts make up my life’s pursuit
And in those photos, there’s a sadness
And a message I can feel
Just give me one sign that you’re real
Please give me one sign that you’re real
His voice is soft and unpracticed, wavering off-key when it comes to the higher notes, but it's not as bad as he dreaded. And hell, it's not like anyone's listening.
Day 3 - Open - Near the Woods - Lost Like This
It's getting worse--he's getting worse. What was that Tim warned him about? Mood swings? He read the name of the compound, something generic, something he could track down and look up and read about. Psychopharmacology -- modern marvel, right? Throw something at the human brain and see what sticks. Flies then mice then rats then monkeys then human beings, and they throw so many out on the way up, but they don't test long enough, do they? Don't take into account the long-term effects. Sample size is too small, time's too short, and what was that Alex told him? About corruption and big business and copyright and all that?
He's not sure if it makes sense. He's not sure if he's making sense, but he's stopped for now. No dose tonight, no dose tomorrow, and if Tim gets pissed off that's on him, because what works on him won't work for everyone, clearly.
Clearly.
The Gryphon said something (he can wind back the tape if he really wants to remember), and maybe that's it. Maybe that's all this is. Maybe it's fine, maybe the pills Tim shoved down his throat are fine, really, and maybe he shouldn't skip doses because maybe that'll make it worse. Maybe that's why he felt so off so quickly. Maybe this is his fault.
Focus.
Rethink your doubts, it said. Find a place within yourself. And that's what he's doing, right? It's not a place within himself, exactly, it's a place outside, where it's wet and dark and the crickets are buzzing, but that's fine. It's the doubts part he's dealing with first, since the other part's either a metaphor or disturbingly literal. If it's literal, it should be fine. He's been hollowed out enough. Should be room.
Focus.
It's not here, Tim told him, except when there's an event. Hasn't seen the real thing since he showed up, but that doesn't mean anything for sure. It's not the same woods, here, not even remotely. Different biome, different trees, different everything. It's dangerous for different reasons. But there's nowhere else he can really think of to go. He's gotten antsy, looking through books and poring through footage with nothing, no bars of static, no blips of audio distortion, no shadows moving along the walls, no leads. The only way this stops is if he figures out what's going on -- not just now, here, in this event, but everything. Back home, here -- even if it's not all connected, there should be something. There must be something he can do.
Jay Merrick stares into the darkness between the trees, camera clutched in a white-knuckle grip, and freezes.
What the hell is he doing?
Mumbled and near-hysterical, a song winds its way out of him.
I'm standing all alone, out in the pouring rain
And though it really isn't like me to complain
I think I'm getting used to it
I feel happy, and I also feel bad
I've never been here, but somehow I think I have
But I'm getting used to it
He sways, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Nobody's watching. It's fine. It's fine.
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
He's at the treeline now, not quite stepping in, but just close enough to get a better look.
Don't know how I got here
And I don't know why I stay
The poets all around are laughing in their graves
Must be something I said
This place is not like anything I've seen before
The spirits move around; the houses have no doors
But I'm getting used to it
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
They're not looking for him, are they? Shouldn't be. Wouldn't make sense for them to be. Tim worries about him, sure, but he's not watching, not close enough. He won't even look at the footage.
Even his parents stopped calling, after a while.
Still, he leans back and looks back at the mansion, feeling rough bark press against his spine through his shirt. He watches silhouettes move behind yellow-lit windows.
The others wouldn't be too thrilled, if they saw him out here. They wouldn't admit it makes sense. They wouldn't admit it's the right thing to do, because if they did, they'd have to admit they're hiding. As tempting--god, as tempting as it is to hide, everything stalls out when he tries. You don't get information by being a coward.
Isn't this a fine hello?
I wish I hadn't seen you go
It's always been a bitter pill
The broken mirror's broken still
The letters never made the post
A thousand more I never wrote
And here, on the dark, unfriendly streets
I find the comfort that I seek
And I'm happy, and I've been happy
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
Day 4 - CLOSED to Clem and Tim - The Entrance Hall - Woke up afraid of my own shadow -- like, genuinely afraid
He knew it. He fucking knew it. Worse, he's positive they all did, too. Tim, both of them, but not just him. Georgia and Shaun and Clementine and Shepard and Sans and Dan and the Queen and everyone. They kept quiet, just long enough for Jay to get complacent enough for Tim to weave a lie convincing enough that it'd make him think it was okay. He's fine. Everything's fine. This place isn't like back home.
Bullshit.
He never left. He never left, and now he can see this place for what it is. He can see the cracks. Streaks of red-orange-yellow-black-white tug at the edges of his vision, and even if he can't see it, he knows the configuration changes when he looks away. Buffers just fast enough to load when he looks, but he's not fooled. The room's changing. Doesn't work like a real thing should, but it's real. It's there, and maybe if he wasn't so gullible, if he wasn't so stupid, he would've noticed sooner.
Jay rubs at the handle of the knife with his thumb, adjusting his grip. He can feel the dirt caked under his nails, can feel the sting left when the branchesclawed scraped against his arms. He's tracking mud across the carpet.
The camera's rolling. He just changed thetape. There's a couple spares in his pocket, still wrapped in plastic, if this runs long.
He's going to find Tim. He's going to find the others.
He's going to find Jessica.
He's going to get his answers, before the static covers his eyes completely.
His chest seizes, and he loses his balance, gripping the railing of the staircase. His head is buzzing, but he's going to get his answers. He's going to get his answers. He's going to get
Where: The Mansion + The Grounds
When: April 8th-10th
Rating: PG-13; the usual Marble Hornets mental health talk, made worse by the event
Summary: Jay's Gradual Relapse: the Rock Opera
Day 2 - Open - The Library - The Lonely Life of the UFO Researcher
He's finally, finally teased a decent laptop out of the closet, one with enough power to render ten minutes of video without taking a day and a half before crashing and requiring a restart. It's an improvement. Hell, it's an improvement over his old machine.
Is that still in his car?
He doesn't think about that. Instead, he sinks into a plush, red couch in one of the reading rooms, laptop open, and focuses on the screen. No entries anymore, so no real use in editing the footage he's taken, but it keeps his mind occupied, and when an event's just crested the horizon and George has seriously just started singing, publicly, on Wonderland's sorry excuse for the internet, a distraction is what he needs. Behind the editing software, he's got a document open for brainstorming, and there's a tall stack of books on the table next to him -- regional American folklore, Germanic folklore, true crime, medical journals, anything that might give him a better understanding of the situation back home. Inside the pocket of his sweatshirt, there's a bottle of pills.
He doesn't notice when he starts humming, and he very nearly doesn't notice when the tune develops lyrics.
Antenna towers and distant hopes
I’ve measured happiness with telescopes
Well, I’ve been face to face with what my future brings
The reels they turn, recording blips and pings
Through the white noise and distortion
There’s a message I can feel
Just give me one sign that you’re real
An orange glow, some blinking lights
Don’t know how most folks spend their Friday nights
Well I’ve seen evidence no one would dare dispute
Witness accounts make up my life’s pursuit
And in those photos, there’s a sadness
And a message I can feel
Just give me one sign that you’re real
Please give me one sign that you’re real
His voice is soft and unpracticed, wavering off-key when it comes to the higher notes, but it's not as bad as he dreaded. And hell, it's not like anyone's listening.
Day 3 - Open - Near the Woods - Lost Like This
It's getting worse--he's getting worse. What was that Tim warned him about? Mood swings? He read the name of the compound, something generic, something he could track down and look up and read about. Psychopharmacology -- modern marvel, right? Throw something at the human brain and see what sticks. Flies then mice then rats then monkeys then human beings, and they throw so many out on the way up, but they don't test long enough, do they? Don't take into account the long-term effects. Sample size is too small, time's too short, and what was that Alex told him? About corruption and big business and copyright and all that?
He's not sure if it makes sense. He's not sure if he's making sense, but he's stopped for now. No dose tonight, no dose tomorrow, and if Tim gets pissed off that's on him, because what works on him won't work for everyone, clearly.
Clearly.
The Gryphon said something (he can wind back the tape if he really wants to remember), and maybe that's it. Maybe that's all this is. Maybe it's fine, maybe the pills Tim shoved down his throat are fine, really, and maybe he shouldn't skip doses because maybe that'll make it worse. Maybe that's why he felt so off so quickly. Maybe this is his fault.
Focus.
Rethink your doubts, it said. Find a place within yourself. And that's what he's doing, right? It's not a place within himself, exactly, it's a place outside, where it's wet and dark and the crickets are buzzing, but that's fine. It's the doubts part he's dealing with first, since the other part's either a metaphor or disturbingly literal. If it's literal, it should be fine. He's been hollowed out enough. Should be room.
Focus.
It's not here, Tim told him, except when there's an event. Hasn't seen the real thing since he showed up, but that doesn't mean anything for sure. It's not the same woods, here, not even remotely. Different biome, different trees, different everything. It's dangerous for different reasons. But there's nowhere else he can really think of to go. He's gotten antsy, looking through books and poring through footage with nothing, no bars of static, no blips of audio distortion, no shadows moving along the walls, no leads. The only way this stops is if he figures out what's going on -- not just now, here, in this event, but everything. Back home, here -- even if it's not all connected, there should be something. There must be something he can do.
Jay Merrick stares into the darkness between the trees, camera clutched in a white-knuckle grip, and freezes.
What the hell is he doing?
Mumbled and near-hysterical, a song winds its way out of him.
I'm standing all alone, out in the pouring rain
And though it really isn't like me to complain
I think I'm getting used to it
I feel happy, and I also feel bad
I've never been here, but somehow I think I have
But I'm getting used to it
He sways, something like a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. Nobody's watching. It's fine. It's fine.
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
He's at the treeline now, not quite stepping in, but just close enough to get a better look.
Don't know how I got here
And I don't know why I stay
The poets all around are laughing in their graves
Must be something I said
This place is not like anything I've seen before
The spirits move around; the houses have no doors
But I'm getting used to it
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
They're not looking for him, are they? Shouldn't be. Wouldn't make sense for them to be. Tim worries about him, sure, but he's not watching, not close enough. He won't even look at the footage.
Even his parents stopped calling, after a while.
Still, he leans back and looks back at the mansion, feeling rough bark press against his spine through his shirt. He watches silhouettes move behind yellow-lit windows.
The others wouldn't be too thrilled, if they saw him out here. They wouldn't admit it makes sense. They wouldn't admit it's the right thing to do, because if they did, they'd have to admit they're hiding. As tempting--god, as tempting as it is to hide, everything stalls out when he tries. You don't get information by being a coward.
Isn't this a fine hello?
I wish I hadn't seen you go
It's always been a bitter pill
The broken mirror's broken still
The letters never made the post
A thousand more I never wrote
And here, on the dark, unfriendly streets
I find the comfort that I seek
And I'm happy, and I've been happy
I've never been lost like this
I've never been lost like this
But I wouldn't be happy anywhere else
Nobody to tell us what to do, all by ourselves
Day 4 - CLOSED to Clem and Tim - The Entrance Hall - Woke up afraid of my own shadow -- like, genuinely afraid
He knew it. He fucking knew it. Worse, he's positive they all did, too. Tim, both of them, but not just him. Georgia and Shaun and Clementine and Shepard and Sans and Dan and the Queen and everyone. They kept quiet, just long enough for Jay to get complacent enough for Tim to weave a lie convincing enough that it'd make him think it was okay. He's fine. Everything's fine. This place isn't like back home.
Bullshit.
He never left. He never left, and now he can see this place for what it is. He can see the cracks. Streaks of red-orange-yellow-black-white tug at the edges of his vision, and even if he can't see it, he knows the configuration changes when he looks away. Buffers just fast enough to load when he looks, but he's not fooled. The room's changing. Doesn't work like a real thing should, but it's real. It's there, and maybe if he wasn't so gullible, if he wasn't so stupid, he would've noticed sooner.
Jay rubs at the handle of the knife with his thumb, adjusting his grip. He can feel the dirt caked under his nails, can feel the sting left when the branches
The camera's rolling. He just changed the
He's going to find Tim. He's going to find the others.
He's going to get his answers, before the static covers his eyes completely.
His chest seizes, and he loses his balance, gripping the railing of the staircase. His head is buzzing, but he's going to get his answers. He's going to get his answers. He's going to get
no subject
D.A.R.E. was right. Somebody give him a leather jacket and an alleyway.
"Might, yeah."
Horrible influence that he is, he's not really committing to it either. Not sure how well he'll take it, at this point. Given that the new meds don't mix well with alcohol, he's got his doubts.
"Not that the bullshit's ever really over."
no subject
"no, but at least we get a bit of downtime. it never stops, but at least we get breaks. imagine if we didn't get any at all, ever."
It'd be like back home. Sans doesn't want to go back down that path, ever.
no subject
Too dark. Gotta dial it back, before he breaks into song again.
"What do you do? I mean, with all the time."
no subject
"i have a lot of hobbies these days. more than i did at home. stargazing, knitting...been thinking of getting more into gardening. a friend suggested doing movie reviews, but i don't think there's much market for that sorta thing here."
no subject
"I dunno, like..." Jay gestures with the fry in his hand. "Yeah, there's not much of an audience right now, but like, maybe you can...like, leave 'em in the library for the--the people who come later. Get more people that way."
It's not a YouTube channel, but it's something.
Jay's voice picks up, both in speed and nervous intensity. "And, I mean, if you need somebody to be the--the Ebert to your Siskel, I--like, I went to school for this stuff. I'd...I mean, if you wanted to."
no subject
"...yanno, we might not have internet here, but the way the network is...it's kinda like the internet, yeah? people posting to the network is kinda like postin' to a blog. i'm pretty sure asgore--you've met him, right?--i'm pretty sure he was doing a sorta 'let's play' style sorta thing for a little while."
Maybe he's switched to a gardening show at this point. Sans shrugs.
"could do somethin' like that, yeah? sorta just talk about movies or something. though i'll be honest, i haven't actually seen all that many movies. i'm more a tv sorta guy. no reason that can't change, though."
He brightens a little.
"it could be fun. you think tim would wanna get in on this? just watchin' stuff and ribbing on it or somethin'?"
no subject
Also, the mental image of Asgore trying to do let's plays is hilarious. Even a miserable piece of shit like Jay can't deny that.
You think Tim would wanna get in on this?
"I mean..." Would he? It's tough to imagine, but honestly not that tough. "Yeah, maybe. He's not exactly, like, a fan of being on camera, but, like--"
It's been a long time since their last movie night, hasn't it?
Given how their last movie night went, Jay can't say he blames anybody.
"I mean, he's..." Got more charisma than Jay has, that's for sure. Better stage presence. Alex might've been scraping the bottom of the barrel for actors, but he didn't have to scrape deep enough to need Jay. Not for more than a couple of lines, anyway.
"I can ask."
no subject
Hell, Sans isn't even sure if Tim even likes him anymore. If he ever did.
His expression stays placid.
"alright. sounds good. we could be sure to avoid doing anything during events or something. stick to weekdays."
no subject
It might work, he thinks. They might seriously be able to pull this off.
There's something quiet and distantly familiar swelling in his chest.
Jay's not sure, but he thinks that might be what excitement used to feel like.
no subject
Everything had felt normal at the movie night until it abruptly hadn't.
"i think we can make this work."
no subject
There's an awful lot of ways this can go wrong. It's a lot of baggage to stuff into one movie theater, especially when some of that baggage is inextricably linked to said movie theater.
Then again, isn't it about time he made himself useful?
"Maybe."
The way he says it, though, sounds an awful lot like 'yes.'