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Jonnjonnz
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2015
- Location
- Carmen Sandiego
Sᴛᴏʀʏ-ғᴏᴄᴜsᴇᴅ ʀᴏʟᴇᴘʟᴀʏᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ғᴏʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ-ᴍɪɴᴅᴇᴅ ᴡʀɪᴛᴇʀs ᴛᴏ ᴘᴀʀᴛɴᴇʀ ᴜᴘ ᴡɪᴛʜ!
In general, what I'm looking for in stories is intrigue, darkness, adventure, and potentially romance. I adore [medieval] fantasy as a setting of choice - usually in the style of something Tolkien-esque or reminiscent of King Arthur. More modern settings need a particularly interesting hook for me to get into them, though, and I really would prefer to avoid very slice-of-life type of setting as a general rule.
I would also like to mention, what would be ideal in a partner is someone who can and would enjoy sharing GM narrative powers with me, as well as playing our own characters... In the past I mostly end up playing my character + the world, which can get rather tiring. RP's where we both play the world at large feel much more dynamic as stories, and as such tend to be more enjoyable!
My approach to roleplay is along the lines of story-crafting/telling as opposed to strict play-by-play situations. I don't often work with pre-made scenarios (though I do have some unused ones that could be thrown out as building points), but rather prefer ad-libbing and improvising ideas on the fly with my partners based on what we're looking for in a story be they themes, characters, kinks or settings!
╔═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╕
╟▤▥▦▩ Looking for: Long-term, literate storyline
╟▤▥▦▩ Genres and themes: Post-apocalypse, communal/tribal utopia, survival
╟▤ ϟ ღ Kinks and Sexual themes: Cumplay, obsession, possessiveness,
╟sexual openness, public, exhibitionism, hardcore, matriarchal society, [and more]
╟✗ ✘ ⊗ BLACKLIST: Gore, Snuff, Scat, NTR, Blood, Rape/Noncon
╠═══════════════════════════════════════════════════════╣
╚ Looking primarily for female characters to take role in narrative story-n-smut driven roleplay.
Quick Kinks/Interests
- Monogamy
- Glasses
- Knee highs/Socks
- Vocal partners
- Begging
- Apocalypse settings
- Pregnancy
- Blood
- Vore
- Faux incest (step siblings)
- Cuckolding / NTR (typically a hard no)
- Death/Bad Ends
- Rape/Noncon
:: Quick Rundown ::
RULES (let's keep this terse):
- I enjoy literacy - typos happen (especially to me) but at least try to keep your writing understandable, please.
- I RP first and foremost to have fun; secondly to practice and get better at writing. As such I don't ask that my partners be novelists, but I do enjoy a challenge!
- I can play via thread, pm, GoogleDocs, or Discord. I don't have a particular preference, except that the PM system here is kind of... meh. That can be discussed later.
- I don't (usually) make or play premade characters. Usually, I create a character on the spot based off the story I'm playing, or build off of an idea for a character. If you prefer to have/exchange character profiles for RPing purposes I can whip one up, but I'm likely not going to do so before developing and agreeing on a story and setting.
- Additionally, I really don't like playing with or as Canons, or OC in established Canons. Just a personal preference because in the past I've found it either too difficult/not enough fun to try and play as an already created character. If someone is really deadset on playing a Canon/OC story, pitch it to me by all means, but unless it's extraordinarily interesting I will probably pass.
- I would hope this wouldn't need to be said, but outside of conversational scenes I would prefer there be very little 1-2 line posts. I understand there can only be so much exposition on thoughts and feelings sometimes, but short posts aren't the ONLY solution...
- First or Third, makes no difference. I've got kind of a soft spot for first, though.
- I don't use pictures much, if ever. If it's something someone is adamant about I can try to find something quickly, but I won't put all too much energy into it.
- God-Modding is kind of a no no - I like for my RPs to have a GM type of narrative presence (preferably from both myself and my partner!) as it helps to keep things moving along, but that isn't an excuse to start moving my character(s) around for me. Similarly, I'll respect your preference.
- I pretty much only play M/F stories (as male) - but it's not the only thing I'll play... F/F, F/M - even M/M if the idea interests me - are all possible, just ask! Mind you, if you're trying to pitch a M/M or F/F story idea to me I might request that they have less sexual content than otherwise as the erotic aspect of either pairing doesn't do much for me - but maybe you'll get me during one of my moods and I'll be totally down!
- I don't actually play as J'onn J'onnz... like ever.
War does not become less destructive as the practices that fuel it grow more insidious. It evolves and roots itself into societies and the hearts of those that build them. It corrupts and destroys, continuing a never-ending cycle of violence and loss on all sides until none are left to fight with. The pain of loss that so many had suffered incenses them to take their revenge; and now the ones who survived would live to see the day when the other side might do the same to them.
Retribution comes at a price so great a price there is little mirth and no lasting feeling of completeness after a victory over seemingly insurmountable evil. This has been the case for countless wars as hundreds upon thousands of pawns are sent to do harm to other pawns, while their Kings remained safe in their towers of ivory and obsidian. The soldiers who lived somehow managed to remain thankful to have made it through and humble enough to pay respects to the comrades who fell to keep their souls still tied to the mortal realm.
Night had fallen an hour earlier, and the sun was just disappearing over the peak of the range south of the Hellspear Mountains though its descent into obscurity was not visible in this wooded area. Two detachments from Tybor had come together after **Grand Chancellor Gerbo Namf** had sent word to all the captains on all corners of the mainland that it was time to return home and enjoy the peace they had fought for.
This was the first time old friends had seen each other in as long as two years passed, and the first some would hear of their friends and families' demise during the scouring of Kukri and Miho. The reunion was somber and exciting in due measure; a military encampment built up and reinforced just outside this little settlement in the mountains just northeast of the _Boneyard_.
Vengeance Stand was then name of this settlement years ago when it was first constructed as a rallying point for the war effort coming out of Turn. It was also intended to act as a Garrison for the small village of Gaston, protecting it from the monstrous forces of Kukri that had previously razed and raided other settlements along the border. In the time since then its use as a garrison had dwindled and it became merely a restocking point and place to have a few creature comforts. A spring that was dug up still produced icy cool - and more importantly clean and uncursed! - water, and the makeshift shelters did a little to keep tired warriors dry overnight. The new colloquial name for this settlement was Gnik Pass, and there was some talk of cutting a proper path to Gaston and making this place a little town on its own… but these were the same lads and lasses who claimed they had tribes of gold, beautiful husbands and fanciful get-rich-quick schemes to execute once they were back home to the north. Their words carried little weight with anyone sensible.
It was a cool evening at Vengeance Stand tonight. Cold enough that fires were lit and stoked to reasonable heights as men and women all gathered near for warmth. Cliques had formed as old friends and new gathered together to share stories of harrowing times, of great acts of heroism and bravery, and of grave losses. One such group collected towards the middle of the settlement on sets of downed trees turned into makeshift benches. Their point of commonality was the ‘trade and lumber’ town of Yew. A nearby a group of men from Finch played jaunty upbeat music on their guitars, singing songs about fishing for crab and beautiful sea wenches as the night drags along. Occasionally they would stop and speak in low, serious voices with no hints of mirth or hope for the coming dawn. Then the whole camp would fall quiet, waiting to hear the sound of monsters on the edge of where the light reached.
Retribution comes at a price so great a price there is little mirth and no lasting feeling of completeness after a victory over seemingly insurmountable evil. This has been the case for countless wars as hundreds upon thousands of pawns are sent to do harm to other pawns, while their Kings remained safe in their towers of ivory and obsidian. The soldiers who lived somehow managed to remain thankful to have made it through and humble enough to pay respects to the comrades who fell to keep their souls still tied to the mortal realm.
Night had fallen an hour earlier, and the sun was just disappearing over the peak of the range south of the Hellspear Mountains though its descent into obscurity was not visible in this wooded area. Two detachments from Tybor had come together after **Grand Chancellor Gerbo Namf** had sent word to all the captains on all corners of the mainland that it was time to return home and enjoy the peace they had fought for.
This was the first time old friends had seen each other in as long as two years passed, and the first some would hear of their friends and families' demise during the scouring of Kukri and Miho. The reunion was somber and exciting in due measure; a military encampment built up and reinforced just outside this little settlement in the mountains just northeast of the _Boneyard_.
Vengeance Stand was then name of this settlement years ago when it was first constructed as a rallying point for the war effort coming out of Turn. It was also intended to act as a Garrison for the small village of Gaston, protecting it from the monstrous forces of Kukri that had previously razed and raided other settlements along the border. In the time since then its use as a garrison had dwindled and it became merely a restocking point and place to have a few creature comforts. A spring that was dug up still produced icy cool - and more importantly clean and uncursed! - water, and the makeshift shelters did a little to keep tired warriors dry overnight. The new colloquial name for this settlement was Gnik Pass, and there was some talk of cutting a proper path to Gaston and making this place a little town on its own… but these were the same lads and lasses who claimed they had tribes of gold, beautiful husbands and fanciful get-rich-quick schemes to execute once they were back home to the north. Their words carried little weight with anyone sensible.
It was a cool evening at Vengeance Stand tonight. Cold enough that fires were lit and stoked to reasonable heights as men and women all gathered near for warmth. Cliques had formed as old friends and new gathered together to share stories of harrowing times, of great acts of heroism and bravery, and of grave losses. One such group collected towards the middle of the settlement on sets of downed trees turned into makeshift benches. Their point of commonality was the ‘trade and lumber’ town of Yew. A nearby a group of men from Finch played jaunty upbeat music on their guitars, singing songs about fishing for crab and beautiful sea wenches as the night drags along. Occasionally they would stop and speak in low, serious voices with no hints of mirth or hope for the coming dawn. Then the whole camp would fall quiet, waiting to hear the sound of monsters on the edge of where the light reached.
The son of a whore; not an original biography by any means as many of his ‘friends’ growing up came from similar if not worse upbringings. He’d been through the muck of it himself in his time and did his fair share of suffering at the hand of the uneducated, violent and cruel woman who had unfortunately spawned him. Many long nights without breakfast or dinner spent in the dark, tight confines of a cabinet, wishing that she’d had enough of the glimmer of intelligence to abort him.
Praying to god to make his suffering end - his prayers being answered only by her shrill shrieks when she’d drag him back out and flog him soundly as punishment for her being jilted on pay yet again. Nothing was worse than a whore who was as lax on protection as she was in ensuring she’d get her pay.
The beatings weren’t the worst of it, though; he’d gotten used to pain rather quickly. No, it was her voice and the words it carried that stung and scarred him the most. Wounds he didn’t know how to begin to heal even in adulthood; that he carried as sadly as the myriad of physical markings and burns she’d left on him. His relationship with Ira was something far beyond tumultuous, yet he couldn’t bring himself to just cut her off and out of his life… Or better yet, to kill her. No, he was a pathetic little worm who still clung to her coattails, and she did everything to kick him off as well as drag him back for her own purposes.
Jon lurched and lunged forward at the fleeing rodents, a blur of motion and swooping clothes suddenly tumbling through the air in search of a final resting place somewhere on the bricks a few feet ahead of him. Having landed soundly and none too comfortably on the flat of his broad nose he lets out the most satisfying of moans of pain and suffering while at the same moment rolling onto his side to relieve the pressure from his bleeding orifice. The iron smell of blood mixing with the repugnant stench of coal and oil that only served to remind him of work; this disturbing combination of scents making the pounding headache throbbing between his ears all the worse.
Staring up at the black sky-like ceiling of the dark building, wondering why he even bothered with this ridiculous pretense when a less covert method would get him home sooner. Looking into the darkness was a far better alternative to the unholy squalor that he saw all around him otherwise. The nightmarish glimpses he’d gotten into the true face of this world ever since he was 10 or 13 - he couldn’t even remember anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of the tall white woman in the fine dress that he’d followed out all this way, down to the side of the river where the brick roads were less well kept and no one would notice a solitary black man catching rats for an imaginary employer.
He’d seen behind the veil she wore. Her true face was hideous, the stuff of nightmares; a distortion of something human. A mess of billowing organs and blood that poured down her bulbous form that no doubt was comprised of much the same, hidden behind fine linens and extravagant knittings. Bulging fish eyes that stared back at him as he crept behind her, their dark pupils looking into his soul and burning him. Physically burning him. He could feel the huge welt from the fire poker his mother had branded across his belly when he was 4-years-old heat and sting. He clutched at his cloak and pulled his collar up higher as his jaw tightened. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembers the sound of his own childlike voice pleading and begging for mercy. This demon would pay for making him suffer.
The glint of metal reflects the light of the lantern they pass and illuminates his face for just a moment, his tightly knit hair black from coal still so he looked like he wore some sort of mask himself. The steel felt so light in his hand he barely felt his arm raise up. Barely felt the resistance of the air trying to stop his arm as he brought it down behind the woman. He smiled and let out a sigh; felt the incredible release as he sent one more of Hell’s legion back to its home underneath the earth. He felt the blade slide between her pale flesh and cut the scream out of her throat, tendons ripping and flying free of their restraints as blood gushes in all directions. He cut her again and again, sank the cleaver deep into her chest and throat as he cut chunks of flesh he imagined to be eyeballs staring into him and making him relive his horrific upbringing. Kicking her body down to the ground and slicing her back open through the dress before kicking her down into the river.
The demon's’ blood would flow downstream into the ocean and be cleansed this way - and so too did he rush forward after the tumbling still-warm corpse and sink his hands and face into the ice-cool water. Coal and blood wash down stream as he quickly runs the fluids across his knuckles and face and hair, looking with half-lidded eyes to watch both follow the bloody stream left by the corpse floating downstream. His rises up and looks around, quickly tucking the knife back between his belt and covering his coat over the bloodstains on his sleeves as he thrusts his way up the road in the direction they’d been taking.
Running, running, running; never looking back, only stopping to a walk when it would be too suspicious for him to do otherwise. He wasn’t scared of being caught or accused; it’d been months of this practice, so many demons exorcised by his own hand, and still Scotland Yard had no clue who was behind the ‘murders’. He was justified in his actions, protected by divinity - no court of man could touch him as long as he trod the path of righteousness, as he saw it. The bricks underfoot clanked and squished in alternation as his consciousness faded between the ‘here’ most men saw, and the hellish landscape of Satan’s dominion that he knew London to be in reality. So distracted was he by blocking out the sight and smell of the chaotic screams and burning flesh he didn’t notice the woman he bumped into and knocked over in the alley. Reaching out to catch himself on the wall, he glances back and hurries to help her up, muttering some unintelligible apology for his clumsiness.
Killer as he was, he tried to remain at least polite.
Praying to god to make his suffering end - his prayers being answered only by her shrill shrieks when she’d drag him back out and flog him soundly as punishment for her being jilted on pay yet again. Nothing was worse than a whore who was as lax on protection as she was in ensuring she’d get her pay.
The beatings weren’t the worst of it, though; he’d gotten used to pain rather quickly. No, it was her voice and the words it carried that stung and scarred him the most. Wounds he didn’t know how to begin to heal even in adulthood; that he carried as sadly as the myriad of physical markings and burns she’d left on him. His relationship with Ira was something far beyond tumultuous, yet he couldn’t bring himself to just cut her off and out of his life… Or better yet, to kill her. No, he was a pathetic little worm who still clung to her coattails, and she did everything to kick him off as well as drag him back for her own purposes.
Jon lurched and lunged forward at the fleeing rodents, a blur of motion and swooping clothes suddenly tumbling through the air in search of a final resting place somewhere on the bricks a few feet ahead of him. Having landed soundly and none too comfortably on the flat of his broad nose he lets out the most satisfying of moans of pain and suffering while at the same moment rolling onto his side to relieve the pressure from his bleeding orifice. The iron smell of blood mixing with the repugnant stench of coal and oil that only served to remind him of work; this disturbing combination of scents making the pounding headache throbbing between his ears all the worse.
Staring up at the black sky-like ceiling of the dark building, wondering why he even bothered with this ridiculous pretense when a less covert method would get him home sooner. Looking into the darkness was a far better alternative to the unholy squalor that he saw all around him otherwise. The nightmarish glimpses he’d gotten into the true face of this world ever since he was 10 or 13 - he couldn’t even remember anymore.
Out of the corner of his eye he catches sight of the tall white woman in the fine dress that he’d followed out all this way, down to the side of the river where the brick roads were less well kept and no one would notice a solitary black man catching rats for an imaginary employer.
He’d seen behind the veil she wore. Her true face was hideous, the stuff of nightmares; a distortion of something human. A mess of billowing organs and blood that poured down her bulbous form that no doubt was comprised of much the same, hidden behind fine linens and extravagant knittings. Bulging fish eyes that stared back at him as he crept behind her, their dark pupils looking into his soul and burning him. Physically burning him. He could feel the huge welt from the fire poker his mother had branded across his belly when he was 4-years-old heat and sting. He clutched at his cloak and pulled his collar up higher as his jaw tightened. Tears welled up in his eyes as he remembers the sound of his own childlike voice pleading and begging for mercy. This demon would pay for making him suffer.
The glint of metal reflects the light of the lantern they pass and illuminates his face for just a moment, his tightly knit hair black from coal still so he looked like he wore some sort of mask himself. The steel felt so light in his hand he barely felt his arm raise up. Barely felt the resistance of the air trying to stop his arm as he brought it down behind the woman. He smiled and let out a sigh; felt the incredible release as he sent one more of Hell’s legion back to its home underneath the earth. He felt the blade slide between her pale flesh and cut the scream out of her throat, tendons ripping and flying free of their restraints as blood gushes in all directions. He cut her again and again, sank the cleaver deep into her chest and throat as he cut chunks of flesh he imagined to be eyeballs staring into him and making him relive his horrific upbringing. Kicking her body down to the ground and slicing her back open through the dress before kicking her down into the river.
The demon's’ blood would flow downstream into the ocean and be cleansed this way - and so too did he rush forward after the tumbling still-warm corpse and sink his hands and face into the ice-cool water. Coal and blood wash down stream as he quickly runs the fluids across his knuckles and face and hair, looking with half-lidded eyes to watch both follow the bloody stream left by the corpse floating downstream. His rises up and looks around, quickly tucking the knife back between his belt and covering his coat over the bloodstains on his sleeves as he thrusts his way up the road in the direction they’d been taking.
Running, running, running; never looking back, only stopping to a walk when it would be too suspicious for him to do otherwise. He wasn’t scared of being caught or accused; it’d been months of this practice, so many demons exorcised by his own hand, and still Scotland Yard had no clue who was behind the ‘murders’. He was justified in his actions, protected by divinity - no court of man could touch him as long as he trod the path of righteousness, as he saw it. The bricks underfoot clanked and squished in alternation as his consciousness faded between the ‘here’ most men saw, and the hellish landscape of Satan’s dominion that he knew London to be in reality. So distracted was he by blocking out the sight and smell of the chaotic screams and burning flesh he didn’t notice the woman he bumped into and knocked over in the alley. Reaching out to catch himself on the wall, he glances back and hurries to help her up, muttering some unintelligible apology for his clumsiness.
Killer as he was, he tried to remain at least polite.
Jonn flipped through the ledger a second time to make doubly sure he wasn't missing anything; Mrs. Johnson had taken her pills, and the night-charge orderly made sure himself they'd been ingested. Turned out she'd been hiding them under her mattress for the last month and was getting ready to OD herself and her little girlfriend, 'Bridget'. The stubby nurse licked his lips, head shaking as his fingers flipped to the next page. He hated pulling the afternoon shift; the crazies were fine when they were asleep, or drowsy, or after breakfast when they'd been sedated partially. But the after-noon shift was when you got to find out which ones held their pills under their tongues, usually because they'd jump you with a pen-knife or spoon trying to cut your liver from inside your body... or else you'd find them drawing maps across the hallways - and 'finder' had to clean it up.
Next week would mark his seventh year working in this hell-hole. Well, he'd heard tell of worse places than the Hummingbird 'prison', but it was his own little slice of hell and he'd kept it close to his heart all these years. Most of the patients he knew by name and were as much fixtures in the tight knit asylum as the lighting or plumbing systems. Most of them knew me him too when they were lucid enough to remember anything more complicated than their own names at least. So there was a little ecosystem of sympathetic simps and the jailers who cared for them in exchange for a pittance pay-check come end of the month.
Jonn flipped through the ledger a second time to make doubly sure he wasn't missing anything; Mrs. Johnson had taken her pills, and the night-charge orderly made sure himself they'd been ingested. Turned out she'd been hiding them under her mattress for the last month and was getting ready to OD herself and her little girlfriend, 'Bridget'. The stubby nurse licked his lips, head shaking as his fingers flipped to the next page. He hated pulling the afternoon shift; the crazies were fine when they were asleep, or drowsy, or after breakfast when they'd been sedated partially. But the afternoon shift was when you got to find out which ones held their pills under their tongues, usually because they'd jump you with a pen-knife or spoon trying to cut your liver from inside your body... or else you'd find them drawing maps across the hallways - and 'finder' had to clean it up.
Next week would mark his seventh year working in this hell-hole. Well, he'd heard tell of worse places than the Hummingbird 'prison', but it was his own little slice of hell and he'd kept it close to his heart all these years. Most of the patients he knew by name and were as many fixtures in the tight-knit asylum as the lighting or plumbing systems. Most of them knew me him too when they were lucid enough to remember anything more complicated than their own names at least. So there was a little ecosystem of sympathetic simps and the jailers who cared for them in exchange for a pittance pay-check come end of the month.
The stubby nurse glanced up at the calendar again: June 2nd - without glasses it was difficult to make out much from across the room, but there was an unconscious understanding that yesterday had been the first Tuesday of the month, so it didn't take much guesswork or maths to work out what followed.
There was a niggling feeling on the back of his mind something was off, though. Though he didn't know it, most of the staff felt the same lately, but kept the feeling to themselves lest they end up becoming patients as well. Jon rationalized it immediately: He definitely knew yesterday was a Monday, and that the month had just ended (just because a pay-check graced his bank account that weekend, and he could distinctly remember driving into town to cash it). Something was off like milk, but just yet he wouldn't taste it to see if it was turned. He turned his lip up at the thought, remembering accidentally having a bowl of sludgy frosted flakes as a kid.
Only two more 'inmates' needed particular attention today, thank god. The weird old man who looked like he was a very short 14 year old, and the raven-haired girl who no one noticed until she flipped out on someone. Jonn took up his little fanny-pack of odds and ends needed for his good work, grabbed the set of keys that went with and then snapped them onto his belt as I stepped out into the hall. The floor underfoot reflected a white and brown silhouette as a blurry and incoherent smudge on the otherwise spotless floor. The false 'Jonn' followed through the smudged mirror world as he trod down the hallway past a few wandering patients who had either forgotten it was half past lunch, or forgotten where they were.
Dealing with the more uncooperative one second would make more sense. Easier to walk down to the infirmary than upstairs to his second charge.
Next week would mark his seventh year working in this hell-hole. Well, he'd heard tell of worse places than the Hummingbird 'prison', but it was his own little slice of hell and he'd kept it close to his heart all these years. Most of the patients he knew by name and were as much fixtures in the tight knit asylum as the lighting or plumbing systems. Most of them knew me him too when they were lucid enough to remember anything more complicated than their own names at least. So there was a little ecosystem of sympathetic simps and the jailers who cared for them in exchange for a pittance pay-check come end of the month.
Jonn flipped through the ledger a second time to make doubly sure he wasn't missing anything; Mrs. Johnson had taken her pills, and the night-charge orderly made sure himself they'd been ingested. Turned out she'd been hiding them under her mattress for the last month and was getting ready to OD herself and her little girlfriend, 'Bridget'. The stubby nurse licked his lips, head shaking as his fingers flipped to the next page. He hated pulling the afternoon shift; the crazies were fine when they were asleep, or drowsy, or after breakfast when they'd been sedated partially. But the afternoon shift was when you got to find out which ones held their pills under their tongues, usually because they'd jump you with a pen-knife or spoon trying to cut your liver from inside your body... or else you'd find them drawing maps across the hallways - and 'finder' had to clean it up.
Next week would mark his seventh year working in this hell-hole. Well, he'd heard tell of worse places than the Hummingbird 'prison', but it was his own little slice of hell and he'd kept it close to his heart all these years. Most of the patients he knew by name and were as many fixtures in the tight-knit asylum as the lighting or plumbing systems. Most of them knew me him too when they were lucid enough to remember anything more complicated than their own names at least. So there was a little ecosystem of sympathetic simps and the jailers who cared for them in exchange for a pittance pay-check come end of the month.
The stubby nurse glanced up at the calendar again: June 2nd - without glasses it was difficult to make out much from across the room, but there was an unconscious understanding that yesterday had been the first Tuesday of the month, so it didn't take much guesswork or maths to work out what followed.
There was a niggling feeling on the back of his mind something was off, though. Though he didn't know it, most of the staff felt the same lately, but kept the feeling to themselves lest they end up becoming patients as well. Jon rationalized it immediately: He definitely knew yesterday was a Monday, and that the month had just ended (just because a pay-check graced his bank account that weekend, and he could distinctly remember driving into town to cash it). Something was off like milk, but just yet he wouldn't taste it to see if it was turned. He turned his lip up at the thought, remembering accidentally having a bowl of sludgy frosted flakes as a kid.
Only two more 'inmates' needed particular attention today, thank god. The weird old man who looked like he was a very short 14 year old, and the raven-haired girl who no one noticed until she flipped out on someone. Jonn took up his little fanny-pack of odds and ends needed for his good work, grabbed the set of keys that went with and then snapped them onto his belt as I stepped out into the hall. The floor underfoot reflected a white and brown silhouette as a blurry and incoherent smudge on the otherwise spotless floor. The false 'Jonn' followed through the smudged mirror world as he trod down the hallway past a few wandering patients who had either forgotten it was half past lunch, or forgotten where they were.
Dealing with the more uncooperative one second would make more sense. Easier to walk down to the infirmary than upstairs to his second charge.
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