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thestrangepoet · 1 month ago

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The White and Orange Cat | The Magnus Archives One Shot

Based on @ultramarinaa's Cat!Martin AU and @coworkerjonathan's interpretation of it. If you would prefer a sweeter, fluffier take, that is over here.

CONTENT WARNINGS: Character death, animal death, crippling and ungodly levels of angst.

DISCLAIMER: I wrote this in an hour and haven't proofread it, so please forgive its very first-draftiness.

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Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding the…the m-murder of Martin Blackwood. Statement…recorded by subject, October 17th, 2017.

Statement begins.

I…killed my coworker, yet the police refuse to arrest me.

I know why, of course. For whatever reason, I remain valuable to Elias. His intimidation and manipulation has proved sufficient to keep the authorities from accepting my confession, despite the fact that no one has seen nor heard from Martin Blackwood in months.

No one will see or hear from Martin e-ever…ever again. And it is my fault.

It is all my fault.

I…

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Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding the murder of Martin Blackwood. Statement recorded by subject, October 17th, 2017.

We have collected a number of strange and unusual books at the Magnus Institute. He knew not to meddle with them. He knew. Maybe the rather unassuming title convinced him it wasn’t a bad one, or…or maybe he didn’t realise he’d picked up a Leitner.

The Ninth Life. I should have noticed sooner. I should have…

I…God, Martin, I…

I’m sorry.

[CLICK]

Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute, London, regarding the murder of Martin Blackwood. Statement recorded by subject, October 18th, 2017.

[THE ARCHIVIST EXHALES SHAKILY]

Martin disappeared on June 4th, 2017. It was certainly unusual for him not to show up to work, especially without a call or message to explain himself. Naturally, we tried to contact him, but he didn’t answer his phone, nor did he answer the door when Tim visited his house to check in on him. I’d have gone myself, only another strange occurrence had taken place that day too, one I just…didn’t connect.

The appearance of a large, white-and-orange furred cat in the archives.

No one seemed to know where he had come from, yet he was remarkably well-behaved. In hindsight, he…

[ONCE AGAIN, THE ARCHIVIST FALTERS. SILENCE SETTLES FOR A WHILE, PAPERS ARE RUSTLED, AND WHEN HE SPEAKS AGAIN, HIS VOICE STRAINS WITH REGRET]

I stayed to take care of the cat. I should have gone to Martin’s place, but I…I don’t know. I felt compelled to look after this poor, lost creature.

He didn’t seem keen to leave the archives, and he constantly prowled around Martin’s desk. We’d even, ahh, joked that he was a good replacement for Martin.

He hid under the shelves after that and didn’t come out for an hour. When he finally did, he actually hissed at me. Again…hindsight, I suppose…

So, that was the situation we found ourselves in. Martin was mysteriously absent, and a strange white-and-orange cat had appeared in his stead.

I named the cat – I named Martin, for no doubt it is clear to whoever is listening to this that the cat was Martin himself – I named him Champion.

Champion took quite a shine to me. I almost volunteered to take him home, especially when it became clear that Elias was allergic to cats, but Tim protested. Said Champion should be an office cat. “Keep the rats from visiting,” he said. I presume that was a dig at Elias.

For what it was worth, Champion seemed very happy to remain in the archives. He set himself up at Martin’s desk, snoozing on his chair or in my lap. He even seemed to be reading statements and—

Well. I suppose he was.

Probably looking for a way to save himself when it became clear we would not.

It was weeks before I began to realise something was wrong. It’s…not the first time I’ve found myself aware or knowing something without any obvious reason or source, but I couldn’t shake the notion that Champion was slowly becoming…

Less…familiar.

He napped on Martin’s chair, as always. Slinked around my legs in the morning as I made tea. But he stopped doing things that we used to find so endearing. He used to miaow in protest when I’d reheat my forgotten tea in the microwave. He’d turn his nose up at cat food; we were costing the Institute a small fortune buying him human food! If I pulled out a packet of cigarettes from the drawer, he’d leap to try to bite the box and run off with it. He succeeded a few times too!

But he just stopped one day. Microwaving tea didn’t upset him anymore. He was no more concerned about my smoking than he was about anything else. He started eating the cat food Elias insisted on putting out every day “to teach him what he’s supposed to eat”.

He stopped being particular about me.

I know, that sounds ridiculous. I realised there was something wrong with the cat when I was no longer his favourite.

That was when I started digging. Properly digging. Not Martin disappearing for weeks. No. A cat deciding to sit in Tim’s lap instead of mine, that was what spurred me to investigate Champion’s origins.

…

…I, err…I went through Martin’s desk. I should have done it sooner, it just…didn’t feel right. Even when days became weeks, it just…seemed like a violation? It wasn’t that I didn’t care where Martin was, I swear, it just…felt like he’d come back at any moment.

The police had rattled through it, of course, but they didn’t pay any mind to the battered copy of The Ninth Life.

But I did. I was practically drawn to its shabby cover, my heart growing colder and colder, knowing whose damned name would be scrawled on a bookplate on the front page.

From the library of Jurgen Leitner.

I didn’t read too far. I gleaned enough from its presence, its former owner, and Champion’s appearance to finally put the pieces together.

Martin hadn’t been missing. He’d been in the archives every single damned day…as Champion.

Martin was Champion. And, as with any good Leitner, his humanity had been fading away day by day as we chuckled at his antics and cooed at his funny miaows and gave sickly sweet sympathy as he bumped into a chair leg or door again and…

He was trying to tell us. Of that, I am now sure. He was begging us to notice him.

He’d always been begging for someone to notice him. Notice his plight.

And we failed him.

I threw the book back into the drawer and raced through the office, searching high and low for any sign of that fluffy tail or strangely attentive blue eyes. I called out for him. By his name.

Nothing.

I finally found him in the break room, curled up without a care in the world on the counter. I called his name – Martin, that is, not Champion – praying he’d look up, that joy and relief would flood his features, that he’d realise he was saved.

He barely flicked an ear at me.

Not until I said his name.

Champion.

He looked up at that. For a little while, at least.

The sight of me crying didn’t interest him all too much, I suppose.

I knew at that moment that Martin was gone. I knew…but I didn’t want to know that. The idea of having failed Martin so spectacularly just…it just drove me to try to fix it all.

I’d run out of time before I’d even started looking for a solution. And I knew that, deep down. I suppose that is why I was so reckless, so willing to believe the most hideous of suggestions.

It took me three nights of pouring over literature and statements, with Champion occasionally visiting me for ear scritches or to remind me loudly that he hadn’t been fed yet. It was as I was scraping out some pungent chopped meat into his bowl that I recalled one of the countless fairy tales I’d devoured in my youth.

The White Cat. A-a…Slavic fairy tale, I believe. I don’t recall all the details; the usual fare, a king and his sons, he sets them three tasks, completing them will grant great fortune. But one of the tasks struck me – he requested his sons to fetch the most beautiful princess to take as a bride. One of the sons had formed a bond with an intelligent white cat who had helped with the previous tasks, so he returned to the cat to ask for its assistance.

The cat told the son that she would give him a beautiful princess…if he would…if…

[THE ARCHIVIST HESITATES, HIS VOICE CATCHING]

If he would…cut off her head. He…refused. But then he did so and from the cat’s body, a beautiful woman emerged.

The woman explained that she’d been transformed into a cat by some power or other, and she would only be free if the man she loved cut off her head, I think, and…

…

…He loved me.

Martin. I…I know he did. I didn’t at the time – I am not so arrogant – I just thought that…that maybe the solution, as awful as it was, it was from a book, a-a-a tale about a person cursed to be a cat and I just…

I thought Martin would reappear if I did. If I did the same as the prince.

He was eating, oblivious as I went to the kitchen drawer. The knives obviously aren’t the biggest or sharpest, it’s a workplace, but I found one that I thought would be, ah…swift, a-at least.

Picked him up. He didn’t mind. He liked being on the counter. Think he liked being able to see everything a bit better.

His eyesight was terrible, you see, and…

I-I think he knew? Or…m-maybe he wasn’t entirely…cat yet. Maybe a small part of Martin was still there, still aware, and realised what I was going to attempt, and…

He…panicked.

…You can, from the fairy tale, figure out what happened next.

Martin did not emerge from the cat.

[A LONG SILENCE. FOR A WHILE, IT SEEMS LIKE THE ARCHIVIST MIGHT END HIS STATEMENT THERE. BUT HE INHALES DEEPLY – A TREMOR BETRAYS HE’S BEEN SOBBING AS HE RECORDS THIS – AND CONTINUES.]

Elias found me first.

He was smiling.

Took the knife from me, said it was for the best that Martin was gone. That things hadn’t…hadn’t gone as planned with him.

I didn’t ask him what he meant by that. I couldn’t. I couldn’t…do anything.

I just stayed there, having sunk to my knees on the floor, watching Elias pick Martin up and…dispose of him. Just like that.

He must have known the fairy tale too, because when he collected Champ— Marti—

When he picked up the head, he…he laughed.

“Oh. Oh, I see why you might have thought that. You old romantic, Jon,” he said, dropping the head into the bin. “If only you knew how fitting that was. Would you like to know?”

I didn’t.

I really, really didn’t.

But he showed me anyway. Right into my head. Just…tore open the wound and poured all that agony upon it. Martin’s heart, his feelings, his…his love for me.

He loved me. And I…I…

He…

We didn’t notice him. He was right in front of us, losing his humanity day by day and we just…

I’m sorry, Martin.

I…

[ONCE AGAIN, A LONG SILENCE FALLS UPON THE ARCHIVIST. WHEN HE SPEAKS AGAIN, HIS TONE HAS DROPPED TO SOMETHING EERILY EVEN-KEELED]

Elias asked me where the book was.

He knew the whole time. He knew what had happened to Martin. For whatever reason, it seems Elias had backpedalled on his decision to transfer Martin to the archives and wanted him gone. The book provided the perfect opportunity.

Had I a reason to, I would endeavour to find out why. What Elias is up to, why Martin being in love with me would cause a problem with that.

I have no reason.

Not now.

…

I’m going to read The Ninth Life. Cover to cover. I’m going to know his pain. His loneliness. My failure.

But first, I’m going to leave a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales in Tim’s desk drawer.

Tim. If, by any chance, you listen to this…I’m sorry.

You did the right thing.

You…avenged Martin, after all.

End recording.

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#tma fanfic #cat!martin #tma cats #tw character death #tw animal death #the poet's writings