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0bticeo · 8 months ago

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j. sims, e. bouchard | knowledge is a double-edged sword

part two of four. (part one.) (part 3.) (part four.)

summary:

a low hum. there’s something sharp in elias' smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face.

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

wc. 3k

tw. reader's creeping paranoia, shockinlgy nothing smutty happens in this chapter, manipulation, graphic description of eyes, mild ptsd, nightmares, elias bouchard being a creep.

working in the archives has always been… a little off, for a lack of a better word. you are supposed to research and archive statements regarding “supernatural happenings” in a world where said supernatural has been swiped under the carpet, dismissed with a haughty scoff. still, it pays well. which is why you find yourself clocking in day after day.

your colleagues… you don’t know what to make of them. not really. sasha’s been… off. you think there’s a void in the shape of her roaming about the place. she’s calm and focused. formal. has trouble logging in her computer - that’s… not right.

martin seems to be taking it well enough for someone who’s spent the past two months sleeping in the archives and then getting attacked by worms. sounds silly. definitely wasn’t. you think there’s much, much more to him than meets the eye and and accept the cups of coffee he hands you with a warm smile. you mean them. you like martin. his poetry a bit less.

tim… is silent. he’s lost his smile. you haven’t fallen victim to one of his pranks in ages and fear you won’t ever have to worry about a sketchy statement being one of his little jokes. you feel anger bubbling inside of him at the mere mention of having to work in the archives. yet…

yet he’s helping you.

the library is a quiet affair, the muted sort of silence that hangs like a comforting blanket over your shoulders. dust flutters away in the air, drawn by your steps. tim’s sigh cuts through the silence like a knife.

“why are we doing this again?”

you tuck back a book in its shelf. thankfully, not a leitner. still, nothing to do with architecture.

“because it is our job, tim.”

he scoffs.

“yeah, right. i wasn’t aware it involved risking my life.”

“look, you’re not forced to help me. if it makes you feel better to slack off, then i’m not stopping you.”

he laughs, mocking, almost cruel. the pressure at the back of your neck is near unbearable. you want to scream. you want to tear something apart.

“look at you! acting like everything’s normal! three months ago, you were bleeding out on my lap! how can you-”

“it’s either i focus on something else or i go mad.” you snap a book shut with a sharp intake of air. “you won’t like me mad, tim. now shut up and help me find robert smirke’s books, will you? i’m pretty sure they were there, but-”

his hand clasps around your wrist.

“hold on. why are you looking for smirke’s books?”

“follow up on a statement involving urbex in the former church of saint james in west hackney. built by, you guessed it, robert smirke himself.”

you watch a flash of… something in his eyes. it looks like guilt in mourning, and you’re itching to pry, pry him open and unearth whatever secrets he keeps buried under a thick layer of good humour turned bitter.

“it should be around here.”

you end up with three heavy volumes in hand, none of which feel like they’ll help with erin gallagher-nelson’s statement. then, something catches your attention. a small leather volume, tucked away behind the books you’re currently holding. tim’s already on his way out, much to your chagrin. you don’t feel too guilty when you reach for the small little book and tuck away those he’s helped you find, neatly ordered in their rightful place.

the little book in your hand is… not a leitner, which is a relief as you are not wearing gloves. no, it’s bound leather, with no title in sight. you open it, carefully, cradling it against your breast like something fragile, and cast your gaze upon its first page. the juts out in ink far too dark for its age.

the fears that bind us.

turn another page and see the summary. fourteen entries, neatly labelled. the Web. the Dark. the Spiral. the Buried. you pause.

the pinprick pain at your neck sharpens. you’re Watched. there’s nobody but you in the library, but there’s something, watching, always watching, and you can make eyes in the corners of the shelves and they’re peering down at you and they Know you’re starting to suspect something’s terribly wrong with this place and-

thud.

the book falls from your trembling hands. dust rises up, clings to the hem of your trousers. you stare at the dull, unassuming little leather cover and feel its magnetic pull. you Know there’s more to it than it lets on. you pick it up.

(somewhere, the chittering mass of the many-legged mother of puppets spins a chain of events into motion, weaving a pretty plan.)

these days, stepping in the institute feels like being strapped down to a vivisection table and having your brain prodded at. it’s oppressive. you become aware of just how many eyes there are in the institute. coworkers from other departments glancing disinterestedly at you. strange motives in the nooks and crannies of the wooden doors and shelves and corridors and floors, eyes half-lidded. pictures and their faded edges, you, tim, martin, jon and sasha (?) huddling close, smiling. portraits - jonah magnus, high and mighty, immortalised in his seat of power. you think his painted lips are curled up a little more than they normally are. you’ve seen that floating smile before.

you take to having your lunch outside of the institute. you find you can breathe easier through the sharp cold of london’s winter air. needle-sharp, it pierces your lungs, scrapes your throat with every mouthful of curry you swallow. you don’t mind. you have jon to huddle close to, no matter how much he rolls his eyes and tells you to take a warmer coat with you. still, he wraps his arm around you and intertwine his fingers with yours.

tim and martin make no comment - you do feel the weight of their gaze on your shoulders as you make your way back to your desk ten minutes sharp after jon comes back to his office. doesn’t matter. by now, you’re used to being watched.

you’re growing tired of it.

going home is no relief - that damned gaze is there, too. you clench your teeth and turn all the mirrors around and tuck away what little pictures you have. your breathing stutters in your throat. there’s a cork board on your wall, now, and you think of the one that lies in jon’s office, red strings stretching and stretching and it still doesn’t make sense. not yet.

gertrude’s dead - somebody’s murdered her, three bullets, bang, the body falls, bang, bang just to make sure the old bat is dead, a waste of an Archivist.

jon wants to know who. he tells you, fingers threading through his hair, tape recorder still running, that it could be anyone at that’s been working at the institute since five years. you’ve been hired two years ago, so you’re good, but tim? martin? sasha? elias?

(you’ve pressed your lips to jon’s and sworn to help him, forehead pressed against him in the sweetest oath.)

there are scraps of hastily jotted down notes, pictures faded at the edges. recurring people from statements - gerry keay, michael shelley, simon fairchild, prentiss, salesa. hilltop road. recurring themes, artefacts you took pain to research, asking sasha for help - she did work in artefact storage before, right?

(her smile was sharp when she nodded. too sharp. she laughed as she led you to the basement floor, something like a deadly private joke. you didn’t ask for her help again.)

you take a step back and stare at the board. the strings make no sense, red over red over red, and you have an eye staring back at you, unblinking, thread burned in your retina.

smirke’s book lies open on your couch. your cat wisely stays away from it. you’ve named him socrates for a reason. you wish you could be blessed with the sage’s foresight.

fears bind you. there’s a classification, Entities that sometimes bleed in the corners of this world, out-of-sight-but-there. you’ll only notice when they strike. when they show themselves, when you realise there’s something terribly wrong with the stranger’s edges peering out of an alleyway, anglerfish luring its prey. poor smoker’s fate.

a classification. fourteen primal fears straight out of the lovecraftian mythos. the stranger. the Spiral - think of michael, smile curling endlessly in all his sharp edges, laugh like an alarm bell ringing long after he’s gone. the Corruption - jane prentiss and her loving smile and worms burrowing in her flesh and in yours.

the Eye.

you take in a sharp intake of air and read.

IT KNOWS YOU.

you cannot move. you’re crushed by the sheer magnitude of the structure spreading around you in concentric circles of power. panopticon. he who stands in the centre watches and knows all. is there anyone at all in its centre?

you. you’re kneeling, skin bare and bruised and scraped, the stone harsh and unforgiving, scraping the tender skin of your knee. humidity seeps in through the open pores of your skin.

you can’t see. it’s too dark, the penumbra stretching and stretching for miles, near corporeal with how thick it is. you think it might be reaching out for your eyes with too long fingers, chipped claws sinking below your eyelid to rip them off.

you startle.

eyes.

so many eyes, staring at you from the darkness encasing you, with no eyelids so they do not blink. there’s the dreadful suspicion that their optic nerves join, mingle into something you do not want to see. ocular globes, little gelatinous spheres surrounding you, Watching you, Knowing you. you, on your bloody knees, heart stammering under your ribcage like a chased rabbit, your bare flesh cold, cold, cold.

it’s cutting you open, scalpel gazes making careful, careful incisions in the marrow of your psyche. they’re carving open your head, your skull a neat, organic little box housing the grey matter of your brain. cerebrospinal fluid drips down your cheeks.

you shudder. you can feel them, Watching, Knowing, the mere thought of it a burning streak in your consciousness, they’re picking you apart, they Know what you’ve done, how you break-

you only start screaming when you look up and See.

you startle awake with a shuddering gasp, trembling so badly you can’t even make out the familiarity of your bedroom. breathe in. the darkness isn’t cloying, the street lights worming their way beneath your shutters. breathe out. you can hear the cars running, the nocturnal hustle and bustle of london’s night life. the chatter, the laughter.

you let out a trembling sigh and run your hand over your face. you find it damp with sweat and tears. a beat of silence. you rest your forehead on your palms, hands gliding down until the heel of your palm is over your socket and you push there until you feel the bone, the gelatinous fragility of your eye. it is not the first time you have these dreams. you wish you could sleep.

you trace the edges of your temples, those you know were left gaping, those you know had been wrenched open- closed. no scar. only those on your thighs, on your forearms, on your hands from these wretched worms.

you close your fingers, nails digging in your bandaged palm and feel a pinprick of pain. the other side of the bed is cold and empty. you glance at the analog clock on your bedside table. the time blares, angry red flashing 5:32 in your retina. three hours left before going to work.

you get up from the bed and set about changing your sweat-soaked sheets. you’re not going to fall back asleep. might as well get ready for work. you do, body set in autopilot. breakfast. shower. lather hydrating cream over the expanse of you. disinfect the many, many patches of scarred tissues left by the flesh-hive. get dressed - black tailored pants, cream crispy ironed shirt. a spritz of perfume. white flats. a quick glance in the mirror - there you are, the epitome of professional perfection, little miss trust-me-i-have-everything-under-control.

you don’t.

you’re tired. so, so very tired. exhaustion settles like a heavy weight in your bone marrow, anchors you down until your whole world is clouded. foggy. you don’t remember the last time you’ve pushed the door to the archives without a thin veil clouding your eyes.

you think of the Narrator, unnamed, bone-deep tired, staring emptily in the camera in a film you can’t say the name of. first rule: you do not talk about it. second rule: you do not, talk about it. everything’s a copy of a copy of a copy.

as it goes, you push the door to the archives, step inside the quiet room, shrug off your coat at your designated desk, and go about making yourself some coffee. nobody’s there to plot your bloody murder as you blankly explain that, to you, tea is nothing but bland leaf juice. not that tim or martin would bother these days.

it’s quiet. nobody’s here to see you climb the stairs to the break room on the second floor. the one used by the human resources department. lucky bastards. bastards, period. refusing to hand over the necessary funds to buy another coffee machine for the archives after the first one broke during prentiss’ infestation. and they say their mission is to foster a safe work environment. such a shame your morning murderous urges are only quelled by your second cup of the day.

you grab a mug and press the button. whirring rises in the dry silence of the room. slowly, slowly, the mug is filled up. you inhale and feel your shoulders relax by half a fraction. the heavenly scent of grounded coffee beans percolating feels the room and you find yourself smiling. it doesn’t ease the fogginess clouding your mind. it will do.

large window panes offer a wide overview of the streets below, the early morning fog clinging to humid asphalt, the rare cars passing by. you let out a slow exhale, your breath clouding the window.

your mug is ready.

“is that one for me?”

you startle.

elias bouchard stands behind you, hands clasped behind his back, picture perfect manager in a crisp suit - too stiff, too out of place in his employee’s break room. he’s wearing a phthalo green suit, the one that brings out the green-grey of his eyes. your favourite. and he’s waiting for your answer, you realise after an embarrassingly long amount of time.

there are two mugs in front of you. you blink.

“oh. oh, yes.”

you hand him the first mug and reach for your own. he thanks you with a floating smile and takes a sip. a low hum.

“so you do have taste.”

you blink.

he’s reclining on a table, watching you. you and your impeccably ironed shirt, cradling your mug like one would something precious. you and the bags under your eyes, so dark they might be embedded in the preciously thin skin below your eyelids.

you snort.

“just because i have a massive sweet tooth doesn’t mean i’d put sugar in coffee. i’m french, not a complete barbarian.”

you earn a quiet chuckle. something like satisfaction purrs inside of you - you made him laugh, the sound low and rich and deep.

“one might argue that you are, in the literal sense of the term, a barbarian.”

“one might argue that the etymological definition of a barbarian doesn’t apply to me, as i speak your language.”

you watch him, from over the steaming rim of your mug. something like… elation flashes in his eyes. the thrill of debate, maybe.

“do you, now?”

you tilt your head to the side, eyes narrowing by a fraction as you assess him. the perfect curl of his lips in that damning razor sharp half-smile. the relaxed slope of his shoulders. the soft stillness of his long, gloved fingers on the table. the glint in his green-grey eyes, daring you to take the bait.

you do, crossing your legs at the ankles, leaning back against the window.

“at first glance, yes.” you point an accusatory finger towards him. “but you, monsieur bouchard, don’t like sticking to first glances and faux-semblants, you’re sharper than that.”

a low hum. there’s something sharp in his smile. his gaze feels like it’s cutting you open. you hold your ground, unblinking, watching him and his annoyingly handsome face.

“you’re wearing a mask, dear.”

“aren’t we all?”

he shakes his head.

“it’s convenient, isn’t it? not to have to bear the weight of your mother tongue.”

your shoulders tense. there’s that pinprick pressure at the back of your neck, standing poised and sharp against your vertebrae. he’s watching you, needle-gaze pinning you like a butterfly to a wall.

“it’s a pain. english and french bleed into one another too much and it messes up my syntax.”

“you’re deflecting.”

“wasn’t your question rhetorical?”

silence. it feels like a loss. one beat, two beat, unsteady, hammering wildly like your heart, beneath layers of flesh and fabric, all perfectly controlled thank you very much.

he’s before you before you know it, close, close enough for you to smell his cologne - something sharp and cold with a faint hint of ink. you raise your eyes and meet his gaze. you think there’s a faint glow to it, irises flashing green for the briefest moments.

“you’re hard to pin down, my dear.”

you can feel the heat of him, creeping closer and closer as he leans down ever so slightly, one gloved finger curling under your chin, tilting your head up, up, up until the angle makes you wince.

“coming from you, i’ll take that as a compliment.”

a low hum. the building pressure at your nape has you clenching your teeth. then, finally, he lets go, apparently satisfied with whatever it is he’s found in you.

“thank you for the coffee. it has been most… insightful.”

with that, he leaves, and you stand alone in the break room, coffee mug now cold. even without the unbearable weight of his gaze on you, you feel watched. the only thing remaining in the room with you is the portrait of jonah magnus, peering down at you with storm-grey eyes. somehow, it feels familiar.

you want to scream. you gulp down your coffee and leave an empty mug behind.

#obticeo writes #tma x reader #the magnus archives x reader #the magnus archives x you #the magnus archives x y/n #tma x you #tma x y/n #jonathan sims x reader #jonathan sims x you #jonathan sims x y/n #elias bouchard x reader #elias bouchard x y/n #elias bouchard x you

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goalhofer · 5 months ago

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2024 olympics Ireland roster

Athletics

Mark English (Letterkenny)

Andrew Coscoran (Balbriggan)

Cathal Doyle (Bettystown)

Luke McCann (Dublin)

Brian Fay (Dublin)

Thomas Barr (Waterford)

Christopher O'Donnell (Loughborough, U.K.)

Eric Favors (Haverstraw, New York)

Sharlene Mawdsley (Newport)

Rhasidat Adeleke (Tallaght)

Sophie Becker (Ballykelly)

Ciara Mageean (Portaferry)

Sophie Bideau-O'Sullivan (Melbourne, Australia)

Sarah Healey (Monkstown)

Jodie McCann (Dublin)

Sarah Lavin (Lisnagry)

Fionnuala McCormick (Wicklow)

Philippa Healy (Ballineen)

Kelly McGrory (Laghy)

Nicola Tuthill (Kilbrittain)

Kate O'Connor (Dundalk)

Badminton

Nguyen Nhat (Dublin)

Rachael Darragh (Letterkenny)

Boxing

Jude Gallagher (Newton Stewart, U.K.)

Dean Clancy (Sligo)

Aidan Walsh (Belfast, U.K.)

Jack Marley (Dublin)

Daina Moorehouse (Dublin)

Jenny Lehane (Ashbourne)

Michaela Walsh (Belfast, U.K.)

Kellie Harrington (Dublin)

Gráinne Walsh (Tullamore)

Aoife O'Rourke (Castlerea)

Canoeing

Liam Jegou (Huningue, France)

Noel Hendrick (Dunadea)

Michaela Corcoran (Montgomery County, Maryland)

Madison Corcoran (Montgomery County, Maryland)

Cycling

Ben Healy (Kingswinford, U.K.)

Ryan Mullen (Colwyn Bay, U.K.)

Megan Armitage (Tullamore)

Erin Creighton (Belfast, U.K.)

Mia Griffin (Glenmore)

Alice Sharpe (Cambridge, U.K.)

Kelly Murphy (London, U.K.)

Lara Gillespie (Dublin)

Diving

Jake Passmore (Leeds, U.K.)

Ciara McGing (London, U.K.)

Equestrian

Austin O'Connor (Mallow)

Cian O'Connor (Dublin)

Shane Sweetnam (Cork)

Daniel Coyle (Ardmore, U.K.)

Abigail Lyle (Bangor, U.K.)

Susie Berry (Dromore)

Sarah Ennis (Howth)

Aoife Clark (Dublin)

Field hockey

Kyle Marshall (Markethill)

Peter McKibbin (Belfast, U.K.)

Jonny Lynch (Lisburn)

Peter Brown (Banbridge)

Nick Page (London, U.K.)

David Harte (Ballinspittle)

Tim Cross (Melbourne, Australia)

John McKee (Banbridge, U.K.)

Matthew Nelson (Belfast, U.K.)

Daragh Walsh (Dublin)

Shane O'Donoghue (Dublin)

Sean Murray (Lisburn, U.K.)

Jeremy Duncan (Kilkenny)

Michael Robson (Belfast, U.K.)

Ben Walker (Glenageary)

Lee Cole (Shankill)

Ben Johnson (Waterford)

Golf

Rory McIlroy (Jupiter, Florida)

Shane Lowry (Dublin)

Stephanie Kallan (Phoenix, Arizona)

Leona Maguire (Cavan)

Gymnastics

Rhys McClenaghan (Dublin)

Rowing

Daire Lynch (Clonmel)

Philip Doyle (Banbridge, U.K.)

Fintan McCarthy (Skibbereen)

Paul O'Donovan (Lisheen)

Ross Corrigan (Enniskillen, U.K.)

Nathan Timoney (Enniskillen, U.K.)

Holly Davis (Bollincollig)

Alison Bergin (Cork)

Zoe Hyde (Killorglin)

Margaret Cremen (Rochestown)

Aofie Casey (Skibbereen)

Aifric Keogh (Furbo)

Fiona Murtagh (Galway)

Emily Hegarty (Skibbereen)

Natalie Long (Cobh)

Eimear Lambe (Dublin)

Imogen Magner (Ely, U.K.)

Rugby

Jack Kelly (Dublin)

Andrew Smith (Dublin)

Harry McNulty (Cashel)

Mark Roche (Glenageary)

Zac Ward (Downpatrick)

Chay Mullins (Bristol, U.K.)

Jordan Conroy (Tullamore)

Hugo Keenan (Dublin)

Hugo Lennox (Skerries)

Terry Kennedy (Dublin)

Gavin Mullin (Blackrock)

Niall Comerford (Dublin)

Sean Cribbin (Dublin)

Bryan Mollen (Glasthule)

Kathy Baker (Navan)

Megan Burns (Tullamore)

Amee-Leigh Murphy-Crowe (Dublin)

Alanna Fitzpatrick (Portarlington)

Stacey Flood (Dublin)

Eve Higgins (Kilcock)

Erin King (Wicklow)

Vicky Elmes-Kinlan (Rathnew)

Emily Lane (Cork)

Ashleigh Orchard (Belfast, U.K.)

Beibhinn Parsons (Ballinasloe)

Lucy Mulhall (Wicklow)

Sailing

Finn Lynch (Bennekerry)

Robert Dickson (Sutton)

Sean Waddilove (Howth)

Eve McMahon (Howth)

Swimming

Max McCusker (Harlow, U.K.)

Thomas Fannon (Torquay, U.K.)

Shane Ryan (Haverford Township, Pennsylvania)

Daniel Wiffen (Magheralin, U.K.)

Darragh Greene (Longford)

Conor Ferguson (Belfast, U.K.)

Grace Davison (Bangor, U.K.)

Victoria Catterson (Belfast, U.K.)

Erin Riordan (Whitegate)

Danielle Hill (Newtonabbey, U.K.)

Mona McSharry (Grange)

Ellen Walshe (Dublin)

Taekwondo

Jack Woolley (Dublin)

#Sports #National Teams #Ireland #Celebrities #Races #Australia #U.K.#New York #Fights #Boxing #Boats #France #Maryland #Animals #Hockey #Golf #Florida #Arizona #Pennsylvania

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radoesart · 1 year ago

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The End of the Tunnel.

Statement of Erin Gallagher-Nelson, regarding an urban exploration trip beneath St Paul’s Church West Hackney.

#the magnus archives #the magnus pod #tma podcast #tma fanart #the end of the tunnel #magnus archives

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dear-indies · 7 months ago

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hello!! could i please get help with finding a fc that has seer vibes? someone that can pull off an off-putting, but benevolent and curious vibe? the muse is meant to be between 22-25, but i’ll absolutely accept older fcs who can pass for those ages! tysm!

Asia Kate Dillon (1984) Ashkenazi Jewish / Unspecified - is non-binary (they/them) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Emma D’Arcy (1992) - is non-binary (they/them) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Freddy Carter (1992) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Anna Leong Brophy (1993) Irish, Chinese, Kadazan.

India Eisley (1993) English, Argentinian [Spanish, possibly other], Scottish, German.

Yves Mathieu East (1994) Afro Asian - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Hanjin Ni (1994) Chinese.

Adeline Rudolph (1994) Korean / White - vibes in Resident Evil.

Jazzelle Zanaughtti (1995) African-American - has spoken up for Palestine!

Josha Stradowski (1995)

Alejandro Speitzer (1995) Mexican.

Juliette Motamed (1995) Iranian - has spoken up for Palestine!

Sasha Calle (1995) Colombian.

Joy Sunday (1996) Nigieran - in Wednesday.

Rhea Ripley (1996)

Tati Gabrielle (1996) African-American 1/4 Korean - in Sabrina and Uncharted.

Lauren Jauregui (1996) Cuban [Spanish, possibly other], likely some Basque - is bisexual - has spoken up for Palestine!

Aria Shahghasemi (1996) Iranian.

Jake Kiszka (1996)

INIKO (1996) Afro-Jamaican - genderless (they/them) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Nat Ćmiel / Yeule (1997) Chinese-Singaporean - non-binary (she/they).

Kaiit (1997) Papuan / Gunditjmara, Torres Strait Islander - is non-binary (she/he/they) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Blu del Barrio (1997) Argentinian - is non-binary (they/them) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Mollie Gallagher (1997)

Sierra McCormick (1997)

Nijirō Murakami (1997) Japanese - in Alice in Borderland.

Kassius Nelson (1997) Black British - in Dead Boy Detectives.

Ariela Barer (1998) Mexican, Ashkenazi Jewish - uses she/they - did make a post saying that she's non-binary but deleted so if anybody knows more information please let me know - has spoken up for Palestine!

Erin Kellyman (1998) Afro Jamaican / White - is a lesbian.

Benedetta Porcaroli (1998) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Ethel Cain (1998) - is a bisexual and autistic trans woman - has spoken up for Palestine!

Emma Laird (1998)

Simone Baldasseroni (1998)

Ally Ioannides (1998)

Brianne Tju (1998) Chinese / Indonesian.

Nell Tiger Free (1999)

Charlie Plummer (1999)

Jayden Revri (1999) Indian, Black, White - in Dead Boy Detectives.

Kenna Sharp (1999) - is queer - has spoken up for Palestine!

Lizeth Selene (1999) Mexican [Black and Unspecified Indigenous] - is genderfluid and uses she/they.

Odessa A'zion (2000) Ashkenazi Jewish and other European - has spoken up for Palestine!

Thomasin McKenzie (2000)

Azul Guaita (2001) Mexican.

Rhea Norwood (2001) - has type 1 diabetes - has spoken up for Palestine!

Freya Allan (2001) - has spoken up for Palestine!

Rachel Zegler (2001) Colombian / White - has spoken up for Palestine!

D’Pharaoh Woon-A-Tai (2001) Ojibwe, Cree, Chinese Guyanese, Afro Guyanese, White.

Ooo this ask was difficult but I think these can all pull off a character with that vibe!

#fc help #rph #rpc

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slightlyloomingone · 7 months ago

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At first, Jon thought he could just… scare Erin and her brother-in-law away from the entrance into St. James’ Church underneath St. Paul’s. He was rather scary, after all. He found his way inside the church shortly before midnight (he was getting better at this breaking and entering thing), and waited for them near the spot where he thought he could sense the Dark, assuming that would be the entrance they would take. He hadn’t counted on Erin Gallagher-Nelson’s response to his voice saying “you should leave this place” being to brain him with her torch. “Erin, what the fuck! Did you just kill a guy?” (S5 Jon goes back in time to pre-canon 2014 and tries to help a statement giver... it doesn't go like he expected).

I posted this here back in 2020 with a vague idea of turning it into a series, but it never happened, so impulsively decided to clean it up and post it on AO3 as a non-canon compliant one shot. Hope someone enjoys it!

#tma fic #time travel cryptid jonathan sims #s5 au i suppose #looming writes stuff

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ollieofthebeholder · 15 days ago

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And If Thou Wilt, Forget: a TMA fanfic

Read from the beginning on Tumblr || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 38: Goal won with shortened breath

It helped. Not a lot, but it helped. Or at least, Tim thought it helped. Certainly Jon seemed a lot less paranoid and suspicious over the next week. Martin began relaxing and smiling more, and Sasha was paying better attention to her lunch breaks. Tim, for his part, felt calmer and less jumpy.

That ended abruptly when he came back from lunch and nearly slammed face first into Detective Alice “Daisy” Tonner, who didn’t even slow down long enough to snarl at him to get out of her way before she was storming off towards her vehicle. The Hunt on her was unmistakable, though, and radiating off her with her anger, and even knowing it was less likely to have made her do anything to Jon the first time around than any of the other twelve Fears would have wasn’t enough to stop his anxiety spiking. He’d rushed down to the Archives to find Jon shaken but ostensibly fine, and while he’d claimed nothing was wrong he had left early with what he said was a headache. The next day he’d been tense and snappish at both Martin and Tim for what he called hovering—admittedly, probably not undeservedly.

Tim’s own mood took a decided downturn when he picked up one of the statements needing research and saw the opening line: I’m sure you know what urban exploring is. He made sure not to let the others mess with this one, especially after he’d read through it. This was personal. Anyway, nobody else would have been able to get to talk to the Gallagher-Nelsons; telling them he’d lost his own brother to an urban exploration in a Robert Smirke building had opened a lot more doors. It turned out Erin and Danny had even met, briefly anyway. Not that Tim disclosed that to Jon. He’d promised to keep the conversation off the record, and even if he hadn’t, he definitely wasn’t going to let Jon get any closer to St. Paul’s or the ersatz rector than he could help. He turned in his research and went home.

“I have a feeling that whatever it was, it’s long gone,” he told Gerry that evening as they took Rowlf for a walk—Tim usually did it on his own, but Gerry had insisted and he hadn’t argued. “Whether it got used in the attempt at the Extinguished Sun or just didn’t have the energy to continue once all that dissipated, I don’t know, but there’s no point in going back to St. Paul’s to look for it. Not that I would anyway, that’s not how I want to die. But I can’t help thinking about that camera.”

“It’s probably long gone, too,” Gerry said. “The…rector, you said? Probably destroyed it.”

Tim shook his head. “I don’t think so. It captured the Shadow.”

“The what?”

“The thing that killed Luke Nelson.”

“Yeah, I figured, but you just said the Shadow with a capital S,” Gerry pointed out. “Where did you get that name from?”

Tim hesitated, just for a second. “I don’t know if it has an actual name. It just seems like a good one to use. But whatever it is, Ms. Gallagher-Nelson got it on film. You and I both know how rare that is.”

Gerry hummed. He didn’t look happy, but when he spoke, it was in a mild enough tone. “So what, you want to go talk to the rector and ask what he did with it?”

“I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the actual rector. Anyway, what would they have been doing there at five in the morning on a Wednesday? Their Wednesday services are at ten-thirty in the morning. And there’s no alarm on the sanctuary, I checked when I was there trying to talk to someone.” Tim paused while Rowlf cocked his leg against a street lamp. “No, it’s got to be one of two things. Either someone who knows about the Fourteen and was trying to keep her from falling into it worse took it from her so she wouldn’t get obsessed with it like Melanie King has done, or someone involved in the People’s Church of the Divine Host took it so they could use it for their ritual. I’m inclined towards the latter.”

“I’d love to hear your reasoning.”

“Robert Montauk. Those photographs he took that were part of the evidence. I’m thinking the Dark, even more than some of the other Fears, makes use of photographs in their rituals. If Erin Gallagher-Nelson had a camera that could actually catch Mister Pitch? For sure they would want that.”

“Please tell me you’re not contemplating chasing down the People’s Church of the Divine Host.”

“Not seriously, no,” Tim said honestly. He glanced up at the sky. “But it’s a quarter moon.”

Gerry followed his gaze. “Which means?”

“Which means there’s one other place we might be able to track it down.” Tim slipped his hand into Gerry’s and squeezed lightly. “Feel like checking out the Night Market with me?”

It was a Thursday night, which meant this was undoubtedly a terrible idea, but Tim found he couldn’t let it go. Gerry must have known that, because he didn’t take off his coat when they got home, just made sure Rowlf had water and food before coming back to Tim and taking his hand to lead him out the door. They took the Tube to the closest spot to where the Night Market had been before, then started walking.

“How did you find it before?” Gerry asked as they walked along the path, hand in hand. Tim could almost fool himself into believing it was just a regular romantic walk. “I mean, did you just stumble on it or…?”

“Just…random things Nonno told me. Old folk legends about hiding from the moon and dancing with your shadows, that kind of thing. Hard to explain.” Tim paused briefly to listen. “I think I hear it. Come on, around here.”

“I don’t hear anything,” Gerry said, but he followed Tim anyway.

It wasn’t like the last time. This time, when Tim stepped the quarter turn around the width of a shadow, he didn’t find himself standing directly in the center of the Night Market. He could still hear the muted bustle of the crowd, the stillness so reminiscent of a snowy day, but he stood on one side of a short arched tunnel that opened out on the other side into the rows of stalls. Which normally wouldn’t have made any sense; they’d fetched up against the side of the Putney Bridge, which didn’t have access to the other side from down here. Normally someone walking this path had to turn away from the river and walk a bit up the A219 before getting to a point where it was safe to cross. And Tim knew there was no marketplace on the other side of Putney Bridge. Nevertheless, the Night Market was there.

He took a deep breath and glanced up at Gerry. “Ready?”

Gerry didn’t answer for a moment. He simply remained where he was, staring straight ahead. Tim was about to assure him they didn’t have to do this if he didn’t want to when he said, very carefully, “Tim? Can you tell me what it is we’re looking at?”

Tim laced his fingers through Gerry’s and turned to study the entrance ahead of them. “I—it’s a tunnel, I guess. Dark stone, looks like it’s probably a bit slimy to the touch. On the other side it opens up into the Night Market. Looks like the stall right by the entrance is selling”—he adjusted his head slightly to get a better view, but there was no need to banish the illusion this time, he could see it clearly—“carnival masks. I’m, uh, not totally sure what they’re made from, but…probably don’t want to buy one.”

Gerry pressed his lips together tightly. Finally, he said quietly, “I can’t see anything, Tim. It’s just black to me. If you say the Night Market is there, I trust you, but…”

“No, I’m not doing that to you. Either the Dark is waiting for you or it really isn’t there for you, but either way, I’m not risking you.” Tim turned away from the tunnel without a second thought. “We can do something else.” He paused as something else caught his attention. “Uh, can you see that?”

Gerry followed Tim’s finger. “The door over there? Yeah, that I can make out. Why?”

“I think that might be an entrance to the tunnels. Or else there’s a secondary entrance to the tunnels behind it.” Tim gave Gerry a mischievous grin. “Want to check it out?”

“I’m game if you are,” Gerry said after no more than a second’s hesitation. “Won’t it be locked, though?”

“Probably, but I can fix that.”

It wasn’t locked, actually, or else the lock was a very cheap one. The door itself turned out to be a maintenance tunnel, but Tim clicked on his pocket torch and scanned the walls, then nodded, tracing a finger along a crack. “Look—right here. It’s like the trapdoor in the Archives. Subtle, hard to find, but…yeah, this is it, I’m sure of it.”

“How did you know it was there?” Gerry asked.

“Guessed, really, but it had to be in here somewhere. This tunnel goes straight through. Let me see if…” Tim felt around for a moment, then pushed on one of the stones. More or less as he’d expected, the section of wall in front of him swung away silently, obviously on a very delicate counterweight. “Bingo.”

“Okay, next question. How do you know this is connected to the tunnels under the Institute? We’re, what, two miles from Chelsea?”

“Bit under. Closer to two and a half to the Institute. But the tunnels go too far down to actually be the remains of Millbank, so they probably go further than we thought. And I know everyone who’s been in those tunnels has wandered long and far enough they probably stretch a good way.” Tim swept the torch ahead of him and frowned. “And these are steps going down. We’re almost definitely going to get in on a lower level. I’m not sure how deep Jon has explored, honestly, so we might be treading new ground here. We’ll have to be careful.”

“This isn’t exactly going to be a convenient way to get into work while avoiding the front door,” Gerry said as he followed Tim into the stairwell. The door swung almost silently shut behind him, and his hand tightened around Tim’s.

Tim squeezed back comfortingly. “Not exactly what I’m looking for. But I’m sure we can find other exits on our walk if that’s what I end up wanting to go for.”

“Right. Down into the depths of hell we go.”

Tim glanced over his shoulder. “That was a selling point for the London Underground at one point.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Okay, not exactly in those words, but it was a genuine poster that was commissioned in 1924. ‘It’s Warmer Down Below.’ They made another version in 1927, I think. Anyway, it was meant to promote the Underground and how it was so much warmer, and consistently so, than taking transport on the surface. 1927 was an exceptionally cold and windy winter.” Tim checked the walls briefly to make sure there were no turns leading off the stairs before he kept going down. “The poster, at least the ‘27 one, really does look like it’s saying the Underground is warmer because it’s closer to hell. Or at least to the Earth’s core.”

Gerry sighed. “How do you just know that?”

“Haven’t you ever been to the London Underground museum? They’ve got copies of quite a few old posters in the gift shop. Mind your step, there’s a loose stair here.”

The stairs went down further than Tim had maybe expected, and they weren’t steep, either; he reckoned you could probably put a board over the top of them and have an almost perfectly legal wheelchair access ramp. It finally bottomed out, though, and they were presented with a short, curved hallway that led to a maze of tunnels. Tim scanned the area with the torch. “Okay. Do we want to try and figure out a way to one of the higher levels, or explore this one?”

Gerry hummed thoughtfully. “Let’s just explore and see where we end up. Do you think Jon’s made it down this far?”

“No,” Tim said with a shake of his head. He set off down one of the corridors. “He’s terrified to go too deep, or too far from the Institute—it’s going to take us an hour at least to get close. And he doesn’t come down in the tunnels as often as he used to. It’s harder for him to sneak the key, and he hasn’t been able to figure out how to get a copy of it from Elias.”

“Told you that, did he?”

“He’s been talking about it on the tapes. Not the official ones. I think he’s started keeping backups with his own research. But he’s not as subtle about recording them as he likes to believe.” Tim couldn’t remember when he’d heard Jon narrating into the recorders, but he must have overheard at some point.

The tunnels on this level were definitely warmer than the ones above them. Tim found himself unbuttoning his coat to get a little more air in. The floor was dustier, too, and the walls, while they still shifted from worked stone to carved rock with no apparent pattern, at least made more sense to him.

Less so to Gerry, apparently. “Are we just going in circles?”

“No, we’re good,” Tim assured him. “The pattern’s meant to make you think you’re doubling back on yourself, but trust me, we haven’t passed the same stretch of rock in ages. Smirke didn’t do closed loops.”

“Still convinced this is Smirke’s work, then?”

“I’m probably the closest thing living to an expert in it, Ger. Yeah, I’m convinced.” Tim paused at an intersection, then turned to the left. “There ought to be a stairwell up this way.”

Twenty feet further along, they did in fact come to a set of stairs, these much steeper than the ones they’d come down and spiraling tightly. Gerry shook his head. “I probably ought to be worried about how you knew this was here.”

“Just logic. The way Smirke designed things, we’d gone too many steps not to run into a stairwell of some kind.” Tim started up.

“Okay, smart guy, then why are they so different from the others?” Gerry followed Tim into the stairwell.

Tim concentrated on his footing. The weird wedge shape of the risers meant that if you weren’t careful, you could easily slip off the narrowest portion of the step. “Further from the river, I’m guessing. The ground along the bank of the Thames is softer, so you have to kind of go more gradual to avoid the whole thing collapsing in on itself, and you don’t want to have too many rooms right up alongside it anyway. Those stairs were wide enough that they’d provide a bit of a barrier if the Thames did swell its banks, too. This is probably a repurposed well, actually, one that dried up or maybe got closed because it was contaminated.”

“How would you know for certain?”

“Maybe if we found a Shape?” Tim smiled at Gerry’s groan from behind him. “No, that part’s just a guess. I’d need to look at old plans of the area. But I think I’m right.”

Gerry muttered something Tim couldn’t quite make out, but he evidently chose not to say anything further.

Going up the narrow helix took a lot more effort than it would have to go up the steps they’d come down, and definitely took a lot more than going down them would have. Tim thanked God, Saint Anthony, and his lucky stars that Gerry had actually stuck to his resolution to quit smoking after they got back from their trip, because his lungs were damaged enough; if he was still an active smoker, he’d be in serious trouble. As it was, he climbed stoically, if unhappily.

For his part, Tim found himself quietly murmuring a litany of prayers under his breath, both to keep his pace steady as he ascended and to give them what aid he could. He started off with the novena to Saint Lucy he’d recited during his first exploration, the one that had give him the clarity to see into the room of worms properly, then shifted to one of the prayers to Saint Anthony to guide them to what was lost—what, exactly, he wasn’t sure, but he felt certain there was something he needed to find, and hopefully his patron saint would guide them. For good measure, he tossed in a prayer to Saint Thomas the Apostle, patron saint of architects and builders, in the hope that he’d maybe had some influence over Smirke or could at least get a line to him in a hurry to guide them through whatever he had wrought.

The question of whether Smirke had gone to heaven or hell flitted through his mind, but since Gerry didn’t really believe in either one, Tim decided not to bring it up.

Three Aves and one Pater later, he spotted the edge of a doorway a half turn ahead. He was about to turn and suggest to Gerry that they maybe go through it when he froze. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and…he couldn’t explain the sensation exactly. It was like he could just make out a noise on the edge of his hearing, or barely catch a whiff of a scent he couldn’t identify. Whatever it was, there was something through that door, something that was…dangerous? Was it dangerous? His senses were all mixed up. It wasn’t…whatever was out there wasn’t dangerous now, but could it be? Jon—no, Jon wasn’t here—was it Jon? It wasn’t Jon, it wasn’t the Archivist, it might be a danger to the Archivist, or to the Archives, or—

“Tim?” Gerry said from behind him.

“Shh,” Tim hissed. He reached back and found Gerry’s hand with his free one, squeezed it twice, then clicked off the torch and pocketed the key ring. Luckily there was—somehow—just enough light to at least give texture to the darkness, so he wasn’t going to be doing this in pitch black. As soft as he could and still be audible, he whispered over his shoulder, “Stay close, and try not to make any noise.”

They inched forward, slow and careful. Tim knew it was stupid to take his eyes off the stairs in front of him, but he would have to trust his free hand against the column as he slowly made his way backwards up the steps, looking over Gerry’s head and keeping his eyes fixed on that doorway. Thankfully, nothing followed them, and whatever was down there, they seemed to have escaped its notice. Still, Tim didn’t breathe easy until they’d gone two more turns around and the door was completely out of sight. He turned back around and saw, somewhere above them, another doorway.

Another quick prayer—to Saint Michael this time—and Tim led Gerry around the steps, which dead-ended at the door. Still, he waited until they had gone through the arch and he’d listened intently before he clicked on the torch again.

“Sorry,” he said, squeezing Gerry’s hand lightly. “You okay?”

“I’m good. I think.” Gerry took a deep breath. “What the fuck was that all about?”

“I’m not sure…there was something down there. It’s…” Tim blew out a sigh of frustration. “Everything’s all mixed up down here, but it felt like…I dunno. It’s not dangerous to us, I don’t think, but I couldn’t risk leading it to the Archives. And I’m not prepared for a fight.”

Gerry pressed his lips together tightly. “We need to get out of here, then. Not because I think you’re likely to end up in a fight if we stay down here, but because I worry about you being down here too long, Tim, you know that. And it’s already been almost two hours.”

“Two hours seventeen, but who’s counting?” Tim tried for a grin and got only a half worried, half exasperated look in reply. He sighed. “Come on. Let’s see if Jon got this far.”

It became very quickly evident that he hadn’t. There was a complete absence of arrows on any of the first three tunnels they tried. There weren’t any down the fourth tunnel, either, but the reason for that was immediately obvious. These walls were neither stone nor brick nor hewn rock, but…dirt. Solid packed dirt, smoothed out and arced overhead like a rabbit’s run. The floor, too, was tamped earth, covered with a thin, loose layer of soil freshly fallen from the ceiling above. There was no sign of footfall down them whatsoever.

“This isn’t right,” Gerry murmured. “This can’t…why would there be a solid earth tunnel above stone ones?”

“It’s not solid earth. Look.” Tim angled the torch at a spot on the ceiling and was rewarded with the faintest glint. “That’s mortar up there. This is a brick tunnel, it’s just been covered with earth for some reason.”

“I don’t feel the Buried,” Gerry said slowly. “Not that that means it isn’t here.”

Tim closed his eyes for a moment and let the sensations settle over him. He’d gotten pretty good at telling when one of the Fourteen was around. “I think…there’s a sense that it’s been nearby, maybe? But not in this tunnel. This dirt is just…here. Probably it used to be a mud coating over the brick—this isn’t a sewer or anything, so no reason for it to be exposed brick particularly—and it’s just dried out over the decades. Maybe Smirke meant to attract the Buried for some reason, or maybe to…contain it, but…” He paused, frowned, and opened his eyes. “Wait.”

“What?” Gerry sounded extremely unsettled.

Tim swept the torch down the tunnel, then pointed at a barely-noticeable passage running off to one side several meters ahead. “There. We need to go there.”

“Why?”

“Just…trust me.” Tim set off towards the passage. Gerry cursed in what sounded like German, then followed.

As Tim had suspected, the side tunnel had an extremely sharp jog right next to it, meaning that anyone stumbling down this corridor would be unlikely to recognize the tunnel wasn’t a dead end. A few feet away was an arch that looked deceptively like the ones that led to the stairwells, but Tim’s breath caught in his throat when he saw it. “That’s it.”

“What’s it? That’s what?” Gerry demanded.

Instead of answering, Tim moved toward the archway, almost like he was drawn to it, and stepped through. On the other side was a bare stone room, perhaps eight feet on each side, completely empty. There was a halfhearted attempt at a cobweb in one corner, a single smear on another wall, but otherwise, it was just…empty.

“This is where she was,” he said quietly.

Gerry stopped in the doorway. “Where who was?”

“Gertrude.” Tim crossed to the center of the room, knelt, and touched the stone floor. It was strangely cold to the touch, even for what and where it was, and it felt…empty. “This is where Martin found her. It’s not where she died, but…her killer brought her down here. He left a trail getting her here, obviously, but he must have cleaned it up behind himself. Martin found it by accident—obviously he wasn’t meant to. He said there were no cobwebs, no spiders.” He got to his feet and tilted his head to study the wisps of cobweb in the corner. “This place was warded against interference by the Fears. Martin broke the seal when he came in, which is how the Mother of Puppets got started…she must have decided it wasn’t worth the effort, though. And it’s how the police found it. They never would have if they hadn’t had a Hunter with them. But nobody needs this place anymore, so now it’s just…abandoned. There’s nothing left.”

“Tim?” Gerry said, in a choked, barely controlled voice. “How did you know that?”

Tim opened his mouth…

…and closed it.

He thought about every argument he could make. About probabilities, and logic, and experience. He thought about sensations and signs and counting steps. He thought about all the possible answers he could give Gerry, all the reassurances, all the soothing little…

Lies.

He turned slowly around and met Gerry’s eyes. The worry and fear in them was obvious, as was the way he was gripping the door frame. Tim suddenly became aware that the battery in his torch had flickered out and died before they had made it out of what he was persisting in thinking of as the rabbit tunnel, and that, much like when they had been climbing the spiral staircase, Gerry was actually standing there in complete and total darkness.

And Tim was not. He couldn’t see as clear as daylight, but he could, at the very least, see. He Saw. And in that moment, he Knew.

Quietly, fighting to keep his voice steady, Tim said what he had been avoiding admitting, even to himself, for…God, months. “I don’t know.”

#ollie writes fanfic #tma fanfic #the magnus archives #and if thou wilt forget #tim stoker #gerard keay #paranoia #irritability #mention of loss of a sibling #darkness #tunnels #unreality #claustrophobia #mention of religion #at least canon-adjacent if not canon-typical Beholding content

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corens-relisten · 7 months ago

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MAG 63 The End of the Tunnel

Statement of Erin Gallagher-Nelson, regarding an urban exploration trip beneath St Paul’s Church West Hackney. Statement given 26th march, 2014

well, until he got eaten by the darkness. LMAO I LOVE HOW NONCHALANT HE IS ABT IT

so he just breaks in (cool) but not without making fun of how little valuables they have

the shadow there OMG love it and the paranoia, the arguing, the ignoring it and denying it haha

the statement giver just continues describing how cool the place it, how the composition was great like nice but not the time dear TT

pff not him seeing the shadows, more and nore, 2 or 3 sometimes, and just was like. this is fine (:

AAAAA THE THIRD SET OF BREATHING !!!

It was far more dreadful than the others because of how familiar it was – though I had never heard it in such a manner before. It was Luke’s voice, and it was screaming in agony.

AAAAA ×2

and the camera flash oh my !! love this statement its so AAAAAAAA

ofc it was build by fucking robert smirke

jon sounds so done with this. like. so over it he just cannot and tbh? go off. "and now a violent, murderous dark." lmao TT

supplemental:

TT just trying to break into Gertrudes computer

HIII MELANIE (: HELLOO HI (:

aww theyre friends (: "i noticed that you werent updating anymore" awwee

hihi theyre nice (:

spoilers

i am going fucking INSANE AAAAAAA melanie noticing that sasha isnt right ;-; that theres a "new" girl ;-;

anyway this is the dark TT

spoilers done

and have a nice day!

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fantasticallygaysstuff · 5 years ago

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The loves of my life 😍

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themagnustournament · 2 years ago

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Redemption Round 3 - Match 30

These two episodes are almost consecutive in the alphabetical order watch order (The Eye Opens falls between them)! The End of the Tunnel stuck through with 133 votes, and The Eyewitnesses comes with 167 votes from RR2!

MAG 063 - The End of the Tunnel | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

Statement of Erin Gallagher-Nelson, regarding an urban exploration trip beneath St Paul’s Church West Hackney.

MAG 082 - The Eyewitnesses | Spotify - Acast - YT | Wiki | Transcript

Statement of Alice "Daisy" Tonner, regarding the crimes and death of Calvin Benchley. Statement never given.

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tma-latino · 4 years ago

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MAG063 – Caso 0143103 – “El final del túnel”

Testimonio de Erin Gallagher-Nelson, sobre un viaje de exploración urbana debajo de la Iglesia de San Pablo en West Hackney.

[Disclaimer/ Aviso]

[MAG062] | x | [MAG064]

#tma #MAG063 #the magnus archives #the magnus archives pod #magnus pod #Rusty Quill #tma translation #tma spanish translation #traduccion en español

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awellboiledicicle · 5 years ago

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TMA Statements In Chronological Order

But, not by when the events happened, by the order when the Statements were entered to the Institute. Because that wasn’t on the wiki timeline.

Below the cut because i’m not a monster.

Format is:

Episode // Entity // Statement Giver// Statement Given // Event Date

• #140 The Movment of The Heavens // The Dark // John Flamsteed // 1715 • #116 The Show Must Go On // The Stranger // Abraham Janssen // 2 November 1787 • #23 Schwarzwald // The Eye // Albrecht von Closen // 31st March 1816 // Winter 1815 • #127 Remains to be Seen // The Eye // Jonathan Franshawe // 21 November 1831 // April – November 1831 • #152 A Gravediggers Envy // The Buried // Hezekiah Wakely // 1837 - 1839 • #50 Foundations // The Buried // Sampson Kempthorn // 12th June 1841 // 1836 • #58 Trail Rations // The Flesh // Mrs. Carlisle // 10th November 1845 // October – November 1845 • #105 Total War // The Slaughter, The Eye // Charles Fleming // 1862 • #98 Lights Out // The Dark // Algernon Moss // 14 May 1864 • #138 The Architecture Of Fear // The Eye // Robert Smirke // 13 February 1867 • #7 The Piper // The Slaughter // Clarence Berry // 6th November 1922 // 1917-18 • #133 Dead Horse // The Hunt // Percy Fawcett // 27 June 1930 • #99 Dust to Dust // The Buried // Robert E Geiger // 20 February 1952 // April 1935 • #137 Nemesis // The Slaughter // Wallis Turner // 3 July 1955 // Winter 1942 • #29 Cheating Death // The End // Nathaniel Thorp // 4th June 1972 // 17th June 1775 • #60 Observer Effect // The Eye // Rosa Meyer // 12 July 1972 // April – July 1972 • #95 Absent Without Leave // The Slaughter // Luca Moretti // 2 November 1977 • #44 Tightrope // The Stranger // Yuri Utkin // 2nd March 1979 // November 1952 • #85 Upon the Stair // The Spiral // Unknown // 1980 – 1990 • #86 Tucked In // The Dark // Benjamin Hatendi // 2nd March 1983 • #84 Possessive // The Corruption // Adrian Weiss // 1 December 1990 • #125 Civilian Casualties // The Slaughter // Terrance Simpson // 19 July 1993 • #77 The Kind Mother // The Stranger // Lucy Cooper // 15 September 1994 //August 1994 • #93 Contaminant // The Corruption // Lester Chang // 5 March 1995 • #96 Return To Sender // The Stranger // Alfred Breekon // 15 May 1996 • #53 Crusader // The Eye // Walter Heller // 5th September 1997 // November 1941 • #2 Do Not Open // The Buried, The Stranger // Joshua Gillespie // 22nd November 1998 // 1996 -1998 (?) • #46 Literary Heights // The Spiral, The Vast // Herbert Knox // 21st December 1998 // September 1997 • #17 Boneturners Tale // The Flesh // Sebastian Adekoya // 10th June 1999 // 1996 • #66 Held in Customs // The Buried // Vincent Yang // 22 February 2000 // January 19 2000 • #78 Distant Cousin // The Stranger, The Web // Lawrence Moore // 12 June 2001 • #21 Freefall // The Vast // Moira Kelly // 20th October 2002 // 3rd-5th or 7th June 2001 • #35 Old Passages // All // Harold Silvana // 4th June 2002 // June 2002 • #9 A Father’s Love // The Dark, The Hunt // Julia Montauk // 3rd December 2002 // 1990-95 • #155 Cost of Living // The End // Tova McHugh // 3 December 2002 • #68 Tale of a Field Hospital // The Corruption // Joesph Russo // 3rd June 2003 // 1st June 2003 • #27 A Sturdy Lock // The Spiral // Paul Mckenzie // 24th August 2003 // July 2003 • #146 Threshold // The Spiral // Marcus Mackenzie // 1 September 2003 • #88 Dig // The Buried // Enrique MacMillian // 4 November 2003 • #70 Book of the Dead // The End // Masato Murray // 9th December 2003 • #52 Exceptional Risk // The Dark // Phillip Brown // 9th April 2004 // 1st November 2002 • #24 Strange Music // The Stranger // Leanne Denikin // 17th Jan 2005 // August 2004 • #59 Recluse // The Web, The Desolation // Ronald Sinclair // 29th November 2005 // Early to Mid 1960’s • #134 Time of Revelation // The Extinction // Adelard Dekker // 22 January 2006 // 2005, 1867 • #75 A Long Way Down // The Vast // Stephen Walker // 7 November 2006 // Early October 2006 • #139 Chosen // The Desolation // Eugene Vanderstock // 30 November 2006 • #115 Taking Stock // The Flesh // Michaele Salesa // 4 January 2007 // Autumn of 1999 • #8 Burnt Out // The Web, The Desolation, The Spiral // Ivo Lensik // 13th March 2007 // November 2006 • #67 Burning Desire // The Desolation // Jack Barnabas // 18 March 2007 // October – November 2006 • #3 Across the Street // The Stranger, The Web // Amy Patel // 1st July 2007 // 7th April 2006 • #51 High Pressure // The Vast, The Buried // Antonia Hayley // 7th January 2008 // August 2006 • #106 A Matter of Perspective // The Vast, The Eye // Jan Kilbride // 10 February 2008 • #49 The Butchers Window // The Flesh // Gregory Pryor // 11th March 2008 // June 2007 • #62 First Edition // The End, The Eye // Mary Keay // 3rd July 2008 // 1955 • #154 Bloody Mary // The Eye // Eric Delano // 21 July 2008 • #130 Meat // The Flesh // Lucia Wright // 19 December 2008 • #18 The Man Upstairs // The Flesh // Christof Rudenko // 12th December 2008 // 22nd October 2007 • #156 Reflection // The Extinction // Adelard Dekker // 4 January 2009 • #5 Thrown Away // The Flesh etc. // Kieran Woodward // 23rd February 2009 // 8th August 2008 • #97 We All Ignore The Pit // The Buried // Jackson Ellis // 3 March 2009 • #57 Personal Space // The Lonely, The Vast, The Dark // Carter Chilcott // 4 April 2009 // September 2007 • #145 Infectious Doubts // The Desolation // Arthur Nolan // 2 February 2009 • #114 Cracked Foundation // The Web Shtranger or Extinction // Anya Villette // 22 April 2009 // 23 April 2009 or 9 April 2009 • #37 Burnt Offering // The Desolation // Jason North // 6th August 2009 // August 2009 • #108 Monologue // The Lonely, The Stranger // Adonis Biros // 20 August 2009 // August 2009 • #144 Decrypted // The Extinction // Gary Boylan // 3 October 2009 // August 2009 • #126 Sculptor’s Tool // The Spiral // Deborah Madaki // 11 October 2009 // Spring 2004 • #72 Takeaway // The Flesh // Craig Goodall // 20 October 2009 // 27 September 2009 • #107 Third Degree // The Desolation // 1 February 2010 // January 2010 • #48 Lost in the Crowd // The Lonely // Andrea Nunis // 25th March 2010 // September 2009 • #10 Vampire Killer & #56 Children of the Night // The Hunt, the Web // Trevor Herburt // 10th July 2010 // 1959 (first event), Winter 2009 • #69 Thought For the Day // The Web // Darren Harlow // 18th November 2010 • #31 First Hunt // The Hunt // Lawerence Mortimer // 9th December 2010 // 30th November - 1st December 2010 • #33 Boatswain’s Call // The Lonely // Carlita Sloane // 2nd January 2011 // Late November 2010 • #45 Blood Bag // The Corruption // Thomas Neil // 9th February 2011 // Spring 2010 • #148 Extended Surveillance // The Eye // Sunil Maraj // 3 April 2011 • #14 Piece Meal // The Flesh // Lee Rentoul // 29th May 2011 // Early 2011 • #19 Confession & #20 Desecrated Host // The Spiral, The Web, The Desolation (Hilltop Road) & The Spiral, The Flesh // Edwin Burroughs // 30th May 2011 // November 2006 • #112 Thrill of the Chase // The Hunt // Lisa Carmel // 13 November 2011 • #113 Breathing Room // The End // Adelard Dekker // 2012 • #12 Page Turner // The Desolation, The Eye // Lesere Saraki // 11th February 2012 // 23rd December 2011 • #153 Love Bombing // The Corruption, The Flesh // Barbara Mullen-Jones // 2 March 2012 • #110 Creature Feature // The Web // Alexia Crawley // 14 March 2012 • #1 Anglerfish // Stranger //Nathan Watts // 22nd April 2012 // March 2010 • #38 Lost and Found // The Spiral // Andre Ramao // 6th June 2012 // March 2012 • #36 Taken Ill // The Corruption // Nicole Baxter // 19th November 2012 // August – September 2011 • #136 The Puppeteer // The Web // Alison Killala // 1 December 2012 // 2012 • #124 Left Hanging // The Vast // Julian Jennings // 11 December 2012 // 2012 • #149 Concrete Jungle // The Extinction // Judith O’neill // 13 May 2013 • #54 Still Life // The Stranger // Alexander Scaplehorn // 23 June 2013 • #4 Page Turner // The Vast, The Spiral, The End // Dominic Swain // 28th June 2013 // 10th November 2012 • #90 Body Builder // The Flesh // Ross Davenport // 7 August 2013 • #157 Rotten Core // The Extinction, The Corruption // Adelard Dekker // 14 August 2013 • #30 Killing Floor // The Flesh // David Laylow // 1st September 2013 // 12th July 2013 • #129 Submerged // The Buried // Kulbir Shakya // 4 September 2013 // July or August 2013 • #83 Drawing a Blank // The Stranger // Chloe Ashburt // 19 October 2013 // September – October 2013 • #42 Grifter’s Bone // The Slaughter // Jennifer Ling // 3rd November 2013 // Autumn 2013 • #32 Hive // The Corruption // Jane Prentiss // 23rd February 2014 // Pre-2014 • #63 The End of the Tunnel // The Dark // Erin Gallagher-Nelson // 31st March 2014 // 26th March 2014 • #102 Nesting Instinct // The Corruption // Francois Deschamps // 4 June 2014 • #103 Cruelty Free // The Flesh // Dylan Anderson // 2 July 2014 • #135 Dark Matter // The Dark // Manuela Dominguez // 14 July 2014 // 2007 • #87 The Uncanny Valley // The Stranger, The Desolation // Sebastian Skinner // 10 October 2014 // September 2014 • #15 Lost Johns’ Cave // The Buried // Laura Popham // 9th November 2014 // 14-15th June 2014 • #150 Cul-de-sac // The Lonely // Herman Gorgoli // 9 November 2014 • #6 Squirm // The Corruption // Timothy Hodge // 9th December 2014 // 20th November 2014 • #122 Zombie // The Stranger // Lorell St. John // 1 February 2015 • #11 Dreamer // The End // Antonio Blake (Oliver Banks) // 14th March 2015 // 12th March 2015 • #16 Arachnophobia // The Web, The Corruption // Carlos Vittery // 9th April 2015 // Early 2015 • #25 Growing Dark // The Dark // Mark Bilham // 19th April 2015 // January – March 2015 • #64 Burial Rites // The End // Donna Gwynne // 20th May 2015 // 2012 • #74 Fatigue // The Spiral // Lydia Halligan // 8 June 2015 • #123 Web Development // The Web // Angie Santos // 1 August 2015 // January 2015 • #13 Alone // The Lonely // Naomi Herne // 13th January 2016 //30th & 31st March 2015 • #22 Colony // The Corruption // Martin Blackwood // 12th March 2016 // March 2016 • #26 A Distortion // The Spiral, The Corruption // Sasha James // 2nd April 2016 // 1st April 2016 • #28 Skintight // The Slaughter, The Stranger // Melanie King // 17th April 2016 // January 2015 • #34 Anatomy Class // The Stranger // Lionel Elliot // 12th July 2016 // January – March 2016 • #39 Infestation // ATTACK ON THE INSTITUTE // 29th July 2016 • #40 Human Remains // Post Attack Debrief// 29th July 2016 • #41 Too Deep // Buried and Dark suspected // 2nd September 2016 // mid-august – September 2016 • #43 Section 31 // The Desolation, The End // Basira Hussain //19th September 2016 // August 2011 and 18 July 2014 • #47 The New Door // The Spiral // Helen Richardson // 2nd October 2016 • #55 Pest Control // The Corruption, The Desolation // Jordan Kennedy // 3rd November 2016 // 2011 & 2014 • #61 Hard Shoulder // The Hunt, The Stranger, The Buried // Daisy Tonner // 1st December 2016 // 24th July 2002 • #65 Binary // The Spiral, Extinction // Tessa Winters // 7th January 2017 • #71 Underground // The Buried // Karolina Gorka // 25 January 2017 // 6 January 2017 • #73 Police Lights // The Dark // Basira Hussain // 11 February 2017 // 10 February 2017 • #76 The Smell of Blood // The Slaughter // Melanie King // 13 February 2017 • #79 Hide and Seek // The Stranger, The Spiral // 16 February 2017 • #80 The Librarian // All // Jurgen Leitner // 16 February 2017 // 1994 • #81 A Guest for Mister Spider // The Web // Jonathan Sims // 18 February 2017 / 1995 • #82 The Eyewitnesses // The Eye, the Slaughter // Daisy Tonner // 18 February 2017 • #89 Twice as Bright // The Desolation // Jude Perry // 24 April 2017 • #91 The Coming Storm // The Vast, The Spiral // Michael Crew // 28 April 2017 • #92 Nothing Beside Remains // The Eye, The Lonely // Elias Bouchard, Barnabas Bennett // ? [Possibly 28 April 2017] • #94 Dead Woman Walking // The End // Georgie Barker // 29 April 2017 • #100 I Guess You Had To Be There // The Desolation, The Dark, The Spiral, The Web, The Lonely // Lynn Hammond, John Smith, Robin Lennox, Brian Finlinson // 2 May 2017 – 26 May 2017 • #101 Another Twist // The Spiral, The Stranger // Michael // May-June 2017 // October 2009 – 2011 • #104 Sneak Preview // The Stranger // Timothy Stoker // 14 June 2017 // August 2013 • #109 Nightfall // The Dark, The Hunt // Julia Montauk and Trevor Herbert // 29 June 2017 // July 2010 • #111 Family Business // Multiple, The End // Gerry Keay // 30 June 2017 // September 2008 • #117 Testament // The Eye // Jonathan Sims, Basira Hussain, Melanie King, Martin Blackwood, Timothy Stoker, Daisy Tonner // 2 – 4 August 2017 • #118 The Masquerade // The Stranger // The Unknowing Begins // 6 August 2017 • #119 Stranger and Stranger // The Stranger // The Unknowing Ends // 7 August 2017 • #120 Eye Contact // The Eye // Elias Bouchard // 9 August 2017 • #121 Far Away // The End, The Web // Oliver Banks // 15 February 2018 • #128 Heavy Goods // The Stranger // Breekon // 3 March 2018 • #131 Flesh // The Flesh // Jared Hopworth // 20 March 2018 // 2016 – January 2018 • #132 Entombed // The Buried // Jonathan Sims and Daisy Tonner // 24 March 2018 • #141 Doomed Voyage // The Vast, The Spiral // Floyd Matharu // 11 June 2018 • #142 Scrutiny // The Eye, The Buried // Jess Terrell // 12 June 2018 • #143 Heart of Darkness // The Dark // Manuela Dominguez // 16 June 2018 • #147 Weaver // The Web // Annabelle Cane // 20 July 2018 • #151 Big Picture // The Vast, The Lonely, The Extinction // Simon Fairchild, Martin Blackwood // 14 August 2018 • #158 Panopticon // The Eye, the Extinction, The Lonely // Martin Blackwood, Peter Lukas, Basira Hussain, Jonathan Sims, Daisy Tonner, Elias Bouchard, Gertrude Robinson // 25 September 2018 • #159 The Last // The Lonely // Peter Lukas // 25 September 2018 • #160 The Eye Opens // All // Jonah Magnus, Jonathan Sims // 18 October 2018 • Vigilo, Audio, Supervenio. The World Ends • #161 Dwelling // No // Sasha James, Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Elias Bouchard, Jonathan Sims, Jurgen Leitner // No Longer Applicable // Unknown • #162 A Cozy Cabin // No // Gertrude Robinson, Gerry Keay, Sasha James, Timothy Stoker, Martin Blackwood, Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable // 2013 – 2015 • #163 In The Trenches // The Slaughter // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • # 164 The Sick Village // The Corruption // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #165 Revolutions // The Stranger // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #166 The Worms // The Buried // Jonathan Sims // No Longer Applicable • #167 Curiosity // The Eye, The Web, Others // Jonathan on Gertrude Robinson // No Longer Applicable • #168 Roots // The End // Oliver Banks // No Longer Applicable

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