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traitorousheroes · 4 years ago

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and she greeted the End as an old friend

(Hannibal/The Magnus Archives Crossover. I've had this sitting in my drafts for over a year, and its technically finished, although originally it was going to be part of a series.)

Case #0170723

Statement of Abigail Hobbs, regarding her fathers and her subsequent deaths at their hands. Statement given directly by subject on July 23rd, 2017 to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins...

The London streets were cold in the early morning, very different from the warmth of Italy. In a way they reminded her of Lithuania, of the dungeons beneath the old Lecter estate. The moth that Will had left was still beautiful, even as the skin sloughed off and spiders spun their webs in the empty eye sockets. There had been echoes of death that clung to the very stones of that place, but nothing that was unique, except for the fact of who it had affected. Those that it was continuing to affect.

Abigail pulled at the braid that covered her missing ear as she walked up to the Magnus Institute. Pressing her hand against the door, the feeling of being Known overcame her. The Eye focused on her as she stepped through and into the foyer, and she could feel that it wanted what she had come here to give. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips. Unlike her own patron, the Eye was unused to waiting.

“Excuse me,” she said, walking up to the main desk.

The woman who sat behind it looked up at her in surprise. Her name tag read Rosie, which seemed to fit the woman.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

“I was hoping to make an appointment to speak with Elias Bouchard?”

“I’m not sure that Mr. Bouchard has any openings in his schedule for the next week,” Rosie said, flipping through a planner. “If you’d like, there looks to be an appointment open in a fortnight-”

The phone on her desk rang. Rosie gave her a small smile and held up a finger as she picked up the receiver. Abigail could hear the sound of a male voice on the other end, though what he was saying was indistinct. Rosie looked back up at her, confusion on her face as she listened to whatever the man on the line was saying.

“Of course, Mr. Bouchard,” she said. “I’ll let her know.” Rosie put the phone receiver to her shoulder and turned her smile back to Abigail. “Mr. Bouchard says that he has an appointment open at around noon. In return, he asks if you would be willing to give a statement to the Archives.”

“Of course.”

Rosie relayed her acceptance to him, giving a perfunctory goodbye and hanging up the phone. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you down to the Archives.”

Abigail nodded. Rosie turned and walked further into the building, her heels clicking against the stone floor; Abigail’s own shoes, a pair of comfortable flats, made no sound in comparison. They walked past a set of large wooden doors, above which sat a plaque that read Artifact Storage, before coming to a set of stairs that led down. At the basement landing there was only one door, which sat innocuously against the left hand wall. The plaque above it was similar to the one upstairs, but read Archives instead. It also appeared to be damaged with what appeared to be some sort of fire suppressant caked on the upper right hand corner.

Rosie opened the door, revealing a surprisingly large room with two chairs on the wall next to the door. Four desks sat in the middle of the room, each one stacked with paper and knick knacks. On the far left hand side of the room there were offices, one of which had a plaque next to it stating Archivist. A piece of paper was taped over the name holder below it, with the name Jonathon Sims printed on it. There were another two offices beside it, though neither of them had any designations. The door to the furthest one was cracked open slightly, letting her see what appeared to be a cot wedged against the wall. A small kitchenette sat against the back wall, the sink filled with what looked like used mugs.

“You can wait here if you’d like,” Rosie said, gesturing to a chair. “Would you like a coffee? Tea?”

“No, thank you,” Abigail replied, taking the seat. “I’ll be fine.”

“Well, if you need anything before they arrive, I’ll be at the front desk.”

Abigail nodded, letting her smile drop as the woman left. She let out a deep breath, all the air leaving her body in a deathly rattle. The air in the room was silent as the grave, not even the spider spinning its web in the corner making a sound to disturb it. She could feel the cold as it overtook her limbs like an old friend embracing her, her sight disappearing behind clouds of milky white. The echoes of death that lingered in the Archives were tantalizing in their amount. There was the faint tang of Corruption to them, a hive mind bound to flesh screaming out in unison as their lives were snuffed out.

“I think she’s dead.”

“Christ, not again.”

Abigail drew herself back from the deaths of the Flesh Hive, a curl of satisfaction settling itself in her chest. A faint whirring caught her ear as she acclimated back to her body, the sound like the VCR from her childhood. She blinked, clearing away the clouds that had settled over her corneas. One of the men who had been talking yelped, the soles of his shoes squeaking on the floor as he stumbled away. Abigail rolled her neck and stretched her fingers, chasing the torpor away.

As she focused on the two men in front of her she smiled. The one who yelped was braced against a desk, his eyes locked on her. The other had drawn a knife, the edge pointed at her chest. It was obvious that he had never used one before, not only for the slight tremor that transferred from his hand to the blade. Abigail took a deep breath, feeling her lungs reinflate with a wheeze.

“If you wanted to kill someone, you need to point the blade a bit lower,” she told the one with the knife. She raised her hand slowly and wrapped it around his own. He flinched at her touch, but didn’t resist as she pulled him closer and set the knife right below her sternum. “Press in and pull down to disembowel them. If you want them to suffer,” she said, dragging his knife down lower to her abdomen, “you can cut across and perforate their intestines and let them bleed out.”

“Let go,” he said, trying in vain to pull his hand from her grip.

Abigail didn’t, pulling it up so that the edge of the knife rested against the scarf that wrapped around her neck. “Of course, you can also cut the throat. It’s a bit harder than they make it look in the movies, but your victim is aware the entire time they choke on their own blood. Though the blood loss makes the pain feel almost non-existent. It’s almost peaceful.”

“Please,” the larger, terrified man said, “let him go.”

“Of course,” Abigail agreed, releasing the hand that held the knife. The man stepped away, the knife clattering to the floor between them. He rubbed at the skin she had touched, as if doing so would erase the feeling of it.

“Are you okay Tim?”

“Fine,” Tim spat. “Just dandy in fact. There’s only something else that wants to kill us here, Martin. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

“I’m not here to kill you,” Abigail said.

They both looked at her sceptically. She sighed, bending over and picking up the knife from the floor. Both men flinched as she did so, but neither made any movement to get closer to her. It was a passable knife, though the edge was a bit dull when she tested it against the tip of her finger. Folding it back, she stood and held it out to Tim, whose gaze had turned wary. She waved it, and he reached out and took it like a snake striking at prey.

“What are you doing here then?” Martin asked. “How’d you even get in here?”

“Rosie let me in. I’m here to make a statement for the Archivist.”

“You’re here to make a statement,” Tim said, his tone disbelieving.

“I need to give it to the Archivist,” Abigail said. “It’s very important that I do it now.”

“Well, Jon isn’t here right now,” Martin told her. “We could set you up with some pen and paper if you’d like-”

Whatever he was offering was cut off as a man stormed into the Archives, almost running into Tim. He looked between the three of them, his eyes cataloging the two men before looking at her. Abigail felt a tingle of power spread over her skin as the Archivist focused on her with the full weight of the Eye.

“What are you?” the Archivist asked, a thread of power snapping out at her.

“Someone who came to give a statement,” she said, neatly sidestepping what he intended her to answer with another truth.

The Archivist grimaced, accepting what she said while still knowing that what she said wasn’t what he wanted. His shoulders slumped as he let go of what little power he had mustered against her. He rubbed at his eyes with a scarred hand before letting out an annoyed breath. He stalked over to the office marked as his, leaving the door open behind him. Abigail looked at the other two, who seemed unsure of what they should do. Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her remaining ear, she went to the Archivist’s door.

“May I come in?”

“If you want to give a statement, yes,” he said shortly. “If you’ve changed your mind, I’m sure you can find the way out.”

“I’m sure,” Abigail said, passing through the threshold and shutting the door behind her. There was a click-whirr as the tape recorder on the Archivist’s desk turned on. She raised an eyebrow which he returned drolly. “I hope you don’t mind me ambushing you here, Archivist.”

“As long as you aren’t here to kill me, I’m sure we will get along fine. And it’s Jon, please. And you are?”

“Abigail Hobbs. It’s nice to meet you, Jon.”

“At least one of us is happy about this. You said you’re here to give a statement?”

“Yes.”

“What about?” Jon asked. For all that his tone implied disinterest, there was a hunger behind his eyes.

“My deaths,” she said simply. “Should I just start, or...”

Jon nodded, his posture straightening as he looked her directly in the eyes. Abigail met them directly, letting the Eye in. She took a deep breath, letting the memories flow out.

“I knew from a young age that my dad was different. He wasn’t too different, not in any way that would make anyone suspicious. He worked a blue collar job, but a lot of people in my town did. It paid well enough, and we were happy. Or, at least, I was.

“My dad never really let me out of his sight. I just thought he was overprotective, especially when I hit my teenage years. It wasn’t until I caught him sitting outside my junior prom that I thought it was weird. He played it off, saying that he was worried about someone spiking the punch. Which, I mean, someone did, but that’s part of the high school experience. But it was soon after that when he got super weird.

“I wasn’t a fan of hunting, but my dad was really into it. He always bagged his allotment during deer season, which meant that we had enough venison for the winter. I think throughout my childhood I ate more deer meat than hamburgers. But that year he took me with him during deer season. He said it was important that I learned how to hunt. He had this weird look in his eye when he said it. Like he was sizing me up like one of his bucks. So I went with him and bagged one. I didn't like it, and I don’t think he liked the idea that I didn’t like it. I thought it was just the fact that he wanted to share it with me.

“After that, he never took me back to his hunting cabin. I can’t say I wasn’t happy about it, because it honestly creeped me out. Mom had put her foot down on the amount of antlers and hunting trophies in the house, but the cabin was absolutely stuffed with them. The upstairs was full of antlers and hooves. I thought he would have sold some of them to collectors or hobbyists, but I don’t think he ever did. I don’t think he thought that would be honoring them.

“That was a big thing with him. He used every part of a deer. You would think there would be some kind of waste, but he was very careful to limit that. It's probably what stopped him from being caught for as long as it did.

“I guess you don’t really pay attention to a lot of American news over here. Which is fair, since I never really paid attention to what happened over here. Plus, there are a lot of serial killers in the States. And I’ve met more than most people. Including my father.

“Like I said, my father was really overprotective. The therapists I talked to, afterwards, said that it wasn’t my fault what happened. That he was just sick in the head and that it manifested in him hunting girls who looked like me and eating them. And they were mostly right. Only they didn’t know that he used me to pick them out. He was a good hunter, you see. And a good hunter knows how to stalk his prey, how to use bait to get them where he wants them. I was his bait. And I knew it.

“I wasn’t scared of him. I don’t think any of the therapists understood that. Even after everything, I never was afraid of him. It wasn’t even fear of what he did when he was hunting. Because the only thing I wanted to do was survive. I wanted to live past whatever happened. If that meant helping him choose his prey, I would do it. In his own way, I think he thought I was close to him, close to the Hunt that drove him. He didn't realize that I was already marked for something else.

“From what I’ve learned about the Hunt, my father wasn’t fully under its influence. Certainly not enough to become something... more. I think that’s why one of the Web’s agents decided to press. I think he was curious to see what happened. He called our house, and when I picked up the phone he asked to speak to my dad.

“He told me afterwards what he said to my dad. That the F.B.I. was onto him, that they were coming for him. But my dad just hung up the phone and continued cooking breakfast. My mom didn’t notice anything different, which I guess is a small kindness. When we heard the car pull up outside he grabbed her and put the knife to her neck. He walked her to the front door, slit her throat, and tossed her onto the front porch. She bled out not knowing why it was happening.

“I should have run the moment I saw him grab my mom. But I couldn’t. I was so afraid, but it wasn’t because of him. Even when he came back, the knife in his hand wet with my mother’s blood, I wasn’t afraid of him. He whispered how sorry he was in my ear, that he loved me, and I still wasn’t afraid of him. It wasn’t until the man from the F.B.I. rushed into the kitchen and my dad slit my throat that I realized what I was afraid of.

“It was the same reason why I had picked out the girls for him to kill. I didn’t want to die. The man from the F.B.I. killed my dad, and still the only thing I could think of as I choked on my own blood was that I didn't want to die like this.

“I did though. For less than a minute on the operating table, my heart stopped. It was enough for the thing that had marked me to deepen it's hold, but not enough for it to claim me completely. That came later. Instead I was dragged into the Web’s games.

“His name was Hannibal Lecter, and he became my father. If it’s a manipulation of the Web for me to think so, I don’t really care. He did do that, of course. It’s in the nature of those who weave. But he cared for me, cocooned me in safety, for a given value of the word. Of course, I was simply a pawn in a game to get him what he really wanted.

“The F.B.I. agent who killed my dad was like me, marked. But the one who held claim on him had more of an influence. I think he would have happily gone through the rest of his life being a conduit and repository of fear if Hannibal hadn’t caught him in his machinations. The Web is always interested in what the Eye does, after all.

“Will didn’t know what Hannibal was. Anything of what he was, really. Remember how I said I’d met more serial killers than most? Hannibal was one as well, and fairly prolific. The Web’s influence helped, letting him make horrific displays that fed it and let him express himself. That same influence let him blind Will to the fact. Not that he needed to do much, other than let Will’s brain cook itself. I’m not sure when he decided to let him live, but I played a part in what came next.

“Hannibal took my ear with my permission. Or, at least, as much permission as the Web needs. We faked my death and framed Will for it. Then he left me to my own devices in a house by the sea. He told me that when the time was right, I would come back and meet him and Will. That we would leave and go somewhere far away to be a family.

“It was a lie, of course. A pretty lie, but a lie nonetheless. Or maybe it wasn’t. I’ll have to ask Hannibal when I see him again.

“It always comes down to choices. And Will chose to stand against Hannibal. He saw the manipulations, the cocoon that Hannibal had put him in, and chose not to become what he wanted. It made him angry. You probably think that monsters can’t get angry, but they were human once. And under everything, they still are. It just depends on how much they want to acknowledge it.

“I asked Hannibal how he would kill me once. He said he would slit my throat like my father had. And he did. He severed me from his web; the same hands that had saved my life, ending it. And I felt the same fear. I didn't want to die. I wanted to live.

“Will tried to save me, but Hannibal had gutted him. The last thing I saw was myself reflected in his eyes. And my life Ended.

“I don’t remember making my choice. Of giving myself over to the power that had claimed me. I know that I made the choice. And so I woke up in a body bag, my own blood caked across my face and clothes, breath rattling in lungs that did not need it.

“I’m still not sure how I got out of the morgue without someone screaming about a dead girl returning to life. There wasn’t ever any news coverage about someone stealing my body from the morgue. I do know that the grave that bears my name is empty; they held a closed casket funeral to hide the fact that they don’t know what happened to my body. I wouldn’t be surprised if they think Hannibal took it. I hope no one ever asks him about it. I want to surprise him.

“That’s part of the reason I came here. He’s up to his games again, from what I’ve seen, and he’s dragged Will back into it as well. So I wanted to leave them a message. I’ll be on the Silver Coast, waiting for them. For as long as it may be until we see each other again.”

Jon blinked, his eyes losing the manic need that had filled them during her statement. Abigail watched as he seemed to sink into himself, a pall of weariness weighing down his limbs. Despite it there was a brightness to his complexion, as if he had just spent the day lazing in the sun.

“Statement ends,” he said. The tape recorder clicked off, leaving their breathing as the only sound in the room.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You’re of the End, then?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not what I would have expected,” Jon said.

Abigail shrugged. “We can’t all be grim reapers and shambling corpses. Do you need anything else for the statement?”

“No, I think you’ve given us enough details. Not that it would be easy to follow up on, considering.”

“Kind of hard to explain talking to a dead girl?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve talked with the dead. You seem more at peace than some of the others.”

“I’ve had time to get used to it.”

“Yes, I imagine so. Do you need help finding your way out?”

“I actually need to go speak with Mr. Bouchard. Could you direct me to his office?”

“Um, yes,” Jon said. He looked perturbed at her question, but she imagined he wanted her out of his domain as soon as possible. “Up the stairs, past Artifact Storage, then take the stairs to your left and it will be on the second landing. You can’t miss it.”

“I’ll leave you be, then.”

Abigail stood up from her chair and opened the door. Four sets of eyes looked up as she left the office, with Martin getting up from his desk as she walked past. She heard him say something to Jon as she exited the Archives. Unlike when she had entered, the doors to Artifact Storage were open, with what looked like a few people examining pieces on long tables. Following the instructions Jon had given her, she went up two flights of stairs. As she began to walk across to the door marked Head of the Magnus Institute, it opened.

“Ms. Hobbs,” Mr. Bouchard said. “Please, come in. I do believe we have matters to discuss.”

#hannibal #the magnus archives #abigail hobbs #jonathan sims #tma au #martin blackwood #tim stoker #mid-season 3 of tma #technically season 3 of hannibal #elias bouchard #thwrites #end!abigail hobbs #web!hannibal lecter #eye!will graham

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aflyingcontradiction · 3 years ago

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The Magnus Archives Relisten: Episode 150 - Cul-de-Sac

You’re all alone trying to connect with people, trying to find your place in the world, but in the end the only person you really know is yourself. And even then, not all that well. There’s plenty of things I’ve done I couldn’t explain to you. I mean, I’m constantly looking back at my past self and thinking, what an idiot. How the hell could he have done such an obviously stupid thing? How was I surprised it went so badly? What a relief I’m now so much older and wiser. Except that last part never really turns out to be true, does it? - Statement of Herman Gorgoli

Well, that's a way too relatable thought process right there.

Just street after street of identical, blandly pleasant houses, all winding around each other in dead ends and cul-de-sacs and one-way systems, making sure every house has plenty of inoffensive garden. I’ve never seen people happily living in a place so obviously dead.

My partner has always considered suburbs inherently creepy and it took me the longest time to understand why, but I must have been in the "right" mood or something (maybe I was just feeling a bit imprisoned myself - for no conceivable reason /s) because even just listening to this bit of the episode was enough to set my brain to fight-or-flight-LET-ME-OUT-OF-HERE mode. My heart rate was up before the horror even started.

It was miserable, but every time I thought about going back, I felt nauseous the idea of returning to those eggshell walls that we never got around to repainting, and the living room that expected me to sit there and watch Midsomer Murders until I passed away peacefully in my sleep. It made me want to throw up.

And this bit hit me like a punch, too. Maybe "the eggshell walls we never got round to repainting" was a bit too relatable.

I’d probably have stayed away forever if it hadn’t been for the moose.

Okay, that is such a hilariously random freaking segue, though.

And then I stopped, because the sign said, “Road”. No name, just Road.

The timing here is amazing but that only shows if you're actually listening, not from the quote itself.

it wasn’t that there was anything abnormal about the whole situation. It was just that the normal seemed to go on forever.

Oh, that is some great writing - just ... the juxtaposition of abnormal and normal in this situation...

It was exactly identical to all the others. I’ve often wondered if there was anything that drew me to it… perhaps I was just unlucky. Or perhaps there only ever was one house.

Oh, that is a creepy thought, the entire neighbourhood just a single house, over-and-over-and-over again to infinity.

I was going to die. (...) And that was when I heard it. It was quiet. (...) It was Alberto. He was calling me.

Oh god, I only just realised - if Alberto hadn't called him, he absolutely would have died there! This is a place of the Lonely, the fact that there was still a person who really, truly cared (whatever he was telling himself at the time) was what saved Herman. That's what broke through the horror! How did I not spot that before?

I checked to see if I could find anything about Yotunde Uthman, and I did find a few old social media profiles, but I wasn’t able to get through to any family or friends. As far as I can tell she disappeared a year ago and nobody noticed.

Damn ... that has always been a personal nightmare of mine, disappearing without anyone noticing or caring.

Jon: Of course. I was just having a statement and –

Having a statement, though. Pfffft.

Melanie: Uh, she doesn’t know the details, just that I’m in a bad contract situation working somewhere pretty awful. She thinks I work for the Tories. Jon: God.

I don't know what's more hilarious about this. The initial comment or Jon's weak little 'God' that makes it sound like somehow he's utterly horrified at the idea of anyone hearing about Melanie's situation and concluding she works for the Tories, because surely the Institute isn't THAT bad.

My impression of this episode

This episode was one of those rare treasures where even the pre-supernatural intro managed to thoroughly unsettle me. In fact, I was more unsettled by the intro than the horror but that didn't make the statement any less effective. It's been a while since I was thoroughly AND pleasantly unsettled by a statement.

#tma relisten #the magnus archives

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bubonickitten · 4 years ago

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Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Chapter summary: The process(es) of resigning from a terrible, no good, very bad assistant position.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 22: discussions of eye-gouging/eye horror (not graphic); brief mentions of spiders/arachnophobia; anxiety/panic symptoms; lots of dissociation/dpdr; Peter Lukas being a manipulative shit; Lonely-typical content (including fear of abandonment & some abysmal self-esteem on Martin’s part); allusions to police violence & Hunt-related themes (re: Daisy’s past actions); swears. SPOILERS through Season 5.

Chapter 22: Resignation

Georgie paces in a slow circle, alternating between biting her nails and picking at her bottom lip – entirely immersed in her own thoughts, judging from the faraway look in her eyes. Jon hasn’t seen her this overwrought since the last depressive episode he witnessed. Just watching her is enough to make his chest tighten with vicarious unrest.

Wary of contributing to a vicious feedback loop between the two of them with his own customary pacing and handwringing, he forces himself to keep his knees locked and hands at his sides. Still, he can’t help rubbing his fingertips together and rocking minutely on the balls of his feet.

“Why don’t we sit?” Jon finally interjects, wincing when it comes out more curtly than he intended – more like a command than a suggestion, but luckily without any accompanying static.

Be mindful, he silently chides himself: being on edge like this only makes him more susceptible to accidental compulsion.

“What if something goes wrong?” Georgie whispers. Jon doubts she even heard him beneath her nervous refrain. “What if –”

“Georgie?” Jon tries again. No response. He steps into her path and places a hand on her shoulder. “Georgie.”

“What?” Georgie raises her head, but she isn’t looking at him so much as she’s looking through him.

“I think you should sit down?”

“What?” Georgie says again, sounding utterly lost. Her eyes are darting around the room now, as if she doesn’t recognize her surroundings.

How the tables have turned, Jon thinks grimly.

“Come on,” he says, taking her hand and guiding her to the nearest chair. She offers no resistance, trailing behind him like a flagging balloon. When he presses on her shoulder to coax her into a sitting position, she goes easily. Keeping hold of her hand, he drags another chair closer to her and takes a seat.

Okay. Now what?

Jon jiggles his leg as he wracks his brain for the right thing to say. She deserves more than handholding and awkward silence, but soothing words have never come naturally to him.

“Do you, ah… do you want to talk about it?” Jon cringes at his faltering delivery. “I’m sorry, I’m – I’m still not very good at this,” he adds with a self-deprecating laugh – then immediately shuts his eyes, kicking himself. Why are his attempts to relate to others always so clumsy and – and weirdly self-centered? “I mean –”

“I’m scared,” Georgie blurts out.

“You… what?” Jon tilts his head. “But I thought – you don’t feel –”

“Fear?” Her clipped, brittle laugh dies in her throat. “No, I don’t. And that’s exactly the problem, isn’t it?”

Jon strokes the back of her hand with one thumb, but remains silent. She always elaborates on her own time, given some space to order her thoughts.

“I don’t feel… terror,” she says slowly. “After I had my… encounter, I did a lot of research on how the brain works. Trying to understand what was happening to me, you know?”

Jon nods. He’s intimately familiar with that urge. As a child, he went through a spider phase, as his grandmother called it, obsessively seeking out any information he could on them, hoping even then that he could conquer his fear if only he could see the world through a detached, academic lens. There were plenty of academic odes to the spider to be found; no shortage of enamored arachnologists waxing poetic about the wonders of evolution and the vital role that arachnids play in their particular ecological niches.

Unfortunately, a phobia – especially one arising from acute trauma – tends to be resistant to reason and reality. His obsession only ever yielded heart palpitations and lucid nightmares. Despite that failure, he never stopped clinging to that idea that if only he could know everything there was to know about a thing, he could finally scrape together some semblance of control over his fear.

In many ways, that fixation is exactly what drew him to the Magnus Institute.

Unless the Spider really was pulling the strings all along, he thinks, and then: No, we are not going there.

“As far as I can tell,” Georgie continues, “my sympathetic nervous system still functions. I can still experience all the physiological aspects of sympathetic arousal – and fear is only one possible trigger for those sorts of responses. What’s missing is my capacity to interpret those responses through the lens of fear. To emotionally process or identify them as fear.

“I can still experience anxiety, to an extent – or something close to it. But mostly in the context of worrying about others, being scared for them. I mean, I can feel apprehensive about the possibility of experiencing pain or loss or failure myself, I have a stake in my continued existence, I can recognize danger, but sometimes it feels… I don’t know – mechanical, almost? There’s just always the feeling of something missing. Something important. And there are times when I feel that void more acutely.”

“Like now.”

“Yeah.” Georgie looks away, chewing her lip in silence.

“I’m listening,” Jon coaxes, sensing that there’s more she’s holding back.

“It’s just… hard to feel like a full person sometimes, you know?” Georgie says helplessly. “I worry sometimes that it – I don’t know, does a disservice, I guess, to the people I care about? Like no matter how much I love someone, it isn’t… complete? Or – genuine, in the right way? It’s – hard to find words that actually describe it. There are times when it feels like I’ve lost something vital that made me human, that made me me, and it’s… difficult to reconcile who I was – who I could have been – with who I am now.”

“That I understand,” Jon says softly.

“I know.” Jon wishes he was less familiar with the sad smile she gives him just then. “It’s just… I remember a time when I would have been terrified of all this. Not just worried, or upset about someone I care about being hurt, or devastated by the prospect of losing someone I love. Terrified. And knowing what I should be feeling – what I would have felt at some point – is… it’s unnerving. There’s a void there that shouldn’t be there. It’s like… having part of you gouged out and left hollow. An absence that’s so present it’s almost visceral.” She frowns. “Does that make any sense?”

“In my future I had a Flesh Avatar reach into my chest and wrench out two of my ribs, so… yes, actually.”

Georgie blinks several times, then laughs breathlessly. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not.” Jon returns a cautious smile, but the levity evaporates after a few seconds. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that you don’t have to have access to the full spectrum of human emotion in order to count as human. And I don’t think any of this makes your concern for others any less heartfelt, or – or comforting. You might not be the same person you were before you were marked, but that doesn’t make you any lesser as a person.”

“You should try applying that metric to yourself sometime,” she replies, not unkindly.

“It’s –”

“Don’t say it’s different,” she cuts in. “Just… keep it in mind, okay?”

“I’ll, uh… I’ll try.” Georgie nods, but says nothing. Jon grips her hand a little tighter. “Listen, I – I know you’re worried for Melanie, but I think it’s going to be alright? I can’t predict the future –well, I have knowledge of one possible future, but that’s because I lived it. I don’t have any precognitive abilities, or anything like that. But… it turned out okay last time.”

Until I jump-started an apocalypse –

Jon reins in the thought before it can gain momentum. Georgie doesn’t need his brooding right now.

“Melanie is a fighter,” he says instead, offering a tentative smile. “And she has you.”

Georgie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you came out of the apocalypse sappier than you were when you went in.”

“Side effect of traversing a post-apocalyptic wasteland with a hopeless romantic, I think.” That gets another little chuckle out of Georgie. “I mean it, though. I think Melanie will be okay, especially with you looking out for her. Not to mention, the Admiral is a perpetual serotonin generator.”

“You really miss him, huh?”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve pet a cat, Georgie?” Jon practically whines, playfully dramatic. It manages to keep the amused smile on Georgie’s face, he’s pleased to note.

“Maybe I should bring him by sometime.”

“Absolutely not. This place doesn’t deserve him.” Georgie snorts. Although Jon is reluctant to ruin the temporary shift in mood, this is as good a time as any to broach a subject he’s been dreading. “Also, I, ah… I don’t want you to feel obligated to continue visiting here.”

“What?” Georgie says, eyes narrowed.

“If you have to take a step back,” Jon says carefully, “I’ll understand.”

“I mean, I might not be able to come by as often as I have been, especially while Melanie is still recovering, but that doesn’t mean I won’t be around at all.” Georgie’s frown deepens. “I’m not about to cut you out of my life, Jon.”

“I know. And I don’t want you to. But – no, listen,” Jon insists, seeing Georgie about to protest. “What I’m trying to say is – I know Melanie wants to put as much distance between herself and the Institute as possible. If it turns out that you staying involved in all of this is too close to home, then… well, I don’t want her to feel like she’s still trapped in the Institute’s orbit, is all.”

Or mine, he doesn’t say. He doesn’t want to be a reason for Melanie to feel unsafe. In the past, he has been – and that’s not who he wants to be.

These days, Melanie has come to view him more as a fellow captive than a complicit enemy. Lingering resentment still sparks to life from time to time; she still struggles with her anger, and once or twice, she’s had to leave a room for fear of that rage boiling over. Overall, though, she no longer directs the majority of her ire towards him. When they do butt heads, it hasn’t gone much further than bickering – and even that feels comforting in its familiarity and mundanity. Almost companionable, in its own way.

Most significantly, ever since their talk, Melanie hasn’t once likened him to Jonah Magnus. Jon doesn’t know if that’s because it’s no longer an automatic association at the forefront of her mind, or because she’s consciously watching her words around him, actively taking care to avoid tripping that perpetual trigger. Either way, Jon is grateful.

But Jon also knows that he’s inseparable from the Institute. Despite his intentions, and regardless of whether or to what degree the others hold him personally responsible, the fact remains: he’s embroiled in something unspeakably evil, and that poses a danger to anyone who stands too close to him.

Georgie doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking the time to seriously consider his words. He’s always appreciated that about her, as uneasy as these moments of silent suspense can make him.

“I’ll talk to her about it,” she says eventually, “once she’s recovered enough to have that discussion. I don’t know how she’ll feel about staying in direct contact herself, especially at first, but… I doubt she expects me to cut you off. And I imagine she’ll still want to know how everyone is doing, even if she doesn’t want the details.” She glances up to meet his eyes. “Anyway, regardless of how often I visit in person, I’m still going to be checking in with you, so answer your damn phone, will you?”

“I do answer my phone,” he says defensively. “I just… forget to answer texts sometimes. And I don’t get service in the tunnels –”

“Well, come up for air and cell service from time to time.” She wrinkles her nose. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can tolerate being down here for hours on end –”

Jon startles slightly as the trapdoor creaks open above their heads. Georgie stands as Melanie makes her way down the ladder, hurrying over to fold her into her arms. Basira follows behind, closing the trapdoor behind her as she goes.

“Mission successful, I take it?” Jon says quietly as Basira approaches him, giving Georgie and Melanie a moment to themselves.

“Uneventful,” Basira says with a shrug. “A few sidelong glances, but otherwise, none of the library staff even acknowledged us. Definitely didn’t seem keen on asking why we were rummaging in the repair supplies.”

“They probably didn’t want to know.”

“Yeah.” A small, rueful smile crosses her face. “Some of them used to talk to me, you know. Nothing personal – we weren’t close – but… when I returned a book, they’d ask what I thought of it, give me recommendations, that sort of thing. Now, though…”

These days she prefers to wait until everyone has gone home for the day before visiting the library, Jon Knows. He also Knows that the library staff are well aware that she’s the one pilfering research materials in the dead of night – and that they have no plans on confronting her about it. She never leaves a mess, after all, and always returns items to their proper places once she’s finished with them, which is more than can be said for many of the students who make use of the library’s resources.

“You know, I don’t think any of them have looked me in the eye for months.” There’s a distinct note of regret in Basira’s voice. “They just watch me out of the corners of their eyes when they think I’m not looking. I don’t know if that’s because they’re afraid of Lukas disappearing them for fraternizing, or because everyone is leery of the Archives these days, or because I’ve just become less approachable. Maybe all three. Suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

Jon knows the feeling well. Before he can answer, though, Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks over to see her facing his direction, one hand clasping Georgie’s tight enough to blanch her knuckles.

“This is it, then,” Basira says solemnly.

“Yeah.” Melanie closes her eyes and breathes a long, shaky exhale. “It’s time.”

“You’re sure you don’t want me there?” Georgie asks.

Melanie shakes her head. “I don’t want you to see that.”

“But –”

“She won’t be alone,” Basira says. “I’ll be right outside the room.”

Melanie faces Georgie fully, taking her other hand as well. “The plan hasn’t changed. Basira will call 999. I’ll make it quick, and – once it’s done, Basira will come in and sit with me until the ambulance gets here.”

“I have a general idea of what the response time should be like,” Basira adds, looking at Georgie. “If we time it right, Melanie will have medical assistance within minutes. I can come get you when the paramedics get here, if you want to ride in the ambulance.”

Georgie nods and tightens her grip on Melanie’s hands. “Is that okay?”

“Only if you want,” Melanie says haltingly. “But – maybe try to avoid looking too close, if my eyes are uncovered? It’s just – it probably won’t be pretty.” A stressed laugh claws its way out of her throat. “Potential trauma fodder, you know? I don’t want to worry about you remembering me like that every time you see me, even after I’ve healed.”

“Okay,” Georgie replies softly.

“It shouldn’t take long. Just – wait here with Jon until then, okay?” Georgie nods again, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. “Speaking of which –” Melanie glances at Jon, as if just now remembering his presence. Startled by the sudden direct eye contact, he reflexively straightens his spine and stands at attention. “I guess this is goodbye, huh? For a while, anyway.”

“I, uh. I suppose it is.”

“Right. So, um… good luck, I guess?”

No disclaimers or ill will tacked on this time, Jon notes privately.

“You too.” He forces a smile, but he suspects that it comes off as awkward rather than reassuring.

“Try not to die.”

“Yes, ‘not dying’ is relatively close to the top of my to-do list.”

“If I come to find out that you’ve gotten yourself killed and broken the eldritch employment contract binding us all to this place after I’ve gone and gouged my eyes out, I’m going to be livid.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Jon says wryly.

“Seriously, though.” Melanie’s smirk melts away, taken over by a somber, quiet sort of intensity. “Either beat Elias at his own game, or get the fuck away from this place the instant you find an out. Whichever comes first. Preferably without any of the self-sacrificial bullshit.”

Fractious as its delivery is, the demand is oddly touching, coming from Melanie.

“I, uh… I’ll do my best?”

“You’d better.” Melanie nods – a curt but cordial dismissal – and turns her attention back to Georgie. “Hey,” she says, her voice going measurably softer, releasing one of Georgie’s hands to reach up and cup her face. Her watery smile belies her mental state: resolve warring with trepidation. “Look at me?”

For a long minute, she studies Georgie’s face, clearly enraptured. Jon forcefully tears his gaze away from the intimacy of the moment.

“Okay.” Melanie takes a deep breath in and releases it slowly. “I’m ready. I’ll see you soon, okay? Or – well, I won’t see you, but – you’ll see me, and I’ll…” She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Oh, whatever – you know what I mean.”

Georgie lets out a tearful chuckle, and Melanie relaxes marginally.

“I’m sure about this,” she says. “I promise. This is what I want – a life with you, away from all of this. And if this is the price I have to pay, then… I’m okay with that. Really, I am.” She stands on tiptoe to give Georgie a peck on the cheek. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie says, leaning down for a return kiss, smiling weakly against Melanie’s lips. “See you soon.”

When Martin first heard the bustle outside his door – coworkers venturing outside their solitary offices to trade whispered questions and eager gossip as word of paramedics in the archives made its way upstairs – his stomach gave a little lurch: a combination of horror and wonder. He hadn’t expected Melanie to change her mind – he knows how determined she can be once she’s settled on a course of action; how desperate she was to extricate herself from Elias’ – Jonah’s – schemes. Still, though, faced with the reality of it, he found himself in awe of her nerve.

That was yesterday. Martin didn’t get much work done, preoccupied as he was. He isn’t having an easier time of it today: his attention keeps slipping away to linger in remembrances of sterile hospital rooms and muted hallways, thoughts drowned out by the ghosts of sirens and beeping machinery.

“Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.”

Martin jolts in his seat, heart leaping into his throat. It only takes an instant longer for his alarm to mutate into aggravation.

“Peter!” Martin spins around to glower at the man. “How many times do I have to–”

Peter flaps a dismissive hand. “To be honest, Martin, the drop in temperature tends to tip most people off. The only reason you continue to be surprised by my arrival is because you’ve become acclimated to the Forsaken.”

The revelation is slow to sink in, a stark chill blooming in Martin’s chest and snaking its roots outwards. Only now that it’s been brought to his attention can he feel the nip in the air.

“Here I was certain you were becoming estranged from our patron, but it seems I needn’t have worried.” Peter’s smile is laced with malice. “Or should I?”

Martin says nothing, eyes wide and stinging from the now-conspicuous cold. Peter sighs, folds his hands behind his back, and begins a meandering back-and-forth pace.

“Our success is dependent on your voluntary isolation, Martin.”

“Yeah.” The word turns to fog as it touches the air, and Martin finds himself transfixed by the sight. “You’ve said.”

“It seems you need a reminder.”

The condescension dripping from the words is enough to drag Martin back into the present moment. Heat rises in his cheeks, contrasting with the temperature in the room and making the chill that much more noticeable.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” he snaps. “You keep expecting me to just – go along with whatever you’re scheming, no questions asked.”

“You ask many questions, Martin –”

“Yeah, and you never answer them! You’re so – so bloody cryptic about all of this.”

“Martin, Martin,” Peter says, placating in the most patronizing way possible. Martin bristles: he hates the way Peter says his name. “There’s no need to get so worked up –”

“If you want me to be a partner in – in whatever it is you’re planning, you can’t expect me to go on blind trust!”

“I’m still conducting my own research,” Peter says mildly. “I would rather not confuse you with extraneous details before I have all the kinks worked out.”

“I’m not an idiot –”

“Rest assured,” Peter interrupts, “if I was capable of stopping the Extinction alone, I would. Unfortunately, it will require someone touched by the Beholding.”

“Why?”

“Because it requires this place, and this place” – Peter’s lip curls in distaste – “is the Eye’s seat of power. The One Alone has no dominion here.” Martin crosses his arms, unimpressed. “You are the only one who can do this, Martin.”

“Why?” Martin repeats.

Judging from the muscle ticking in Peter’s jaw, his limited supply of patience for conversation is precipitously depleting.

“No, really,” Martin presses, “why me? I mean” – he spreads his arms out with a scornful chuckle – “look at me. I’m not exactly hero material, am I?”

“That really depends on you. I can’t force you to cooperate. It won’t even work unless you’re a willing participant.”

“And what makes you think that your plan is the only way? You – you keep going on about how it’s my choice. Well – what if I choose to work with the others? It can’t hurt to have more eyes on the problem –” Martin rolls his eyes at Peter’s unconcealed revulsion. “Yeah, I know. No one would ever accuse you of being a team player, obviously. But I can be the liaison; you don’t have to interact with anyone at all.” Would prefer you don’t interact with anyone at all, Martin thinks. “I mean, that’s already my role, isn’t it? Dealing with people so you don’t have to?”

“Martin,” Peter says, low and dangerous.

“I’ll do it off the clock, even. I’ll isolate myself in my office during the workday, or whatever” – Martin gives a flippant wave of his hand – “and continue researching the Extinction.” And practically running the whole damn place on an assistant’s salary, he grouses silently. “After hours I’ll pursue my own research with the others.”

“Part-time isolation will not suffice to equip you with the power you’ll need.” Peter presses his lips into a pale, rigid line. “Be reasonable. Are you really willing to risk an apocalypse, just because you can’t appreciate solitude?”

“If it starts to look like there’s no other option, I’ll reconsider.”

“And if the Extinction emerges while you’re wasting time searching for an alternative that doesn’t exist?”

“Based on the limited information you’ve given me, I don’t think the Extinction is going to just… emerge overnight. I’m still not even convinced it’s going to be worse than any other Fear. I mean, the Flesh is relatively new, isn’t it? And it didn’t… leave the fear economy in shambles, or whatever.”

“It isn’t about competition, Martin.” Peter releases a slow plume of fog through his nose before continuing, voice cool but simmering with pique just under the surface. “The Extinction is different from the other Powers. It is defined by widescale eradication. The other Powers may seek to change the world, but none of them strive for a world without us.”

“But what makes you so sure the Extinction would?”

Peter’s eyes narrow. Ignoring him, Martin runs his thumb along his bottom lip as he replays Jon’s impassioned conjectures on the matter: It thrives on the potentiality of a mass extinction event, not the fulfillment of one.

“What’s to say it wouldn’t be just fine with the world as it is, like the End?” Martin says, more confidently now. “People have been prophesying about the end of the world for – all of human history, probably. I doubt we’ll stop anytime soon. Maybe at its core the Extinction is just… the fear of an uncertain future. And a particular future doesn’t have to be realized in order to inspire fear, as long as the potential is always there. It’s about the suspense – the ‘what ifs’, the unknown, the – the lack of control in it all.” Martin laughs. “In a way, that’s… that’s what most fears boil down to, isn’t it?”

“The stakes are rather high to gamble on a thought experiment, don’t you think?” The temperature plunges a few more degrees as Peter speaks. “I think that the most important ‘what if’ you should concern yourself with is what if you’re wrong?”

“And what if I’m not?” Martin counters. “You act so authoritative, but aren’t you also just speculating? When I agreed to work with you, you told me you would provide me with evidence to support your theory. So far, I’m not convinced. You’re going to have to give me more to go on than just ‘trust me.’ I mean – if it’s between trusting you and – and trusting Jon, and the others? You can’t really be surprised if I choose them over you.”

“Oh, Martin,” Peter tuts, shaking his head with derisive, disingenuous pity. “Since when has the trust you’ve placed in others ever been reciprocated?”

“I trust him,” Martin says defiantly.

“But does he trust you?” Peter pauses for effect. “Of all the times you’ve allowed yourself to form attachments, has anyone even once genuinely returned those affections?”

Jon did.

Whatever expression Martin is wearing brings a sneer to Peter’s face. Martin clenches his teeth and ignores him.

Jon does, he corrects. Present tense. He said as much.

Martin still can’t fathom what Jon could possibly see in him, but Jon wouldn’t lie about something like that, right? He wouldn’t.

…would he?

No, he wouldn’t, Martin chides. You know he wouldn’t. Trust him.

“Sure,” Peter persists, “you may open yourself up to the potential for something more, but you know as well as I do that it won’t last. Is the inevitable loss really worth the risk?”

“I don’t know,” Martin says. He tries to ignore the slight quaver that insinuates itself into the declaration. “But if I never take the risk, I’ll never know, will I?”

“I think you already know the answer.” Peter’s pale eyes glitter with spite. “Remember what it felt like, languishing at the Archivist’s deathbed. Recall the state you were in when you first came to me.”

The words are incisive, sliding under Martin’s skin and lodging there like shrapnel. He can feel his confidence waver, the conviction he stood fast on only seconds ago splintering underneath him like thin ice.

“How many times do you think he can court death and survive? He all but died stopping the last apocalypse; he was willing to bury himself alive for a woman who tried to kill him. How do you think he’ll react if you tell him about any of this? You think he’ll listen to reason? Trust in your judgment?” Peter fixes Martin with a smug, hungry look. “Or will he throw himself in front of the first bullet he sees?”

He already knows about all of this, Martin reminds himself. Jon isn’t about to sacrifice himself on account of the Extinction. Moreover, he seems to be genuinely committed to working as a team rather than striking out on his own.

But he also sees himself as a cataclysm waiting to happen, says the nagging doubt skulking in the far corners of Martin’s mind. As much as Jon insists that he doesn’t want to die, he’s already lived through one apocalypse. Martin has no doubt that Jon would sacrifice himself to prevent another, if it came down to it.

Jon is a powder keg of fear and guilt, and there is no shortage of potential ignition sources waiting in the wings. It only takes one untimely spark to set an archive ablaze.

“I trust him,” Martin repeats to himself, but the statement is rendered feeble by the leaden, frozen knot unfurling in his chest.

“Can you really weather another round of grief?” Peter continues, triumphant. He knows he’s found a gap in Martin’s defenses; all he needs to do now is twist the knife. “You’ve already done your mourning, cut the infection off at the source. Let him back in, and you only open yourself up to more pain. Better a numbed scar than a wound that never heals, don’t you think?”

“No.” There’s something off about Martin’s voice – as if it doesn’t belong to him; as if it’s originating from outside of himself, faint and frail and faraway, smothered by the cold, empty fog clogging his lungs. “N-no, I…”

“Connection is a fleeting, fickle thing,” Peter persists. “It’s a lie people tell themselves. The truth is that we are all alone. In the end, all we have is ourselves. Think about it.”

Unthinkingly, Martin shrinks away as Peter steps closer.

“You asked for more evidence.” Peter slides a few statement folders onto the desk. “Take some time to yourself. Consider whether you’re willing to wager on the fate of the world.”

When Martin looks up, he is alone.

“It’s so loud,” Daisy mutters heatedly, stalking to and fro like a panther in a cage. She scratches furiously at her forearms as she goes, blunt fingernails leaving faint red stripes on pale skin.

“Daisy,” Jon says evenly, “I think maybe you should –”

“Itch I can’t scratch.” She pivots on her heel, retracing her short path in the opposite direction. “Feels like fire under my skin.”

“I don’t think clawing your skin off is going to help.”

Daisy barks a laugh. “With what claws?” She stops short and brandishes the backs of her trembling hands, fingers splayed to highlight nails gnawed to the quick, ragged cuticles stained rust-brown with dried blood. “Dull now.” Her eyes go unfocused, staring vaguely at her hands as if she doesn’t recognize them. “Too dull.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, and he means it.

It never gets easier to witness her like this, frenetic and fraying in the throes of the Hunt’s compulsion. These spells have a way of making her features look sharper, her mannerisms more animalistic. She’s all protruding bones and sallow skin, but that seeming frailty does nothing to tame the violence thrumming in her veins. If anything, that all-consuming hunger only makes her more fearsome.

Jon’s strict rations have given him an underfed, pinched look as well, but at least he has something. Not enough to put meat on his bones, so to speak, but enough to stave off starvation. Daisy, though…

When Jon takes a step forward, she rounds on him with teeth bared and a snarl in her throat. Jon flinches at the sudden movement.

“You’re afraid of me.” Daisy exhales an exhausted rattle of a laugh, as if vindicated. “Good. You should be.”

“I’m not afraid of you,” Jon says. “I have an overactive startle reflex. Always have, really.”

“You’re lying.” Daisy breathes heavily through her nose, fists clenched at her sides now. “Admit it.”

Jon knows what she’s trying to do. She wants him to lash out, to bite back, to make her bleed. He’s uncomfortably familiar with that craving. It’s like looking into a mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he reiterates.

“Liar,” Daisy hisses, fixing him with a baleful glare.

He’s seen her like this many times before, hunger-ravaged and swamped by bloodlust. She’ll doggedly bash herself against the nearest witness to her shame like a ship crashed against a jetty, driven forward again and again by cresting waves of guilt and self-loathing until she’s free-floating wreckage. Every time, it gets more and more difficult to gather up all the debris and repair the damage. Jon fears that one of these days, the storm will pass and there won’t be enough pieces left to put her back together.

“I’m not a knife you can cut yourself on, Daisy,” he says patiently.

Daisy looks positively mutinous, mouth opening and closing several times before erupting: “Why wouldn’t you be afraid of me?”

“I used to be,” Jon admits, leaning back against the tunnel wall to take some of the weight off his bad leg. “Before the Buried. I was terrified of you. Dreaded every moment I had to be alone with you. Thought it was only a matter of time before you finished the job.”

“It was,” she rasps out – and with that, her shoulders slump and her fists relax to hang limply at her sides, fingers jumping and twitching with the last dregs of her agitation.

“I know. But then you changed. You were different, after the Buried. As afraid of yourself as I used to be of you. As afraid of yourself as I was of myself.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks. “I looked at you and saw my own fear reflected back at me. There are so many things to be afraid of. You were – you are trying very hard not to be one of them.”

“If I’m afraid of me, you should be, too.”

“Are you afraid of me?” Jon asks, shaping each word carefully to keep the compulsion at bay.

She pauses, considering the question.

“No,” she says eventually. “Afraid for you, sometimes.”

“As I am for you.” Jon’s tentative smile fades after a moment. “I’ll admit, I do have… reflexive reactions, sometimes. There were a few incidents where I walked into the breakroom and you were holding a knife, and my fight-or-flight response kicked in before my conscious brain could catch up with reality.”

Daisy squeezes her eyes shut, wrapping her arms around her middle.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. When she opens her eyes, the look on her face isn’t pleading so much as it is resigned. She isn’t asking for forgiveness. Jon doubts she ever will.

It’s just one more thing they have in common.

“I know,” he says quietly. “To be clear, I don’t feel unsafe with you, as you are now. It’s just… flashbacks. They can be – unpredictable. And if I’m already feeling on edge, or – or not quite present, it doesn’t take much to set me off. But,” he adds, giving her a serious look, “I don’t want you walking on eggshells around me. That only puts me more on edge.”

“Fine. But will you tell me if I do something to scare you?”

“Yes.” She made the same request last time. “But I’ve never had to. You could always feel when I was afraid. From a few rooms away, even.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says with a choked laugh. “Your blood is – very loud sometimes.”

“And now?”

These episodes tend to be capricious. Sometimes, what seems to be the calm after the storm proves to be only a lull before a second wind. If the way she’s wobbling on her feet and favoring one leg is any indication, Jon suspects that the worst of the flare-up has passed for now, taking her adrenaline surge with it. Still, he waits for her confirmation. Daisy takes a minute to mull over the question, head cocked slightly to the side as if listening.

“Quieter,” she says.

With that, Jon lowers himself to the ground and sits with his back against the wall, beckoning her over to take a seat. She hesitates for a moment longer before following his lead, slumping down next to him with a labored sigh.

“Sorry for growling at you,” she says sheepishly, rubbing the back of her neck.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Daisy tilts her head back to stare at the ceiling. “You said I ended up going back to the Hunt last time.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“September. But – but that doesn’t mean it has to happen again,” he adds hurriedly when he sees her face fall in a mixture of anguish and resignation. “It was – sort of a perfect storm of extenuating circumstances. Like I said before, if you didn’t let the Hunt back in, you and Basira would likely have been killed. But I think you knew you wouldn’t be coming back from it. Before you changed, you made Basira promise to hunt you down and kill you.”

“And did she?”

“She lost track of you in the chaos. You gave chase after one of the Hunters. Once you killed her, the other Hunter started hunting you. For revenge.” Jon’s voice drops to a low murmur. “A few weeks later, the world ended.”

Which makes it sound far more passive than it actually was, but Jon isn’t in the mood for a scolding should he opt for an ‘I’ statement.

“And then what?”

“You were a full-fledged Hunter in a – a perpetual fear generator of a world,” Jon says grimly. “Do you really need to hear the details?”

“Tell me,” Daisy says. “Please.”

Jon understands the need, but recounting the apocalypse never gets any easier. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and takes a moment to gather his thoughts.

“When I opened the door and let all the Fears into this reality,” he begins, “the world was divvied up into thousands of different domains, each belonging to a different shade of terror. With few exceptions, most people were confined to one domain – usually whatever aligned with their deepest fears. Avatars and monsters were subject to the Ceaseless Watcher, but otherwise able to exercise control over the humans in the domains of their patrons. Most seemed to stake out territory and settle in one place – customizing their own little spheres of influence, creating playgrounds of their own making. But some got around. You were one of the ones that traveled.”

“What was –” Daisy grimaces. “Who was I hunting?”

“Well… in that place, no one got what they deserved, only what would hurt the most. And people are rarely afraid of just one thing. Most were magnets for multiple fears. The more nomadic Avatars and monsters would gravitate towards whatever individuals were most susceptible to their power, so to speak.” He bites his lip. There’s really no tactful way to phrase this next part. “In your case, you had a roster of specific targets that you were tracking. Former prey. Whether you were drawn to them because of their own fear of you, or because some part of you judged them to have ‘gotten away,’ so to speak… I’m not entirely certain. It may have been a bit of both.”

“I see,” Daisy murmurs. “Guess it makes sense that I would rank high among some people’s greatest fears.”

“Basira was tracking you when we ran into her. We were with her when we found you.”

“And was I… still me?”

“Yes and no,” Jon says hesitantly. “You were you, in a way, but only a small part of you. The Hunter. Everything else was buried too deep. Drowned. Even if I could have brought you back, it would have killed you. You – you didn’t even recognize me, or Martin. You recognized Basira – saw her as pack, wanted her to join you in the Hunt – but…”

“You were prey,” Daisy says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“You never did manage to grow a self-preservation instinct, did you?” Daisy squints at him. “I went full monster on you, and you still want me to sit next to you now.”

“You had sharper teeth then,” Jon says drily. Daisy scoffs and nudges his shoulder with hers. She doesn’t draw back after making contact, and when Jon doesn’t pull away either, she leans into him.

“Basira kept her promise?” Daisy asks after a minute.

“Yes. She didn’t want to, but…” Jon swallows thickly, the memory of Basira’s heartbreak bringing to mind his own. “It wasn’t an easy decision.”

Daisy rubs at her chest with one hand, as if to soothe an ache. “It wasn’t fair for me to ask that of her, was it?”

“Maybe not,” Jon sighs. “It seems fair choices are hard to come by, for most of us.”

“I… I don’t want her to have to make that choice this time.”

“Neither do I.”

“It’s never going to stop, is it?” Daisy glances at him, allowing her head to rest lightly on his shoulder. “It’s only going to get worse.”

“I’m sorry.” What else is there to say?

“Melanie got away,” Daisy says, a tinge of bargaining in her tone. “She managed to purge the Slaughter. And break away from the Eye.”

“Her situation was… different from ours. She wasn’t as far gone as we are. The Slaughter hadn’t fully claimed her, and the Eye never took her as an Avatar. But you’ve been living with the Hunt for most of your life; I signed myself over to the Beholding the moment I became the Archivist. We’ve become… attached to our patrons, dependent on them for survival. Symbiotic, in a twisted sort of way.”

“You really don’t think there’s a way back, then.”

“I don’t know for sure. I’ve seen it before, in my future, but – the world was different then. During the apocalypse, I was able to, uh… shift a person’s status from Watched to Watcher. I – I mean, technically everyone was Watched – the Eye had dominion over everything – but I could give someone control over one of the smaller domains. Create new Avatars, for lack of a better term.

“But turn a Watcher into solely the Watched, and they would typically unravel. I don’t know if that’s because the full focus of the Ceaseless Watcher’s gaze just happens to be lethal – particularly for Avatars aligned with other Powers – or if an Avatar is simply unable to survive being cut off from their patron regardless of the means of separation. I do Know that I wouldn’t have been able to survive being cut off from the Eye unscathed. I was… too much a part of the Eye in that reality. Not sure about now. For either of us.”

“That’s a roundabout way of saying ‘no.’”

“I’m not saying no, I’m saying that I don’t know. Supposedly escaping the Buried was impossible, and here we are.”

“Apples and oranges,” Daisy says sullenly.

“Maybe. I think it’s all too complex for clear-cut categories. Even the hard-and-fast ‘rules’ are only as strong as our collective belief in them. Almost like our expectations shore them up. I’ve witnessed all of reality being rewritten – all physical laws and supposed universal constants reshaped to center the Eye.” He reaches one hand up to tug on the hair at the back of his neck. “After all I’ve Seen, it’s difficult to conceive of anything being categorically impossible. Between all the dream logic and reality bending, there’s plenty of space for firsts and exceptions to the rules.”

‘I don’t knows’ are where the hope lives, Martin said once. At the time, Jon teased him for being a hopeless romantic, but truthfully, Jon was just as hopelessly endeared by Martin’s belief in such things.

“Have you talked to Georgie yet today?” Daisy asks, apparently ready to change the subject.

“Oh, uh – yes. This morning.”

“And?”

“Melanie was out of surgery and stable, but she wasn’t awake yet. Georgie promised to call tonight with an update.” Assuming nothing major comes up before then, a worried voice in Jon’s head supplies. He shakes his head to jog the thought loose. “Speaking of Georgie… have you given any thought to her suggestion?”

“What,” Daisy says, drolly skeptical, “playing a video game?”

“I realize it’s… somewhat out of the box, but it might be worth a try. Like Georgie said, there are multiplayer games where you can, uh… hunt down other players.”

Daisy plucks absently at her collar, glowering at the opposite wall as if the bricks there committed a personal offense. “It’s not the same.”

“A simulation might not come close to a real hunt, no, but – you might still get something out of it? Maybe?” Daisy directs her scowl up at the ceiling. Jon only digs his heels in, undeterred. “There are even some that have a survival horror theme. An aesthetic that already puts players in the mindset to be frightened, you know?”

“People play those games for fun, Sims.” She finally looks at him, eyes narrowed. “It’s about thrills, not mortal fear.”

“Sometimes genuine fear can sneak through. Haven’t you ever been so creeped out by a horror story that it stayed with you after nightfall?”

“Not really?”

“O-oh. Well, some people have that experience.” Jon gives an awkward little cough. “Anyway, under the right circumstances, a game can get the adrenaline pumping as well as a chase can. A fight-or-flight response doesn’t necessarily require a real physical threat.”

Daisy raises her eyebrows, transparently cynical. “Do you really think the Hunt is going to be satisfied with jump scares and – and low-stakes adrenaline rushes filtered through a screen?”

“No,” Jon admits. “But it might take the edge off. Sort of like reading old statements does for me. Not enough to stop you starving, but maybe enough to distract from the hunger pangs. At least temporarily. If nothing else, you did say you need a new hobby, and it’s not like this place is overflowing with viable entertainment options.”

“I guess,” Daisy sighs. “I mean, it’s not like I’m paying rent. May as well squander my paycheck.”

“If that’s the case, you should see if that eBay listing for that vintage The Archers board game is still up,” Jon says drily. “Last I checked, it was £2 with no bidders.”

“Yeah, and £30 shipping.”

“Sounds like £32 well spent, if you ask me.”

Daisy snorts and bumps her shoulder against his. “You, Jonathan Sims, are an absolute menace.”

Adrift and thoroughly divorced from the concept of time, end of the workday passes Martin by without his notice. Once again, he wonders whether Peter deliberately assigned him an office with no external window, not only to put another wall between him and the rest of the world, but to make it easier for him to lose track of time.

For an interminable stretch of time he sits catatonic, mind peppered with sporadic sensory input: Dead-weight limbs, listless and foreign-feeling. The brush of fabric resting against bare skin, every point of weightless contact a violation. The distant ticking of clockwork, rote and irrevocable.

Stand up, comes the thought, detached and intrusive: an instruction he cannot parse; empty phonemes wafted into a vacant mind, abandoned there to echo and disperse until they lose all meaning. A fragment of a signal from brain to nerves to fingers presses numb fingertips to thumbs, a cautious test yielding no sensation but for the vague, spongey give of flesh.

Then the body ostensibly belonging to him is on its feet, the connection between floor and soles disturbingly incongruent with unreality. Walking now, every footfall jarring in its impact; every step stretched and blurred like a botched time-lapse photograph; every molasses-sluggish forward motion met with invisible resistance, like swimming against a sludgy current.

He does not remember how or when or under whose direction he arrives in the Archives, swaying at the threshold of the Head Archivist’s office. Empty and still. Silence so pervasive it’s almost tangible. Viscous and inexorable. Trapping him like a fly in honey. Drowning.

When next he becomes aware of his surroundings, he’s wavering at the bottom of a ladder. Walls curving up and over his head, a brickwork warren stretching on and out into the murk.

Standing in place. Hovering like an afterimage. Rootless and incorporeal. Searching for… staring at… calling to…

There: something real.

“Martin?” Jon’s breath fogs the air as he speaks, but the way he says the name… his voice seems to cradle the word, shielding it against the cold. He sits up straighter, keen gaze sweeping the area like a lighthouse beacon. “Martin, is that you?”

That’s me, Martin thinks, and then, wonderingly: He says your name like it’s something precious.

At that thought, Jon’s eyes land on him like a searchlight.

“There you are.” His soft smile immediately falters, brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright?”

He’s sat on the floor with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up to his chest, and Daisy pressed up against his side in a mirrored position, sharing a pair of corded earphones. Daisy is already thumbing at the screen of her phone, presumably pausing whatever it is they’re listening to, as Jon removes his earbud.

Martin opens his mouth to speak, but the air in his lungs has turned to viscid fog and the confused tangle of half-formed thoughts in his mind refuse to coalesce into actual words. Jon exchanges a glance with Daisy, who is already moving to stand. Martin wants to object – she doesn’t have to leave on his account; he can see that they’re busy; he’s fine; he’s just overreacting – but before he can cobble together a protest, she’s halfway to her feet, gripping the wall for support.

“I’m alright now,” Martin can hear her say.

“You’re sure?” Jon asks in a low murmur.

“Yeah.” She winces as she straightens her spine. “Knowing Basira, she’s still pouring over the same statements as she was this morning. She could do with an interruption.”

“Can you manage the ladder?”

Daisy stretches her leg out, testing her mobility. “Think so.”

They give each other another long look, a shared nod, and without another word, Daisy staggers her way to the exit and mounts the ladder.

As it does every time he witnesses these displays of unspoken understanding between them, an ugly pang of jealousy burns in Martin’s chest – some combination of envy, inadequacy, longing, and loneliness. Possessiveness, almost – and an instant later, the shame sets in.

But then the trapdoor closes, Jon looks Martin in the eye again, and the sincere, tender warmth sheltering there is enough to leave Martin reeling. It’s hard to comprehend anyone – let alone Jonathan Sims – looking at him like that; difficult to reconcile requited affection with a lifetime of fruitless want. Martin can’t shake the feeling that it will always be this way – and that his inability to trust in unconditional love is precisely what makes him so unlovable in the first place.

Jon clears his throat and pats the floor beside him. He’s seated on a blanket, Martin just now notices, folded over several times to cushion the hard ground.

He’d better not be napping down here, Martin thinks to himself.

“Martin,” Jon says, in that impossibly soft tone he’s taken to using around Martin these days, “I’d like you to come sit, if you’re amenable.”

It’s such a Jon way of phrasing the invitation, and the familiarity it engenders has Martin accepting without a conscious thought. He settles himself beside Jon, close but not touching. Those few inches of distance manage to be simultaneously loathsome and assuring. Martin lets his hand rest in that vacant space, fingers clenching around a fistful of blanket.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jon’s hand twitch, as if fighting back the urge to reach out and touch. Instead, he starts to rub the fabric of his trouser leg between his thumb and forefinger.

“What do you need right now?” Jon asks.

“I…” Martin pauses, unsettled by the sound of his own voice, grating and almost unfamiliar to his ears.

“Take your time.”

It takes a minute for Martin to wrap his mouth around more than one syllable.

“Nothing,” he says, the weight of the word nearly pinning his tongue in place.

“It doesn’t sound like nothing.”

Several more minutes pass before Martin is able to construct a full sentence.

“I’m just being stupid.” The words seem to echo faintly in the tunnel, despite how quietly he says them.

“What do you need?” Jon asks again.

“Nothing,” Martin repeats dully. He doesn’t need anything.

Jon doesn’t immediately respond. Martin can feel himself go rigid, anticipating… what – aggravation, impatience, disengagement? But Jon only runs a thumb along his jawline, a thoughtful frown on his face.

“Okay,” he says eventually, “what do you want, then? What would – what would help you feel better right now?”

“I… I don’t know,” Martin says in a voice so feeble it’s nearly inaudible. He flexes his fingers uncertainly, chasing after any physical sensation at all, only to find them numb and deathlike. The helpless sigh that shudders out of him wants to be a whimper. “I just – didn’t – don’t – feel real. Feels like I’m not really here.”

“Hmm.” Jon looks at him – really looks at him, taking his time to study Martin’s face. “Well, I can confirm that you are here.”

“You… you can see me?” Martin asks meekly, pleadingly, dreading the answer.

“Yes.” Jon pauses. “And if you’re agonizing over being a bother, don’t, because you aren’t. I always like seeing you.”

He should trust Jon – he does trust Jon – but it’s still a constant struggle to drown out that Lonely part of him that insists that isolation is safer, more dependable, and far more habitable. Unthinkingly, Martin reaches over, hand trembling in the air above Jon’s, fingertips just barely ghosting across scarred skin.

“Would you like me to hold your hand…?” Jon ventures.

Martin’s fingers curve inward as he pulls back slightly. “I, um.”

“You can say no,” Jon reminds him.

“I… I want it, but I – I – I don’t know if I can handle it right now, and I –” Martin draws back entirely, flapping both hands in frustration, trying to relieve the pins-and-needles sensation prickling through his veins. “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Martin grimaces at the outburst, but Jon doesn’t seem to be judging him. Instead, he’s looking off to the side, a crease between his eyebrows now, as if he’s working through a problem.

“No skin-to-skin contact,” he says to himself, and then he looks to Martin. “Pressure helps me sometimes, when I feel like I’m not real. You could… lean against me? If you want.”

“I…”

“You don’t have to,” Jon rushes to reassure him.

“It’s – not that I don’t want to. I guess I’m just…” Martin can feel himself flush with embarrassment. “It’s daft, but I’m worried that I’ll be – I don’t know, incorporeal, or something.”

“I distinctly recall you telling me that you’re not a ghost.”

It takes a few seconds for Jon’s deadpan humor to sink in. When it does, Martin nearly chokes on a surprised laugh.

“I still can’t believe you thought I was a ghost,” he says, cracking a smile. The tight, bitter-cold knot in his chest yields just a little, like ice disintegrating under a spring thaw.

“In my defense, I was quite distraught at the time.” Jon’s eyes wrinkle at the corners and Martin is struck by overwhelming fondness. He doesn’t pull away when Jon reaches out, open palm hovering just above his shoulder. “May I?”

Cautiously, Martin nods.

“Hmm.” Jon applies the lightest touch at first, watching Martin’s face carefully. He waits until Martin nods for him to continue before he presses down more firmly. Before long, Martin can feel the warmth of Jon’s hand through his jumper. That warmth carries over into Jon’s smile. “Feels solid to me.”

The confirmation comes as a relief, as foolish as that makes Martin feel. He braces himself and leans against Jon’s side, releasing his held breath when his body meets with tangible resistance. At first he worries that Jon, scrawny as he is, won’t be able to support the weight, but he doesn’t budge when Martin melts against him. After that, it’s a struggle for Martin to keep his eyes open.

Jon must notice, because he whispers, “You can rest. I’ll be here.”

Martin doesn’t even have the strength to nod, let alone the energy to argue. He allows the steady rise and fall of Jon’s chest to lull him into an almost meditative state, his mind still floating somewhere outside of himself, but now tethered to the ground.

Then the silence starts nipping at his heels.

“Too quiet,” he mumbles. “Talk to me?”

“What about?”

“Anything.”

“Did you know that highland cattle have a double coat?” Jon says after a minute of consideration. “It insulates them against the cold. The outer layer is long – the longest hair of any cattle breed, in fact – and oily, which helps ward off the rain. Underneath is softer, almost woolly hair.”

Once Jon gets started, those little scraps of trivia soon progress to a nearly encyclopedic lecture. It doesn’t take long for Martin to lose himself in the rich timbre of Jon’s voice as he goes on about various Scottish breeds of cattle. Although he doesn’t fall fully asleep, Martin manages to drift in and out of consciousness enough that he loses track of time once more. This time, though, it’s a comfortable daze: there’s someone to keep him from straying too far.

At some point, he unthinkingly seeks out Jon’s hand. Jon presses his thumb into the center of Martin’s palm, rubbing small circles there, coaxing Martin further into peaceful relaxation.

“Sorry for interrupting you and Daisy earlier,” Martin murmurs groggily into Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh, we were just listening to The Archers.”

“Are you taking the piss?” Martin asks, opening one eye to scrutinize Jon’s expression.

“Unfortunately not.”

“You like The Archers.”

“Good lord, no. Blame Daisy.”

“Daisy likes The Archers,” Martin says, even more dubiously, sitting up now to squint at Jon.

“There are stranger things.”

Martin snorts and nestles into Jon’s side again. “If you say so.”

“Feeling better now?” Martin reflexively snuggles closer. Jon laughs softly, a little puff of a breath that rustles Martin’s hair. “I’m not going to deny you cuddles if the answer is ‘yes,’ you know.”

“Cuddles,” Martin whispers, the word dissolving into a clipped giggle.

“What?” Jon tilts his head. There’s a puzzled scowl on his face, as if he’s trying to decide whether or not he should take offense. It’s impossibly endearing.

“Cuddles,” Martin repeats, in a poor approximation of Jon’s voice this time. “Not a word I ever expected to hear from you.”

“Quiet, you,” Jon huffs, but he can’t disguise the way his indignant pout cracks into a smile under the weight of his own amusement. He almost seems to preen, as if pulling a laugh from Martin is a victory on which to pride himself. He reaches up with his free hand, pausing just above the top of Martin’s head. “May I?”

At Martin’s affirmative, Jon begins to comb his fingers through Martin’s hair, fingernails lightly scratching against his scalp. For the briefest of moments, some primal fragment of him recoils from the contact, instinctively unnerved by the vulnerability inherent to such closeness. Martin spurns that voice, breathes through its fit of angst and panic, and leans into the touch.

Little by little, step by step, he’s acclimating. He just wishes that it wasn’t such a process each and every time he lets his guard down like this.

“Bad day?” Jon asks once Martin settles.

“Something like that.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Martin groans. “But I should.”

“Only if you want to.”

“No, you should know, I just…” Martin heaves a wearied sigh. “Peter’s back.”

Jon gasps like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. The hand stroking Martin’s hair abruptly stills; the other, still clasped in Martin’s, constricts like a death-grip.

“Did he hurt you?” The question is steeped in an artificial, fragile sort of calm, but Jon can’t quite mask the intensity buzzing just under the surface: fear, protectiveness, and desperation all intermingled and reinforced by that ominous inkling of power that, despite his intentions, lurks behind every word.

“He didn’t do anything out of the ordinary. Just… trying to get me to recommit to the Lonely.” Martin scoffs. “And of course he was trying to do it in a way that would make me feel like it was my idea. Get me to convince myself that it was what I wanted, rather than something he was pressuring me into.”

“Of all the Powers, the Lonely is one of the most insidious, I think,” Jon says quietly. “It seeks out victims who already have one foot in the Lonely, reinforces those fears, promises kinship – a paradoxical form of it, anyway – and then it just… waits. Spend enough time disconnected from the rest of the world, and it doesn’t take long to start telling yourself the lie that it’s for the best. That it’s what you are; that it’s all you’re meant to be.”

“And I fell for it,” Martin mutters.

“Anyone would, subjected to the right conditions.” Jon waits until he catches Martin’s eye before he continues. “It isn’t your fault. This is what the Fears do. It’s what they are. They find an opening, they sink their hooks in, and they pull you under. They don’t let go until either you drown or you learn to breathe fear. The only way out is for someone to throw you a lifeline, and even then, the odds aren’t great. And the Lonely in particular – one of the first things it does is make it difficult to even conceive of a lifeline. It’s hard to catch hold of one if you never think to look for it.”

“I thought you hated convoluted metaphors.”

“Yes, well, unfortunately the Powers That Be tend to elude any sort of straightforward, concrete discussion,” Jon grouses. “Just one more reason to begrudge them, really. My point is, the Lonely is an insufferable liar and so is Peter.”

“What do you know, they’re perfect for each other.” The remark succeeds in putting a lopsided smirk on Jon’s face, much to Martin’s delight. “Anyway, Peter said his plan won’t work unless I’m voluntarily Lonely.”

“He’s right, although his plan has nothing to do with the Extinction. He needs you to choose the Lonely because those were the terms of his bet with Jonah. He poaches you out from under the Eye – gets you to pledge yourself to the Forsaken – and he wins, with the Institute as a prize. He fails to convert you, he loses, and he does what Jonah wants, which is for me to be marked by the Lonely.”

Jon says that last part so nonchalantly. As if it’s a foregone conclusion; as if he’s become so accustomed to dehumanization that it doesn’t even give him pause. Martin grits his teeth, biting back a surge of anger on Jon’s behalf.

“Yeah, well,” he says tightly, “Peter bet on the wrong horse.”

A sharp intake of breath leaves Jon sounding strangled when he says, eyes wide and lips parted, “Oh?”

“I mean, he can’t just sic the Lonely on me like he would any other victim, right? That wouldn’t count as a win. He needs me to choose it. And I’m not going to do that.”

“Yeah?” The expression of unguarded, cautious hope dawning on Jon’s face makes him look years younger.

“Yeah,” Martin says, feeling increasingly emboldened. “The funny thing is, I don’t – I don’t think I ever chose loneliness. I never wanted it – that was just a lie I told myself, and the Lonely just – echoed it back to me. S-so Peter’s out of luck, because if there are other options, then the Lonely will always be involuntary. Because it’s not what I want.”

“You – you mean it?” Jon brightens, leaning forward.

Martin’s heart skips a beat and flutters hummingbird-quick against his ribs. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Jon smile – not like this, that is, beaming and uninhibited and altogether breathtaking. Immediately, Martin decides that he wants more. It seems wrong for something so exhilarating to be so rare.

He doesn’t know which of them moves first, and it doesn’t matter, because Jon is in his lap, and Jon is nuzzling into his shoulder, and Jon is here and solid and so, so alive in Martin’s arms, breathing warm and steady into his neck, smiling against his skin, hands scrabbling at his back to cling to his jumper. Martin’s fingers seek purchase of their own, and then something clicks.

“Jon,” he says, leaning back just far enough to confirm his suspicion, “is this mine?”

“Are you just now noticing?” Jon asks, devastatingly fond. “Martin, I’ve been wearing this jumper off and on for the last several weeks.”

“You have?” Martin all but squeaks, heat creeping up his neck and to the tips of his ears. “No. No, you –” Jon’s grin is widening, leaving Martin increasingly flustered. “I – I mean, yes, you have, obviously, I know that, but I – I – I –” Martin gulps, mortified, as Jon finally fails to contain his suppressed laughter. “Look, I didn’t recognize it until just now, alright?”

“Well,” Jon says, ducking his head to chuckle softly against Martin’s throat, “it’s mine now, and you can’t have it back.”

Which is fine with Martin, really, because he would be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t helplessly charmed by the newfound knowledge that not only is Jon an unrepentant clothes-thief, but apparently also an insatiable cuddler.

End Notes:

To address Martin’s concern: Jon does, in fact, nap in the tunnels sometimes. Listen, with Jurgen Leitner (derogatory) in absentia, there was an opening for the position of Beleaguered Tunnel-Haunting Hermit and Jon has all the necessary qualifications.

So anyways, who else thinks Peter’s bio on a dating app would probably just be that “every living creature on this earth dies alone” quote from Donnie Darko? I bet he thinks 'survival of the fittest' means 'every man for himself'. What an insufferable clown.

No Archive-speak in this chapter to cite.

I wanted to make a joke about a The Archers-themed Monopoly, so I asked duckduckgo if it was a thing. Sadly, it is not. There IS, however, a 1960s The Archers board game, and yes, there ARE eBay listings for it.

The first section of this chapter was written before eps 190-192 dropped. I think it still lines up well enough with what we saw of Melanie & Georgie’s characterization in these most recent episodes, with the qualifier that things have gone very differently in this AU compared with canon. (Also, I took some liberties wrt Georgie’s not-feeling-fear thing, obvi. Some of it matches with the most recent episodes, some of it not so much, but I decided to keep it anyways.)

Oh and I think I might have given myself cavities with the last section of this chapter. (I’m aro-spec; it’s hard to tell when I’m going over the top, but hopefully it’s fluffy without being overly cloying.)

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #tma spoilers #long post

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schrijverr · 4 years ago

Text

What’s up with that Sims guy?

After the Apocalypse Jon becomes an uni teacher, three students take in interest in what’s up with this weird new professor.

On AO3.

Ships: JonMartin

Warnings: none, but tell me if I missed anything or if you want me to tag something!

~~~~~~~~

Time and space moves differently around the Fears, something that could be confusing and strange, but also pretty handy as Jon and Martin had discovered during the Apocalypse. It meant that when they’d turned the world back to normal, banishing the Fears far away, no one had even noticed it had happened.

With Elias, uhm Jonah, gone their ties to the Institute had lessened. However, Jon was still depended on statements, but Martin had decided that being away from it all would be better for him, so Jon was now working part time, while Martin kept an eye on the place.

Which is how Jon had ended up as a professor at a university. He was filling in, because the current professor had gotten pregnant and they hadn’t been able to find someone more suitable than Jon to replace her temporarily.

Jon knew he didn’t have the credentials necessary, but he Knew everything with the help of the Beholding, so he hoped that would be enough to get him through the year.

So here he was, standing in front of a big hall that was slowly filling up with students, who were eyeing him with a mix of curiosity, confusion and uneasiness.

Once everyone had settled down he took a deep breath and started: “Hello everyone, I’m Jonathan Sims and I’m replacing your previous professor until she returns from her maternity leave. I have an oversight of what you all need to know and do this semester, so lets get started with that right away.”

Jane looked down at their new professor and shifted in her seat uneasily. He was strange, or at least had a strange aura surrounding him. Jane wasn’t once for judging on appearances, but it was hard not to wonder what the Hell had let a man such at him to this.

He was short, sure, but he wasn’t small and he had a big presence to make up for it. His black hair was streaked with gray, but he had a youthful face that didn’t quite match up, although the tiredness that hung around him seemed old.

Beside that he was also littered with scars. It was hard not to notice the white circles that contrasted with his dark skin, it could be acne scars if they hadn’t been on his exposed forearms as well and so perfectly round. And those weren’t even his only scars, the entire palm on his right had was covered with a burn mark and the open buttons on the top of his shirt exposed a white thin scar across his throat.

So, yeah, strange.

He started to introduce himself and his voice was posh and low, but overall pleasant to listen to, she supposed. This didn’t stop her from exchanging a small look with Jesse, her best friend. Jesse raised her brows at her and the message was received, they were so going to talk about this later.

Later came as soon as they were out the door. Jesse leaned over and said: “Tell me I wasn’t the only one who got a weird vibe from that guy.”

Jane laughed and shook her head and answered: “You weren’t, I mean, this who building is filled with stuffy academics and suddenly this random dude walks in with the scars of a thug? That’s weird.”

Jesse nodded and asked: “What do you think happened to him?”

“I don’t know.” Jane shrugged, “But it seems pretty rude to just ask.”

Jesse sighed, then perked up with a realization: “We could plant a seed in Sams head.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Jane said, mischief bubbling up inside her eyes. They had known Sam since their first year and were pretty close with the guy. Sam was also known for not being the most delicate or observant and unafraid to ask personal questions. If he was curious, he would ask.

“I would.” Jesse grinned back, she tugged her along through the crowd with an: “Come on!”

They found Sam easy enough and Jesse plopped down next to him and started: “Hey, Sam. What did you think of our new professor?”

Sam shrugged and scratched his forehead as he said: “Dressed like every other pretentious asshole in here, posh accent. But seemed to know his stuff. Normal teacher if you ask me. Why?”

Jesse inflated: “Come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t even noticed!”

“Noticed what?” Sam asked with a frown.

“The scars.” Jane said.

“Oh, were they scars.” Sam said, “I thought he had weird freckles.”

“Weird fr-” Jesse began before cutting herself off and asking: “Aren’t you curious why they’re there? I’ve never seen scars like that.”

“And the burnt hand and the scar on his neck.” Jane continued, “Those don’t appear randomly.”

Both looked at her now, heads to the side in confusion. Jane said: “Oh, didn’t see those?”

Jesse and Sam shook their heads. “Well,” Jane explained, “He has this burn on his hand like he gripped a hot burning coal or something and this line here,” she drew on her neck with her finger to signal where it was, “like someone tried to slit his throat. Makes me wonder what he did before this job.”

The three of them fell silent. Lost in thought to what could’ve happened to their new mysterious professor before all of this.

The next lesson didn’t clear anything up in the slightest. While they were discussing the 17th century literature circles Sam had raised his hand signaling he had a question. Jane and Jesse, who had decided to sit behind him tensed up. He got called on and asked: “Dr. Sims, what did you do before this?”

Dr. Sims frowned and pushed up his glasses, before saying: “You don’t have to call me doctor, it wouldn’t be deserved. Just Sims is fine, or Mr. Sims if that feels better. And I’m the A- an archivist.”

“Am?” Sam blurted out.

Sims laughed humorlessly and said: “Yeah, part time now.”

Then he went back to the lesson and didn’t acknowledge any more questions about his life. Jane didn’t know how he did it, but he seemed to just know which people had questions about the lesson and which about him.

She walked out the hall with Sam and Jesse, who said: “That wasn’t insightful at all.”

Jane agreed: “Yeah, in what danger would an archivist be that leaves that kind of scarring?”

Sam shrugged and pulled out his phone as he said: “I can Google it.” the he muttered more to himself: “What kind of danger experiences an archivist, cool yeah.”

Jesse strained her neck to look on his screen and asked: ‘Well, what does it say?”

“Nothing much actually. Just a bunch of online archives and stuff.” Sam said.

Jane had a bit of a light bulb moment and suggested: “What if you type in Jonathan Sims?”

“Jonathan?” Jesse asked.

Jane shrugged and said: “It’s how he introduced himself during the first lecture.”

Sam typed in the name and his eyebrows crept further up to his hairline as he read the results of his search. Jesse couldn’t take it anymore and ripped the phone out of his hand, quickly scanning the page and gasping. Jane was now also curious and asked: “Well, tell me.”

She showed her the screen and Jane read the headlines. ‘Explosion at the Wax Museum, two survivors.’ The small excerpt reads: Last night there was an explosion at the wax museum, cause is still unknown, but suspected attack. Two survivors were found on the scene. Basira Hussain and Jonathan Sims, the latter of which is in a coma…

Underneath that is another headline. ‘Attack at the Magnus Institute unearths body of former archivist Gertrude Robinson’ with a picture of a big fire brigade, some police and an ambulance under it, she can vaguely make out Sims getting loaded into the back of one of them.

And lastly a small report into the murder of Gertrude Robinson, listing Jonathan Sims as one of the suspects along with one about an older guy, who was apparently found dead in Sims office.

Jane leaned back and whispered: “What the actual fuck.”

After that the rumors spread over the campus and by the time the next lecture rolled around the whole room was buzzing with nervous energy. Sims took one look around the room and sighed: “You are probably not going to let this go in favor of learning something that will actually be useful. Correct?”

A murmur went through the crowd, they had realized that the rumors had most likely reached Sims, but they hadn’t realized he’d be so straightforward about it.

“Okay.” Sims said, “I am willing to sacrifice ten minutes of my lecture for inquiries, but I will not promise to answer.”

Then he waited. Sam was the first to raise his hand and when called upon he asked: “How did you get the scars?”

Sims thought about it, the class thought he was thinking about how to bring it delicately and thoughtful, but inside Jons mind he heard Martin laugh at him and tell him he was an idiot after Jon had told someone the round scars had come from tripping. In hindsight it hadn’t been a good excuse, so Jon decided that vague was probably the safest way to go and said: “A workplace incident.”

Without raising his hand this time Sam asked: “Did it happen during the attack on your workplace? Why would anyone even attack archives?”

“The Archives are a small place in a big organization.” Jon began to explain, ignoring the fact that the Archives had been the target, “And in the end it turned out to be an aggressive infestation, just an accident.”

“Why your institute then?” Sam asked.

“Depends on if you believe in the paranormal, but you have to excuse me, Mr. Jacobs. It seems you are not the only one with questions.” Sims replied, then he turned to the other side and said: “Yes, Ms. Hendrickson?”

“Did you murder anyone?” she asked, clapping her hand over her mouth afterwards in shame of the question that she had blurted out.

Sims didn’t react to the harsh and accusatory question, just said: “If I murdered anyone, I wouldn’t be here, but in prison, don’t you agree?” then he smiled, but somehow Jane didn’t feel comforted by it.

Jesse spoke up, causing Jane to duck into herself in the hope that she wouldn’t be noticed in her seat next to Jesse. She asked: “Then who murdered them?”

Sims huffed a breath, blowing a strand of hair out of his face in the process and answered: “That would’ve been my former boss, I have to say I’m happy to see him gone and his replacement is more than capable.” he looked at the clock and clapped his hands, making more than a few people flinch. Then he stated: “That’s enough questions, time’s up. Lets get back to the symbolism in poetry during the Renaissance.”

And so life continued with Sims as their professor. There was still something uneasy about him, like he was just a sliver off in a way you couldn’t pinpoint, but felt in your bones.

But he was actually quite nice. Which was weird in itself, since he could be pretty prickly and snappy if he found your reasoning or answer particularly stupid or ignorant and he was generally grumpy, but that changed completely if you actually had a problem and needed help. He would listen and then explain with the things you could understand, it was as if he could look at you and know what you needed to understand. That was also strange, but it was nice to have someone explain so correctly.

He was also a walking encyclopedia. He had fun fact about everything and when they said everything they meant everything. When he noticed Mary had died her hair he said: “I like your hair, did you know hair dye contains over 5.000 chemicals.”

Then when Jamie asked what kind of tea he was drinking he answered: “Lady Grey, it was created by Twinings in the early 1990s to appeal to the Nordic market, which found Earl Grey too strong.”

While discussing Oscar Wilde he commented: “Funny how important this guy is, since he has only published one novel in his life.”

When Kyra stumbled in late telling him the taxi had broken, he replied with: “Well cars have about 30.000 parts, so it isn’t far fetched that something broke.”

The funniest part about it was that it just happened to slip out it seemed. He was also just as surprised as them when something like that tumbled out of his mouth and he always covered it up with a small cough, before ignoring it had happened and moving on with his lesson.

It had become a bit of a game among students to make him say a fun fact. Sims had caught on to it, but he didn’t seem to mind all that much, his lips only tightening the littlest amount and his eyes tiring slightly.

So all in all, after two moths of lessons they felt like they knew the guy. He was nice in a grumpy way, could tear you apart verbally if he wanted to, had a lot of facts and worked part time as an archivist, which was apparently a pretty dangerous job.

Jane, Jesse and Sam had become pretty close to him, often staying after class to ask a few questions about the subject, help clean up, try to pry into his private life. The last thing never seemed to work, but it was fun to try and Sims had never let on that he minded it. He even seemed to enjoy their little chats.

Then one time after class, he suddenly looked up, frowned and stalked out of the hall. Quickly sharing glances the three followed after him, curious what had gotten his attention so suddenly.

They walked through a bunch of the main halls, then through a few quiet corridors until they were much further than hearing range, making them slightly uncomfortable. There was a kid, first year probably, barely an adult still very much baby faced, crying on the floor, knees drawn tight to his chest.

Cautiously Sims approached him and gently lowered himself to the ground. The kid looked up at him with a startled face, but Sims shushed him and gently asked: “What’s wrong?”

There was something off about the words, something compelling. The kid starts to speak, he had a slightly northern accent: “It’s all so different here with the big buildings and large crowds with loads of people everywhere, still I’m all by myself. No one want to talk to the dumbass from north, who has trouble with the tubes, you know.” he sniffled a sad chuckle, “And everything is just so overwhelming and I have no one to guide me or to talk to and I hate it. Then I saw everyone just talking about a party and I know it’s dumb, but I heard them say they were going to invite everyone and someone asked even me, but then they laughed and said of course not and I just couldn’t anymore, so I went here and I cried.”

It seemed he was finished and went back to small sniffles and silent tears. Sims gently put a hand on the kids knee and said: “Did that help?”

“Yeah,” the kid looked at him, “bit cathartic, honestly. Sorry for the trouble.”

“Oh, it’s no problem, Edward.” Sims said.

The kid didn’t seem to realize it, but the three silent watchers noticed the kid had never mentioned his name.

Sims went on: “If you like, you can come over to my lecture hall. There are a few older years there, nice people, who I’m sure will want to help you. And a cup of tea.”

Edward rubbed his eyes and said: “They wouldn’t want to talk to me, I’m a loser and I don’t want the to think I’m even more one by telling them what happened.”

“I’m sure you won’t have. They’ve been where you are.” Sims responded, there was a bit of an edge to his voice and they realized he knew they were there and he was right. Jesse had been too brash, Jane too shy and Sam too blunt, it’s what had made them flock together. It was much better now, but they all remembered those awful first weeks. Without saying a word they hurried back to Sims hall.

When he came back they were making tea and lounging around. Jesse greeted him: “Hey, Sims. Where were you suddenly off to?”

Jane pushed her slightly and said: “Don’t pry.” then she turned back, “Want a cuppa, we just put on the kettle?”

Sims smiled and said: “I’d like that, could you make one for my friend, Edward here, as well. I had forgotten I was going to meet him, he’s curious about the Minor course and I thought maybe you could tell him a bit about it. If it isn’t any trouble, of course.”

“Of course not.” Jane smiled, then gestured to a chair: “Here, come sit with us.”

Edward did and later left feeling much better with a few new friends.

Friends, who were beginning to be suspicious about their teacher. They had a lengthy discussion about his knowing stuff and his spooky vibe. But no certain conclusion could be made and they decided that the mission for this year was finding out at least one personal fact about their teacher to prove he was at least somewhat normal.

They didn’t have to wait long. Their classes had been thrown around due to an unfortunate miscommunication. So two classes were switched, causing Sims to teach on Wednesday instead of Thursday for just one week. He looked a bit pale that day, but nothing out of the ordinary. It was the season, so no one spared it a second thought. Until a larger man came through the door after a gentle knock.

He was tall, about 6ft2, and chubby with a crème sweater and jeans. His face was freckled and he wore a gentle smile like it was second nature. His hair was curly and looked very soft, he in his entirety looked soft, you know, like the kind of person you know gives good hugs the moment you see them.

Sims was the only one who didn’t seem startled by his knock, just looked at the man and frowned as he said: “Martin, what are you doing here?”

“Sorry, sorry, Jon.” the man, Martin, said apologetically, “I know you said not to come and such, but I saw you had forgotten your statement and I know how you can get without them, so I thought I’d bring them to you.”

“I was going to read it tomorrow.” Sims said, “It can wait for one day. It’s not like it used to be.”

“Yeah, I know that as well, but we agreed that a rhythm would be good for you and your body to get used to.” Martin replied, holding out a folder.

Sims grabbed the folder and sighed: “You’re probably right, annoying as that may be, but couldn’t it wait till after I was done?”

“No, I’m meeting Daisy to discuss the proper storage of a Hunt artifact and you know how Daisy can be.” he answered.

“Yeah, I know.” Sims chuckled, absentmindedly touching the scar on his neck.

“Besides, I wanted to see you.” Martin said, then he brushed a lock of hair, that had freed itself from Sims’ messy bun, behind Sims ear and pecked him on the cheek. Turning to leave immediately after calling out over his shoulder: “Read it, Jon! And don’t forget to pick up milk on the way back if you want any good tea.”

Martin opened the door and Sims smiled, like a real and soft and dopey smile, as he touched his cheek and yelled back: “I will, say hi to Daisy from me.”

Then Martin was gone and the silence that had fallen over the hall with Martins entrance was broken. Multiple people called out questions and it was a bit of a chaos. It took a few minutes to get everyone settled down again and Sims returned to his lecture as if nothing happened. Sam called out from the second row: “Really, Sims? Nothing?”

Sims shoulders sagged, he had clearly hoped he could get away with it and was sad that it hadn’t worked. He said: “Mr. Jacobs, although I appreciate your interest in my personal life, I hope that I don’t have to explain how normal it is for my husband to come bring me something I forgot at home.”

The hall exploded again, but Sims ignored it all again telling them there were more important things to talk about, for example the lecture, which will be on the exam.

For Jane, Jesse and Sam it was enough. Their teacher was weird and off, but he was nice enough and if someone as soft looking as the Martin figure was willing to marry him, then he was good enough in their opinion and not worth the detective work.

#RR writing #the magnus archives #the magnus pod #jonathan sims #jonathan sims x martin blackwood #martin blackwood #jonmartin #martin x jon #ocs #tma #tma season 5

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eldritchteaparty · 3 years ago

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Chapters: 12/20 Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Rosie Zampano, Oliver Banks, Original Elias Bouchard, Peter Lukas, Annabelle Cane, Melanie King, Georgie Barker Additional Tags: Post-Canon, Fix-It, Post-Canon Fix-It, Scars, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, I'll add characters and tags as they come up, Reference to injuries and blood, Character Death In Dream, Nudity (not sexual or graphic), Nightmares, Fighting

Summary: Following the events of MAG 200, Jon and Martin find themselves in a dimension very much like the one they came from--with second chances and more time.

Chapter summary: Jon and Martin talk things out after their encounter with Annabelle at dinner.

Chapter 12 of my post-canon fix-it is up!

Read above at AO3 or here below.

Tumblr master post with links to previous chapters is here.

***

Martin finally pulled his hand away. “We should pay.”

“I did.”

“Oh.” He still couldn’t bring himself to look at Jon. “I didn’t see.”

“I know.”

“Thank you.” It seemed like the right thing to say before he did, but afterward it hung awkwardly between them.

“Do you…” Jon cleared his throat. “Do you want to leave?”

“Sure.” He didn’t want to stay.

Now that it was later in the evening, it was cool enough outside that he didn’t feel terrible for jamming his hands into his pockets as they walked to the tube station. He took the window seat on the train, staring out into the darkness of the tunnel as if he were watching scenery go by. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk, or even that he was avoiding an argument; after all, arguing seemed to be one of the few ways that he and Jon actually managed to communicate with each other. It was that he still didn’t know what to say.

Jon surprised him by speaking first.

“You’re angry.”

“Yeah. I’m angry,” he answered.

“You have every right to be.”

“I mean—I’m not angry at you.” He finally looked at Jon, who was eyeing him with skepticism. “All right, I’m not just angry at you. I’m angry at the whole situation. I’m angry at her. And I’m—I’m angry at me.”

Jon nodded.

“And I feel stupid.”

“You’re not—”

“I am. And I’m sad,” he added. “I’m sad I can’t fix this.”

“It’s not your job to fix it.”

“It’s not yours, either. But that doesn’t seem to make a difference.”

Jon didn’t answer him, and he went back to looking out the window. They didn’t exchange any more words until they were almost at the front door of the flat, where Martin finally knew what he wanted to ask first.

“When did it happen? When did you—know it was back? Was it after Hill Top Road?”

Jon unlocked the door and opened it, waiting for Martin to go in before he answered him.

“It was. But not right away—it was that next week. I don’t even know if that had anything to do with it.”

“Ok. Ok. So that next weekend, when—and that haircut, and this—this stupid date—” Jon recoiled. “All of it, it’s all been, what—a distraction?”

“What?” Jon started to step toward him, then stopped. “No—no, it wasn’t.”

Martin drew in a breath and swallowed. “But it wasn’t real.”

“It was.” There was a kind of desperation in Jon’s face that Martin hadn’t seen for a while—like he had something to prove. “It’s what I could give. I don’t know how much time we have, and—”

He couldn’t hold it in. “Jon—why didn’t you just tell me?”

A moment passed, but Martin was determined to wait for an answer. Jon finally gave it.

“Because you were happy.”

“Happy? I was worried sick about you most of the time.”

“That was still better, though, wasn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“When I was—” Jon paused. “You liked taking care of me. You liked that I had to rely on you. You liked that I couldn’t—

“Don’t.”

Jon didn’t.

Martin was suddenly conscious that they had never moved away from the front door. Jon’s last point had knocked some of the energy out of him, but going to sit somewhere else didn’t seem right. He sat on the floor instead, leaning against the back of the couch. Jon reciprocated, leaning on the wall behind him. It was dark in the flat, they hadn’t turned on a light, but they could still see each other well enough from the lights outside the window.

“Look—at least I knew it was wrong.”

Jon sighed. “It wasn’t—it wasn’t wrong. I did need you. And it—it was sweet. I’m glad I have you. It was just—”

“I know. I know what it was.”

In the quiet that followed, guilt that had lain dormant until then writhed its way down to his stomach. It settled in, weighing heavy inside him until Jon broke the silence again.

“Earlier, what you said—you were right.”

“About what?”

“That I should have tried harder to tell you.”

“Jon—I was upset.”

“You weren’t wrong.”

“Yes, I was.” Martin sighed. “I mean… I know you tried to tell me. Well, now I do. But I would have listened if—honestly, I just thought you were going to apologize again or feel bad for everything, and—”

“And you didn’t want to hear that.”

“No, I—” Martin stopped. I didn’t want you to feel that was what he started to say, but he was interrupted by the recollection of his mother, telling him to go put the kettle on to make a cup of tea. He’d grown to hate it right along with the oolong, the way she avoided having to talk with him about anything that might have really mattered, replacing it with something that only roughly resembled comfort.

Words he’d once spoken to himself came back to him. At best, it’s a plaster. At worst, a muzzle.

He was exactly the same as her. The guilt that had awoken started to twist its way back up, into his chest and around his lungs.

“Martin, you’re not—it’s different. You’re not the same.”

“Jon!” Martin’s face flushed. “That’s not suddenly ok now, you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mumbled. “I didn’t mean to. It’s not—it’s harder to control than I remember.”

“Yeah. Great.”

It got quiet again; Martin distractedly tapped his fingertips on the floor, looking up at the ceiling.

“Ok, so… what else? What’s it—what’s it like?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—ok, so do you need to read the statements?”

Jon took a small breath. “Yes.”

“Is it—” He forced himself to look at Jon. “Are you ok? I mean… I know they used to really take it out of you.”

“I’m…” Jon met his eyes, which seemed just as hard for him. “Sometimes they do.”

“Ok. Will you—will you check in with me if you’re reading one and I’m not around?”

“Martin—”

“Look, I’m not asking for a promise. I’m just—I’m just asking if you will.”

“I don’t know.” Jon returned to staring at the floor. The answer hurt, but Martin was relieved for the excuse to break eye contact.

“What about… have you compelled anyone?”

“No.”

“Could you?”

“Yes. Well, probably. Depending on the person.”

Martin nodded. “How hard is it to—know something?”

“It’s, um… not easy. Not as hard as it was at first—before—though. And more things… slip through.”

“Accidentally.”

“Yes.”

Martin realized the muscles in his shoulders and neck were starting to cramp from how he’d been holding them. He exhaled and leaned back against the couch when something occurred to him. “What about Melanie?”

Jon looked up at him again. “What about her?”

“You’ve been sending her after dead ends, haven’t you? That’s why she hasn’t found anyone to talk to. You knew she wouldn’t.”

Jon didn’t answer.

“So that’s a yes?”

Jon nodded reluctantly.

“Good.”

Jon sat straighter, looking at Martin again. “Really? I wasn’t sure if you’d—I mean, I know you want them to know about… about everything.”

“Yeah, I do, but—but everything’s different than I thought.” He couldn’t keep the tinge of resentment out of his voice, but he pushed ahead. “They still need to know, but… it’s different. I’m glad she’s safe.”

The gratefulness he saw so plainly reflected in Jon’s face did two things. It made Martin want to go to him, to bridge the short distance between them and put his arms around him, and try again to convince him everything would be ok. It also stirred the guilt that had begun to recede quietly back into his subconscious, pushing him to think further through everything that had happened, what he might have missed, what he might have done. Those thoughts were coming faster now that he was over his initial shock. They had more to talk about.

“Jon, I’m—I’m sorry I stayed to talk to Annabelle tonight.”

“Are you?”

He hadn’t expected that bit of harshness, and he tensed up at the words. “Well, I—”

“Never mind,” Jon stopped him. “I know why you did it.”

Martin sat back again. “I am sorry, though. I mean, I’m sorry it hurt you.”

There was another short round of silence.

“Jon, why do you think she came to talk to us? Or—talk to you, really?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Jon slumped back against the wall. “She won and she came to gloat.”

“Has she?” Martin asked. “I mean—yeah, we’re here, but—this wasn’t exactly what she wanted. It’s not what she wants in the end, anyway. And gloating, I mean—that really doesn’t seem like her.”

“We have no idea what seems like her, Martin.” The pure bitterness in Jon’s voice was almost a welcome break from the sadness that had dominated his tone until then. “That’s really her whole deal.”

“Maybe.” Martin kept pushing. “Still—I just think—do you really think she was trying to—call a truce? Whatever she said?”

“No,” Jon answered. “I think she came to see the look on my face when she told me they didn’t need me anymore.”

“I don’t think so.”

“No? You don’t think the Fears will find their way out of here eventually?” It was not meant as a legitimate question.

“Ok—I don’t know, but—” Martin tried to choose his words with care. “Yeah. It seems possible.”

“Therefore, she came to gloat.”

“But Jon—” He could feel the frustration creeping into his voice. “I mean—she has to know you won’t just accept that. You’re not planning to let it go, right?”

“Of course not.”

“Exactly. And she has to know that. It’s almost like—it’s almost like she was trying to push you to do something. To not let it go. Why?”

Something about Jon’s demeanor changed; he stiffened slightly, or shifted his balance, and Martin’s thoughts began to converge. The way Annabelle had talked about time—of course she was right, the Web didn’t care, and so she didn’t either. It was very clear her own life didn’t matter to her, any more than it served the Web.

So why would she show up and deliberately remind Jon that if he did nothing, the entities would escape?

It brought to mind something Jon had said earlier, something he had ignored in the moment.

I don’t know how much time we have.

“Jon, what have you been doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, when you’ve been staying late in the office. When you’ve been working here, writing. What have you been doing? If I open that drawer”—he gestured vaguely behind him toward the desk—“what will I find?”

“I’d prefer you didn’t,” Jon said quietly.

He measured his words carefully. “I’d prefer you tell me.”

Jon shrank into himself; he wrapped one arm around his chest and pulled his knees in, and brought his other hand up to his mouth.

“Jon.” Martin couldn’t stop the slight shake in his voice this time; he hoped he was wrong. “Please. Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

“All right.” Jon spoke from behind his hand. “It’s—it’s a ritual.”

It wasn’t the answer Martin had wanted to hear, but it was the one he had expected. “To start another apocalypse?”

“I—” Jon was breathing harder, and Martin could see the effort he was making to push through his words. “Yes. Not—not exactly the same, I could do it faster, and there would be less—”

“How? From memory?”

“No. Well—some. Some of it—there are a couple of—of Leitners—”

“Jesus Christ, Jon!”

“I only used ones that were safe—”

“Safe? Do you realize that a giant fucking eyeball fear monster is telling you which ones are safe?”

“I meant that I could control—”

“I don’t believe you.”

There was a beat of silence. “Martin please, I’m—”

“No, I mean—I literally don’t believe you. I don’t believe you could do it.”

“Martin—”

“Look, I get what happened before. I didn’t agree, but I get it. You’d lost everything. They used you and they took everything that mattered to you. They took Sasha, then Tim, and then Daisy, and you had to watch what it did to all the others—”

“And you,” Jon said.

“—fine, yes, but—Jon, this is not that. This is—they’re all here. They have a chance. And whatever you think happened before—this is a real choice. And they care about you, and you care about them. I just—I don’t think you could do it. I don’t believe it.”

Jon face slid down into his hand until his eyes were covered. “I don’t know. I don’t want to. Probably I couldn’t. Probably I won’t. But I wish I could. If it gets bad enough, maybe I can. And I need to—to be ready. I just can’t—I just can’t let them—”

The quick hitch of breath that followed made Martin forget what he had been about to say, if he’d had any words. He crawled to Jon’s side, slipping one arm around his back and the other around his chest, awkwardly trapping the arm Jon had wrapped around himself. Jon’s face ended up pressed against Martin’s throat, where his breath continued to catch as he fought to stop crying.

Martin wanted to tell him it was ok—that it would be ok, that they could still fix it—but he remembered the last time Jon had finally broken down that had only made him withdraw again. He was starting to really understand that it wasn’t ok for Jon, and probably never would be. He couldn’t bear to think what that meant for him, especially not right then, but he knew enough to not make that mistake again.

He said the only comforting thing he could think of that he was sure about, that he had been sure about for a long time now.

“I love you.”

Jon reached a hand up to Martin’s neck, where he pressed the pads of his fingers firmly against his skin.

“I’m here.” Martin spoke softly against Jon’s hair. He could tell Jon was still struggling, still trying to gain control, but he seemed to have relaxed a little; his body wasn’t quite so rigid as Martin held him.

***

Eventually Jon was calm. They’d shifted so that he rested with his back against Martin’s chest, and Martin’s back was against the wall. His arms were around Jon’s waist, and Jon’s arms rested comfortably on top of his as he leaned back into him.

“So.” Jon’s voice was raw. “I’ve finally become a monster.”

“No.” Martin pressed his mouth gently against his ear. “You haven’t.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No. I mean—I still don’t think you could do it, but—now that we’re here, and we know what’s out there—you don’t want them to get out again. That would be terrible.”

Jon shifted slightly; Martin impulsively tightened his grip, then made himself relax again.

“To be clear—I don’t think you’re responsible for what happens a hundred years from now, or a thousand years from now—and I’m definitely not in favor of ending the world over it.”

“Martin, it just—it doesn’t matter how long from now it is. If it’s ten thousand years from now and they escape, and poison a thousand dimensions—more than that, maybe—if I could have ended it, it’s my fault.”

Martin tightened his grip again, this time deliberately.

“Maybe there’s another way.”

Jon turned so his forehead was against Martin’s cheek. “Martin, I know you want to think that, but—”

“Yes, and I know, the world doesn’t care what I think.”

“I should never have said that.”

“I mean, it hurt—but it was true.”

“I’m sorry.”

“That’s not the point. The point is—I still don’t think Annabelle would have turned up just to brag. I think she needs something. She doesn’t want you to have time. I think she’s trying to push you into acting, and maybe—maybe, if you did, it would all turn out the same. But worse, obviously.”

Jon’s fingers, which he had been absentmindedly brushing over Martin’s forearm, were suddenly still; Martin realized that possibility hadn’t occurred to him.

“But maybe—if you don’t, but if you keep trying—keep looking for it—maybe there is another way. One she’s scared of. A path she doesn’t want you to take.”

“Hm.” Martin could tell Jon wasn’t sold on it, but he had heard him, and that was enough for the moment.

“Jon?”

“Yes.”

“I’m—I’m going to tell them soon.”

Jon nodded. “I understand.”

He kissed Jon lightly on the forehead, and slid his hand up to his chest, where he slipped his fingers into the gaps between the buttons of Jon’s shirt. He could feel the scar, his scar, through the thin fabric of Jon’s t-shirt; beneath that though, around it, he could feel the rise and fall of Jon’s chest.

“Jon.”

“Yes?”

“Let me know if you’re reading a statement and I’m not around?”

Jon sighed. “All right.”

#the magnus archives #tma #mag pod #tma spoilers #jonmartin #tma fanfic #my writing

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fakecrfan · 4 years ago

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MAG 155 and Jon’s level of culpability

You know, I have always accepted that The Magnus Archives is a tragedy, which means that the characters (all of them!) 1) make mistakes and 2) their mistakes have grave consequences. And throughout season 4, the idea of Jon having choices available to him and being responsible for his actions even with the Eye or the Web exerting influence on him comes up a lot.

“But if you choose to believe in a free will, then yes: All you have done has been of your own free will. They have all been your choices.” (Annabelle Cane, MAG 147)

“What I’ve been doing to these people, it - it hasn’t been because I was puppeted, or controlled, or possessed.

I wanted to do it. It felt good.” (Jonathan Sims, MAG 147).

And there are certainly actions Jon did that deliberately harmed people (especially in season 4 with approaching people on the street and all) but of all these choices I have always felt like... the one ‘‘choice’‘ that I never felt was fair to judge Jon for was the ‘‘choice’‘ Oliver Banks mentioned when he was in a coma.

The thing is, John, right now you have a choice. You’ve put it off a long time, but it’s trapping you here. You’re not quite human enough to die, but still too human to survive. You’re balanced on an edge where the End can’t touch you, but you can’t escape him.

[...] Make your choice, Jon. (Oliver Banks, MAG 121)

But I mean, how could you reasonably call this a choice? The choice seems to be Jon either embracing his power or dying, but Jon was unconscious throughout this! How can you hold someone culpable for a “choice” they make when they weren’t even awake? Plus, it’s literally life or death. How could you expect someone to choose to die?

MAG 155 has an answer to my question.

MAG 155 is about Tova McHugh, a woman who does not want to die.

You’ve got to understand, I have so much to live for. Oh, okay, that’s not quite it. I know most people have plenty to live for, but what I mean is that my life does good. (Tova McHugh, MAG 155)

Tova McHugh really does not want to die, and that is a sympathetic motivation! But then, a tragic Unfair (as she puts it) accident happens to her, and she dies--she then is only able to continue living by taking other people’s lives. It is then that she starts to twist things. Not only is it okay for her to want to live, but she has to morally justify herself--and the only way to justify herself is to come up with reasons that her life is more valuable than the people she takes from.

And I know that everyone’s life has value, but I just need to be clear that my impact on the world is a positive one. My existence does a lot of good, and that’s only gotten more true since all this started. I’ve given more, spent more time on charitable stuff, and helped more people. (Tova McHugh, MAG 155)

She is clearly ashamed of her actions, on some level, but she really doesn’t want to die. So she decides that if she is a Good Person, and she is donating enough to charity and creating jobs (ugh) then that justifies her actions.

A clear parallel is drawn between her justification and Jon’s current discomfort about his own continued existence.

I’ve - (laughs) I’ve saved the world, the whole world. Does that give me the right to take what I need to survive? I’ve been reading nothing but these old, dry statements for so long, I - I feel weak. (Jonathan Sims, MAG 155).

Jon is only alive because he drew on power from the Eye to survive back in that moment in MAG 121 that was framed as a ‘‘choice’‘ in his coma. I don’t think that makes him as obviously wrong as Tova here, though. After all, the eye causes misery but at the time Jon had no reason to think feeding into the power would actually kill anyone. It wasn’t presented to him as a life-for-life choice--and again, he was unconscious.

But, the statement reveals the truth about Tova ‘‘bringing good into the world’‘ by drawing on the power she has been using. Because it turns out that the amount of life someone will give her isn’t equal. Some give her more, some give her less--and what tends to be the measure?

Eventually I realized it had nothing to do with age or health. It was about connection. About joy. The more friends, family, loved ones the person has, the further out the terror of sudden death spreads from me. The longer it keeps me alive. (Tova McHugh, MAG 155)

Tova can’t bring more ‘‘goodness’‘ into the world than she is taking out of it. Because the power she is using--one of the entities--exists to cause pain and suffering. The very nature of the power she is using will negate or outweigh any ‘‘good’‘ Tova does to try and justify herself, otherwise it wouldn’t continue to use her.

(Sort of like how Gertrude’s utilitarian balancing turned out to be all for naught, but this is a meta about Jon so I will save that for another time :D)

So does Tova realize the obvious and stop? No, instead she doubles down on her self-justification.

Since this became my existence I’ve thrown myself into philanthropy harder than ever, and the world is so much better for me being in it. I’m not saying how I live is right, or good, but it is the position I have been put in, and a decision I have to make. I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into. And it is one I will continue to make. (Tova McHugh, MAG 155)

Jon is completely aware of the comparisons between Tova and himself, and for a moment he has a crisis over it.

I find myself hating her, her callous self-deception. But am I so different? Daisy’s chosen to resist in her own way, knowing full well it might take her life in the end, Melanie too. I respect them for it, but I - I don’t know if I can follow their path. (Jonathan Sims, MAG 155)

And you know, I don’t think Jon and Tova are morally equivalent. Maybe it’s just that I like Jon and so am biased in his favor, but his choice seems a lot murkier than hers. He doesn’t get to see direct death as a result of his actions--so that makes it much easier to justify.

But I think the real purpose of this statement isn’t to say Jon is Just As Bad as Tova, but to wake him up to the nature of the powers--they can’t ever be used for permanent good. You might want to use them for such, the possibility of doing more good than harm might be the temptation that draws you deeper in to their use, but by their nature they bring harm into the world and negate the good you try to bring in to the world.

And also, while I dislike Tova and love Jon, morally I have to hold them to the same standard. If the only moral choice for Tova is to quit, even at the cost of her own life... then the only moral choice for Jon, also, is to quit.

(So I guess me going ‘‘you can’t just expect someone to choose to die!’‘ when I listened to 121 is just... me wearing clown shoes and the stupidest clown hat you ever did see, because it turns out that is exactly what I expect from characters I am impartial towards).

Jon might not see direct death as a result of his actions--but on the flipside, it is unclear if he will actually die as a result of quitting either. He says so himself, even.

I suppose I have a way out now. One that wouldn’t even kill me, at least, I hope not. And yet here I am still. Am I a coward? (Jonathan Sims, MAG 155)

He doesn’t think he will die if he quits--not for certain, at least. And yet he continues. He doesn’t know why, because examining his reasons is hard. I am sure part of it is that he enjoys his powers (as he has said) or that he is afraid of dying just as much as Tova is. But he ends on this thought.

I just… what if they need me? What if. (Jonathan Sims, MAG 155).

What if the people he cares about need him? What if they are in trouble? What if Martin needs him?

But, ultimately, this idea that he can use the Eye to defend the people he cares about is just as illusory as Tova thinking she can bring good into the world by killing people to extend her own lifespan. Not that Jon’s desire to protect is fake--it is very much real, but it mixes with his desire to continue for his own purposes, because he likes it and is afraid of dying.

I still don’t think Jon should be held responsible for a decision he made in a coma to save his life when he didn’t see what the consequences were. But it’s not just one decision in a coma that caused the apocalypse--he makes a decision to continue his path every waking moment. He chooses not to quit, even when he doesn’t think quitting will kill him, because being powerless when he and his friends are so often in danger scares him.

And you know, that is a sympathetic motivation, but his choices are still a mistake, and he is still responsible for them. When you make a mistake--even for sympathetic reasons, even when you didn’t know it was leading to such a horrific outcome--you still have to take responsibility and make amends.

When someone speeds while driving, for example, and runs someone over. Maybe they didn’t want to run the person over. Maybe they had a good reason to be speeding, like they were rushing to a friend who needed help. But they are still accountable for the choices they made that led to them injuring or killing someone. Same with Jon and the apocalypse.

Or at least, that is the impression that MAG 155 leaves me with. What do you think?

#jonathan sims #the magnus archives #tma meta #character analysis #my post #mag 155

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thekisforkeats · 4 years ago

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Killing Care and Grief of Heart (Let all the Broken Pieces Shine, Chapter One)

Info: The Magnus Archives, D&D AU. JonMartin in this chapter, more ships to be added. Rated T. Post-Canon. Jon is amab nb and uses they/them, Martin is a trans guy.

CWs: Character death, stabbing, grief, webs, manipulation, apocalypses, alternate realities

Summary: MAG 200 from Martin’s viewpoint, setting up what is to come after. The idea of Martin being Orpheus and Jon being Eurydice comes from the poem “Eurydice’s Retort” by Aiden. The poem quoted is the last stanza of Margaret Atwood’s "Orpheus 1" from Selected Poems II: 1976-1986, published 1987. The chapter title is a line from William Shakespeare's Orpheus.

-------------------------------------------------------

It’s easier than Martin had thought it would be, killing Jon.

He’s thought about it before, of course, and well before he walked through his own Domain and spoke to the other version of himself. Thoughts of Jon’s death have been a constant companion for the weeks (months? years?) they’ve been walking through the Apocalypse, and for more than a year even before that.

Keeping Jon alive was the whole reason he kept working for Peter Lukas, after all.

The first time he thought about the idea that he might wind up responsible for Jon’s death was some time after they went through Oliver Banks’ Domain, the one with all the roots. Jon had been waxing philosophical that night(?), while they were resting in one of the between-places. They’d gotten to talk about the classics, about story and narrative, about how the dream-logic of everything they were dealing with could be understood through the lens of myth and metaphor.

That was when Martin had brought up Orpheus and Eurydice, pointed out that Jon had played Orpheus in diving into the Lonely to bring Martin out. He had quoted Margaret Atwood’s poem, the one from Eurydice’s point of view. Jon, of course, had never read the poem (and honestly, how is he so in love with someone who could barely stand to read anything once, let alone twice), had questioned Martin as to why he liked it so much. (Martin’s answer: melancholy. It’s about Eurydice not really wanting to come back to the world of the living, after all.)

“But you didn’t want to stay there, not really,” Jon had said, looking perplexed.

“Well… no… I mean, I sort of did while I was in there, but once you got me back out…” Martin had sighed. “It fits, that’s all I mean, and it was the first time you’d really used your powers the way you’ve been doing here. You killed Peter Lukas, you drew me out of his Domain, you’ve been doing it ever since. You’re Orpheus.”

Jon had looked at him for a long moment, with those piercing eyes that always took Martin’s breath away, and then said, “That’s ridiculous. I could never make the mountains bow themselves when I did sing.” (Of course he knew Shakespeare, and Martin did love Shakespeare but in this case he really did prefer Atwood), and then Jon was smiling at him and saying, “You’re Orpheus, love.”

“Now who’s being ridiculous?” Martin had countered. “You’re the one who went in there to rescue me. You’re the one who led me out. Forget the Lonely, I’d have been lost in the tunnels forever without you.”

“Ah, but,” and Jon had put up a finger, “I’m the one who actually died.” He’d grinned, as if he were winning something. “I died, and you could not stand the thought, and so you dove into the underworld of whatever plot Peter and Jonah had concocted, and you sang your sweet words at them, and charmed them, and pulled me out of the hell they were trying to trap me in.”

“But… you’re the one who led me out of the Lonely,” Martin had repeated, baffled.

“Yes,” Jon had said softly, “and the problem with Orpheus and Eurydice was always that Orpheus could not trust that she would return to him. He went into the underworld to begin with because he didn’t trust that the gods would reunite them when he died. When he was leading her out he could not trust that it hadn’t been a trick, that he hadn’t lost her, and so he turned around to be sure. His doubts brought everything crashing down around them.” His gaze had been gentle, soft, maybe a little chiding. “If Eurydice had been leading the way, and Orpheus could have seen her the whole time, they would have made it out together.”

The thing neither of them had said aloud was that in the end, whatever Martin had done to pull Jon out of the “underworld” of Jonah’s plans hadn’t worked. The entire world had fallen in around them instead.

Jon had kept the thing alive since then, occasionally calling Martin ‘his Orpheus,’ usually when Martin was making up some ridiculous doggerel to amuse them both. And Martin didn’t mind, and was honestly somewhat flattered, but it started something gnawing at him. Two things, really: first, that Orpheus was the hero of the tale, and Martin did not want to be the hero, did not want to be the one upon whom all responsibility sat. Making choices for himself was all good and well; he didn’t like the feeling of maybe having to make choices for all of humanity.

The second was the nagging, aching remembrance that in every version of the myth Orpheus ultimately loses Eurydice. Death will not be overcome for long, no matter how charming one’s music. The idea that Jon would die to end this Martin had considered more than once. He hated the thought, and would rather die himself than see his lover sacrificed once more.

The idea that Martin himself would have to kill Jon to save the world? It fit perfectly. He knew it fit the moment he first thought of it, and it felt as if his heart were breaking in slow motion ever since.

Orpheus could not return to the world of light and joy with his Eurydice, after all. It just didn’t work that way, no matter how they twisted and turned to try to avoid the truth.

When they’d made a plan Jon had not wholly acquiesced to, Martin had felt that throbbing ache in his chest again. When he’d gone to talk to Jon, and hugged him, and Jon had talked about how everything was his fault… he knew. He just knew, and he did not like the decision he could feel settling in his chest. Jon was going to do something stupid, and Martin was going to have to be the one to fix it.

He could not trust Jon. That was the long and the short of it, he’d thought, as he’d stood there holding the smaller man in his arms, listening to his sniffles. And because he could not trust Jon, he’d stopped when he should have been following the other man, and turned to the others, and told them to go and blow up the gas main now. He’d turned away, and when he’d looked back, Jon was out of his sight and too far gone for Martin to catch up in time to stop him from killing Jonah Magnus and taking his place in the Panopticon.

Ironically enough, this time what doomed Orpheus was looking away from his lover, instead of looking at him.

So now Jon is in the Panopticon, because he could not be anything but self-sacrificing, and because Martin could not trust him long enough to just go after him, could not trust that he would have been able to talk Jon out of killing Jonah once they’d got up there. He’s in the tower, hooked in as the Pupil of the Eye, and Georgie’s lit the gas main already, and the whole thing is blowing up while Jon screams in pain.

For just a moment, Martin has a fleeting memory of Basira telling him that she’d convinced the police not to just burn the Institute to the ground, and oh, if she hadn’t done that…

Well, no use for that now.

For everything Martin’s said, every moment he’s refused, aloud, to admit that he could kill Jon if he had to, he’s known for some time now that he can if he must. He’s thought about it over and over, turning over everything, thinking about how to kill the Archivist. The answer is simple and obvious. Jon already gave it to him, before they’d left the Institute, and it’s narratively appropriate in that dream-logic mythic way the Fears work. So he knows what he has to do.

Martin pulls Jon out of the Panopticon, and they say they love each other, and they kiss. And then Martin pulls Jon’s head back and stabs him swiftly, once in each eye. Jon only gasps once, the first time, and maybe he’s already dead by the time Martin stabs the other, but he won’t take the chance of leaving the job half-done. It’s clear that it was the right choice--stabbing someone in the eye shouldn’t kill them so quickly, but the Eye was all that was keeping Jon alive, and so he’s dead now, gone.

And so, Martin thinks, Orpheus loses his Eurydice. Atwood’s poem echoes in his mind:

Though I knew how this failure would hurt you, I had to fold like a gray moth and let go. You could not believe I was more than your echo.

Martin sobs, then, just once, and he’d keep sobbing but there’s a rising static, the sort he’s used to hearing while listening to the tapes. And then he sees that actual tape has come into the Panopticon writhing up from between cracks and over stone to wrap itself around Jon, around his legs and arms, trying to drag him away.

Martin cannot speak, he’s too wracked with grief, but he’s damned if he’ll let the Web take Jon from him, not now. Wherever Jon is going, he’s going too. That was the deal. So as the web of magnetic recording tape grabs Jon and pulls him through the air like he’s some sort of insect to be wrapped up and devoured, Martin holds him tighter, refusing to let go.

The tapes are somehow strong enough to pull them both out of the Panopticon, through the air, across the landscape. There are other things being pulled toward wherever they’re going, a thousand or a million, too many to count. Martin can see the web of magnetic tape criss-crossing the landscape, touching all the places they’ve been, the Domains they’ve traveled through, the avatars they’ve encountered. He can see with eyes that should have belonged to the Web had Peter Lukas not gotten hold of him and claimed him for the Lonely. He can see the extent of it all, the scope of the plan, the thing the Web had wanted all along--the Fears, bound up by the Archivist’s Knowing, connected by the tapes at a thousand little points, dragged screaming out of this reality toward the hole at Hilltop Road.

For a moment it strikes Martin as a thing of beauty. Wretched, horrid beauty, but beauty nonetheless. A plan at least three decades in the making, finally come to perfect fruition. Reality re-made in order to allow the Fears to manifest strongly enough for the Web to bind them and pull them out and… ascend.

They fall toward the hole, and then into the hole, and then suddenly Jon spasms in Martin’s arms. Martin clutches him more tightly so as not to lose him, so he’s right there when Jon’s mouth opens and sound begins pouring out. Words, but more than words, and none in his own voice. It’s as though he’s become the tape recorder, playing a statement. People talking--Basira and Georgie and Melanie. The world is safe, it seems. The plan worked. And maybe it’s better than Jon’s dead, because surely whatever the people who remembered ‘the Archivist’ would have done to him would have been far more painful and horrific than Martin stabbing him in the eyes.

The Admiral’s okay. Martin wishes Jon were alive, so he could know that much at least.

The voices echo in the darkness they’re falling through. Basira’s voice: “What do you want me to do with this?” She must mean the recorder she found in the ruins.

Georgie replies, “Leave it. We’re done with tapes.”

“Want me to smash it?” That’s Melanie, because of course it is.

Basira says, “I think… we can probably just turn it off.”

Martin can almost hear the shrug in Melanie’s voice. “Okay.”

There are footsteps, two pairs, presumably Melanie and Georgie walking away.

Basira addressed the tape recorder. “If anyone’s listening… goodbye. I’m sorry, and… good luck.”

There’s a final flick, and then Jon actually speaks, despite being dead, the words resonating in the darkness:

“STATEMENTS END.”

Martin almost sobs, clutching Jon, eyes squeezed tight. He’s not sure he ever liked Basira much, and he really barely knew Georgie and Melanie--and really it’s been so hard, for so long, to be sure he liked anyone much, aside from Jon--but he takes the good wishes for what they are, clasps them into his heart. Wherever the Web is taking them, it has to be better than what they’re leaving behind.

Wherever it is, Martin is sure there won’t be any more recorders, any more statements. They, too, are done with tapes.

Next Chapter

#the magnus archives #tma #jon sims #jonathan sims #jon the archivist #martin blackwood #jonmartin #jmart #fanfic #my fanfic #tma spoilers #otp: one way or another together #tma d&d au #let all the broken pieces shine #okay here's the fic proper up on tumblr #time to post the rest of the chapters #wow i put the 'keep reading' in a weird place but it's what worked #long post for ts

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yikes-strikes-again · 4 years ago

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rating: gen word count: 2271 tags: angst, hurt/comfort, light on the comfort part, canon compliant, the slaughter, the corruption, season 5 spoilers, episode: e163, spoilers for episode: e163, spooky eye powers summary: Martin learns exactly what happens if Jon doesn't give his statements. Inspired by a line from episode 177. Takes place between episodes 163 and 164.

read on tumblr:

Buried in the wreckage of the blasted wasteland, a typewriter began clicking rapidly.

With soles caked in mud, they crunched through what must have been leagues of the trenches - though, obviously, there was no way to tell. No way to tell how far they had traveled or how far they had yet to go. The Panopticon-Institute remained on the horizon, ever-distant and always looming.

The sounds of war were not far away. Once in a while, artillery fire would tear the silence apart, ripping through the walls of bunkers and causing a throbbing, painful ringing in the ears. Jon and Martin would hold onto each other for support, though often they would still fall into the wet and sloshing ground, caking their clothing in another layer of grime. But here, the danger was less immediate than it was miles ago. Slower, in wounds rather than weapons.

Countless soldiers nursed the bandaged stumps of lost limbs, ones either amputated or blown off. In the case of the former, the procedure rarely prevented infection from spreading through the victim’s veins with each beat of their heart, or cleanly excised the deepest strains of necrotized tissue. They knew this, of course. They knew that they would only get sicker, and the knowledge terrorized them even more than the certain death that lay not a meter above.

Clouds of flies thicker than pudding swarmed around the dead. Well, one hoped they were dead. It was hard to tell when everyone seemed to be on the verge of permanent collapse, either from mortal injury, illness, or an overdose of grief. It didn’t matter why - when someone laid down in this place, they never got up again.

It was calmer on this side of the trenches. Quieter. But in the quelling of the chaos, it gave Martin a chance to process how awful it all was, and that was worse.

He looked at Jon. If he had to guess, he’d say that Jon was faring worse than Martin was. There was a hard set to his shoulders, and he spoke little save to warn Martin of danger or obstacles. When he did speak, his voice was terse and irritable. Martin rarely got a glimpse of his eyes, but when he did, he saw that Jon’s pupils were erratic and searching.

Both of them had been quiet for days, weeks perhaps, ever since Jon had ranted like a madman in that bunker, surrounded by all those catatonic people. Martin didn’t understand why he had to do that, why he was compelled to speak of all the awful things that were already upon them, only that something bad would happen if he didn’t. He had made it clear that Jon would find no audience for his ramblings in Martin, and Jon had accommodated that thus far.

Martin stopped at the turn of the trench, finding a more gentle slope of the wall to rest his shoulder upon, though the soil was damp and rancid-smelling. He didn't feel fatigue, but his shoes were not meant for hiking, and they were uncomfortable. He was soaked to the bone, filthy, and freezing cold, and he really wanted to know when he could stop being that way.

Jon stopped so suddenly that his boots skidded on the mud and he had to sway to keep his balance.

“What is it now, Martin?”

There was no resignation to his voice, no apathy or even frustration, unlike before. Just pure, stifled anger, and the cryptic storm brewing from behind his eyes.

Martin looked at him pleadingly. “Can’t you tell me anything about how long we’ve still got to walk? At least until we get out of… this place.”

Jon sighed the sigh of a parent who had been asked “Are we there yet?” by their impatient child one too many times. “Like I said the first two thousand times, time and space do not exist in the way they once did. When the world was whole and there existed minds who knew not of terror.” He cringed almost imperceptibly, and scrubbed at his temples with his palms. “As much as I hate to hear the phrase myself, we will get there when we get there.”

It felt silly to complain about someone’s bad attitude when they were in a literal hellscape, but Martin didn’t like the way he’d started speaking through gritted teeth. He wanted respite from this particular nightmare, yes, but he also wanted to know why Jon was so angry.

Martin didn’t get the sense that it would do any good to ask him, though.

He sighed. “It’s been so long. What if we never get there? Just wandering in circles in a never-ending trench.”

“Well, Martin, we will never get there if we keep stopping to burrow a nightmare and ceaseless frenzy.”

He paused to consider that. He figured he’d heard wrong - his hearing was still a bit muted from the gunfire. “What?”

“I said, we’ll never get there if gangrene blisters or sanguine bagpipes.”

“What? What the hell does that mean?”

Jon made an irritated noise, then spoke slowly as if talking to someone who was very stupid. “Agony bore a bloody sickle for crushing the sleepless.”

Martin stared at him, and narrowed his eyes, gripped by a dawning horror that had nothing to do with the disease and death that surrounded him. “Jon, you’re not making any sense.”

Some of the anger faded from Jon’s expression. Then, suddenly, he clutched at his head with both hands as if in pain. His eyes widened, focusing briefly on Martin before returning to the million things that only he could see.

“Sever,” he said pointedly. And, as if spurred on by something, he continued, both voice and body shaking with intensity. “Limbs metallic see bloated warhead and vicious gas spitting cauterize through. Spleen pale cannon warhead bile where tetanus sinews. And gore and ring and soldier visceral from bodies brother teeth for rancid crimson darkness.” He spoke with such terrible certainty, as if he fully expected Martin to comprehend the meaning of every word.

The corners of Martin’s mouth became taut, but since smiling requires the pretense of happiness, he did not smile. “Listen, Jon, I know we’re both under a lot of stress, but this is a really bad way to try and lighten the mood, okay? It’s not funny. You’re scaring me.” He drew a sharp and shaking breath and released it in a hollow imitation of laughter. “What’s the matter with you, anyway? Are you just taking something out on m—”

“Chaotic laughter and screeching god.” Jon’s eyes were on him, but they weren’t looking at him. They were wild, desperate. Something awful was happening to him, something that caused him to forget how to stand, that ceaselessly filled his mind with secondhand terrors, that stole his voice and gave it to the neverending flood of words that rose like bile from his throat. “Iron hands, jettison liver, with heroic terror bullets and mottled rage buzzing, burning and lungs gone. Necrotized gurney which hell hath nuclear rot aching, whose shivering eye orders and despairs, immobile river filth screaming for prison and tear—”

“Jon, stop!” Martin pushed off the wall and stumbled over to where Jon had slipped onto the filthy earth. He shook him. “Snap out of it!”

“— off running, smoke and cloth the bacteria acrid, with hungry singing comrade forever hidden. Writhing from crater, sobbing but the fever moans flaking to clinging, melting daggers. Helpless pathway churning through exploding infinity—”

Martin was nearing his wits’ end. He dragged Jon, who went limp, into a nearby dugout, so tiny that sunlight still shone across most of its floor. He tried to block out the onslaught of babbled nonsense that somehow evoked a thousand nightmarish images as clear as day, but Jon’s voice had taken on that quality that made it impossible not to listen. He continued to shake him with repetitive, mechanical regularity, but as the words bore into his brain Martin’s movements grew weak and yielding.

Jon lay on Martin’s lap, staring far beyond the dirt ceiling. “Gorging jaws of metal death surround your blood-borne reach towards distant jargon, but surreal enemy adrenaline has harrowed pathological exaltations. Barbed manslaughter. Feeding warfare. Stinging trigger…”

His eyes fell to him for a split second. “Martin,” he said, and Martin remembered to breathe. But the moment was gone as quick as it had come, and Jon was launched into another disjointed tirade.

If the hands of his watch spun as reliably as they once had, Martin might have found that he sat crouched in that dugout for exactly six hours and thirty-four minutes, keeping Jon’s back out of the mud. But, for what it was worth, it felt like years. Jon continued his nonsensical ranting, scarcely stopping to breathe, and from the way he desperately spat the words one got the feeling that he wished he didn’t have to. His voice rose and fell at random, reaching sudden and unpredictable climaxes of raving and shouting before settling back into a listless murmur. Trying to ignore him was an exercise in futility. Every few words a new, terrible image would implant itself into Martin’s mind, and then another, and another, together weaving a tapestry of terror from the thread of Jon’s omnipotent train of thought. He couldn’t stop listening, and Jon couldn’t stop talking, so whenever Martin’s thoughts weren’t drowned out by the bile of the Beholding they were filled with despair.

Would this never end? Were they doomed to rot in this place, their minds slowly unraveled by the power of the Eye filtered only by Jon’s droning voice? Would they never move again, like all the rest in this awful place, locked in a stony embrace like some warped parody of The Pietà?

Martin couldn’t know. But in between terrors, it was all he could imagine as tears ran down his face.

It was a small mercy that this particular fear of Martin’s wasn't due to come about just yet. The first clue was that the flood of words had slowed to a trickle. The second was that when Jon paused for breath, it was deeper and less hurried than before. His voice had lost its former vigor, and it was all Martin could hope that he had finally started to exhaust himself.

“... never respite from wretched hope… singe a coagulated daylight swarm… justice not for careening wails… farewell… slaughter,” he paused, panting. “Finished” was too hopeful a word, and his voice carried no note of finality.

But there was a blessed silence. Martin expected it to end at any moment, but it stretched on as the seconds passed. There were distant cries of war, and the sound of Jon trying to make up for the breath he’d lost, but it all faded into nothing in the presence of the euphoric silence.

Several minutes passed this way, and it was only then that Martin dared to speak with the expectation that he’d get a response.

“Jon,” he began, finally daring to make eye contact - his otherworldly gaze had been far too intense to meet, before - and found that Jon was seeing him again. “What… happened?”

He blinked at Martin. There was another silence, shorter and more deliberate than the last, but less comfortable. “I—” He cleared his throat. “I think… I just…” He grabbed his temples with both hands and winced, and Martin pulled them both out of the light.

A moment’s migraine, and Jon collected himself. “There’s just… so much. Fear. Everywhere we go, from everyone in the world. I see it all. I feel it all.” Martin listened passively, despair replaced by a deep frustration. He knew this, and Jon knew how he felt about being his… receptacle for it all. But he didn’t interrupt.

“We have been through a domain of The Slaughter, and are now passing into one of The Corruption. I’ve been… accumulating more and more of The Slaughter’s fear all this time, and now that we’re leaving it… I suppose it wanted me to let it out. Now or never.” He paused. “And... I have to let it out, willingly, or else…”

“This happens.”

Jon sighed. “Apparently.”

Martin considered this, wondering if Jon could see the tear tracks that had left clean paths down his otherwise dirty face.

“Why didn’t you just give a statement? You know… before it was forced out of you?”

Jon looked at his hands for a long time. Then, in a small, guilty voice, he said, “I was trying to keep it inside.”

“Keep it inside? Why? ”

“I thought…” He covered his mouth in the gesture of one whose face burned with shame. “I thought I could control it, if I just willed it hard enough. These trenches… too long. Too narrow. There was nowhere for you to go. I didn’t want to stop, and I didn’t want to leave you.”

Martin stopped, and he softened. “Jon.” He sighed through his nose, and placed his hand on the back of Jon’s head. Then he brought him up into an embrace. “This was worse.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” he murmured into Martin’s neck.

“... I’m just glad you’re okay.”

They stayed like that for an undefinable amount of time, relishing the only avenue of comfort available to them anymore. Then, with Jon clinging to Martin for support, they climbed to their feet, and set out under the sky again, which had at some point shifted from violent red to a sickly yellow. A new understanding dawned on them both, mostly Martin, who resolved to allow Jon his space when he needed to… vent.

He only wished the knowledge hadn’t had to come from personal experience.

Something lurking in the ruins ripped the page off the typewriter, and its keys never made a noise again.

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartin #fanfiction #horror #angst #h/c #tma season 5 spoilers #yikes original tag #yikes tma tag

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wurmeatworld · 5 years ago

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The Embrace (TMA avatarsona fanfic)

Trigger warnings: suffocation, body horror(?), death (including parents), and mentions of illness and violence.

((I haven’t actually listened to The Magnus Archives beyond the first ep, and I don’t usually write fanfic, but hopefully this is ok.))

He is known as The Embrace. He preys on lonely people. He works as a counselor at a college in Massachusetts, but his primary source of food for his master, The Buried, is found at a local support group.

Today, he is sitting next to a man named Elliot Miller. He brought a pillow to cushion his seat, though no one can imagine why he’d need it, considering his massive down coat should cushion him quite enough. He never takes the coat off when he comes inside, even when the building’s finicky heating system works.

Elliot can’t recall him saying anything during the meetings, but he’s seen him talk to some of the others. Lately he seems to be very close with Melanie Vern, a sweet old woman who brings in cookies during the Holiday season. She’s been a staple of the group since Elliot can remember. But today, there’s been rumors that she’s leaving. She isn’t looking for companionship anymore.

Elliot’s mother died this Tuesday. She had been struggling with Alzheimer’s for a little over a year beforehand. Elliot had known her time was coming, but he still wasn’t prepared to be in the same room with her, holding her hand as she drew her last breath. Part of him hadn’t wanted to come to the group today, but he (and his therapist) knew that he needed support more than ever at a time like this.

Melanie and The Embrace hug, and then he walks over to Elliot and waves hello. “I don’t believe we’ve spoken before,” he says. “My name is Owen, what’s yours?”

Owen feels like the friend Elliot knew he needed, but didn’t know how to define. They talk until it is time to go home, at which point Owen politely bids Elliot goodbye and returns to Melanie to accompany her to her car. As Elliot drives back to his house, he wonders why the hell he hadn’t paid Owen any mind before.

The next week, Melanie confirms the rumors. She no longer needs support, she says, she feels she can flourish on her own. Owen sits next to Elliot again. They talk more, and exchange phone numbers. That night, Elliot opens up about his mother’s death.

Owen listens. Owen understands. Owen offers to visit Elliot at home tomorrow. Elliot is happy to take him up on his offer.

In the month that follows, the two men grow to be even closer friends. Elliot is considering leaving the support group, as Melanie did. It feels like a waste of time, now. Owen has done more for him than the group ever has. He’s there to listen and offer support whenever Elliot needs it. Whether he’s had a hard day at his job, feeling the loss of his mother, or had an awful nightmare, he can always come to Owen for an understanding ear and a hug.

Lately it’s been nightmares. Elliot hadn’t ever had them this bad, not since he was a child. They start with a long corridor with a plain white door at the end. As he walks towards the door, the walls begin to grow flesh. It grows thicker and thicker, until he is forced to brush past its soft skin to continue, until it impedes his path, until he can’t move an inch, until he is buried in flesh and unable to breathe.

Owen listens. Owen understands. Elliot says he doesn’t need his therapist anymore. Owen agrees. An old woman was found dead in her apartment this morning, lying face down. They said she was tossing in her sleep and suffocated in her pillow. Elliot sees her face in the obituaries of the local paper and recognizes her as Melanie Vern.

Elliot loses his job. When he mentions this to Owen, Owen offers to send a monthly check to pay Elliot’s bills while Elliot searches for employment. “My grandmother was rich,” he says when Elliot asks how he can afford to support him in such a way. “She left me everything in her will.” Owen assures Elliot that he doesn’t need to feel pressured to find a new job, it’s no burden on him at all.

Elliot doesn’t need to leave his house as often. He spends his days watching Netflix and spending time with Owen. He admits that part of him wants to live off Owen’s grandmother’s money forever. Owen isn’t opposed to the idea.

One night Elliot stays up late to binge a show. As he heads to bed, he imagines the walls and floors of his room are covered in flesh like in his dream. It’s so soft beneath his feet. He’s had that dream almost every night for the past week. The flesh feels like a hug.

Elliot climbs into bed. The sheets feel softer than usual, but he has trouble getting to sleep. The flesh on the walls of his room pulses gently. Elliot thinks about Owen. He’s his only friend now; there’s no need for any other. And yet, Elliot has felt lonely lately. He feels trapped. He’s not sure why. In tonight’s nightmare, Owen’s voice guides him forward.

Owen won’t let Elliot go. He’s at his house every day now. He practically lives there. Elliot can’t leave, he says, have you seen the news?

There’s always a different reason, a different excuse. A serial killer. Disease. Construction work. Change. Elliot is going crazy. He wants to leave; he wants Owen to stop treating him like a helpless pet. He can’t breathe. The air is stagnant; the windows haven’t been opened for weeks. Owen isn’t listening anymore. He won’t let Elliot make decisions. He’s answering phone calls on Elliot’s behalf.

The day that Elliot finds a draft for his rewritten will, he thinks he understands. Everything is left to Owen. He tries to confront Owen about it, but he just envelopes him in an unforgiving hug until Elliot can’t breathe.

Elliot thinks Owen will murder him. He tries everything he can to escape, to no avail. He tries to kill Owen with a knife from the pantry. It sinks into his thick down coat. It’s like he’s bleeding cotton. Owen simply pats Elliot’s hand and leads him to bed. Elliot dreams that the walls are flesh again. When he wakes up, there are pillows all over the house. He’s scared he will trip on them. Owen dismisses his fear.

Elliot falls asleep for the last time. He does not dream of the corridor. He dreams he is still in bed. The sheets are the softest they’ve ever been; he hates how it feels. He begins sinking, slowly, into the mattress. He can’t move. The blankets are too heavy. They spill around him as he sinks deeper and deeper. He’s having trouble breathing again. It feels like Owen’s puffy down coat.

The last thing he sees before the fabric consumes him is Owen, The Embrace, staring down at him with a blank expression and empty eyes. Elliot thinks he sees a small smile tugs at his lips the moment before the pillow falls down over his face, obscuring his vision.

#tma #avatarsona #the buried #the magnus archives #tmasona #fanfic #fanfiction #tma fanfic #ewan original

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fearfearer · 5 years ago

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i have caught up with the magnus archives.

when i started listening, i started a text file to note down any thoughts/confusion/analysis/jokes i had as i listened. i isolated a few bits of it into standalone text posts that i already posted, but here is the whole thing, my long-form liveblog

thoughts on the magnus archive as i listen

jonny sims gives an impassioned performance of someone's statement-- a diegetic impassioned performance, as we witness it being interrupted and resuming-- and follows it up with his own judgement of merciless doubt. classic. why the impassioned performance? he's just a nerd. i dearly hope this is the fandom consensus

every episode ends at the perfect volume to which i have adjusted it, and then i start the next episode and it blares in my ears. i think the volume of the intro must be like 1.75x the volume of the rest

*makes a serious effort to listen to and remember the name and date at the beginning of the statement recording* *forgets completely within 2 minutes*

i saw a fanart of gerard keay and learned [1] that he must be a good guy after all, since they drew him lookin cute, and [2] that his name is not, in fact, jared key. what, am i supposed to be looking at the transcripts? understanding names properly? in my defense, jonny sims clearly articulates "Jared" when he says it. maybe i'm not as good at decoding british accents as i thought. [footnote added in later: ok good i'm not the only one who hears "Jared" and thinks "Jared" instead of "Gerard"]

when gerard keay was described as having numerous eye tattoos on his joints, obviously my first thought was, "including the ankle? so he's count olaf?" because that's definitely a way count olaf would disguise his eye tattoo: by tattooing eyes everywhere else too and becoming The Eye Tattoo Guy. anyway this is part of why i was not at first inclined to think favorably of gerard keay

"The first thing about this statement that makes me dubious is that it comes from a fellow academic." if you know shit fuck you

it has come to my attention that there are ships. makes sense... after all, everyone in every fandom is horny af*. i'm not in deep enough to ship yet but naturally i'm keeping an eye on it

*horny af for depictions of intimacy, sexual or otherwise, but mostly sexual

definitely feel like i need to be writing down every name i hear because they're never not cropping back up but for now i'll just let it all wash over me

so sasha has been replaced with not-sasha, huh? pretty sure. though i'm not good at distinguishing voices. but that sounded pretty different, and my listening comprehension wrt that table isn't that bad. <<as time passes i doubt myself more and more on this point but not enough to go back and listen again

"You believe me?" "Yes, I think I do." (smashes button labeled "CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT" and a loud buzzer sounds)

IT'S MICHAEL!!! i hope michael is a long-term good guy... he's not seeming like a good guy right now... he says he's mostly neutral. vaguely recall seeing a tumblr post about michael in the recent past but that didn't give me any hints and i don't remember it well anyway. michael's voice is good though. good laugh

i'm not good at visualizing characters based on descriptions, let alone based merely on their voices, so the only image i have in my head of jonathan is a furrowed brow

i'm on episode 49 and i don't like jonathan's distrust of his colleagues... i don't understand why his immediate suspicion was that gertrude's murder was an inside job. hasn't he just learned firsthand that the institute is not impenetrable? it's not inconceivable that someone could enter and shoot her and leave. especially when it took place in underground tunnels connected to unknown locations.

there's a good Old Lady Voice Combo on episode 62

so agnes montague was heavily cursed... that's my conclusion after episode 67

elias seems to tell jonathan to "get some sleep" a lot. though it IS generally good advice

episode 70, 9 minutes, 41 seconds: jonny sims's cell phone goes off in the background

small brain: ghost ship medium brain: ghost train galaxy brain: dirt train

i wanted to see if there was fanart of michael so i looked it up... i might as well have googled "blonde slenderman"

sweeney todd mentions tally: II

for some reason, hearing michael described this time as "a tall man with curly blonde hair and an unnerving laugh" puts an image in my head without my consent, and that image is chris fleming. now, he's not quite blonde, is he? but that doesn't change my casting decision, which is now set in stone. hope he does a good british accent

"YES i know what a meme is."

why is melanie the first/only one to notice that sasha is now not-sasha? is it because she is experienced in firsthand paranormal encounters (whereas the archivists are experienced in decidedly SECONDhand paranormal encounters, save for the worm debacle)? oh, my question was answered handily in the next episode. ok.

the replacer definitely limits its glamour to everyone except one person just so that it can be amused by the distress and confusion of the one person who can see the truth. that must also be the reason it chooses a completely different appearance. it surely COULD replace a person with their exact likeness; it just uses another face for fun, and to be satisfied that it can get away with it.

this table has appeared in like 10 episodes... Guess It's Crucial

jonny sims yelling while swinging an axe. jonny sims goes through michael's door (eyes emoji)

the idea of the replacer killing jonathan and not even replacing him brings to mind "AT LEAST RIDE IT YOU ASSHOLE"

wasn't expecting to hear from leitner at this point... he's dropping tons of lore here. too much lore. so much is happening. i have to say i kinda like it better when the stakes are not quite so high as this.

so at the end of season 2, tim and martin believe that jonny sims killed this guy, who they probably don't know is leitner... and we the audience believe that elias, now almost certainly a double murderer, has very quietly stabbed leitner to death. do i the audience believe it? i'll keep an open mind for now. things are not always as they seem. except when sasha was replaced with not-sasha, which was exactly as it seemed. [footnote added in later: looks like elias being a double murderer was exactly as it seemed.]

so jonathan sims is the name of the actual guy voicing jonathan sims. it's a cecil situation. so are they someday going to go back and retcon every episode to change his name, like with palmer/baldwin? or does jonathan sims just not mind being a character as well? as long as it doesn't devolve into RPS i guess it's fine. if there's fanart of jonmartin i hope it doesn't depict them as their actors bc that's too close for comfort to RPS

there's been a truly hellish c*ndy cr*sh ad that has played like 40 times between episodes and i'm pretty well convinced to never ever play that curséd game

elias has some serious blackmail for daisy, huh? that's heavy, having police characters in fiction who do extrajudicial killings. life imitates art imitates life

"i'm not on drugs or anything. ...what? i could be on drugs!"

he said "ample opportunity" but like "amplopportunity" with emphasis on the "plop"

it was obviously elias who delivered the statement to jonathan in hiding, because he knew he would record it despite not being at work... bc he's a nerd

so if gerard keay has eye tattoos, does that mean he also serves the uhh the observing or whatever? [verdict arrived at later: no he just has those because he's cool. or because his mom tattooed him. ok almost certainly the latter.]

"what do i feed it?" obviously you feed it filled up cassette tapes, jon... nothing has ever been more obvious

it's okay that jon very stupidly burned his hand to a crisp. you don't need even one hand to turn on a cassette recorder. you can do that with your nose

so if these people who are wax figures serve the desolation, and not-sasha was spending time at the wax museum, does that mean there is a connection between the replacer and desolation? i think that would make sense, since both seem to enjoy making people feel bad feelings. also i'm starting to think that agnes was not actually cursed, but that would mean she burned that guy on purpose after being nice to him... was she just really selfish in that way? using him to experience Dating and mutilating him when he crossed the line, so she punished him as a cruel goodbye? or just building up his hopes so they will be even more fun to burn down when the time comes?

"perhaps doing a bit of mindless filing will help distract you." honestly that is something i would like to do in real life... i do enjoy a good mindless task. though doing mostly mindless tasks 40 hours a week is not a fun time for me lately. but it would be better if i didn't have to listen to bad radio at the same time

what?! the friendly midnight acrobat described in episode 90 sounds totally non-threatening and i hope there's fanart of it. was that gym just jared the bone turner helping people live their twisted athletic fetishes?! [footnote added in later: YES! god i hope people draw these turn-boned creatures optimized for their gymnastic of choice. show me a person who remade their body specifically for the balance beam]

so the power endowed in the archivist by the viewening is that when you sit them down across from someone they want to interview, that someone will invariably spill SOME beans and think it was their idea. maybe? [footnote added in later: yes.]

ok so Michael "The Distortion" Michael, of fractals and golden ringlets, has specifically tormented this other michael, lichtenberg michael?

jon is clearly moved to ask questions by an external force because he's a sensible guy who would not try to ask questions when daisy is holding a gun on him

i think basira has precisely the same accent as estelle... or maybe just a similarly staccato way of speaking (or of line-reading)

[episode 93] elias: (holding jon's face between two pieces of bread) what are you? jon: (sigh) the archivist...

well, they did something i didn't expect them to do with this show: create a compelling in-universe reason for jon to read statements aloud. because obviously until now there was none.

jon did the cockney accents. (insert emoji for indescribable feeling)

here's the purpose of the pit: if we all climb in the muddy pit together at night, the earthquake will only jiggle us gently and no one will be inside collapsing buildings to be crushed. it's only logical

ok i was gonna say this before but why is jon still at georgie's house??? he's not on the run for murder anymore, right? he has an apartment with all his stuff in it, right? [footnote added in later: i still don't understand why it was like this.]

i will confess that usually once the credits start to roll i zip to the next episode, but this time i zoned out a bit and it's really funny that jonny sims reads out "Rate and Review Us Online" in his archivist voice

a third michael. this one is probably already dead though. unless distortion michael takes over this guy's body or something. oh, jon came in at the end of the episode to say precisely this.

was episode 100 mostly improvised? if so, that would be appropriate. but i wouldn't put it past them to write every stuttering bit of those four statements

MARTIN...................................................................................................................................................... (typed this as martin gave some of his own money to the lady who expected payment for a statement)

i'm skipping 100.1 through 100.5 for now... just for now.

ok so michael is michael but not lightning mike michael, and two of these michaels are dead, but one is something that has never been alive nor dead. got it

everyone's morality is much more gray than i at first anticipated. the only people who seem to be solidly and earnestly on the side of good, as much as possible, are jonathan and martin and basira and georgie and maybe tim?

so michael just died and was overtaken by pseudo-helen? neo-helen? ok. that's kinda too bad, as i enjoyed michael's terrible laugh and unpredictability. but the feeling of michael being revealed as having been michael shelley feels somewhat similarly disappointing (but a bit less staggeringly groan-inducing) to when the mysterious koro-sensei in assassination classroom was revealed to have been a twink in his past. because of course he was. (that's when i stopped reading that manga. too precipitously dumb to sustain my suspension of disbelief.) it's like, ok, you had an interestingly mysterious character going on, but having solved the mystery, what interestingness is left? not much. fortunately this was resolved by promptly ending the existence of this michael and instead introducing new and improved helen

ooh martin has the asky ability too huh? nice [footnote added in later: he only used it this one time, and i'm wondering if they did that and then forgot and decided that jon is actually the only one with asky ability.] [[another footnote added in much later: How did i manage to mistake jon’s voice for martin’s voice? How?]]

the way martin said "kumo ga tabeteiru" in episode 110... alexander j newall does not watch anime

"I'm a book." ~Gerard Keay, 2017

it was a few episodes ago now but i noticed that when jon clearly articulated "Jared" referring to gerard, elias was like "Jared? you mean Gerard Keay?" (pronouncing it like "Gerard.") there is definitely a disagreement between these two (actors) about how to pronounce that name

the eye, the spiral, the end, the stranger, the lonely, the desolation, the slaughter, the vast, the buried, the dark, the corruption, the web, the flesh, the hunt.

Q: why would anyone want one of these rituals to succeed? A: it's their fetish. it's their sexual fetish

ok time to make up names for each possible apocalypse. these are the real and true names according to me, who knows such things: the eye - the viewening the spiral - down the drain the end - the really end end the stranger - oh wait we know this one. it's the unknowing. the lonely - the alonening the desolation - Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Lightless Flame the slaughter - world war all the vast - the expansion the buried - the grand lahar (or the Smothering) the dark - the extinguishment the corruption - the Great Rot the web - the spidening the flesh - the smorgasbord (or the Eatening) the hunt - come and get it

gerry said there was no dark god of indigestion, but i can tell you from personal experience that there is. though it's true that there is also fear involved, so maybe no separate pantheon is necessary

i sense that there is a battle between people who say it like "gotta get myself oriented" and "i feel disoriented" (as feels correct/natural to me) and people who say "gotta get myself orienTATed" and "i feel disorienTATed," and this podcast falls SQUARELY on the latter team. they've said it like 20 times

idk why he has to be such a dick to helen. jeez

the guy who coded his mind into a computer, which of the 14 was that? the corruption? the stranger? gotta be the corruption, but that doesn't fit perfectly with its rot/bugs aesthetic...

speed -> speeding -> sped. heed -> heeding -> hed. thus i decree

in my dream i listened to a whole episode of this show, narrated by gertrude, and i was like "whoa this is cool" and i went to write it down but i was still in the dream and writing doesn't work in dreams :( also any successful writing in dreams doesn't transfer to real life paper :( the only snippet i remember: “...in his white mouth, which had known only bread...”

"I, uh..." Jonathan Sims, a thousand times, 20XX

martin's job is PLAINLY to distract elias and elias barges in like "martin. i see you're trying to distract me." and martin's like "maybe i am!"

o, jonny took a breath. that's good

he wasn't hooked up to an EKG or anything? you spend long enough with no heartbeat that they're just like "i guess we can turn this off"

this episode about philosophical zombies sounds a lot like that NPC meme from a year or two ago... and it makes me kind of uncomfortable, the way this person inspects others to determine whether they are True Minds or Impostors based on their emotional expressions, their eyes... because i don't always do the correct or appropriate expressions, and would someone judge me as being a non-person who is trying and failing to imitate human emotions?

i generally don't enjoy ships that have more-or-less explicit canon support, but i can't say jon/martin isn't good

melanie blaming jon isn't right... no one had a better plan to stop the unknowing, did they? (they didn't!) didn't all of them agree on the plan and understand that they might die? (they did!) she's just imposing survivor's guilt upon him because he survived for supernatural reasons. but it's not like he eagerly embraced his new supernaturalness, or even asked for it outright! i think she's being unreasonable. i didn't like her insistence on trying to kill elias either, even though elias is a huge dick. what's with her?

wait, peter lukas is the lonely? (meme where calculations and equations whiz past me)

jonathan baa'd

oh, see. the bullet is making melanie act without reason. i get it now. can't say i think they had the best approach to getting the bullet out, but all's well that ends well (???)

martin is being prohibited from talking to jon >:I martin is on a first-name basis with peter lukas >:I...

martin grumbles, "i don't like being manipulated..." while obviously and continuously allowing himself to be manipulated

jon is afraid of and uncomfortable with what he's becoming, at least to a degree, right? but he seems to be going about his duties (i.e. feeding the eye) with vigor and without reluctance. is he really that motivated by his own desire to know and understand? who is he doing this for? is the eye's influence on him so strong that "doing what the eye wants" seems to manifest as what HE wants to do?

"He'd place it over the one he wore already, and he would larf and larf and larf" (from breacon’s statement... just heard it like this for some reason)

deep water could be the domain of both the buried and the vast, because you could lose yourself in the vast ocean, but experience the physical effects of being buried under thousands of feet of water...

so tom han was an avatar of the flesh but he ultimately died after being tortured by the spiral... right?

"we're not people, though, are we? not anymore." close enough, i'd say.

jonathan has deployed THREE "I, uh..."s in episode 131 alone and i want to smack him in real life. FOUR NOW. JON. JONATHAN SIMS THE REAL ACTOR. LISTEN... quit falling back on your "I, uh..."s. and if they're written into the script i'll punch whoever did that too. total of five in a single episode. never utter "I, uh..." again

i hope whoever's throat is okay after doing bone turner voice for a whole statement.

jonny sure needs saving quite often, doesn't he.

peter lukas being a slightly chipper advocate for becoming a follower of the lonely is very strange

neil lagorio and his whole cinematographic history is made up but they namedropped kevin costner, who is real

VERY, VERY GOOD laugh at 23:44 of episode 136

melanie getting her session recorded... i was doing audio transcription for a while and you'd definitely come across bits of therapy-type sessions that very much seemed like they should have been confidential.

i wonder if the eye ultimately turned its back on gertrude and allowed her to be killed. if jon could survive a collapsing building, could gertrude not have survived a couple of bullets? wouldn't the difference be the protection of the eye? [footnote added in later: of course now i see who turned their back on whom.]

i'm somewhat heartened to learn that agnes montague was, in fact, a heavily cursed individual, though she seemed to have embraced it to a degree... and she wasn't made of wax.

i like that jon now includes helen in his office politics briefing

basira's like "Edmund Halley" and jon's like "Halley's comet?" (like “Hale-ey”) and two minutes later jon's like "Edmund Hally" (not "Hale-y")

"What's this?" "OH... That's, uh... that's... my rib..." "Right." (tiny clunk of rib being set down)

so giving a statement puts a curse on you... or is it "having a statement extracted / being compelled" that puts a curse on you? and the resulting curse, the fear it reawakens, is that good for the eye, or is that good for the powers that initially caused the fear?

well, i heard a homestuck reference in one of the patreon names at the beginning of an episode, and who is surprised? of course, i'm not one to talk

episode 144- the english think their summer is bad... as a professional "hot weather is bad" person, i feel doubtful, because if the sky is grey, it is not as hot as it Could Be, and therefore one should quit one's bitching

first statement about the extinction... interesting. but hearing martin be a jerk to daisy makes me sad :(

the powers never tell avatars exactly what they need to be doing, but that's just concerning the means. the ends are always clear: the power gets fed. and all of the powers feed on fear. also jonny is horny for statements. i hope, but also doubt, that his harmful behavior is at least partially the spider's doing. oh, i see now that it's not. yeah.

jon wants to eat fresh and delicious statements produced just for him, instead of reconstituting the dusty old statements already in the archive

episode 148 - samson stiller gets a crush. but in all seriousness, is he becoming an avatar of the eye but like, not institute-related? is that a thing? i guess that would make sense, but still seems weird

episode 149 - considering ring -> rang -> rung, we seem to have stumbled upon spin -> span -> spun, and the compasses gently span around (9:40)

does martin have loneliness powers now? it's sad that he is getting lonely... as a lonely person, i know.

the lady on TV in episode 150 was just speaking simlish.

i really want jon to overcome his urge to forcefully take statements because i want to be able to root for him still

british podcasts really have a leg up over american podcasts, at least among american audiences, purely based on their interesting and varied accents

i can't say the gravedigger's envy doesn't make me myself feel like going to sleep in the cold dirt forever. but bad depression lately is also a factor, so

jonathan having to settle for reading already archived statements instead of harvesting fresh ones is exactly like a vampire (not the kind detailed in this series) who has to choose between hunting people to suck their blood or drinking bags of donated blood from a (near-endless) stockpile. there's an ethical choice with a clear right answer, but the urge is also understandable

jon following up gertrude's tape with just "fuck" was really good. now he's like "ok martin. let's run away together"

spent all day at work thinking about how i can't fuckin believe the first thing jon did when he heard how to escape the institute was to go tell martin like "there will be a great cost, but... we can elope now"

also if tim was still around jon would tell him the way out and he would do it right then and there, i'm 100% sure. like before jon was finished explaining tim would be like "the eyes? (grabs scissors) got it. (does the deed)"

earlier today i was just thinking that we would almost certainly hear gertrude's death on tape, especially given that we now understand tape recorders are wont to turn on autonomously whenever something important is happening. anyway then i came home and heard gertrude's death on tape

peter, as an avatar of the lonely, is easy to play like a cheap whistle because as someone who clearly hates spending time around other people, he is not keen to the symptoms of being played.

elias is like "you'll have to go into the lonely to get him" and jon's probably thinking "but then at least we'll be in the lonely... ~*~*~together~*~*~"

i think martin's whole thing for most of the series has been that he sounds a little doofy, for lack of a better word, and people constantly underestimate his intelligence. and now he has played peter lukas like a cheap whistle and forced me to realize that by taking for granted that he was being successfully manipulated by peter lukas, i too was underestimating martin... and his pure love for jon <:3c no but seriously i even remember explicitly making a mental note to remember that martin is smartin but it fell by the wayside as my emotions (of sadness that jon and martin seemed to be growing further apart) took precedent

i work a non-verbal job just doing mundane tasks and that gives me all the time in the world to think about things like "if they were to have jon and martin reunite in a tearful embrace, how would you convey the physical contact in an audio format? like, whap? soft thud?"

jon enters the lonely and voiceover peter comes in to try and factcheck the ship

i guess it makes sense that peter would try to do the ritual for the lonely all by himself

did he kill peter by asking him to death? or did peter just self-destruct rather than be forced to answer?

the way jon snapped martin out of the loneliness just by making him look at his face... that's powerful. as a lonely person, i know that the most cry-making thing you can realize when you feel alone is that another person is, in fact, there with you

martin went for a walk and now it's thunderstorming. i wonder if he came back as soon as it started raining and now he's standing nearby invisibly as jon reads the intimidating magnus statement. ...I GUESS NOT

i plan to read through the transcripts of all the episodes (as it’s faster than re-listening, though i might selectively re-listen) so that i may better understand some things and answer some questions in this post that i didn’t ultimately resolve. i can’t say i was paying 101% attention all the way through. also april is very far away

#the magnus archives

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oswald-privileges · 6 years ago

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Could you talk about The Magnus Archives to a potential new listener? What do you like about it? What drew you in?

I HOPE YOU’RE STILL INTERESTED IN THE ANSWER BC HEY I’M GIVING IT TO YOU NOW

short version! The Magnus Archives is a horror anthology podcast with an incredibly refreshing stance on horror, an overarching metanarrative, and Chill Queerness. Also just. Such a good range of scary things. Such a good range

You can listen to the trailers on the podbay here http://podbay.fm/show/1095138637

Long version!

I picked this up on someone else’s horror recommendation, and I’m pretty easy when it comes to horror or weird anthologies- I’ll give everything a go once! But I DID fall in love with tma for some very specific reasons, so I’ll expand on them here.

Refreshing Stance on Horror

What I mean by this is that the short stories that make up the show and the overarching metanarrative have a consistently unique take on horror tropes, styles, and traditions. It revels in those that work; the stories usually have lightly sketched first person narrators, placing the main focus on the events and horror of the story itself; the Magnus Institute in whose archives the show is set is a classic “spooky organisation that documents and collects weird stuff”; the topics or horror-creations it chooses to explore are incredibly wide ranging, so there’s a monster or a transformation or a situation for everyone. While the show is definitely aware that you’re there to be spooked, it’s also like a celebration of the best parts of the horror genre. It’s a show that has fun.

And when it comes to the tropes that don’t work well, or the parts of the genre that are tired or straight up facilitate all the horrible “isms” of criticism? They’re cut or adapted if they’re useful, or outright excised if they’re not.

An example of the former: There’s an in-universe explanation as to why the people giving these statements to the Institute are so loquacious and well-spoken. It’s also a spoiler, which kind of indicates how neat a trick it is and how well integrated it is into the lore of the show

An example of the latter: The writer has explicitly stated in a Q&A episode that they have zero interest in writing sex as horror. Perspective characters will occasionally have sex with someone, but that will just be part of their lives or the situation they find themselves in. A good example of this is the episode Squirm- the statement giver visits a club, and brings home a companion-

“I mean, we had sex. There’s not much more to say about that, really. The important thing is what happened afterwards.”

The situation itself is not the horror, nor is it there to sell the story to the listener. The normality of it is what produces the discord, the familiar/common setting of bringing someone home for a night juxtaposed with the suspense and culmination of the actual horror story.

Overarching Metanarrative

The Magnus Archives is kind of a story about stories. The individual statements are linked by their narrator, The Archivist, and a slowly expanding cast of his co-workers, investigative team, people trying to kill him, and terrifying monsters. Most of the characters fall into at least two of these categories. As the stories that get read slowly reveal more and more, the characters responses change, their arcs progress, and conflicts develop and are resolved in a truly suspenseful fashion.

Several other podcasts try to do the same thing- I’m thinking particularly of TANIS and The Black Tapes- but in my own opinion, fall very far short of the kind of depth of character and sense of cohesive progression that The Magnus Archives creates. I feel as though that might be because with other podcasts, the unravelling of the mystery is very linear- one clue progresses to the next and the next with little deviation or space for reflection. The Magnus Archives keeps character arcs linear and focused, but allows the mystery to come to light in an organic, non-linear way. It feels as though you are solving things alongside (or sometimes before) the characters, as opposed to just following the breadcrumb trail.

The Magnus Archives has also managed something I’ve never seen another podcast do so well- it maintains the “this is being recorded” conceit almost flawlessly. Most podcasts that aren’t pretending to be Real Life radio shows tend to outgrow that concept eventually, as excuses for the recordings become more and more tenuous, and are eventually quietly dropped (Wolf 359 does basically exactly this). But The Magnus Archives preempts this, with multiple different in-universe reasons for the recordings. Again, most of them are spoilery, but also sufficiently spooky. The general feeling is that there’s something listening in on everything that’s going on, and it’s not just the audience.

Chill Queerness

A shorter, more simple point here, but this show is just. So relaxed about diversity, and not in the vaguely irresponsible way that can happen when the topic just Isn’t Addressed. Someone’s sexuality or race or disability is never made a topic of horror. I’m of the opinion that those things should never be left out of horror altogether; Get Out, and certain episodes of I Am In Eskew are examples of how those things can work together without being either suffering porn or punching down. But The Magnus Archives doesn’t bring that kind of horror, and it’s honestly deeply reassuring in some ways. The variation is there- the narrator is asexual, statement givers mention husbands or wives or partners, mental illness or gender issues, physical disability or just physical variation- but it’s never used against them, and it’s never used to scare.

Such a good range of scary things. just so much cool horrible nasty things are you kidding me

Horrible anglerfish things that dangle empty people-shape lures at you. Walking masses of disease and worms. The entire concept of entropy. Doors that open into corridors that only turn right forever and ever and ever. Spiders!!!!! Living shadow dark things. The man who met The War. Caves that want to keep you down in the dirt forever. Endless sky in all directions. Books that Can And Will do so much worse than kill you.

there’s something here for everyone and it’s such a good time

#Anonymous #The Magnus Archives #tma

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ncfan-1 · 6 years ago

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ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives: S4 EP122, ‘Zombie’

Well, it turned out that I was wrong, and that the first episode of Season Four did not take place in medias res, though I still think the teaser with Martin they dropped on us took place before ‘Far Away.’ Anyways, we have another parallel for Jon, another warning about just how bad things can get if he doesn’t get a handle on himself, we have the messy and ambiguous question of just what is it that separates a human from a monster, and we get the news that unspecified Bad Shit went down in the Archives while Jon was in his supernatural coma.

Come hear my disorganized thoughts on The Magnus Archives!

- It would seem that Georgie did indeed recognize Oliver as an avatar of the End; I really do think this is a matter of like recognizing like. The fact that Basira didn’t press her further when Georgie replied to her “How do you automatically recognize an avatar of the End?” with “That’s really none of your business” is about the only moment we had with Basira that didn’t worry me on some level. That she didn’t follow up on this with demands for more information, badgering Georgie until she told her what she’d once told Jon, shows that she isn’t yet so deeply entangled with the Eye that she would feel compelled to follow that thread until she’d reached the source. But throughout the rest of the episode, Basira seems… I can’t tell what it is, if she just seems very disconnected from everything going on around her, or if she’s just on her guard with Jon, because she can’t yet tell if Jon still is Jon.

There’s apparently been a lot of bad stuff going on at the Archives in general while Jon was in a coma. Basira doesn’t seem to be doing so great herself.

- It’s unclear if Oliver brought the tape recorder Georgie found, or if it just materialized out of thin air. Given how increasingly overtly paranormal the tape recorders are, the latter explanation wouldn’t shock me.

- We’ll find out later that there’s something up with Melanie (same as there is with everyone, really), but that Basira intercepted Georgie’s attempts to make contact with Melanie, and seems to have refused Georgie access to her, suggests that there really is something seriously wrong with Melanie. Basira’s seemed protective of Melanie for a while, and I get the impression that she didn’t want to expose Melanie to anything that might… “destabilize” her. I worry that Melanie’s pre-existing pull towards the Slaughter might have intensified over the past six months: her anger feeding its hold over her, its hold over her feeding her anger, a vicious cycle that just goes on and on until she’s too constantly furiously angry and erratic to cope.

- …And they’ve found another tape recorder on the floor, possibly under the bed.

- Jon decides to let Georgie and Basira know he’s awake… by scaring the crap out of them. Or scaring the crap out of Basira and startling the crap out of Georgie, anyways. Oh, Jon.

- That Jon recovers so quickly from having been in a coma, “everything but brain dead” for six months really isn’t natural, and Georgie, at least, loathes the implications of it. So do I, to be honest. I knew Jon finding the impetus to wake up would come with a price, except the other shoe hasn’t dropped yet. Listen carefully in the episodes ahead, everyone.

- “Jon, is it still you?” That is the question of the century, isn’t it? Because Jon still sounds like himself, and you can make several different arguments for his lack of deep, emotional reactions to all the news he receives over the course of the episode. You can argue that he’s still very weak from having been in a coma for half a year and can’t dredge up emotions. You can argue that he gets hit with so much bad news at once that he just can’t process most of it, and the reason the only thing he really latches on to is what’s happening with Martin is because he actually has something resembling a concrete idea of the danger he’s in. You can argue that he just doesn’t want to run away with his emotions, since when he does that, bad things tend to happen.

But what gets me is his relative lack of reaction when Basira mentions Melanie being in a bad way. Unless I am very much mistaken, Jon freaked out when he first learned Melanie had been shot in India, and their only relationship back then was that of two people who occasionally met up to shout at each other. I’m worried that his knee-jerk protective reaction to the news that Peter Lukas is doing something with or to Martin was just due to the influence of the Beholding, making its avatar respond to a threat to another of its adherents.

And what else gets me is his apparent lack of concern for Basira herself. I do think there’s a chance that Basira is just refusing to drop her guard around Jon, since it’s at best highly unclear if he’s still himself and the monsters around these parts can seem very human, up until the moment when they open their mouth and let all their fangs show. But she spends the episode sounding very zoned out, very distant. To me, it sounds like the Beholding has definitely been having an effect on her, and Jon? Just doesn’t seem to care very much. And the worst part is, that can’t automatically be taken as a sign of Jon having changed, because Jon has always been the Asshole in Charge at the Magnus Institute. For as long as we’ve known him, he’s always been that guy who has a hard time understanding other people’s emotions and remembering why he should care about them. He was the guy who had no problem telling Naomi Herne to her face that she probably imagined everything that happened to her, the guy who had no problem constantly bad-mouthing Martin when he had to have known there was a chance Martin could listen to the tapes and hear him saying all this horrible shit, the guy who didn’t see anything wrong with stalking Tim, the guy who early on had no problem dismissing every last thing a statement-giver said as hallucinations or lies unless it was something related to his trauma. Jon’s always been a bit of a self-centered asshole, so him being a bit of a self-centered asshole now doesn’t necessarily indicate anything.

After finding out that Basira just happened to grab a statement on the way out the door of the Institute, after discovering that Jon’s first impulse upon waking up is to go ahead and feed the beast (I see that addiction is still running strong), and finding out that Jon no longer calls himself ‘Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute,’ but simply ‘The Archivist,’ all very reassuring signs (how long before Jon stops even sticking his name in before ‘The Archivist?’), we get into the statement.

- Lorell St. John provides us with another parallel and potential foil for Jonathan Sims. From the beginning, she is positioned as such, as a person who is disconnected from other people, has a hard time thinking about and visualizing their feelings, and is fond of animals. She’s someone who acts like other people don’t exist, or matter, which does sound a bit like Jon.

- There’s something St. John says about the difficulties of making sense of the world and the universe, saying that [paraphrased] “it’s all rubbish, people trying to think the universe into making sense,” feels like commentary on the Powers. Was it Jonny Sims who said that anyone who thinks they know what’s going on with the Powers is dead wrong?

- St. John is introduced by a friend (I entertained the possibility that Danielle was St. John’s girlfriend, but to be honest she sounds so disconnected that I can’t see her as being able to put in the work required to maintain a close relationship with anyone) to the concept of the “philosophical zombie.” The philosophical zombie is someone who appears outwardly human, but inside is empty; they have no inner life, they can’t feel anything, and any attempt to pretend otherwise is all just an act. It is, as Danielle says, just a thought experiment, but St. John becomes obsessed with the idea, and eventually becomes convinced that an increasingly large number of the people around her (by the time she gets to the Institute, it seems to have spread to everyone around her) is not a real person, but is in fact one of these zombies: an empty thing that apes humanity, but can only ever pretend to be a person.

Eventually, this delusion seems to have attracted the attention of one of the Powers, which sent an agent out to harass her. @centaurianthropology thinks it was the Spiral; myself, I’m torn between the Spiral and the Stranger. Visual and auditory hallucinations are definitely part of the Spiral’s purview, but to me, there’s the matter of St. John’s specific delusion, the thing that drew this agent to her. Her delusion was that the people around her weren’t actually people, but inhuman, uncanny things that pretended (in her opinion, badly) to be human. To me, that has the Stranger written all over it. I think what complicates it is that there is potential for the two Powers to bleed into each other when it comes to St. John’s delusion, so really, it could be either one. The fact that the agent doesn’t really do anything, just keeps repeating the same phrase over and over again, seems more indicative of the Spiral to me. I think an agent of the Stranger would have actually tried to do something to her.

(And personally, something about the agent, the changing colors of his shirt, I think, reminds me of the coffee billboard from ‘Fatigue,’ and that was definitely a Spiral statement.)

- The cruel experiments St. John carries out on her roommate whom she had become convinced is a zombie, slicing him with a knife and later killing his pet, which she feels no remorse for because she feels that he is not real, serves as a warning for Jon, of where he could end up if he doesn’t try to remain engaged with humanity, doesn’t keep reminding himself that other people do matter. I personally interpret it in a very particular way, based on my own experiences.

I am someone who does not have the easiest time interpreting my own emotions, let alone the emotions of others. I have thoughts, but I don’t automatically connect them with emotions. I have physical reactions, but I don’t automatically connect them with emotions. I have to work at figuring out and understanding what other people are feeling, and though I do try to figure it out, sometimes they’re just incomprehensible to me. As you might have gathered, I have issues with cognitive empathy.

St. John exhibits a lack of both empathy and sympathy with how she engages with the world, neither understanding people’s feelings nor caring about their feelings, and to me, the latter is a lot more inherently dangerous than the former. It’s one thing to not understand how other people feel, to have difficulty putting yourself in their shoes. It’s another thing to either be able to put yourself in someone else’s shoes with no difficulty, and decide that you just don’t care about their feelings, that their feelings don’t matter to you at all, for no other reason than because you can.

For Jon, there’s a lot more danger to not caring than not understanding. And I think he may be on the verge of falling down that rabbit hole now, and never coming out.

- When the question of what separates a human from a monster is raised, we aren’t given an answer—and to be honest, I’m not sure there’s any answer that can neatly delineate humans and monsters in a way that completely separates the two from each other. We hear of many people in the real world whom we consider monsters, but in the universe of The Magnus Archives, are completely human in makeup. You have people deeply entangled with the Powers showing signs of caring for others, to a certain extent. The child Agnes Montague saved a boy she barely knew from becoming a spider egg sac. Gertrude may have treated the people around her as pawns, to be used and discarded at will, but she cared enough about the world in a general sense to want to keep it from being warped and mutilated by the ascension of any one of the Powers, including the one she was tied to. We see Distortion-Helen grappling with feelings she doesn’t recognize as guilt. There is no one overwhelming criteria that makes someone human, or a monster. In a world where humans are capable of doing horrific things and monsters are capable of feeling guilt, you can’t point to any one thing as being the thing that absolutely 100% of the time separates them.

And I don’t think we have any real answer for the question of at what point a human is no longer a human, and has become completely monstrous. Because that is a completely internal measure, and none of us have a hotline into anyone’s minds but our own. I think that Jon is still recognizably human right now, but that he’s less human than he was before he left to stop the Unknowing. And I think that, if Jon is no longer human by the end of the series, if he has become completely monstrous, we’ll all be at a complete loss to pinpoint the exact moment that it happened. After all, at what point was Jane Prentiss no longer Jane Prentiss? Was it when the worms had eaten her eyes and her tongue and she could only see because of the Filth’s influence, only speak because of its influence? Was it when she thrust her arm into the wasp’s nest and the worms first burrowed into her flesh? Was it when she fell under the sway of their song? Or was it when she was a grade schooler, listening to one of her classmates talk about how a blackhead is a hole in your face that you have to keep clean, or else it will spread and your whole head will rot?

A final note in all of this: Jon’s voice becomes considerably stronger over the course of reading the statement. At the beginning, he’s hoarse and weak, but by the end, he sounds as if he was never in a coma at all. Just something to chew on.

- As I mentioned up above, we have it from Basira that Bad Shit has been going down at the Archives. It seems that having Peter Lukas in charge has not been good for the Institute or the people working in it, though we don’t have any specifics as of yet. Apparently Martin’s been engaging in off-the-books work with him, and again, no specifics, though I can’t imagine it’s anything good. The ‘Martin is a secret Lukas’ theory might be gaining increasing amounts of traction this season, might even be confirmed. Melanie’s not doing well. Tim is confirmed dead and people think Daisy is dead as well, though I personally think Basira might know more than she’s letting on as regards to Daisy, and doesn’t trust Jon with the information.

And something happened to the change of clothes Jon keeps in the Institute that rendered them unwearable. It’s been an action-packed six months. I personally wonder about that. There’s a lot of people in the supernatural community who’d have a lot of reason to have a grudge against the Magnus Institute. Learning that Elias is in prison and the Archivist who replaced Gertrude is out of commission might have made them decide the Institute was too vulnerable a target to be ignored. I suppose we’ll find out next week.

#ncfan listens to The Magnus Archives

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singingwordwright · 7 years ago

Link

Gorgeous cover art courtesy of @beyondthehunt Originally betaed by @roseglass with some final (eventual) copy-editing by @bonibaru

A Separate Peace (sequel to One Easy Answer) a Malec AU by @maleccrazedauthor

(Also on AO3)

Chapters: 9/28 Word Count: 104,900 Rating: Mature Premise: Arranged Marriage AU, Canon Divergent starting at Ep 1x12

(Please See Chapter List for Notes and Summary)

Alec tried to smile as Maryse’s face filled the screen of his tablet, but he couldn’t quite pull it off. This was probably the most recklessly impolitic call of his short tenure as Head of the New York Institute, but he wasn’t sure what other options he had.

“Mother. Thanks for taking the time to schedule this call.”

Maryse smiled, a little wistfully, it seemed. “We shouldn’t need to make an appointment to talk to each other, Alec. I’m sorry if I’ve made you feel that was the case. Are you—” she broke off, her brows drawing together. “Are you in your room?”

“Yeah.” He grimaced. “Inquisitor Herondale has commandeered my office while she looks into these reports of the Mortal Mirror being in New York.”

“Ah.” Maryse nodded in understanding. “I see. How are Max and Isabelle doing?”

“Izzy’s fine. She’s recovering, but the medics have her taking a few days of limited duty despite her protests. And Max is…incredibly determined that he’s ready to go on missions.”

“Well, so were Jace and Isabelle at his age,” Maryse said fondly. “And you, of course, insisted you had to be out there to watch over them.”

Alec ducked his head with a sheepish smile. “Well, until Izzy’s cleared by the medics, he’s training with a new transfer from the London Institute who’s still awaiting clearance for field work. I’ve got Clary training along with him; they’re pretty evenly matched in terms of skill at this point. Once Izzy’s on her feet, I’ll have her put Max through his paces for a few weeks, see how he does.”

“She’ll certainly make a demanding trainer. And, um, how are things with your marriage?” Maryse swallowed visibly, but Alec couldn’t tell if it was nervousness at approaching the subject, or distaste for it. It was hard to tell on the small tablet screen, but Alec was actually inclined to believe it to be the former. Her tone lacked the derision he would associate with the latter.

“It’s going well. Really well. Look, Mom, I know you’re leery about Magnus, but I’d like you to try to keep an open mind. The gossip you’ve heard—that’s not him.” Alec pursed his lips. “Okay, well, some of it is, but there’s more to him. You need to trust my judgment on this. Try to get to know him.”

“That might not be as easy as you’d like to believe,” Maryse said with a rueful smile. “Admittedly, when your father and I ran the Institute, we simply steered clear of Magnus, and I suspect he made a similar effort to avoid dealing with us. But that doesn’t mean we never encountered him.” She drew a deep breath. “Before we were assigned to New York. Do you understand?”

“You had run-ins with him when you were part of the Circle.” Something thudded in the pit of Alec’s stomach. “How bad?”

“Frankly? Terrible.” Maryse gave him a bleak look. “Especially one Circle raid that went bad. t was possibly the worst thing we ever did. The Clave covered it up, ignored and disbelieved Magnus’s testimony when told them what happened. Had justice truly been served, if they had listened to him, we might have been deruned and exiled—maybe even executed—before the Uprising ever took place.”

“He hasn’t said anything about it.” Alec looked away from the screen, gulping. “He probably doesn’t want me to think he’s trying to turn me against you.”

“If so, that’s kind of him,” Maryse suggested. “But there’s no way he could ever make it sound worse than it really was.”

Alec blew out a breath. There was a part of him that wanted to know, to unbury these things and bring them to light. And part of him wasn’t sure who exactly it would help now, almost twenty years later.

“So you can see why he may not be willing to consider getting any more familiar than necessary with me or your father. He’s perfectly justified in feeling that way, if that’s the case.”

“Maybe that makes it even more important for you to talk to him sometime,” Alec said after a moment of thought. “He knows who you used to be, not who you are now. Maybe he should.”

“Perhaps,” she conceded. “Really, though, I’m still figuring out for myself who I am now, and what I believe. And even once I manage that, I have no right to...to force a connection upon him. If one day he’s willing, I’d be happy to try to understand one another better, but for now I think you have your hands full with a much more important Downworld/Shadowhunter alliance.”

“That actually brings us to the reason I needed to talk to you.” Alec shifted in his chair, adjusting the tablet to get back into the camera’s range. “Look, I know the Inquisitor works outside politics to a large degree, but she’s not entirely immune to political influence. I have a firm, unambiguous commitment from the Seelies, and also the werewolves, to agree to my treaty if I can get Valentine’s trial held here in New York so that their people can see him facing justice.”

Maryse blinked. “An unambiguous promise from the Seelies?”

Alec nodded with an incredulous huff. “I know, I couldn’t believe it either. Meliorn said it without any equivocation; the Seelies will sign the treaty if I get Valentine’s trial moved to New York.”

“But the Inquisitor has refused, which is probably the catch the Seelies were banking on.” She frowned thoughtfully. “Did Imogen give any reason?”

“She cited security concerns initially, but it was obvious her real objection was the idea of kowtowing to the Downworld.”

The video on the tablet jostled as Maryse moved and then settled again. “If this goes before the Clave, she’s not going to be alone in that opinion.”

“I know. But the unrest is spreading to other cities. We can’t be the only Institute concerned about a possible war. The entire shadow world is looking at New York. How we handle this could be the template used all around the globe.”

“You’ve become such a forward thinker.” Maryse smiled, her eyes shining. “When did that happen, and why did I ever imagine I should suppress it?” She shook her head and composed her face. “Anyway, you’re right. I’ve been working closely with the Penhallows and the Branwells and their various allies on establishing a defined leftist platform within the Clave, with an emphasis on cooperation with the Downworld. Many of the Institutes, particularly those with younger leadership, are aligning with us. I believe we can bring some political pressure to bear, though of course I can’t promise the Clave will ultimately agree to your proposal.”

Alec nodded. “Of course not, but it’s worth the effort. This might be the only hope we have of making this treaty happen.”

“Then I’ll see what I can do,” she promised. “Give me a few days to get the gears moving and I’ll give you an update.”

The gleam in her eye was familiar, and Alec found himself sitting straighter before he even realized he’d done so. That was the look of Maryse Lightwood determined to make something happen. But for once, Alec didn’t need to fear it.

“Thanks, Mom.”

On the far side of the lab, Clary sat atop a low filing cabinet, swinging her legs. She was far enough away that she wouldn’t contaminate any of Izzy’s samples, but still close enough to gossip.

“So, the way you and Jace glomped onto each other when you first got here was just the angel blood?” Izzy asked dubiously, then fell silent to count droplets as they fell from her pipette into a test tube.

“I guess?” Clary said, a shrug in her tone. “I mean, it’s more than that too. But, like, when I got here, I was totally lost, you know? My mom gone, Luke gone, my home gone, finding out I was a Shadowhunter, Valentine hunting me…” She sighed. “I think I sort of…imprinted on him. Like a baby duckling or something, following him around, waiting for him to guide me.”

zzy lowered both pipette and tube to look over at Clary, arching an eyebrow. “Please, like you’ve ever once in your life let anyone guide you. Let’s be real.”

Clary ducked her head, chuckling. “Okay, fine, so I might have been a very stubborn and opinionated baby duckling, but you get what I’m saying, right?”

“I do, though I wouldn’t mention the duck analogy to Jace, if I were you.” Izzy gentled her tone and turned back to preparing her samples. “He was the closest thing you had to stable ground when your entire world was knocked off its foundation. It makes sense.” Easing the tube into a warmer, she set the timer and turned away, taking off her safety goggles. “That’s the thing about chemistry; you assume if you have it with someone then that’s all it takes. But sometimes it changes when your circumstances do. It doesn’t work anymore.”

“Yeah.” Clary nodded, looking wistful. “It’s just weird, because I don’t know where that leaves us. First we were crazy drawn to each other, but then we were brother and sister. And then, just as soon as we’d started learning to navigate that, we found out we weren’t and it was okay to start dating. So now I’ve got this person in my life whom I adore, who feels like he’s very literally a part of me, just...not that part. I have no context for who he is to me now. He’s not my brother, we’ve never actually tried to be friends, he’s not working out as my boyfriend, he’s just…Jace.”

“Maybe that’s all he needs to be,” Izzy said, folding her arms across her chest as she leaned against the lab table. “Here’s the thing, Clary: no one has a context for who you and Jace are to each other. Who he is to me? That’s easy. He’s my brother. Adoptive, yes, but still my brother. Who he is to Alec? Also easy—as long as you’re a Shadowhunter and you understand the whole parabatai thing. Those relationships have a history and a definition in our culture. The connection you and Jace share…doesn’t. It’s unique to the pair of you—which means you two can shape it however you want. Romantic, fraternal, platonic, whatever. It’s all up to you.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Clary smiled, clearly satisfied with this notion, then changed the subject. “So what about you? Any prospects now that you’re recovering and looking incredible?”

Izzy smiled, shaking her head. “I don’t know, really. Before Raphael and I had our…accident…I was sort of starting to think there was something there. The thing is, we were both so hooked on each other that—I don’t know. We agreed to stay away from each other, but then I was doing so much better than I thought I should call him again, see if we could figure it out.”

“But now that you’re back to Square One?”

“Not quite Square One, thanks to Sebastian, but close enough that it’s probably not a great idea.”

Clary’s brows pulled together. “Is it really that—I mean, I was with Simon after his dad died, when his mom’s drinking got really bad, but I don’t know anything about yin fen. How are you doing, really?”

Izzy reached down, gripping the edge of the table. “I no longer feel like I’m going to die if I don’t get a vampire bite, so that’s good. That’s enough to keep me in control. But the…the feeling of it, I still crave that.”

“When Camille kidnapped Simon, Jace told me if he was bitten, he’d feel like he was in love.”

“Right. Vampire venom mostly works by replicating the effects of certain hormones that can make you feel good or high, like adrenaline and serotonin,” she explained. “The hallucinogenic and delusional effects seen in Shadowhunters having a venom reaction are caused by its similarities to high levels of dopamine; that doesn’t seem to happen as much to mundanes. But the hormone vampire venom mimics most powerfully is oxytocin. That’s the one responsible for affection, trust, social bonding. Most people get a bit of it just by physical touching, there’s a lot of it released in childbirth and when nursing babies. Lovers get a hit of it during sex, which is why people can be inclined to make emotional declarations in the middle of sex that it turns out they don’t mean the next day.”

Clary grinned. “So, like, a really great orgasm times a hundred?”

“Exactly.” Izzy nodded. “That’s the sort of feeling a mundane gets when bitten by a vampire. Double that for Nephilim. It just feels…wonderful. Amazing. Safe, even when you know you’re courting death.” Izzy cleared her throat and looked away, swallowing against a surge of longing so powerful it made her want to weep. “I should probably stop talking about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Clary murmured.

“No, you did nothing wrong,” Izzy said, waving off the apology. “You just asked how I’m doing. I’m the one who went off on the tangent, which I’m sure is telling me something about how dangerous my situation is right now. It’s like an itch at the back of my mind, wanting that feeling again. Right now it’s really irritating, but in time it will get better.”

“So seeing Raphael again is a bad idea,” Clary noted.

“So bad. Which is a shame, because I think I really liked him. He was…a gentleman, in that old school way immortal men seem to be sometimes.”

“I wasn’t able to appreciate it at the time, but for the most part, he was incredibly decent about Simon,” Clary mused. “Do you think in the future it would be safe to be with him?”

“Maybe. I don’t know. Maybe we’d always be courting disaster, or maybe once I’m stronger we could make it work. I need to think on it. And possibly explore other options in the meantime.”

“Oh?” Clary’s eyebrows went up and she started swinging her legs again. “Are any specific ‘other options’ on your radar?”

Izzy drummed her fingers on the edge of the stainless steel table. “Once I’m cleared to leave the Institute, I was thinking of seeing if Lydia wanted to get a drink sometime. Would that be weird?” she asked, frowning. “I mean, even if it was just political, she did almost marry my brother. But I never really thanked her for what she did for me—or Alec. Nor did I apologize to her for the way I treated her in the beginning.”

Clary smirked. “Really? You’re asking me if a relationship is weird or not?”

“Right. Scratch that.” Izzy turned back to her equipment, smiling.

“So what is this you’re working on?” Clary asked. “I thought you were on restricted duty.”

“I am,” Izzy sighed, craning her neck to try to stretch out the kinks that came with lab work. “Until the medics are convinced I won’t sneak away to the nearest vampire lair if I leave the Institute. This is strictly a personal project.”

“So what is it?”

“Something I started a few months ago and then got sidetracked from.” The timer dinged and she slipped her safety glasses back on, turning away from Clary and back to the lab equipment. “After Valentine said he was Jace’s father, I figured someone should confirm that, so I took a cheek swab from Jace and I was going to run the DNA, along with yours. But that was the week of Alec’s wedding to Lydia. I put it off for a few days, but then we lost Jace and it was one thing after another until, by the time I could run the analysis, I was hooked on yin fen. And once I had detoxed, we knew Valentine wasn’t Jace’s father after all so it didn’t seem to matter.”

“And now?” Clary asked, waiting patiently while Izzy measured the next reagent and put the test tube in the centrifuge.

“Now we don’t really know who Jace is anymore,” Izzy said. “He could still be Michael Wayland’s son, but we’re not sure. The Clave keeps a DNA database of all Nephilim bloodlines. Our genealogy can get a bit confused because of all the adoptive relationships we form, and also because sometimes a Shadowhunter will choose to be deruned so they can marry a mundane. We can usually keep track of them and their children for a couple generations, but ever so often we come across someone like—well, like you. A Nephilim who was raised as a mundane. When that happens, we aren’t always capable of reconstructing their lineage to figure out which family they’re descended from.”

“So you’re going to find Jace’s biological family.” Clary gave her a delighted grin. “That’s amazing. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Just keep me company. It’s a long, tedious process and honestly, and I wasn’t sure if the angel blood would affect the results. Turns out that’s the least of my worries. I’m actually running it a second time now because the results from the first run suggest possibilities that I need to be certain about before I tell anyone.”

“Like what?”

Izzy sighed. “Jace’s mitochondrial DNA—the DNA from his mother—would indicate he’s related to the Montclaires. All descendants of their bloodline are accounted for, though. One of the Montclaires, Céline, was a Circle member, which could be how Valentine pulled off his angel-blood experiment. But according to her file, she killed herself while she was still pregnant.”

“How pregnant?” Clary asked with the same trepidation Izzy felt considering the question.

“Very. I know. I considered that too: maybe Valentine staged her death and performed a c-section to get the baby. It’d make total sense.”

“If you’re a genocidal madman,” Clary muttered.

“Well, yes.” Izzy shrugged. “With the mother dead, and the baby supposedly dead, raising Jace in isolation meant there would be no one to question any…unique abilities Jace might have exhibited, the way Jocelyn did with your brother.” Izzy sighed and turned off the centrifuge. “The problem, though, is who Céline’s husband was: Stephen Herondale.”

Clary’s eyes widened. “The Inquisitor’s son?”

“Now you know why I need to be absolutely sure.” She pulled the test tube out of the centrifuge and held it up, eyeing the precipitate before getting to work on extracting it. “Jace’s Y-chromosome DNA—which a male only gets from his father—says he’s a Herondale, so that tracks. But say this second run confirms the results—what then? The Herondale’s are like—”

“—Shadowhunter royalty, from what I hear.”

“Close enough,” Izzy said with a shrug. “Imogen doesn’t like Jace. He’s cocky and defiant. She doesn’t trust him because, even though he’s not Valentine’s son, he was still raised by Valentine. So if I tell Jace about this first, and he tries to tell the Inquisitor, she may reject him or refuse to believe him. He’d be crushed.”

Clary sighed. “That’s the last thing he needs. He’s just starting to get his feet under him again after the Soul Sword thing.”

“Exactly. Of course, it’s also possible that if I tell Jace about this, he might decide not to approach Herondale at all, because that’s just the sort of noble, self-punishing thing he’d do. That’s not fair, though. He deserves whatever birthright being a Herondale might entail.” She glanced over to see Clary’s nod. “I could tell the Inquisitor myself, but that takes the choice away from Jace. I’m not sure that’s fair, either.”

“Maybe we could find some sort of independent confirmation?” Clary proposed.

“Confirmation of what?” Izzy turned and smiled at Sebastian, who stood in the doorway of the lab, the sleeves of his large sweater pushed up his arms and a curious smile on his face.

Clary glanced at Izzy rather than speaking, asking silently whether it was all right to gossip about Jace in front of him. She’d only met Sebastian a couple times, while Izzy knew him better.

On one hand, with Sebastian keeping the secret of her yin fen addiction, Izzy had no reason not to consider him trustworthy. On the other hand, this wasn’t really her secret to share with anyone who wasn’t as close to Jace as Clary was.

“We’re trying to track down Jace’s biological family now that we know he’s not Valentine’s son,” she explained, opting for the truth without going into detail.

Sebastian folded his arms over his chest, leaning against the door jamb. “Have you searched Valentine’s belongings?”

“Except for Magnus’s book of counter-spells, everything Valentine had with him when he attacked the Institute went to Idris as evidence when we transferred him,” Clary said.

“Of course, but I meant from his hideouts. Wherever those may have been.” Sebastian frowned thoughtfully. “I admit, I don’t know much about Valentine, but surely if he was raising the descendant of someone else’s bloodline, he’d want to be able to leverage that if it ever became necessary. I mean, you always stick by family, right?” he added with a smile at Izzy.

Clary’s mouth dropped open as she met Izzy’s eyes, her swinging legs going still. The same stillness came over Izzy as all the implications started to sink in. Suddenly the idea of Valentine stealing a Herondale child came with a whole new array of problems.

Shadowhunter royalty, indeed.

“Right,” Izzy agreed faintly.

“In order to do that, Valentine would need proof secreted away somewhere. Wouldn’t you think?” Sebastian glanced back and forth between her and Clary, his brows lifting.

“We searched every known hideout here in New York after he vacated or was captured,” Clary said, though she continued to stare at Izzy, trying to communicate…something.

“What about Idris?” Sebastian asked. “I’m sure Valentine’s properties were searched thoroughly after the Circle uprising, but they might not have known to look for anything related to…a situation like this. And Valentine raised Jace while portraying himself Michael Wayland, living on the Wayland estate, did he not?”

“Except for Valentine, no one would know his haunts in Idris better than Jace,” Clary said, hopping off her table.

“You’ll need permission to portal to Idris,” Izzy cautioned her. “Unauthorized travel is forbidden.”

Sebastian smiled and stepped back from the doorway. “I’ll let you two get on with it, then,” he said, and walked away.

Clary stepped close and dropped her voice. “Izzy, I think we need to tell Inquisitor Herondale what you’ve found. I know you want to leave it up to Jace, but this secret is a weapon in Valentine’s hands. Sooner or later, he’s going to try to cash in on it to get something he wants, just like Sebastian said. We need to take it away from him. Jace will understand that.”

“You’re right.” Izzy nodded slowly. “She needs to know why you want permission to travel to Idris anyway. Go talk to Jace. I’ll finish running the DNA a second time to confirm my findings, then I’ll get Alec and we can all see her together.”

Clary laughed a little bitterly. “Probably better if I’m not in on that meeting. If there’s one person the Inquisitor trusts less than the boy Valentine raised, it’s the biological daughter he never had a thing to do with.”

“She just doesn’t know you like we do,” Izzy said gently, unable to reach out to touch Clary with her gloves on. “Go on. Go do what you need to do.”

On to Chapter 10!

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#shadowhunters #malec #fanfic #my fics #a separate peace #sequel to #one easy answer #a separate peace ch9

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