#not that ��audio opperior vigilo’ stuff

[spiralling-spires]

Being jurgen leitner the day that gerry almost killed him was probably really surreal. Imagine you’re minding your business, collecting fucked up books, and out of nowhere this goth guy covered in eye tattoos shows up and beats you half to death, then stops, goes, “no you’re too pathetic to be jurgen leitner” and leaves without further elaboration. And you dont correct him, you like being alive after all, and after that you just… continue with your life. And then several years later you tell this to some random guy in the tunnels you’ve been hiding in, and he not only knows who the goth was, but seems somewhat fond of the goth. And then you get brutal pipe murdered by the random guy’s boss. Oops

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Corrupted, chapter eleven: Swap - a Malevolent x TMA crossover

Tim experiments.

Jon believes.

Hastur wins.

Chapter 11 of Corrupted, a Malevolent x TMA crossover.

AO3

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

They step outside into gloom; the sun has long set. Tim winces. “I’m not getting that report to Detective Spooky on time. Oops.”

We shouldn’t need to, if Bouchard is true to his word.

“I’m putting a lot of faith in a couple of old dudes who ignored me to my face,” says Tim.

Hastur huffs. You are putting faith in me. That is all you need to do.

Tim rolls his eyes.

“I’m… sorry, what?” says Jon.

“Pardon,” says Tim. “Talking to my resident bossy ghost.”

Bossy ghost!

“Anyway, I just realized we’re being brilliant! We’ll just go investigate whatever the Eyeball priest wants us to in the dark. This can’t possibly go wrong.”

Jon is still struggling to catch up. “Eyeball priest?”

“Elias. He’s not pretending to be anything else, is he?” Tim stares at the torn-out notebook paper. “Wait a minute, he wants us to go to Cornwall?”

“Cornwall?” says Jon. “That’s hours south.”

“Then he wants us to go to Edinburgh?” says Tim. “Edinburgh?”

“And that’s over three hundred miles north,” Jon says. 

“Am I supposed to be losing them literally instead of with evidence, or something? Jon… can you remember exactly what he said?”

“That these six locations would get the police off your tail.” And Jon visibly tries not to ask, and just as visibly loses that battle. “Why are the police after you?”

“The guy inside me,” says Tim. “Those Fear things want to eat him, and they sent monsters to my house and trashed the place trying to find us. Police know whatever happened there is distinctly off, but I’m not exactly going to tell them ‘oh, you know, madness monsters, same old, same old,’ so they’re looking to pin it on me.”

“That’s terrible.” Jon’s eyes are huge. “Wait. They want to eat the thing inside you? Do these Fears always eat their own?”

“No. He’s not the same as them. He’s apparently some kind of… god?”

‘Some kind?’ Tim. Really.

“You have a god inside you.” And this, of all things, has flipped Jon’s skepticism switch. "A god."

“Yep!” said Tim. “He says he is, anyway.”

Says?

“Hm,” says Jon, putting a word of disbelief into the sound. It’s an amazing sound, absolutely dry and intellectually dismissive and desperately lacking confidence, and Tim wants to wrap him in a blanket and give him an ice cream. 

Apparently, Hastur does not want to do that. I would cause him such pain if I could. While screaming, he would believe me.

“Oh, shit, that escalated quickly,” says Tim. “Look, Elias believes this guy’s a god.”

“Well, Elias believes all of it,” counters Jon.

“All of what?”

“All of it. Do you understand what we do here, Tim?” says Jon.

“Supernatural… stuff?” Tim posits.

“We collect knowledge. Personal testimony in the form of statements, and information on eye-witnessed esoteric events. We then research what we can, finding empirical evidence to back up or disprove any claim. We are not, however, paranormal investigators.” Jon sniffs. “You will not find our research on YouTube, no matter how excellent it is—and it is excellent. The Institute’s motto is, ‘vigilo, opperior, audio,’ which means ‘I watch, I wait, I listen.’ We are a true repository of the arcane, and together with our sister institutes in China and the United States, we preserved knowledge that would otherwise be lost for its sibylline and highly improbable nature.”

“So… supernatural stuff,” says Tim after a moment.

“Fine, yes, I suppose,” says Jon.

He’s an ass, says Hastur.

He’s adorable, Tim thinks. “And Elias believes it all, you say?”

“He insisted to me that everything in the Archives is real.”

Tim stares. “All the stuff that’s spread all over the place down there? That seems a little upsetting.”

Jon’s face twitches. “It is, isn’t it? At least I know the library isn’t all true.”

“That’s where you worked, right?” Tim says. 

“Yes. I dug up background information on the stories there. I would say at least ninety-eight percent of it was complete hogwash.”

“So two percent was true.”

Jon hesitates. Swallows hard. Nods. “Yes. Undeniably. I believe that two percent would stand up in any court of law.”

If you don’t shut him up, Tim, I am going to fucking blast him through you.

“Geez, Hastur, chill,” says Tim. 

“What?” says Jon.

“He’s being scary.” Tim rolls his eyes.

“Hastur?” says Jon.

We are wasting time. Tim, you hardly need to spend hours on a train. We can make a portal to the towns in question.

“Uh, no, we can’t,” says Tim. “I really don’t feel like going and getting all those weird tools again.”

“Did you say Hastur?” repeats Jon.

“Yeah, Hastur. And no, I can’t make a portal. I’m not going shopping again.”

It would be worth the effort, Tim. We could be in Cornwall in moments.

“Excuse me.” Jon abruptly runs back into the Institute.

Tim blinks after him. “Right, well, guess I drove him off. Oops.”

Tim. Let’s do it. Leave right now.

“We’re waiting. I’m pretty sure he’ll come back.”

We should not wait. He will be nothing but a danger to us. He’ll slow us down.

Tim stretches, pacing a little under the sodium street lights. “What is your problem with him? I like him. He’s a little nerd. And obviously, he can run really fast, at least over short distances, so I don’t think slowing us down is an issue.”

Tim. Portal. Now.

“Buy a guy dinner first, would you?” says Tim. 

Tim.

“You’re the one getting commanding. Just relax. That guy can see threats we didn’t notice, and I’m not leaving without him.”

Fine. It clearly is not fine. Have you been to Cornwall? 

“Yeah?”

Can you clearly picture a location there?

Tim has a bad feeling about this. “Yeeeah?”

If you can see it clearly, then we should be able to do this without an issue once you gather what we need. You will focus on that spot, trying to see it from all angles, if possible, and say, Y' mgahnnn nglui, which means, I open the door.

“This seems really risky, Hastur. What if—”

Jon comes banging back out again, skids to a stop, locks the door behind him, then runs down the stairs. “Ah-HA!” he says, holding up a folder.

Ugh. What’s he doing now?

“He’s got a yellow folder?” says Tim. “Sorry. Hastur can’t see you.”

“Well, this may be relevant to him,” says Jon, and hands it over.

Tim shifts so he can see it more clearly under the street light. “What’s this? It says, ‘Yang, P.: Notes and Recordings.’”

“It’s the transcription of a tape unfortunately lost, though we do have several copies dated within a week of receiving the original. This is the journal of a Peter Parker Yang, private investigator, who lived in Arkham, Massachusetts, in the United States. He experienced vivid hallucinatory dreams about a man who was taken by Hastur, the King in Yellow, and Mister Yang ended up dreaming about what happened to that poor man.”

“Fucking hell, are you serious?”

Jon adjusts his glasses. “Dead serious. I told you—we are serious researchers.”

Tim resists the urge to scratch him under the chin like a cat. “There’s a lot in here.”

“Yang dreamed all this over months of time. He recorded it; we know it’s legitimate because he described places and names he would have had no way to know about, but were confirmed via numerous other eyewitnesses both before and after his time, in multiple cultures.”

An alternate, says Hastur softly. I see. Yang received echoes via etheric resonance. 

“Alternate?” says Tim.

This was the partner of Arthur Lester in my time.

Tim is very still. “Gonna hazard a guess. Was the guy Yang dreamed about named Arthur Lester?”

Jon startles. “Yes. How did you know that? The Institute has the only copies of this.”

“He told me about Arthur. Guy’s dead.”

“Well,” Jon says, paling. “Well, he... I…” He rallies. “Of course he is! He’d be something like a hundred and ten years old by now. I just wish we’d had this Arthur’s side of it. Yang didn’t have very nice things to say about your Hastur, for the record.”

“I’ll bet he didn’t,” Tim says slowly.

Hastur rumbles. You may tell him that if he behaves, I will speak of the things he so wishes to hear. He may regret this desire afterward.

Tim feels a little like a dog-walker, trying to get growling mutts to sniff each other’s butts and get it over with. “Hastur says he’s willing to answer questions about it later.”

“Really?” Jon’s look… changes. It goes hungry, ravenous, not entirely dissimilar to the way Tonner eyed him over her desk.

Tim swallows.

“That would be truly something,” Jon says, reeling it in and adjusting his glasses.

"Sure," says Tim weakly, because what the hell was that?

If you do the portal spell, I'll answer his questions.

“Oh, it’s bribery, is it?” says Tim. “Wait a second. This is dated from the 1930s.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Right. Hastur… you’re going to have to explain the whole three thousand years gap thing.”

Simply done. It is a timeline issue.

“Doesn’t sound so simple?”

Alternate timelines converge in unusual ways. The fact that the Parker Yang of this universe picked up echoes of what happened in my universe thousands of years ago isn’t as strange as you think. When there are doubles of people—or, far rarer, people are reborn—they often pick up echoes of other versions of themselves.

Tim looks at Jon. “It’s Doctor Who rules.”

It is not Doctor Who rules. This is serious.

“Were you serious about the portal?” says Tim.

“I’m sorry,” says Jon. “But I really need to know when you’re talking to him and when you’re talking to me.”

“So you believe me now?”

“Not necessarily about him being a god, though I’m sure he thinks he is,” says Jon (and Hastur growls). “But rather that you knew a name you couldn’t possibly have known—that speaks to a source of knowledge outside the Institute, and quite specific to this case.”

“You’re really wired for this stuff, aren’t you?” says Tim.

“I love it,” says Jon quietly. “If I could do nothing but read and learn and research all day, forgoing all the annoying biological processes, that’s what I would do.”

What he is actually doing is wasting our time.

Tim sighs. “He’s demanding tonight.”

“What is he demanding?”

“He wants me to make a portal.”

“A portal? I don’t understand.”

“Like a wormhole, or something, right to Cornwall.”

“You can do that?” The hunger is back. “You can actually do that?”

“Maybe. I haven’t tried yet. I’m a little scared to. Apparently, I have magic."

Jon makes a face.

"Aw, you don’t have to make the face. I wouldn’t believe it either, except… I’ve done two spells. Successfully.”

Jon stares. “What spells?”

“I got out of some ropes I’d been tied in by exploding them. Then, I used a finding spell to locate a book—Hastur’s book—that’s been taken by… an enemy. They both worked. I didn’t expect them to.”

Jon has the most interesting look, torn between needing this to be true and needing this to be false, and it is making him seem so young. “Why were you roped—never mind that. Prove it.”

Doing some magic ought to make them both happy. “Hastur, give me a small spell. Nothing to hurt anybody. I don’t have any rope to explode, and I’m not doing the finding spell again.”

Fm'latgh, Hastur says smoothly.

“Which is?”

Fire. You can hold flame in your hand.

“Without burning myself, or setting him on fire?” Tim says. “Or anything around here on fire.”

Yes. You will literally hold flame in your hand, cupped, and nothing will burn unless you will it to. The magic responds to you, Tim. It encapsulates and enfleshes your desire. That is why you must know yourself, and be clear in head and heart. I will teach you some meditation techniques.

Tim exhales slowly. “We’re in a weird 80s movie now, I guess. Stand back a little. Gonna try something.”

Jon obediently skips five steps back.

Tim holds out his hand. He tries to imagine a tiny flame, not even match-size, in control and flickering. Focuses on this idea; refuses to let it grow, refuses to let it warm the corners of his mind. “Fm’latgh.”

Of course, the flame is big.

Not too big. It doesn't go out of control, doesn’t leap from Tim to devour Jon’s sweater vest. It is, however, not the small and subtle flame Tim imagined.

He yips and leaps backward.

Jon yips and leaps backward.

Hastur cackles like a mad old witch on testosterone.

And Tim realizes he doesn’t know how to turn it off. “Hastur! The fuck! Cancel! Stop!”

Just will it gone, Tim! You can do it. Picture it: extinguished, air gone, the flame dying out and going to black smoke above your hand, then dispersing in the wind!

Tim has always had a grand imagination, and without meaning to, he imagines snuffing it with his hand.

It goes out with a sizzle—and Tim is burned.

“Fuck!” Tim cries, shaking his hand wildly.

Easy. We can heal it.

“That… you…” Jon approaches, reaches, hesitates.

“Yeah, go ahead and look,” says Tim. “Ow. Gods, that hurts. Always forget how bad a burn hurts until you get another one. Fuck!”

Easy. Imagine your hand being healed, and say, ph'lloig. That means remember. You are telling your hand to be what it was before you burned it.

“I don’t… I mean, I guess I know my hand, but I don’t remember it exactly? Hastur, will this give me a little baby hand, or something?”

Only if you imagine yourself with one.

“Don’t think about an elephant, got it,” says Tim, mad because it hurts.

“You’re really burned,” says Jon, seriously, having apparently satisfied his need to verify a lack of wires or gadgets hidden in Tim’s skin. “Let me get the first aid kit.”

It really, really hurts. "Wait."

Use the spell. Be instantly healed.

Tim stands on a fence, balanced, unsure. 

Magic. Magic. (And his hand hurts.)

Dangerous and not yet fully controlled magic. (And his hand hurts.)

But he’s being chased by god-eaters. And gray-skinned monsters. And crazy Hunt-cops. (And his hand hurts.)

It’s risky, but it seems like learning how to control this might be the option that keeps him alive longest.

Also: magic.

“Tim?” says Jon.

Tim, says Hastur.

Tim know how it feels now: like flexing a muscle in his mind, one he was never aware of before. Except he was. He’s been using it all his life to get people to see him. Hoping they’d like him.

And he has an idea. “Hastur,” he says slowly. “Why are we using that weird language for spells?”

It is my language—the language of gods. As such, its meaning is narrowed, precise. It allows for better control of your power.

“So theoretically, I could use my own language.”

Hastur hesitates. I wouldn't. English is imprecise, relying too much on connotation and context.

“Except I’ve been doing that, haven’t I? Just by instinct,” says Tim.

It isn’t the same as what we discussed earlier. That is vague, not a precise spell; the equivalent of waving a flag, not threading a needle.

But Tim’s instinct is almost never wrong—and it’s telling him this is not what Hastur thinks. He looks at his hand (and his stomach turns because that is really burned). He remembers how his hand feels normally, just his hand, flexing and faithful and strong. Then, he whispers, “Heal.”

And he flexes that muscle.

Jon gasps.

So does Hastur.

His hand tingles, a cool wash that erases the pain, and it's repaired. He gawks at it.

“Impossible,” whispers Jon, holding Tim’s hand so close to his face that his breath tickles. “Right in front of… I saw it. I checked the wound—it was real! I still have blood on my fingertips, and—”  He touches his tongue to it.

“Ew!” says Tim.

“That’s real blood!” says Jon as if he won the lottery.

Tim starts to laugh. "I did it. I did it!"

You did, but there may be a cost.

Tim can't stop laughing. "I fucking... did you see that?"

"I saw," says Jon, and Tim realizes Jon is crying.

“Hey, uh… whoa, hey,” Tim says, eyes wide.

Jon wipes his face viciously on his shirt sleeve. “It’s real. This is real.”

“Yeah. I, uh. I’m still getting used to it,” says Tim, and laughs again. "I just did fucking magic right in the middle of London! In the year of our lord 2019!"

Jon laughs with him, weakly, and wipes his eyes again. "And I got to see it!”

Timothy, says Hastur slowly. That… means things.

“What does?” says Tim. “That I’m not what you expected?”

More than that. This isn’t gods-damned Merlin. This is something else.

“Yeah?”

“What’s he saying?” Jon is all in. “What’s he saying to you? What does he sound like? How does a god sound?”

“Hey, maybe you could hear him,” says Tim.

He can’t hear me without also hearing other disembodied beings, so I wouldn’t advise trying to perform that little feat.

“Which means you think I can do it,” says Tim.

A beat. Yes.

Jon is still leaking a little. He wipes his eyes again, then rummages and finds a handkerchief in his bag.

“So he sounds… really good, actually,” says Tim.

“Good?”

“It’s a deep voice. Resonant. You can sort of feel it, you know?”

Jon’s eyes are wide. “Feel it? But it sounds human?”

“Sort of? If I hadn’t known all of this, I’d have assumed it was some guy speaking into something. Impressive voice, good elocution—almost an American accent? Not quite? Really bossy, though.”

Tim.

“Really bossy. Like, you wouldn’t even believe.”

Tim. We need to go to Cornwall—and I think we should take the train.

Hastur sounds subdued this time, rather than bossy.

“What? After all of that? Are you feeling all right?" says Tim.

I have a lot to consider.

Jon is looking at Tim as if he glows.

Tim clears his throat. “Right. New thing. Should we, uh. Do this here on the street?”

"Do what?" says Jon.

"A portal," says Tim, because he's feeling reckless, because—

(Because he got mad when he hurt himself doing it Hastur's way, and that isn't necessarily Hastur's fault, but now, Tim's instinct is skewed.)

Tim. Tim, wait.

"He's eager. Been asking me to do it for a while now."

Jon's eyes go even wider. "We're really going to just... travel somewhere else?"

"Maybe. I don't know. Never did it before."

Tim! Don't try this without the tools.

Tim is going to try this without the tools. "Let me concentrate." And he closes his eyes.

Tim!

Nope. Eyes closed, picturing the spot in his mind. That bench, that bush, that bin, probably still overflowing with fast-food wrappers.

Tim! You don't know what you're doing.

Well, maybe Hastur doesn't, either. Tim pictures the lamppost there. The smell and sound of lions. He flexes that muscle.

This time, something in his head hurts—a sharp twinge, like maybe he's straining that unused muscle a bit.

Tim!

“Tim?” Jon squeaks.

Tim opens his eyes to find a hole in the air.

Through it comes the sounds of a zoo at night, the chittering of nocturnal things, the gentle waft of musk and hay and animals. There is no sign of people; the zoo is closed. But just as he'd imagined, there it is: the bench, the lamppost, and the overflowing bin.

“What…” whispers Jon.

“First kiss on that bench,” says Tim, staring. “Right there. Smelled like old ketchup and chips, and I didn’t care.”

Bench? What? What did you do? Tim, tell me!

“Made a portal in the zoo.”

The… the zoo?

“Incredible,” Jon whispers. “I can smell it.”

Tim,  where is this portal? What area of the zoo are you picturing?

“We were watching the lion enclosure,” Tim says.

Hastur makes a low sound. So… did you account for that before placing your portal?

“Account for… wait, what?”

And inevitably, a lion steps into view.

It is walking forward, creeping, curious; it slinks onto the walkway ahead of them as though coming through the portal Tim made, but was definitely not doing so from Chelsea.

"How does that work? Why would it... oh fuck. I made a hole in the enclosure!” Tim whispers.

The lion turns around and looks them in the eye. She's magnificent; low to the ground, muscled, her fur a tawny gold even in the half-light of a zoo closed for the night. And she growls.

Close it!

Jon makes a tiny sound and raises his bag over his head as if to throw it.

Tim wishes the portal closed with all his might, with everything in him, flexing whatever that muscle is as hard as he can.

The opening vanishes.

It's more than a sharp twinge this time. Maybe something in there popped. He doesn't know.

“Shit!” Jon says, and Tim falls down.

#

He wakes on the train.

It’s familiar; the rhythmic, gentle jostling, the sound of the track below. The rare bits of conversation that survived the solitary experience of portable media. He has no memory of getting on the train, but he has another, distinctly larger concern: his left eye has gone dead.

He sits up with a gasp.

Across from him, Jon jumps badly and spills part of his paper cup of tea. “What do you want now?” he snaps.

Tim stares at him, shaking a little. He blinks. Rubs his eyes; no, the left one is black, definitely black. “Jon,” he says. “What happened?”

And Jon’s eyes go very wide. “Tim?”

“Yes?” says Tim, because who else is he supposed to be?

Jon plops the cup into the holder (sloshing more out of it) and comes to him right away, crouching, checking his pulse, peering into his face. “It’s really you?”

“As opposed to fucking what?” says Tim, because he refuses to believe the alternative, because—

Me.

Hastur sounds the same. Not louder, or anything like that. But oh, dear gods… he sounds smug.

[tmabguide]

Okay, taking a break from relistening to the series to talk about MAG 170 -Recollection. Spoilers ahead.

There's talk of the tape recorders being an Annabelle Cane thing, and while there are some good theories, here's mine on why the tape recorders are specifically tied to Jon.

Martin picks up a tape recorder that's found earlier in season 5, and it records the discussions with Annabelle Cane when he's not around Jon. He's used to these recorders and they are kind of a familiar set piece through his employment, specifically after Jon wakes from a coma. It's that little reaching out to check in on things, sometimes with other people, sometimes to catch what background stuff is happening around Jon and his friends.

The unknown voice chanting in the prequel episode (Vigilo, Audio, Opperior = I watch, I listen, I wait) seems to bind these tape recorders, perhaps specifically to the Archivist, or just because it was a recording device.

Elias, already powerful enough to see people and their thoughts, to pull them out of his employees, doesn't need the tape recorders for himself. But he makes a point that often they are recording, and notes that whatever is happening must be important for Jon to hear later. As if their true purpose was to be specifically for Jon.

When Jon goes into The Buried to save Daisy, he hopes that his totem, his rib, will be the thing that helps him find his way back, but in the end it was Martin putting dozens of tape recorders on the lid and playing old statements that seemed to give him strength to find his way back.

The tape recorders are like his totems. There is something about them, that are tied to him, that even though he isn't omniscient of everything, he can tell contents or focus on one place or another like Elias did. He can Know by focusing on people or things, but the tapes also record other events for him to listen to, like clues. Maybe they are the next best thing, a way to keep an eye on people without Knowing them when he knows they don't want to be.

This doesn't necessarily exclude Annabelle Cane as tied to the tape recorders, but it does seem to reflect that Elias doesn't really have need of them. They served a means to an end to get Jon on the right track for the Watcher's Crown. And when Martin says the Eye has already won, why would it need a statement? It's more for Jon tha anything. A way to keep him talking, a part of him bleeding in to the recorder's presence, doing what Jon has been doing for most of the season. Making statements.

So, onto the subject of the tape recorder. Some say it's the reason Martin forgets, but I disagree.

Slowly through the episode, Martin keeps greeting the tape recorder and describing it. Sometimes, after he is emotionally unsettled, he sits still for a moment and forgets where he is, blocking out the painful feelings and sheltering in the fog, but he seems to see better each time he recovers.

First time, he can only feel it in hand. The Lonely's fog is so thick that he can't tell what it is. He says it stores memories, like a computer. Or it could be blank like he is.

Second time, he still can't see it but it feels familiar. Then he talks about Jon, but can't remember his face. He doesn't even recognize his own face.

Third time, he still has trouble making it out but actively calls it a tape recorder. While trying to orient himself, he's distressed about the state of the house and needing work to afford it. This triggers the static we usually hear with The Eye and he remembers Jon, despairs that he's lost and alone.

Fourth time, Martin even calls the tape recorder retro. He seems to have more resilience for uncomfortable memories, recalling his mom when he's done wrong, his guilt for the state he left her in, that he can only remember Not!Sasha and not the real Sasha's face, the fog is still hard or getting thicker around him, and then his job interview and Elias. As soon as he thinks of Jon, everything snaps into place and we hear the static again, but Martin quickly gets overwhelmed and sits down.

Fifth time, Martin comments on the funky lo-fi goodness for his poetry. He's remembering what he used these for! But he also remembers a very sad memory of his grandfather's funeral. He sits down again.

Sixth time, Martin remembers the other important duty of the recorders. Statements. This is the first pull of the Eye for a statement, perhaps a sign of Jon trying to reach out to find him. Martin, quite deadpan, seems to voice what the Lonely thinks. The Eye has already won. What's the point of a statement? Unless it's Jon, either trying to reach him or to keep him talking, to stop him from trailing off. The statis is there through this entire part until Martin seems back to himself. But he focuses on the people he wanted to help. On the way Jon said his name. On the way Martin perceives himself. Like the kind of place he would live, being warm and happy, on running away from the shades of people who have forgotten. He almost succumbs to that himself. And right when he starts to feel abandoned and forgetting Jon's name again, the static comes back, and Martin clings to his name and his feelings and starts repeating them over and over again.

It's just too damn appropriate that Martin used a tape recorder to bring Jon back from the Buried, and the recorder also brought Martin back from the Lonely.

[flockofdoves]

hey i like . forgot about the season 1 trailers til now

000.2 especially is So 👀 in retrospect

this guy just. gives jon a warning and hes like ‘haha yeah sure as you can see elias this is pretty useless’

but also the other two the “vigilo, audio, opperior” (ig roughly “i watch, i listen, i wait”) which at least in merch (but nowhere in direct canon) was used as the magnus institutes motto. and then in 160 the episode description in lieu of a statement thing had “vigilo, audio, supervenio” (i watch, i listen, i overtake)

no idea of how canon the trailers are. they all def at least seem like an approximation of stuff that happened i have no reason to doubt the season 2 onwards ones as scenes that legit happened but like. if they’re all are entirely canon including the season 1 ones what the hell is going on with that voice lol

also just for fun 1. the implication that martin brought a dog into the archives 2. “i’m going to peel him” 3. “don’t buy them from ikea” msdfjgkhsfdhgs