#she kills me a few times. I kill her a few. jonathan sims is there

[arospecsyourblockdudes]

Slay The Princess is really fun when you view it from the angle of being boyfriend and girlfriend

[written-in-the-clouds]

Can I request platonic Jonathan Sims x reader who is Gertrude's grandchild? The reader is essentially working as a spy and knows that Elias is bad but dosen't say anything to not blow their cover. Gertrude has had the reader working in the archives as one of Jon's assistants, Gertrude had off handedly mentioned she had a grandchild but no one ever knew who it was, but then Jon end up finding out.

Done! Hope you enjoy! <3

╭── ⋅ ──────── ✩ ────────── ⋅ ──╮

“Hey, [Name]? Can we talk for a minute?”

“Of course,” you agreed, following Jon into his office. “What is it?”

Jon sat down at his desk and pressed play on a tape recorder. The voice that came out of it was unfortunately familiar.

“Next week, my grandchild is returning from their research trip… if all goes well, they will have some interesting results. I do hope they will stay and help my successor, whoever they may be. They—” Gertrude cut herself off, and you could hear her stand up. Jon clicked the tape off.

“Okay,” you said cautiously, “so should I look for them? Do you have anything else to go off of?” If he sent you to investigate yourself, you were fairly confident in your ability to keep the appearance of a wild goose chase.

“No,” Jon replied. “I already know who they are.”

He pushed a printed-out photo across his desk, and you winced once you saw it. A social media profile of you, from a few years ago, but still clearly yours. [Name] Robinson. You force a smile. “Come on, Jon, that seems a bit stalker-ish. I haven’t used that account for years.” His paranoia is starting to concern you. Though he was right in this case, he would have had to dig for this profile. You should have deleted it, really, but it was too late for that now. You were also fairly sure that Martin had mentioned Jon had actually stalked Tim to his home. Depending on how he accuses you, you should—

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded. “You know what’s going on here, don’t you?”

You hesitated for a moment, then reprimand yourself. Wait too long, and he’ll get more suspicious. “I’m not here to help you. I have another job.” A bit harsh, maybe, but that’s how you were raised. You may be friendly with Jon, but the job takes priority. Gertrude told you to watch Elias when she was gone, and while Elias may know that’s what you’re doing, he hadn’t fired you yet. Keeping an eye on an Eye.

And, really, if you were fired, all the better.

Jon looked upset. “I know our introduction wasn’t the best, maybe, but I thought we were friends. I want— need to know what’s going on. If you know anything about Gertrude’s murder—”

“Ah, that’s what this is about,” you interrupted, rising from your seat. “Your paranoia of being assassinated. Honestly, Jon, your stalking of your employees isn’t doing you any favours. Well, I suppose it makes you a better candidate for him. You don’t have to worry about being killed when you keep pulling this.”

You knew Elias had killed Gertrude. You knew that the more Jon attached himself to the Eye, the more he continued to dutifully work for Elias, the more useful he was. You should have interfered earlier. Maybe this would be a wake-up call for him.

—

It only takes a week of you and Jon awkwardly avoiding each other for Martin to start preparing tea and Tim asking what happened this time. Somehow, you both end up in the break room alone. You give it about an sixty-five percent chance that this was planned, and a seventy-eight percent chance that Tim is eavesdropping.

You broke the silence first. “I apologize for blowing up like that,” you started, “but your paranoia is becoming a problem for all of us.”

“I hardly think finding an old social media profile indicates paranoia.”

“Sure, but you stalking Tim home is.”

Jon paused for a moment, then said, “I suppose that is true.” He sighed. “You are right, I suppose. Though, what ‘job’ were you talking about?”

You shrugged. “Can’t tell you that one. Call it a side gig.” It’s one thing for Elias to know what you’re doing and turning a blind eye, and another to admit it outright.

“Alright.” Jon sighed. “I apologize for… sneaking around.” He raised his voice slightly: “To you eavesdroppers as well.”

Tim slammed open the door and strode in. “Excellent, now we can go back to dealing with our regular spooky bullshit.” Martin followed in behind him, and Sasha not long after that.

Speaking of Sasha. Something is off about her. You can feel it, a vague sense of something wrong. You haven’t been able to confront her yet. Maybe that’ll be next on your list.

“You know,” you say, “now that you all know I’m Gertrude’s grandchild… There are some things I should explain to you all.”

They would be more successful if they knew what the Fears were, too.

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[jerktournament]

ROUND ONE - Harrowhark (The Locked Tomb) VS Jonathan Sims (The Magnus Archives)

!!! PROPAGANDA BELOW !!!

HARROWHARK: "- Generally just nasty to everyone even people who are nice to her (thinly veiled defense mechanism) - Literally mocked a girl for crying over her dead mother. What a woman - once got jealous of her crush talking to a terminally ill woman and when called out on it basically responded "well I think she should kill herself 😌" what is her problem? (Affectionate. Also it's everything)"

JONATHAN SIMS: "I actually haven’t listened to the whole thing in a while (there’s a good few hundred episodes) so some of this might be off the mark, but I love him, so please forgive me! Anyway he literally started a global apocalypse of worldwide suffering. He trash talks his love interest (Martin) for, like, a good three seasons, and it’s hilarious. If I remember correctly, in the first season (ages before they get together), Martin is holed up in his house for a week or something under attack by killer worms (long story) and he didn’t call in for help because he was worried Jonathan would call him crazy or something, which, actually, isn’t unfounded because the whole time he’s gone Jonathan is making very snarky complaints about his character on offical reports. He’s prickly as fuck. He has never known healthy communication. He’s British, of course he’s not well adjusted. He’s such a fucking jerk I’m obsessed with him. I don’t think there’s a character in the series he hasn’t said a bad thing about. In his opening lines, he trash talks a (very very recently) dead women he’s never met because she didn't organise her archives well enough. He works in a supernatural institute and for a good part of the first season, he’s a hardcore skeptic and shit talks every report he reads, and it’s comedy gold. One time he actually tells a recently widowed woman to her face he thinks she’s crazy when she comes to him to tell him about a supernatural occurrence. Character witness: at one point he’s falsely accused of murder and literally NONE of his close coworkers he’s known for years believe he’s innocent. Theres so much more I could talk about, but I think I’ve written enough. There’s also some heavier stuff, but I don’t think I need to mention it. In conclusion, he’s my one true blorbo and I’d die for him."

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

fireworks (and their ashes)

CHAPTER 2

(AO3)

A woman stumbles loudly down the stairs to the Archives.

Jon involuntarily knew that she was coming long before she entered the building, which is quite a thing to get used to, but at least he can try to meet her at the bottom of the stairs rather than force her to try to communicate to someone that she needs to make a Statement.

The haggard-looking woman has the bar along the stairwell in a white-knuckled grip as she limps her way down. There's no elevator to the Archives, unfortunately, and Jon's not in much of a position to help her, either. He leans heavily on his cane and holds out his less-scarred hand for support once she gets close enough to reach it. She smiles at him in thanks, and nearly tries to talk before seemingly remembering the clean white bandages that are wrapped around her throat.

When they do, eventually, get to Jon's office, the woman tries to communicate using a few haphazard signs, and then finally resorting to pulling out her phone and beginning to type. Jon holds up a single hand, unobtrusively enough that it takes her a moment to notice it, and she stops typing and looks up at him.

"Are you here to make a Statement?" Jon asks, and the woman nods slightly before wincing. The wound must be quite recent, then, considering that even that small movement causes that much pain.

Jon digs through his desk drawers for a moment, having nearly forgotten which drawer the empty Statement forms were stored in, but he eventually finds them and puts one in front of her, along with a pen. Then, he pulls out another file that he's supposed to be doing follow-up on- though he's only doing work at all so the woman can make her Statement in peace without him staring creepily at her the entire time- and sets about doing a bit of background research on his computer. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her begin to fill out the form.

Statement of Eleanor Greene, regarding the man who tried to kill her. Statement given and recorded 6th March, 2018. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.

I thank God every day for my daughter.

She's a miracle baby, because she somehow managed to be conceived despite multiple forms of birth control, but I don't love her any less for it. I won't pretend it wasn't difficult to raise her alone, but we've managed, and she is quite possibly the best thing that's happened to me. I've thanked God for her for years, because I'd never known just how fulfilling it would be to become a parent.

Recently, I also began to thank Him for leading me to name her Sasha. I don't think I would still be alive if I'd named her anything else.

It was only a week ago that I nearly died, and just two days since I was released from the hospital. It seems so strange to me now, to be in my own house with this injury, almost like I'd been imagining that going back home would magically reverse this and fix me entirely. That's not how this works, though, I know that, but it still feels so odd, odder still to live in my own house and know, truly, that there are demons that walk this Earth with the rest of us.

How else would I describe them? The scarred man and the devil woman whispering in his ear, both of them demons, or else vengeful angels here for the rapture- but I highly doubt there was anything holy about them.

The scariest thing, despite everything else that they did, despite everything else that I'm going to be telling you, is that neither of them looked anything out of the ordinary. The man had long-ish hair, just past his shoulders, I'd say, while the woman had hers buzzed short. They wore casual street clothes. The only truly distinctive parts of either of their appearances was the intricate-looking tattoo that could just barely be seen on the man's wrist, poking out of the sleeve of his coat, but I wouldn't have looked at either of them twice under normal circumstances.

The man was smoking a cigarette while leaning against a wall, somewhat ahead of where I was walking. The woman was leaning against the same wall, either already having finished her cigarette or not having smoked one at all, and neither of them were talking. The woman was watching me as I approached to pass, and the man was only looking at his cigarette. I didn't blame him; he looked tired. He looked like he needed it.

This whole thing only started because I decided to be bothered by something he did. He flicked the butt of his cigarette onto the pavement just in front of me, though it did not hit me. I could have just kept walking, and the whole thing wouldn't have happened. Instead, I stopped short, and glared at him while he was fishing in his pockets and paying me no mind at all.

"Excuse me," I'd said, in a rather nasty tone of voice, I admit, "I would rather not step on your filthy litter, thank you."

He looked up at me, and then gave me a strangely evaluating look before glancing over at the woman. She'd been watching with a mean little smirk on her face, like she knew that something was going to happen and she couldn't wait to get involved. Finally, he said to the woman, seeming entirely as though he was ignoring me completely, "No strings, right?"

The woman smiled, and echoed, "No strings."

Everything escalated very quickly after that. One moment, I was standing on the pavement, glaring at a rude man in an interaction I was under the vague impression I'd forget by time I made it home that evening, and the next I was flat on my back on that same pavement, his hands curled around my throat while the woman kneeled down next to me and just watched.

"Oh, look at her, she's terrified already and you haven't even done anything! You're doing wonderfully." She said in a saccharine voice, like that of a primary school teacher encouraging a slower pupil in basic arithmetic. As she spoke, the hands around my throat seemed to burn, like it wasn't enough that he was choking me to death, he just had to start burning me too.

"Shut up and be useful, will you?" The man growled in response, and the woman simply laughed, in a way that was only reminiscent of the crackle of a particularly large bonfire. It could have been welcoming, in the right circumstances, but now was only dangerous. It suited her in a way that warmth and invitation did not.

This is when my memory starts to get a bit blurry. He wasn't quite cutting off my air flow, but it was hard enough to breathe that I could feel myself beginning to black out. I knew I was going to die, then and there, on a populated street- there should have been people around, why didn't there seem to be any in the moment?- tinged with the slightly sweet smell of burning flesh.

"Oh, but I am, don't you see it? Rage is so easy, you don't need control yet so long as you can get yourself in a fury at the drop of a hat. You're too slow now, not angry enough. Think of... hmm. I don't know, think of whatever the hell reason you had for getting up again." She encouraged, though her tone slowly grew more dismissive as she went on, like whatever they were united in, whatever she was educating him in, they'd had very different reasons for joining. Whatever the hell reason he had seemed to be good enough for him, though, because I could swear I felt my skin start to crack from the heat.

I couldn't die, not then. I still had my daughter, she still needed me! She needed me!

I still don't know how I managed to do it. The doctors all said my voice box is damaged beyond repair, that whatever fire I had around my throat would've burned away my speech capabilities after less than thirty seconds, but I swear it had been minutes since he'd started this torture. No matter what the truth is, though, I still barely breathed out her name, a desperate plea for my Sasha.

The name must have meant something to him, because his grip suddenly became slack, just enough for me to get a good lungful of air. I had to think quickly, because his momentary mercy wouldn't have been forever, I could tell that right away, so I kicked at him as much as I could while he was still distracted.

I don't know how I managed to escape. The woman looked like she was going to give chase, but then she looked back at the man and started laughing at him, calling him "sentimental" and "weak," and I took that as my chance to run.

Nobody seemed to be around, even though I knew there had been people nearby when I was walking. Perhaps they'd all run when they saw the man attacking me? Not unlikely, especially since there's no way I wasn't burned. There's no way the man was human, anyway; it would've been smarter to keep out of the way of those demons.

I don't know how long it was before I found someone who could help. Long enough that I had to put my hands around my throat to staunch the bleeding, long enough to notice the sole of my shoe- the one I'd used to kick at my assailant- had melted and begun to burn my foot. Someone did help in the end, though- the first passersby I saw, in fact, he called an ambulance and helped make sure I got to the hospital safely.

Like I told you earlier, my voice box is damaged to such a degree that most doctors said I'd never speak again. Even the more optimistic of them told me I'd never sound the same. I'll have scars the rest of my life.

I've been learning sign language, but it's slow going. I only know about three signs so far, but Sasha's been learning along with me. I think... I think things will get better, at least. I won't be stuck like this.

I just thought that you'd be interested in hearing- well, reading- about it. An encounter with a real demon.

Statement ends.

Jon records the Statement long after Ms. Greene leaves, meaning that he's alone with his thoughts on what this Statement means.

It has to be Tim, right? Tim and Jude, still terrorizing random Londoners, though to what end? What does "no strings" mean? Do they have a deal, an arrangement of some kind? Jude teaches Tim how to properly be an Avatar of the Desolation, for... what? Out of the goodness of her own heart? The chance to slowly try to indoctrinate him into the Cult of the Lightless Flame? Some other ulterior motive? He highly doubts that there would really be no strings attached to that sort of arrangement, especially with Jude Perry involved.

Tim's escalating. He's grown more personal in his attempted murders, going from blowing up a building to choking out somebody's mother. What happened in the time between December and last week that would've escalated things this much?

Jon sighs, and leans back in his chair. He rubs at his eyes, hoping that some kind of revelation will make itself clear to him, but nothing does.

[miserys-inkwell]

KILLING THE DANCEFLOOR

An original Magnus Archives statement

Masterlist

Tw: gore in this one lads, and brief implications of vomiting

[Tape recorder click]

JON: Statement of Joseph Markus, regarding his experience at a club he visited in Scotland. Original statement given May 12th, 2016, audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

JON [STATEMENT] :

This happened on a trip to Scotland four years ago, me and a group of friends were staying there for three days. We'd been out drinking for a good few hours, so we were all tipsy veering into outright drunk. The others started suggesting that we should go back to the hotel, they told me that I should be done for the night. Every time I think about what happened, I regret not listening to them.

I'd been at the club for around 20 minutes, I think it was called “Veil's” or something like that. I was already a few drinks in, when I noticed… her. The first word that came into my head when I looked at her was “sharp”. I'm not sure why, it just seems like the best word to describe her. She was tall, and I mean tall. She easily had a few inches on anyone else in the club, looked like she was in her mid twenties, and had wild red hair with streaks of blonde and bright cherry red. Her eyes were also a vibrant red, but I just figured that she was wearing colored contacts, it wouldn't have been out of place with her outfit. I feel the need to give a description of her, so at least someone else knows what to look out for. She was wearing a spiked choker, ripped black jeans, and a tattered band shirt. I can't remember the exact name of the band. I think it was something like, Gravity's Bond? I don't think that's right but such a small detail wasn't really something I was too focused on. I was more preoccupied with the fact she was carrying a giant blood soaked axe. And no one seemed to acknowledge it, they were acting like this massive woman with a giant blood soaked axe wasn't anything out of the ordinary, so I naively assumed that it was a prop. God, what I would give for it to have just been a prop.

I'd been focused somewhere else, but my attention snapped back to the dance floor when a deafening crack echoed through the club. It was so loud, that for a moment I thought it was a gunshot. My eyes landed on her just in time to watch her drop a limp body with its neck bent at an unnatural angle. Before I had time to even process what I was seeing, she whipped around and swung the axe down. I will never forget the sound the axe made when it buried itself into that man's skull. The horrible wet crunch of metal splitting bone and embedding itself in brain matter, it seemed to drown out all the other noise in the club. I don't know if you've ever heard the noise that a raw egg makes if you crush it. I'm sure you can imagine why I'm mentioning such a thing. She planted a booted foot against the man's chest and pushed the corpse away so she could tear the axe out. I honestly think that noise might have somehow been worse than the initial blow. Then, before the body had even finished its landing, lunged at the next unfortunate person and mercilessly slashed open their throat. I could practically hear the blade smoothly slicing through the flesh, but what I definitely could hear was her last feeble gurgling breaths as she choked on her own blood. She kept going. I don't know how many more people she got, because my eyes darted around the room looking to see if anyone had already called the police.

I felt my stomach drop when I realized that no one else seemed to see her, or at the very least see the gruesome results of her actions. I don't know how that could have been possible, she was in the middle of the room surrounded by people and she wasn't exactly being quiet. My mind was racing trying to figure out what I should do, should I call the police? What if they didn't see her as out of the ordinary and just assume that I'm a crazed drunk? While I was caught up in my inner dilemma the woman ambled off of the dance floor towards the bar, sweaty and laughing like she had just been partying like any normal club goer, like she wasn't covered in the blood of the people she had just slaughtered. And I will admit, while I wasn't drunk enough to not remember the night, I was definitely far enough gone to make a stupid decision. A very, very, stupid decision. I made the idiotic and borderline suicidal choice to confront the woman.

She had casually dropped herself down in the chair at the end of the bar, the one near the wall, and slung one of her legs up on the empty seat next to her. As well as setting her axe, still dripping with gore, on the bartop. While she was settling herself in her seat, the bartender placed an already prepared drink in front of her, which she cheerfully thanked them for. Thinking back to it, I'm scared of the implications that has, because it means that this woman is a regular there, meaning that the casual axe murdering is a regular occurrence. As I got closer, I picked up on more and more details about her appearance that left me with a sinking feeling in my gut. Her skin was oddly pale, even by redhead standards, as if she only went out at night to go partying, and the shape of her teeth seemed just a bit off. Then she turned and looked at me, and even in my drunken state, I had enough clarity to recognize the way her pupils shifted under the continually changing lights of the club, sober enough to realize she wasn't wearing contacts; that her eyes were red.

We stared at each other without saying anything for a few moments, then she suddenly threw her head back and barked out a loud laugh. Which I will admit made me jump a bit. Then she leveled those horrible red eyes at me, she had a glint in her gaze that unsettlingly reminded me of a kid with a magnifying glass that had just come across an anthill. Then, still chuckling a bit, she spoke in a slightly raspy Scottish accent. “Oh, this is real exciting, you can actually see what's going on here. That's a bit rare but it's always entertaining, makes it more fun.” Then, while looking me in the eye, she wiped a still wet splatter of blood from her cheek with her thumb before licking it off.

She continued “I'll tell you what, it's always a treat when someone can see through me, and I'm feeling nice tonight, so I'll give you a 30 second head start.” Then she began to count, I wasted at least five precious seconds of my grace period standing there like a deer in headlights. When I snapped out of it, I took off towards the door, weaving through the other club goers as fast as I could internally kicking myself as the adrenaline partially cleared my head from the haze of the alcohol. I burst outside onto the street, and I swear that the club wasn't in the same place as it was when I went in, none of the landmarks I was seeing looked familiar. But I didn't have time to think about that, the only thing running through my head was “get away” over and over again as I forced my burning legs to carry me down the street. I ran for a block or two before I decided to slow down a bit to catch my breath, and to… let my body get rid of some of the alcohol. Even as I heaved for air after being forced to empty my stomach, I was still listening for any sign that she had followed me. Then I heard the whistling. It was a cheerful little tune that definitely did not match the scenario, and I realized with growing dread that it was getting closer. I forced myself to continue forward, making twists and turns in an attempt to lose her, but all I really accomplished was getting myself lost. The whistling continued to get closer and closer, and now I could hear her unhurried footsteps behind me. I don't know how she could possibly be keeping up with me at such a casual pace while I was quite literally running for my life. As I was about to round another corner, a sudden weight slammed into me sending me crashing into the pavement. I've never been hit by a car before, but this is what I imagine it felt like. While I was blinking the flashing lights out of my vision, she took the opportunity to pin me down with one knee forcing itself into the center of my chest, and pinning my right hand next to my head with her other foot. When my vision cleared I was met by a sight that has haunted me since that night. She was staring down at me, with a wild grin and a borderline feral glint in her bloody red eyes, with bits of viscera splattered across her face and body, raising her axe above her head, preparing to bury it into my face. I thought to myself, “This is the last thing I'm going to see.” And I clenched my eyes shut hoping that it would be like getting a shot, if I can't see it coming it won't hurt as much, right? It's stupid, but it was oddly comforting in the moment.

As she was about to bring the axe down, and I was waiting for my inevitable demise, she was interrupted by her phone ringing. I was scared that she was going to get a call from someone saying that they needed parts of me in one piece to harvest my organs or something, but that theory went out the window when I realized that she had set the ringtone for whoever it was to Rick James’ “Super Freak”. It was so jarring that I probably would have laughed if her knee wasn't grinding into my sternum and crushing the air out of me. She sighed, flipped the axe slamming the head of it down right next to my ear before pulling out her phone and answering it. Only got her side of whatever conversation was being had, something along the lines of “What do you want? I'm busy right now.” A pause “Can't you ask someone else to help you with it, I'm kind of in the middle of something.” Another pause followed by a heavy sigh, “Fine, I'll be over there in like 10 minutes but you owe me big for this one.” She ended the call, slipped her phone back into her pocket, turned her attention back to me and said. “Looks like it's your lucky day, we'll have to reschedule this for another time. Don't be too sad about our little game being put on hold, we'll meet again eventually.” Then she was up, twirling her axe and slinging it over her shoulder, and whistling that same damn tune as she jauntily made her way down the street, disappearing around the corner, and the whistling faded into the distance. I stayed on the ground for a long time, just trying to catch my breath and figure out what the hell just happened.

I managed to limp my way back to the hotel, I'm still not sure how I managed to find my way back. I quietly slipped back into the room to not wake up the others. I didn't sleep that night for obvious reasons, so I used the time I spent lying awake debating what I should do. In the end I decided to pretend that it never happened, I didn't want to get my friends involved with that woman lest they become her next targets. And I felt like I couldn't call the police, for all I know it's some weird underground murder club and everyone else there was in on it and they're paying off the police or something. So I've been pretending it never happened, pretending that I'm not kept awake at night by the sound of a neck snapping, a skull being smashed open, the sound of someone drowning in their own blood, and the image of her, staring down at me as I was seconds away from being murdered.

So I'm sure you're probably wondering why I'm giving this statement now after so many years. I'm sharing this story so that someone knows what happened to me when I go missing or turn up dead. Last night, I was walking home through the downtown area of London, and I felt my heart stutter to a stop when I heard someone whistling that damn tune. One that I had hoped to never hear again. There she was. She was right. There. Walking down the other side of the street, thankfully without the axe, next to someone who was somehow even taller than her. I can't really remember what the other person looked like, only that they had long dark hair. Anytime I try to think about other discerning features I get a terrible headache, but I can't shake the feeling that I've seen him somewhere before. As if she could feel me staring, she suddenly turned and looked directly at me. I was met by the same unnatural piercing red eyes that I'd seen four years ago. I could tell that she recognized me as well, because her expression quickly shifted through irritation, surprise, before finally landing on that sharp devilish grin. I stood there frozen, unable to make myself run or even look away, the sound of the street around me was drowned out by the blood rushing in my ears. Then she lifted her hand and wiggled her fingers at me in a mocking little wave, like she knew that I couldn't move. And, as the final nail in the proverbial coffin, she mouthed three words to me; “I told you.”

I don't remember how or when I got home that night. But I do know that she's going to kill me. There's no doubt in my mind about that. It's only a matter of when, who knows how long it'll be before she decides she's had her fill of tormenting me.

JON: Statement ends.

I have a sneaking suspicion that the band shirt this mysterious Axe Woman was wearing was merchandise for the infamous Grifter's Bone that has been mentioned in a previous statement. Attempts at looking into a club by the name of “Veil's” have turned up nothing except a few offhand internet posts, but no records of an establishment by that name ever existing. Attempts at contacting Mr Markus for a follow up have turned up that he is, as one might anticipate, deceased. Three weeks after this statement was given, he was found murdered at a street corner with the official cause of death being a hit and run, resulting from the illegal removal of a stop sign by a vandal. Although the stop sign seemed to be less stolen by hooligan teenagers, and more like a bodybuilder suffering from severe steroid related mood swings, as in the photographs I have here it looks as if it was forcibly ripped straight from the ground. Then there's the fact that the injuries on the autopsy report that Tim managed to get his hands on, as expected, do not line up with the official explanation. Fractured skull resulting from a blow to the head with a semi sharp object and his landing on the concrete, a multitude of rough gashes across various parts of his body similar to injuries caused by an extremely blunt axe, with one of his legs being amputated below the knee and found several yards away. And lastly, but certainly the most disturbing, the fact the upper and lower halves of his body were completely bisected from each other, seemingly done using the same weapon as the other injuries, with his upper half having been thrown to the other side of the street with enough force that it hit the wall of the building there. All of this paints a rather nauseating picture of what actually happened. [Shaky sigh]

End recording.

[Tape recorder click]

____________________________________

[Tape recorder click]

JON: Supplemental, I'm in the tunnels again searching for potential clues regarding who has been sneaking into the archives–

???: [a young woman's voice with a quiet deadpan but melodious tone] What are you doing?

JON: [screaming as you can audibly hear his soul exiting his body]

???: Well that's rude.

JON: [wheezing] Who are you?????

???: Well, who are you?

JON: I asked you first!

???: Well, I asked you second and two is a larger number than one so you have to answer first.

JON: [sputtering] I– you– wh– I'm Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute.

???: Hmm, I wouldn't suppose you've been leaving trash lying around down here? Because I don't particularly appreciate someone dirtying such a nice dilapidated tunnel system with litter.

JON: I– no, I am not the one who has been leaving trash down here, I'm actually trying to figure out who has been.

???: Hmm, while it seems our motives are different, our goal of finding the one who's been leaving garbage in my tunnels is the same.

JON: I'm sorry but, your tunnels?

???: Yes, my tunnels. I've been wandering this system in my spare time for years, and this invader is sullying them with litter.

JON: Uhm, not to be rude or anything but, er, aren't you a bit young to be wandering abandoned underground tunnels by yourself? You don't look like you could be out of secondary school.

???: Aren't you a bit too old to be in the habit of trying to cover the fact you haven't had a shower in the last nine days by using too much deodorant?

JON: [indignant sputtering]

???: Regardless of our goals being aligned, I think I'd prefer to stay out of the institute’s business for a multitude of reasons. Also I can tell you wouldn't be much help in figuring out how to remove this pest. Along with the… woman who's been sneaking down here from the archives.

JON: You mean Sasha?

???: No, Not Sasha.

JON: How would anyone other than her be getting down here from the archives? She's the only woman who has access to these tunnels from the archives.

???: Yes, that woman.

JON: But you just said that it wasn't Sasha?

???: No, I said that it was Not Sasha.

JON: You're not making any sense.

???: Hmm, most things tend to not.

JON: You know that this is really not helping either of us get closer to either of our goals, neither of us have gained any information from being down here.

???: Perhaps you'd be able to gather more information down here if you didn't scream like a little bitch every time something potentially relevant happens.

JON: [shocked stuttering] You– well– I– Wait where did you go!

???: [faint singing echoing down the tunnels fading into the distance] ‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

JON: Well, that was… thoroughly uninformative, [muttered] it was like trying to talk to Cirrus. [Return to normal volume] That girl seemed to only speak in insults and riddles. She also seemed to be– wait– SHE NEVER TOLD ME HER NAME.

[Tape recorder click]

___________________________________________

If you're wondering who the hell Cirrus is, he's another one of my oc's that hasn't been introduced yet (at the time of posting). I'm writing these very out of order but I should hopefully have him properly introduced soon. Thank you for reading!

[assbutt-writes]

The Forest Chapter 3

Chapter below cut

[RECORDING CONTINUES]

SASHA: Jon? What do you mean?

JON: I had him put away the slime we found on the tape recorder and now both it and him are gone. I just read a statement about its abilityto eat people, and I think it ate him.

SASHA: Are you sure?

JON: He said it tried to eat him before, Sasha, and I sent him to it again anyway. He’s dead, and it’s my fault.

SASHA: No, are you sure it ate people? I remember seeing a statement a while back about a ghost that dripped the same green goo, and it didn’t kill the people it took. It just took them to its realm.

JON: Where’s the statement?

SASHA: I don’t know. Maybe somewhere in the archives? I think it was given in late 2010.

[A BUTTON ON THE TAPE RECORDER CLICKS AND ANOTHER RECORDING STARTS WITH ANOTHER CLICK]

JON: [TIRED] It’s been almost a month since Martin disappeared, and I think I found the statement Sasha was talking about in a box filled with other statements referencing this green goo. I don’t know why I wasn’t told about it, but that is beside the point.

Statement of Elliot Holt, regarding the disappearance of the ghost that befriended him when he was a child. Original statement given February 15th, 2010. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, head archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

My sister said that you guys listened to her about what she saw during the fire, so I thought that if anyone can help me get Molly back, it would be you. Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s start with when I met her.

It all started at a magic show. I think I was about 8 or so, and I don’t remember where it was, only that it was supposed to be in an extremely haunted hotel. A guy that used to perform at the theatre I acted at was doing a magic show, and my mom wanted me to go and support him. I wasn’t all that thrilled about watching a magic show, but my little sister Allison was, so I went along anyway. The show ended up being pretty cool. They did the trick where they saw somebody in half, and I really liked it, and they also did a few escape tricks that were really good. All things considered, I had a pretty good time, at least until I went to the bathroom.

There I saw this girl that looked to be about my age. She was this see-through dark-green colour, and she was wearing this dress that was a lighter green than the rest of her. She seemed to be flickering, and I immediately realised that she was a ghost. I was really excited to meet a real-life ghost, and I said hi to her, and she said hi back. She introduced herself as Molly, and I asked her what it was like being a ghost. I don’t really remember her response, as this was around 7 years ago, but I do remember that we kept talking for what felt like ages.

Eventually my Dad got worried and came to check on me. I tried to introduce him to my new-found friend, but he couldn’t see her. He got this funny look on his face before telling me that the show was over and it was time to come home. Molly followed us, and for the next 9 years, she followed me around. I admit, it was nice to have a friend that no-one else could see or hear, because she could help me make other, alive friends and cheat on tests. She did seem to age, which I thought, and still think, was weird. I mean, ghosts are supposed to be ageless, right? There was also this book that Molly gave me that looked like a copy of the first Percy Jackson book. She said that it was her favourite book and to make sure to keep it safe, so I took it everywhere with me to make sure no harm came to it.

Every once in a while I would notice a small pile of dark green slime, the same colour as her. Other people could see it, and whenever someone other than me tried to touch it, it burned their skin, but when I touched it, it felt as cold and slimy as it looked, completely harmless.

Anyway, almost 6 weeks ago our school caught fire, and during the fire, I noticed something was off with Molly. She seemed to be panicking, asking me where the book was. When she asked me that, I realised that in my haste to leave the school, I had left my backpack containing it on my chair. I told her this, and she only got more frantic. I noticed that as the school burned down, she started to speak in a language that I had never heard before, her normally forest-green features turning ash-grey.

When she crumbled to ash, there was a piece of old, yellowed paper in her place that read “Vale, Elliot. Numquam te obliviscar. Quaeso me vel ne obliviscaris.” I looked it up, and it’s Latin for “Goodbye, Elliot. I will never forget you. Please don't forget me either.” I brought the paper with me to show you guys, but I’m not going to give it to you, and it doesn’t show up on camera, so I don’t know what help that will be. I’m sorry I can’t do more.

The school ended up burning to the ground, and Hannah Ellis and Travis Boyd died in the fire. When I went to the classroom to get the book Molly gave me as a reminder of her, I found that all that was left of my backpack, and it, was a pile of ashes. I didn’t tell Allie, but I have a feeling that whatever she saw during the fire is somehow related to what happened to Molly. Her note didn’t make it seem like she died, though, so I think that there has to be a way to get her back.

JON: [TIRED] End statement. This is… I don’t know what to make of this. I don’t know how this could help me find Martin, but it does shed some light on what the note that Benjamin and Daniel found could mean. If I remember correctly, “Libre Saltus” translates to “Book of the Forest.” I managed to track down Carmen Books and Records, and at exactly 12:00 am on April 11th, a dark green hole appeared on the floor, appearing to be above a dark forest. I have a feeling that these two events might be connec-

[THERE IS A KNOCK ON THE DOOR]

JON: Come in, Mart- [THERE IS A PAUSE BEFORE JON SIGHS] whoever you are.

SASHA: Hey, Jon? I think I found something you might want to see some- [PAUSE] Holy shit, you look awful. When was the last time you slept?

JON: It’s not important. What did you find?

SASHA: Okay? I remember you were talking about a “Libre Saltus”, and I think I found a statement that talks about it.

JON: [VOICE STILL TIRED, BUT MORE ALERT] Give it to me.

[THERE IS A SHUFFLING AND THEN A LONG PAUSE]

JON: Thank you. Is that all?

SASHA: Well, not exactly. [PAUSE] Look, I found the book it talks about, but-

JON: What? Where is it?

SASHA: Jon, let me finish. It’s a very, very dangerous book. The last person to have it went missing, and-

JON: Yes, yes, I know, I read the statement. Where is it?

[SASHA SIGHS]

SASHA: It’s in artefact storage.

JON: Okay.

SASHA: Look, whatever is going on with the book, I think you need to stay as far away from it as possible. I know I am.

JON: I- [THERE’S A PAUSE, AND THEN JON SIGHS] I can’t. I need to find Martin.

[SASHA SIGHS]

SASHA: Okay. Just be careful.

JON: I will.

[THE DOOR OPENS AND THEN CLOSES, AND JON SIGHS]

JON: [QUIETLY] End recording.

[A BUTTON ON THE TAPE RECORDER CLICKS, AND THE TAPE WHIRRING NOISE ENDS]

[marlasomething]

(my) Mag a Week: Observed Mission

Hello there!

I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened.

For today I rolled Archivist!Jon (so I changed to a thing what was originally going to be canon and ended up being the other way round) and The Slaughter (Eps. 72-80).

As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

CW: violence, animal violence, sickness, swearing (and hinted slurs), racism (asshole main character, it happens), death, paranoia, unreality

Also on AO3!

Statement of Elliot Mercury, regarding the stalking he believes he is being subjected to by one Adelard Dekker.

Recorded by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

 My mother was…is, I guess, I haven’t seen her since my parents divorced and I took my father’s side because, well, you don’t have to be that intense, mom. Jeez. Anyway, I guess you, with your academic looks and all that, disapprove of my writing register; but this is my story so, you know, I don’t care about your fancy-degree-boy’s opinions.

As I was saying, writing, whatever: my mother was Spanish and there was this idiom she loved to use and, to be honest, it is pretty neat (and accurate to my current situation): “ Porque una vez maté un perro, me llamaron mataperros ” that would roughly translate as “ Because I once killed a dog, I was called dog-slayer ”. It is used to signify when one action, usually a bad one, is used by people around you to define who you truly are.

That is why that…well, seeing your complexion ; I will be sensitive and don’t describe the nut-job that is following me as I truly want to. The thing is: this one-time mistake is why that crazy guy had started following me around. And I swear I saw him reading a book that was totally some spy device with a joystick or something inside, because I started tumbling as if someone was constantly trapping my legs the moment he focused on it and started…muttering.

Again: crazy dude.

 It all began because I kind of literally killed a dog. Well, it was a ferret, but its owner treated him as his beloved little puppy. I would usually never do a thing like that, even if I am being bothered by people like this person (that, by the way, even randomly introduced himself pretending to be someone in need of indications, that is why I could give you his actual name), but…my boyfriend insisted.

Yes, yes, I know I don’t look like a guy who liked guys , but, honestly, if you are hot, not too intense and half-nice…you are absolutely my type.

But this is all beside the point. The thing is, my boyfriend Tyler is allergic to ferrets, like, very allergic to them . I recall once, a few months back, that we went over to my step-mother’s house, and she had a ferret-fur coat that she insisted on not taking to her bedroom and…Tyler got very sick. He actually almost died and I held his hand the whole time, as his fingers and head become so swollen that the rest of his thinning body felt almost as a caricature.

I stayed with him in the hospital the whole time, getting increasingly angry, as I could not do a thing except for punching walls and yelling at nurses who believed themselves better than me just because they had a degree on almost-medicine . I am a bloody engineer; it is not as if I were illiterate, for fuck’s shake!

Before he recovered, he got worse, he even got into cardiac arrest and, mad with frustration, lacking a mission or objective (I had been recently fired, and Tyler is a photographer freelancer, so another reason why money was not in the cards, hence more time in the hospital since the quicker treatment was no option for us) and I started punching him in the chest.

I was angry. I was angry at him for getting sick, at my step-mom for having a coat she couldn’t truly afford (and, therefore, barely wear), at ferrets for their existence…Tyler is everything that is ok with my life right now, I couldn’t lose him and, as it seems, loving him was not enough, and I had to be enough.

So I turned him, his protection into my personal cause to fight for and brought him back from the other side with my bare hands.

I hugged him, I cried over him and, finally, I let him go as he gave me a sly smile. He was alright and, now, I was his paladin.

 We returned home that very evening. The doctors said it was okay to get him home with the one condition that he didn’t leave the house or have any visitors for a few days.

His lungs still had water or something.

Convinced as I still am of how I shall keep him safe and sound, away from all evil in this world, there was nothing that upset me more than seeing that our already a bit nosy neighbour got a ferret.

He promised me it was temporary thing, just until his uncle recovered of whatever sickness he had going on. I didn’t truly pay attention.

I couldn’t: the memory of Tyler’s coughs as he lingered on a hospital bed had been turned into an incipient melody inside my head and supressed everything but the breath of the rat-like animal (don’t you dare even pretending you don’t see the similarities between those two fuckers).

The only reason I didn’t got to his throat that very instant, imagining myself cutting open his throat so I could set free in pieces all the tendons, muscles and vocal chords that were working hard so his nonsense could reach my very ears was that Tyler held my hand with a hand in which he was already holding a knife so sharp I felt as it cut me and a drop of blood felt to the floor, almost as if I were on a trance.

I breathed deeply, picture that blood belonging to the ferret (or its owner) and followed Tyler inside.

There was only one lesson to be learned here: next time, I will be carrying a gun already.

 At the end, the next time the ferret came into my property, this time without its annoying owner, just the bloody bastard wanting to take a piss on our front yard, it wasn’t a bullet what was headed towards him, but an ancient arrow I thought completely gone, since my father gave all his violent objects to a foundation since he said they were awakening something wrong in him.

Yeah, my father also became a weakling a few years back.

I shot the ferret dead and, then went to his side, took off the arrow, and stabbed it with the poignant object over and over again. Just until I realised now I couldn’t go inside, without risking Tyler’s life.

So I decided to shower on my neighbours pool (yes, please, don’t make any comments) and, as I left from one house to the other, I realised a dark figure was staring at me from the other side of the street. I shrugged and went inside where, curiously enough, was Tyler.

Apparently, our neighbour had taken extra-precautious measures so he wouldn’t go into anaphylactic shock and he was taking care of the house in the meantime. He obviously asked me why I was so dirty, I told him that it was a honour-gentleman thing playfully, letting it clear I wanted some after I had cleaned myself up a bit and went inside as he said: “ your love for violence is moving, thank you so much ”. Yes, if Dekker hadn’t come on knocking, that would have been the best sex of my entire adult life.

 As I just advanced, Dekker knocked as I was finishing taking away some guts from the inside of my fingernails. Tyler opened and answered a lot of extremely random questions because he was…I don’t even know, pal, I didn’t pay much attention except for the fact that he kept staring at me and, when he left, almost with pity, he muttered “you can defend yourself without a knife always at arms’ reach” and, then, he was simply gone.

I shuddered, he had sounded so much closer than it should have been possible and yet…it had happened. Probably some voodoo, or any other similar shit on that line.

 After that, I found him everywhere and, when I got really upset (especially with ferrets and similar creatures and its irresponsible owners) he always appeared, with decision and…was that fear? Maybe, yes. Fear in his eyes.

 I can keep this no more; it is driving me insane and Tyler (who is currently on special shooting in Glasgow) texted me the other day saying “ you know what you want to do; you know how much I approve of you protecting our intimacy ”. So, yeah, I must just admit that I am about to commit a crime, but, with how driven I am, good luck trying to stop me (or getting any cop believing you).

Dekker is getting what he deserves.

He shouldn’t have believed my personal life was anything of his incumbency.

Actually? Now that I come to think of it more calmly, I almost pity him. If his life is so interesting he spends most of his time observing me …well, it must be sad not to have a Mission.

  Statement ends.

  The case of Elliot Mercury is…rather interesting. He came in last week, wrote his statement, stormed off the building and…he was found dead within hours (we had to suffer the police efforts , but there was absolutely no trace of violence or anything else whatsoever. Those who saw him, described him as the emptiest eyes they had ever seen.

I wished I knew how Elliot lived those last moments…

…the story about the ferret is true, only that, in all documents I could found, the man went missing too, being finally certificated dead two days ago. There had been other disappearances around Mister Mercury, and in most of them signs of violence could be observed.

The most remarkable thing, though, is the fact that his boyfriend, Tyler Forbes did die after he was hospitalised for an extreme allergic reaction.

Elliot’s step-mother was one of the very first people to disappear.

At least, I guess, Adelard Dekker had stopped this phenomenon, even if it is in a rather extreme way…

End recording.

  SUPPLEMENTAL : Sasha came to me yesterday with a mountain of folders containing information regarding Tim. She said that she knew this was a bit Pepe Silvia (whoever that person is) of her, but that I had to listen to her.

She claimed that Tim wasn’t Tim, that she knew this was him but she felt he wasn’t and that she had the definite clue: he barely got any reaction of him when talking to him about Danny, his brother.

By what she had told me, that fact seems rather…Impossible and, since our face-off in the tunnels was so bizarre, not to mention his alleged new girlfriend… I still not completely certain but, I am afraid, she might be right.

End recording.

[kevin--of-desert-bluffs]

I did one in reverse lol a WTNV plot written like early TMA. Sorry if this one isn't as good I've only listened to like 22 episodes of TMA lol

Statement of Yu Story, regarding an incident they experienced in the Yorkshire Dales. Original statement given December 15th, 2012. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

I want to start this by telling you a little bit about myself. Before all of this I was as ordinary as anyone else. I never drank or took drugs and have no history of mental illness. Instead my problem seemed to be more fatigue...with life, with how things were going. My mother used to say I was never satisfied. Maybe she was right.

Sorry, I'm trying to keep this short and sweet but I'm too aware that any moment now They might appear and I don't think I'll be getting out of that encounter. I've been running from them too long already.

My name is Yu Story. I used to live in Leeds, had done all my life. For work, I wrote direct mail campaigns for companies, selling their products. It was long and tedious work. Sometimes I would write things like – Dear Resident, finally some good news in this dreary world. At last, a reason not to kill yourself! - then I would backspace and write something more appropriate.

I had a friend, then a girlfriend, then a fiancee – the same person. Sometimes I cooked, sometimes she cooked, we had that kind of cosy balanced relationship. If it's all the same with you I'd rather not state her name here.

I suppose I must have had a breakdown. That's surely what my family have called it. One day I was walking from the glass box of my office to my old Ford Probe and a vision came to me. Yes, I know how that sounds but what else can I call it? It certainly wasn't real. I hope it wasn't real.

I saw above me a planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. It was so far away, so desolate, and so impossibly, terrifyingly dark, and that day I did not go home. I drove instead. I drove a long time, and eventually I ended up in somewhere deep in the Yorkshire Dales, in a town called Night Vale and I stopped driving. I must have been driving hours to get there, and yet I never stopped nor felt the need to stop, it was like I'd hardly been driving for long at all. I should have driven home, but I didn't. I stayed, something I regret doing now. Night Vale was an nice town, quaint, not too modern but not as rustic as some places out there. It even had an old opera house if you can believe that.

The native residents were somewhat standoffish at first but the more I stayed the less suspicious and hostile they were although I don't think they ever completely accepted me as one of their own. I found a caravan for rent near a use car lot – not exactly glamorous but not bad. I'd thrown out my phone somewhere along the way to Night Vale and for some reason never thought to get another. I felt terrible about it – knowing that my fiancee and my family would want to know I was alright – but it never felt like the right time to call and so I never did.

It haunted me how easy it was to leave my old life. How few the repercussions were. The complete freedom, the utter lack of consequences, it terrified me. I can't even remember how long I stayed in Night Vale. Time started to mean very little to me. I managed to find a job. Or, the job found me. They, the man who was not tall and the man who was not short, knocked on the door of the caravan one day and just offered it to me. It sounded too good to be true but I thought what the Hell and took it. All I had to do was drive out into the Dales every day except Sunday and there I would find two trucks. I moved wooden crates from one truck to the other whilst a man in a dark suit watched me silently. It was a different man each time. Sometimes the crates ticked. Mostly they did not. When I was done the man would hand me some amount of cash – also different each time – and I would go home. It was the best job I'd ever had.

Except...a few days ago, it went differently. I moved the crates. The man in the suit, a stranger, watched. But then, as had never happened before, the man in the suit received a phone call. He walked off at some distance to take it. “Yes sir," he said and "No sir."

It wasn't terribly interesting. I moved crates. But then an impulse, an awful impulse, came over me. I took one of the crates. I took it and put it in my trunk. By the time the man came back from his phone call, I was done with my job. He gave me the money, nearly £500 today, the second highest it had ever been. And I drove home with the crate in my trunk.

When I got home I took the crate into my caravan and left it in the kitchen. This wasn't the kind of crate which ticks. It was a completely ordinary crate. I cooked dinner. I ate it outside, sitting by the open door, looking out across the town. I could see the blinking red light of a distant radio tower. I wondered how long it would take them to figure out that the crate was gone. I didn't wonder who 'they' were and don't now. Some mysteries aren't questions to be answered but just kind of exist as opaque fact, a thing which exists to not be known.

Sorry, where was I? Oh right. I went back in to look at the crate. I reached out and touched it. It felt warm, warmer than the air around it. It had this smell – sharp and earthy. Almost like freshly ground cinnamon. I put my ear to it and I swear I could music coming from within. A soft indistinct melody humming from within. It didn't look difficult to open. All I needed to do was pull out a few nails. I didn't open it.

Instead I went for a drive to the local diner. A distraction. Just like driving to Night Vale had been a distraction. I got a slice of pie even though I had just eaten and wasn't hungry. I ate quickly without tasting it and returned back to the crate. I touched the crate again. It was warmer now, as if whatever was inside was heating up. I started to worry that it might be dangerous. Some kind of weapon? I'd always thought it was probably drugs I was helping move but now...

I opened the crate. Bit by bit I opened it. The moment I did something exploded out of it and pushed me back against the wall. It was an enormous bloom, maybe six feet long and as it opened I began to scream. It was a human figure which unfurled from that flower. Right there in the centre of the blossom, as if they were being birthed from it. But it wasn't just this which made me scream. I knew the person in the flower or I had known the person it was mimicking. Not personally – no – I'd simply seen his face in the local newspaper. He was by all accounts a celebrated man of the community, often doing charity work and the like. He'd died of natural causes and there was a tiny article about him which I'd skimmed without thought. Now that same face looked at me. A face of a dead man growing out of a large flower.

I scrambled to my feet and exited the caravan. That's when I saw it for the second time. A planet of awesome size, lit by no sun. An invisible titan, all thick black forests and jagged mountains and deep, turbulent oceans. It was so far away, so desolate, and so impossibly, terrifyingly dark.

I could hear the sound of an engine getting closer and knew They had discovered what I had done and were coming for me. I got into my car and drove as fast as I could. I spent days driving in what I hoped was an untraceable erratic manner. It was by chance I managed to be here in London at all, let alone by your establishment. I admit I felt compelled to come in and tell you what I saw. Where else was I to go? The police sure wouldn't believe me...I don't even know if you will. It doesn't matter, it's here now and I have to get going. I've been lucky but I feel like I won't be lucky for much longer. They're going to find me and they're going to kill me. Maybe I'll end up in one of those crates myself. Thank you for hearing my story.

Statement ends.

Mr Story's account is not dissimilar to any number of men in black conspiracy theories which exist and therefore is almost entirely sure to be a concoction of a clearly stressed and teetering mind. Despite his claims of being mentally sound, we can't ignore that Mr Story left his entire life behind spontaneously, a clear indicator of a mental breakdown possibly caused by the outset of greater mental problems. After all he seemed to be suffering from classic symptoms of paranoia, believing himself to be watched and followed as well as hallucinating the uh, 'dark planet' as he described it. Of course no such thing could possibly exist so close to Earth without dire consequences so it's not even worth checking on.

I asked Martin to look up this 'Night Vale' to try and at least corroborate Mr Story's claims of having lived there a while. He couldn't find a single trace of such a town anywhere in the world, merely sound alike towns or places which did not fit Mr Story's descriptions. I asked Sasha to cross-reference these findings in case Martin had missed something, which was likely. She too found nothing, so I am able to firmly conclude that Night Vale does not exist and was another aspect of Mr Story's declining mental state. As for claims of flowers that contain the bodies of dead people...well, I don't think we need to get the opinion of a botanist to rule that out – do we?

A missing persons report was indeed filed for Mr Story but his story does not have a pleasant conclusion in which he returned home and sought psychiatric help. Instead it seems that someone did indeed catch up with him and slit his throat, leaving him for dead in a field. What is more Tim recalled seeing a crate he remarked as being unusually warm to the touch amongst other items here at the Institute. Across the top someone had stamped the word 'Stonecrops'. We opened the crate and were surprised to see a small house inside. Not a dolls house exactly, more a model someone had made with extreme attention to detail in every room that could be seen from the windows although it could not be opened without breaking it. So – no flowers then, and perhaps not related at all. I think it's best we don't waste more time on this.

Recording ends.

You have no idea how tempted I am to write a kind of... parody fic where I take TMA episodes and switch them to the WTNV format i.e. take the plot and act like it's just something casually happening in NV.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

The Purrfect Alternative

Premise: Why would there be a cat in the archives? An archive cat fixit.

2.7K words

Rated G

(Tw: A bit of violence but it's against Jurgen Leitner)

This is a fic dedicated to the @jonsimsandcats event! Hope you enjoy it :)

"Sorry, you haven't seen a cat, have you?"

Jon gaped at the larger man who suddenly barged into the office. 

"I-I'm sorry, a what?"

"Uh, a cat, tabby I think." The man hurriedly explained.

"No. No I haven't. Is it.. Supposed to be here?" Jon knew book shops sometimes kept cats. Perhaps archives did as well. Maybe Gertrude had a soft spot in her after all.

"N-no actually. I, uh, I was feeding it on the way in but when I got up with my things, well, my hands were full you see, so when I managed to open the door it sort of slipped in with me? I'm so sorry, I have to find it before-"

"Okay okay calm down, stop." Jon held up his hand and let out a sigh. First day of the promotion and he's already stressed. But it's fine. He's fine. He can handle a cat. He's good with cats.

"Where do you work? Upstairs? Are you sure it came down here?"

"Yes, I saw it. And I just started working down here today? I'm Martin. Blackwood." He offered a hand. Jon automatically took it. Big and soft. He let go a bit too quickly and coughed. 

"Work here? Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm supposed to let Jonathan Sims know about becoming an archival assistant. He's the head archivist Elias told me to talk to."

"Well that's one thing to cross off your list." Jon smirked. "I'm Jonathan Sims. Jon, if you please. And Elias did not mention you. Tim and Sasha were supposed to be the only new recruits." Jon frowned to himself. He'll have to have a word with Elias about this. It's fine now that it happened but keeping Jon updated could really help in preventing these kinds of awkward introductions with people he's supposed to work closely with.

"O-oh! Well, here I am now too." Martin chuckled nervously, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper.

Jon hummed "So you are I suppose. Well, let's not waste time on trivial matters, there is a cat that needs to be found." Jon got up from his chair.

"O-oh god, you're right. I'm so sorry for this." The other man apologized, remembering why he was there in the first place. It was clear that he now realized that the fact that the person he's asking to help him clear up his mess is his new boss could be very problematic for him. Jon easily sympathized with that kind of familiar pressure.

"It's alright, let's just, get this sorted." Jon was not willing to admit that a part of him was also just looking forward to seeing the cat. It would help distract him from his own stress, as it were.

Ten minutes later the two of them sitting on the floor in the stacks with a chubby tabby cat sprawled on Jon's lap. Jon was petting it affectionately while amicably getting acquainted with his new assistant. The man turned out to be a library veteran with useful cataloging skills that could help with the mess that was left down here. Having calmed down considerably, Martin had stopped fidgeting and was cooing at the cat who was head butting his large palm. Their presence soothed Jon in a way that surprised him. In the tranquil, quiet atmosphere of the stacks, sounds of cat purrs and Martin's low murmurs, he felt almost optimistic that despite his lack of experience and the large task ahead of them, he would be alright. 

-------

Paper meowed loudly behind him as Martin hurried down the tunnel with Jon and Tim at his tail. Martin glanced back as he reached an intersection and noticed they were too far behind, Jon limping on his injured foot. He hesitated, stopping and waiting for them to catch up. Paper came up and rubbed his leg before trotting down the tunnel on the right, tail held high and confident. Martin inhaled deeply to catch his breath, starting to walk again, this time more slowly. They managed to leave most of the fast worms behind and the ones down here were few and sparse enough to easily stomp down individually. Paper was making a game out of it.  He kept leaping onto some that crawled ahead of them, squishing them loudly with his paw. 

Jon and Tim caught up and the three followed Paper down the dark passage. 

"Yeah, get the damn crawlers." Slurred Tim. The CO2 he inhaled was not helping his coherency. 

"You know," gasped Jon, "I actually think they're larvae, given Jane's statement and-" 

"Jon, I'm going to have to ask you to stop now." Martin said, as calmly as he could, his voice a tad too high and loud. 

"... Sorry." Jon said sheepishly. 

They followed Paper down the forking paths, hoping the cat knew where in the seven circles of hell they were. 

Eventually they stopped seeing any worms as the path sloped up, ending in a sudden door. There was daylight filtering in from beneath it. Paper was eagerly pawing at it. 

"Uh, I think we found a secret way out of the institute." Martin could hardly believe their luck. 

"Excellent, now I can ditch work and no one will know I even left." Tim mumbled. 

"Tim, if you wanted to succeed in that endeavor, you should have not said that next to your boss." Jon commented dryly. 

The worm threat no longer being imminent, Martin allowed himself a nervous chuckle. 

They pushed at the door and with a bit of group effort, eventually managed to pry it open into fresh air. They came out into a narrow alleyway which turned out to be not far from the institute. As they walked (limped) down the street to find access to a working phone they heard someone cry out. 

"Jon? Tim? Martin!" They spotted Sasha hurrying towards them, carrying heavy bags of cat food. 

"Sasha! You're okay!" Martin exclaimed. "We were worried you'd get back and be caught in it like Tim had."

"Where have you been?" Jon inquired, straining to stand upright on his own. Martin came closer, gently supporting him by the hip on the opposite side of Tim. 

"We ran out of food for Paper, I figured I'd pop by the store for a moment to get some." Sasha said. "I came back when the building was being evacuated."

"Oh good, at least the alarm worked." Tim said tiredly. 

"What in god's name happened to you three?" She inquired worriedly. 

"Prentiss, we'll fill you in later. We need to make sure the ECDC is informed regarding the CO2 in the fire suppression system that needs to be activated."

"And get you to a hospital." Martin chastised, squeezing Jon's side. 

"Yes yes." Jon waved dismissively but all the while leaning further into Martin's side. He really wasn't discreet, Martin thought smugly. 

Sasha was about to say something else when a loud meow interrupted her. Paper was nosing into the bag, fully aware of its contents and who they were meant for. 

Jon dislodged from Martin and Tim and hobbled towards the cat. 

The cat turned and moved back into Jon's welcoming arms, as the archivist picked him up and stroked him fondly. 

"We are lucky on all accounts that Paper is such a smart cat." He murmured into the soft fur, injury forgotten for the moment. 

Tim chuckled, "cats always ruin evil people's plans, it's a well known fact. Anyway, Sasha, please call an ambulance for us?" He said, and promptly sat on the floor. 

Martin sighed with relief. For now, they are all safe and together. And that's all that matters. 

-------

It was all almost too much to take in. Luckily Paper was held tight in his arms as he listened to Jurgen Leitner ramble on about powers and fears and monsters and Jonah Magnus. He had been chased by a distorted form of his boss, who was apparently replaced by a monster Jon and the crew tried and failed to destroy, thus separating in the ensuing pursuit. In light of these events Jon now needed something soft to ground him in the face of so much new information. 

The discovery of Elias' death was a shock, especially given the fact that apparently it happened when he was trapped in artifact storage during the Prentiss siege a half a year back. 

He (that is, his doppelganger) told them back then that he was trying to reach the suppression system switch when he tripped down the stairs over one of Paper's many scattered toys, alerting Jane in the process and was driven back into the storage area. His account seemed to check out given he was rescued from there by the ECDC after Jane was dealt with. And given the few toys strewn about the stairs leading to artifact storage. Why Paper kept scattering his toys all over the building was beyond Jon but that wasn't the main issue at hand. After trapping the creature in the walls of the tunnels, Jurgen Leitner proceeded to reveal himself. Once Jon dragged him back to his office, and picked the protesting Paper up to calm himself down, he unveiled the truth of Elias', or Jonah's, whole operation. 

Turns out Jonah Magnus decided life was too short to enjoy once and did exactly what eventually happened to him. Talk about karma. Leitner explained that Gertrude's plan was to stop Jonah from... Something he was planning. Perhaps a ritual to end the world in a way the others would fail to do. That bit of information was on a tape of Gertrude which Leitner played for Jon. By the time they reached the part where Leitner said, “they needed to kill Jonah's main body then burn down the archives.” Martin, Tim and Sasha had arrived back at the office as well. 

"Jon? Jon! Are you okay?" Martin rushed forward, hugging Jon tightly, ignoring Paper's loud yowling at being squished in between them. Jon sighed, "Martin, thank god. I-I'm fine." He hugged him back, relieved his boyfriend was safe, as well as his other assistants of course. "It chased after me but he stopped it."

Tim raised his axe, "Jon are you sure he's not... Another one?"

"Yes I'm sure. That" Jon took a deep breath, "is Jurgen Leitner."

After the team's loud exclamations of disbelief he and Leitner updated them on everything they had discussed. As he was being hugged by Martin and holding the fluffy cat he slowly began calming down.

After Leitner was done a long moment of silence ensued.

"So," Sasha said slowly, "Gertrude's dead?"

"Yes, she was shot and then hidden by Jonah in the tunnels. Unfortunately I couldn't get out to allow for a proper burial, so I had to leave her there." He seemed sad admitting it. Jon did not feel sympathy for him. This man deserved none for his past and cowardice.

"And now, we need to, what, somehow find the center of the maze of tunnels to kill Jonah completely and burn the archives?" Sasha asked skeptically. 

"Yes, the whole institute in fact. I have a gas main in the tunnels ready to be ignited once we find the center." Leitner said.

"How do we do that?" Martin frowned.

"Maybe Michael knows?" Tim quipped. "He just helped us out of that situation with his own… corridor labyrinth. Maybe he'll be able to help."

"Okay, okay let's first take a breather and calm down. We'll figure out how to solve this." Jon said, raising his hand to slow them down.

"Yeah, I'll make us some tea." Martin added, "At least now that... Thing won't bother us for a long while."

"Let it burn along with this hell of an institute." Tim said harshly. Knowing how his brother was killed almost the same way, Jon felt strong sympathy for Tim rush over him.

Which was replaced with a different emotion the moment he turned to the man who saved him.

"Thank you for your help, now Martin, I need you to hold Paper for a moment."

Martin, looking baffled, took Paper out of Jon's arms. "Jon wh-"

Jon swiftly approached the older man and proceeded to sock him in the nose with the full force of his fist. The crew gasped in unison. 

"That's for everyone you hurt with your idiocy, you stupid old coward." Jon seethed and punched him again. He heard Martin chuckle and Tim whoop as the man whimpered and attempted to protect his face.

Jon was glad they were spared the horrible plans of a 200 year old evil man and that they had some semblance of a strategy moving forward. He was, however, equally elated for this opportunity to do what he fantasized about since learning of Leitner's existence.

And, he supposes, all of this can be indirectly attributed to Paper, the archive cat.

-------

Jon woke up to the warm snuggle of his lovely fiance and a mouthful of cat fur. 

"Pffff, Paper geerroff," he mumbled, uselessly trying to push the stubborn cat away. The chirping of birds mingled with the sound of highland cows grazing in the field near their cabin. 

After the success of their plan to end Jonah, after the fire had already burned down the horrors of that evil place, it took a while longer for their troubles to be resolved. They had to endure endless questioning and investigations of the police. Jon, who was weakened by the ordeal to the point of needing hospitalization, took a long time to recover and regain his strength. Leitner claimed it was lucky he was cut off from the Eye this early, or the consequences would have been much more serious. The others seemed to have been less affected, but once the archives were completely reduced to ashes they recovered, their jobs burned down along with everything else. 

Sasha found a new job as a researcher in a prestigious institute, nothing supernatural involved. Tim moved on to journalism, utilizing his curiosity and charm to their full potential. Jon and Martin opened a tea & book shop, if only to make Paper a real bookshop cat. They have been slowly setting it up and settling down until... Well, Jon proposed and they took a break. Traveled to Scotland with Paper on an early honeymoon to see the cows and enjoy the quiet. 

And quiet it was. Until Paper shamelessly began purring as loud as a train right in Jon's ear. Jon huffed in fond annoyance and got up, leaning down to give Martin a kiss on the head and then shooing the crime of a cat off to the kitchen. 

"You can't give me a moment of reprieve, can you?" He stretched and followed the cat out the bedroom. 

He filled Paper's bowl and sat on the floor leaning his back on the cabinet, closing his eyes as Paper chewed his food noisily. 

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, he was awakened by a soft tap on his head. He looked up blearily and smiled. The cat had long since finished eating and found a home in Jon's lap. 

"Morning love." Martin murmured softly, matching his tone to the serene atmosphere. After hesitating a moment, he bent down and sat next to Jon. Jon looked at him adoringly as he absent-mindedly stroked Paper, humming along to his purrs. Martin joined him, petting Paper, their hands occasionally (and very purposefully) brushing against each other. 

After a few minutes of calm silence, Martin spoke up. 

"You know, this reminds me of that first day we met. In the stacks."

Jon smiled at the memory. "Ahh yes, all three of us had a very fateful meeting there, didn't we? God, I was so stressed back then." 

"You handled it pretty well I have to say. Handled my nervousness pretty well too." Martin chuckled. 

"I was lucky you were there. You really helped me calm down." Jon admitted. "Well, you and Paper." Jon added fondly. 

"Paper was a really good archive cat wasn't he?" Martin said, leaning into Jon, pressing a warm, still sleepy kiss on his cheek. Jon closed his eyes, grateful for the events that led up to this moment of pure happiness, with his fiance and his cat. 

"Yes, the best cat in the world."

[voiceless-terror]

In which Martin and Gerry help Jon acquire a cat, among other things. 

“Martin, look!”

A phone is shoved in his face; on the screen is a tiny black kitten sprawled on a carpet with the headline “Free to a Good Home!!” Martin knows where this is going.

“Finally time to bite the bullet, eh?”

“We could surprise him!” Gerry’s voice is animated as he waves his phone in the air. Martin loves when he gets like this, unguarded and sweet. “You know how stressed he’s been. Honestly, I’m shocked we haven’t gotten one already.”

“Well, he’s certainly been hinting at it.” Martin gestures broadly at the walls of the bookstore, decorated with various cozy knick knacks and art they’ve picked up at charity shops. There’s no less than three oddly majestic cat paintings along with a shelf of tiny porcelain felines, not to mention the gaudy clock that has cat breeds instead of numbers. Jon has...particular taste. “Not very subtle, is he?”

“Should I message them, then?” Gerry squints at the screen. “We met them at trivia a few months ago - Mara, the one with the-”

“Green hair, yeah.” Martin remembers the night rather fondly. Gerry usually spent most trivia nights scowling in the corner and making snarky commentary with Jon, but on that particular occasion he had a few drinks and was considerably more relaxed. He managed to charm half of the bar with his stories and wit while Jon stared on, adoration clear on his face.  “But you know Jon would kill us if we didn’t let him have a say. You know how he gets, he needs to prepare-”

“-buy ninety toys-”

“-think up a ridiculous name.” They both laugh at that- Jon’s got a penchant for renaming their friend’s pets when he doesn’t think their moniker “suits them.” He’s gotten into more than one fight about it. “Text him so he doesn’t stay late, though. I’m not staying up until midnight again.”

“On it.”

_______

They hear Jon before they see him. 

The door creaks open, alerting them to his presence as Jon lets out his usual long-suffering sigh (Gerry fondly calls this mood ‘The Bouchard Blues.’) His clothes are wrinkled and his eyes are barely open; from the slight indent on his face, Martin reckons he fell asleep at his desk again. Gerry meets him at the door, grabbing his bag and giving him a kiss on the cheek. “Rough day, love?”

Another sigh, this one a bit more huffy. “Elias came in at half past four with a box of ninety random documents and wanted them all organized by tomorrow. Impossible, of course, unless I stay the night-”

“But you came home!” Gerry says it with a sort of wonder in his voice; Jon very rarely stands up to his boss, no matter how ridiculous the ask. 

“W-Well, you said it was important,” Jon looks between them with large, worried eyes. Always assuming the worst. “It’s nothing bad, is it?”

“Jon, I thought the twelve reassuring texts and afternoon phone call put that to rest,” Gerry replies as he steers them towards the couch. “Suppose I should’ve just told you. I wanted it to be a surprise.” He unlocks his phone and scrolls until he finds the ad, handing it over to Jon.

His eyes immediately light up, alert and awake. “Cat!”

“Cat,” Martin agrees, settling down beside them. “We were thinking of getting one for the bookstore-”

“Of course,” Jon’s smiling that rare, bright grin and Martin melts just a little. “It’s only logical. And I do like black cats-”

“Damn it!” Gerry groans, startling them both. He throws his phone down on the couch, crossing his arms in a sulk. “Someone just claimed her. I knew I should’ve said something-”

But Jon’s already fishing his phone out, his smile not dimming in the slightest. “There’s a shelter not too far from here- I’ll see if we have to make an appointment. Martin, can you call Georgie? She’s got an excellent carrier for the Admiral, and she can probably recommend other necessities-”

They end up going to bed at midnight anyway.

________

“I still don’t see why we had to order so much,” Martin complains after another confirmation email lights up his phone. The credit card bill’s going to be astronomical this month. “Surely we’re overpreparing. We don’t have room for the deluxe cat tower in the shop, and we certainly don’t need one for the flat as well.”

“I assure you these are all necessities, Martin.” Gerry and Martin are both fairly tall, but even they have trouble keeping up with Jon’s brisk pace, sharing a fond look over his head. Jon managed to find them a Saturday appointment with a rather impressive combination of wheedling and charm. When it came to cats, Jon didn’t pull his punches. They made it to the shelter in record time and Jon burst through the doors, his next words full of self-importance. “We’re expected. Jonathan Sims.”

They’re led back to a large room by an amused assistant, Jon at the front of their little line. Martin watches as his eyes light up upon seeing the many cages that lined the wall; even Gerry seems a bit excited, though he tries to hide it by hanging back. Gerry’s never been much of an animal person; he shares Jon’s distaste of loud and jumpy dogs too unpredictable in their behavior. He only just started getting used to the Admiral, and that was through much prodding on Jon’s part. Jon’s love is surprisingly infectious. 

Jon peers into each cage intently, answering every inquisitive noise with a prim “Pleased to meet you.” One of the first cages contains a fluffy brown cat with curious eyes and Martin stops to poke a finger through the door. “Walnut” (as provided by a helpful nameplate) does not respond, though she seems interested. 

Jon’s already halfway down the row before he stops in his tracks, eyes trained on a large, grumpy ball of gray fur sitting right at the bars of the cage. He’s missing an eye, and he begins to growl as soon as Jon nears him.

“This one.” He declares, staring as if entranced. He hasn’t even touched it or attempted to pet it- they’re locked in some sort of silent standoff. Martin’s reminded of those romantic comedies Jon and Gerry hate, where couples lock eyes across the room and it's love at first sight. He surreptitiously takes a picture. Adorable. 

“Jimmy?” The assistant inquires. Jon scoffs at the plainness of the name. “He’s been here awhile. Not very friendly, I’m afraid.”

“No, not Jimmy.” Jon offers up a hand, and the cat comes closer, sniffing at it with suspicion. After a few moments, he butts his head against Jon’s hand, earning a smile. “Lance Corporal.”

“No.”

Jon swivels around, eyes narrowing at Gerry’s words. It’s the first time he’s spoken and he’s got one eyebrow quirked up in amusement. It’s a good look on him. Jon, however, is having none of it and he puts a hand to his hip. “And why not?”

“It’s such a mouthful.” Martin has to agree; it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue. “I’m not going to call him that. What about Lance?”

Jon wrinkles his nose. “Ew.”

Martin sighs; Gerry and Jon get along like a house on fire but when they bicker, they bicker. He eyes the cat that’s now rubbing against Jon’s hand and purring; he hopes the its sudden geniality will extend to Martin and Gerry. Jon would pick a cat that’s just as prickly as he can be.

Martin gives it a good look, coming up beside Jon at ‘Jimmy’s’ cage. The cat immediately stops its gravely purr, it’s eye now trained on Martin. It’s unnerving, Martin never thought a cat could radiate authority but this one surely managed to. If any animal deserves a title, it’s this one.  “What about the Captain?” he asks in a fit of inspiration.

They both turn to look at him; Gerry amused, Jon thoughtful. “Go on.”

“It’s a title, you always liked the naval ones.” Jon nods in agreement, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “He looks like an old sailor, very distinguished. I dunno, I think it’s cute.”

“The Captain,” Jon whispers in awe as the cat resumes rubbing against his hand. “Martin, that’s perfect. Inspired, even.”

He can’t help preening a bit. “Thank you.” Gerry rolls his eyes.

And then there’s the moment of truth- the assistant opens the cage door and Jon steps forward with all the solemnity of a man about to be knighted. He reaches out his arms and the cat lets itself be picked up, going limp as Jon brings it to his chest. He sighs in contentment, giving himself one more moment of bliss before he perks up and opens his eyes.

“Now pick yours.”

_________

Three. They’ve got three fucking cats.

Martin and Gerry immediately began to refuse, but Jon was insistent. “The Captain is obviously very partial to me, and I think you should have some say in who we adopt. If we each get one it eliminates any favoritism. It’s only logical.”

There was nothing logical about it. Three cats and three people in their tiny flat, or worse, destroying their bookstore. They didn’t have the space, the cats might not get along, it would be too expensive. But Jon wouldn’t hear of it, countering every point in a calmness that was borderline unnerving. Martin shot Gerry a pleading look; he’d gone silent after the initial refusal, content to let Martin do most of the arguing, but he just shook his head in amusement- he knew how this would end, and Martin did too. As the final nail in the coffin, Jon deployed the eyes and that’s how he found himself in the front of a taxi with a lapful of Walnut. She’s a friendly thing, instantly purring on contact and meowing whenever he turned away. Martin hadn’t the heart to turn it away.

Gerry took more time. He slunk around the cages and the cats seemed to sense his reluctance. But soon he came upon a small, sleek black cat, not unlike the one from the Facebook post. It was a tentative thing, barely coming to the edge of its cage to sniff at his fingers, but Gerry was determined, patiently waiting the fifteen minutes it took to get him to warm up. Martin didn’t point out the similarities between it and a certain goth, though he shared a knowing look with Jon.

“I’ve got it - the Unfathomable Void.”

“Dear God,” Martin muttered, rolling his eyes. So dramatic, the both of them.

Jon snorted. “That’s a bit much.”

“Okay, Lance Corporal.”

“Excuse me-!”

“Settle down, boys,” Martin put a hand on Jon’s shoulder, he looked liable to pounce. “If that’s what you want, go for it. But we’ll call him Void for short.” Gerry nodded, seemingly satisfied. Jon continued to scowl, though without any heat.

The cabbie was definitely not pleased at having to cart around three men and three cats. He muttered the entire drive while Jon bounced in the backseat, cooing at his companion. Gerry sat much more stoically, though Martin didn’t miss the tiny smile as the cat nipped at his fingers. Jon’s insistence on multiple supplies was starting to make sense now. He definitely planned this from the beginning, sneaky thing.

“Oh no,” Jon suddenly said upon entering their flat, struggling with the carrier in his hand.  Martin’s starting to think he shouldn’t have picked such a massive cat. “I forgot this was for the bookstore!” 

“Well, yeah.” Gerry sat his cage on the ground, kneeling down beside it. “I figured mine or Martin’s would do. The Captain’s not very friendly, Jon.”

“But what if they get lonely? We can’t split them up.” Jon’s eyes dart around the room, growing more conflicted by the second. “Perhaps we should keep them all at home.”

“There’s no room, Jon! And no one’s here during the day.” Martin surveys the room- the three carriers already seem to take up an enormous amount of space, not to mention the living creatures inside of them.  And all of those packages, that damn tower…

“You can take them back and forth. Commute.”

“Christ, we did not think this through.” Gerry’s smiling even as he says it, watching as the Unfathomable Void slowly makes his way out, sniffing tentatively at the air. Walnut’s content to stay in her cage, and Martin tucks her in a corner away from the other two. Jon’s already got the Captain out, holding him in his arms and refusing to let him go.

“You’re right, we didn’t.” Jon agrees, tucking his face in the Captain’s fur. “We should’ve gotten four-”

“Fuck’s sake, Jon!”

“Let’s talk about this later, alright?” Gerry takes Martin’s place as the voice of reason, a rare occurrence. “We’ll keep them at home, let them get used to us, and then we’ll figure out the bookstore situation. No sense getting worked up about it now.” Jon sighs, cradling the mass of fur to his chest and plopping down on the couch. Martin’s sure they’ll be at it again tomorrow; Jon sniping as Martin tries and fails to put together a massive cat tower, Gerry groaning about whatever surprises the cats left for them in the morning. The next few weeks were going to be stressful, to say the least.

For now, though, he sits with his partners once again until midnight, watching their new additions roam about the flat and ignore each other. Jon frets, Gerry sighs, and Martin unsuccessfully attempts to steer the conversation towards anything but cats. By the end of the night, only Void manages to feel at home, curling up in Martin’s favorite armchair (much to his chagrin). Could’ve gone worse, Martin cheers himself with. They’ll get used to the flat. And the bookstore. Probably.

Later that night, once their partner’s asleep and snoring softly between the two of them, Martin turns to Gerry, borrowing Jon’s patented sigh. 

“We’re gonna get a fourth cat, aren’t we?”

Gerry’s voice is just as resigned. “Yeah, reckon so.”

“Christ.”

-------

Others in the JGM series:

What We’re Given and What We Make

At the End of the Day

ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28945809

[fakecrfan]

POV: You wake up in the TMA universe at the start of season 1.

You find yourself on the streets of London, cold and confused.

You try to figure out what happened and get home. You discover the place you lived no longer exists. The place you worked no longer exists.

You try to call the numbers of family, friends, anyone you knew. Baffled voices that you don’t recognize answer you, and then hang up.

As you're wandering around the streets getting increasingly terrified, you pass by the Magnus Institute. Then, everything makes sense.

You hurry in and blurt out: "I would like to make a statement"

Rosie smiles politely.

“Alright, let’s get you the proper forms then.”

She tells you that the Archivist, Jonathan Sims, will see you in a moment. As you are waiting for him, you recall what happens to people who give statements to Jonathan Sims. Unceasing bad dreams. Unrelenting panic attacks. Enough that Jess Tyrell stopped being able to go out in public.

"Ah," you think. "I will not do that then."

You leave in a hurry. Outside, you realize:

oh, I'm the only one who can stop the apocalypse now, aren't i

You shiver. That thought can wait, you think. For now you need to find... somewhere to stay. You are effectively homeless. No, not effectively. You are straight up homeless.

You pull out your wallet to pay for food. Your card is declined. You try to use cash, only to be told it’s counterfeit. Everything is just a little too much to the left of your reality for you to navigate.

Finally you find social services of some kind. They ask for your information, including your NIN. you aren't surprised when they say the info they have on file for that number is.... not you. You are disappointed though.

They help you to a homeless shelter. You sit on your cot and cry self-pityingly for a bit, and then that pressure comes back to your mind:

The world is going to end. You know the world is going to end. You're the only one who can do anything about it.

You turn over and decide that's something you can deal with in the morning.

----

The next day, you think about it again.

"That's something I can deal with when I have an apartment," is what you think then.

So that becomes your next project. Finding your footing as a displaced person. Social services helps but it's... sporadic. It takes months for you to get more stable housing.

When you lie down on the couch of the new, well, new associate you've made, you once again remember that the world is going to end. That you are the only one who can do anything about it.

"I'll think about that when I get a job"

-----

Time continues to pass. As you are trying to get on your feet, you make feeble attempts to... start something.

You go to the Magnus Institute a few times. But it's hard. You've always had terrible social anxiety,. And everyone there seems so cold. You can feel eyes on your back: staring, watching your every move. Normally that alone is enough to make you quit for the day.

A lot of times, the main cast you remember is out doing research. When they are there, you are about to walk up and speak to them when the anxiety hits you again.

What if Elias sees you talking to them? What if he kills you?

You decide to retreat for a little while, then. Just to think of a better plan.

You spend the next month getting your first job in this new world. You start a timeline of when you think the apocalypse is going to happen, but remembering the canon dates is hard. It's not a very helpful timeline, and so you give it up.

Eventually you think the best thing to do is to wait until Elias has been arrested and then talk to the others. When Elias is in prison, he can't murder you for revealing your plans.

This means Sasha and Tim will die. But--they might have died anyway, even with your intervention. Who’s to say? Anyway, you’re not the one who will kill them. It’s not your fault.

You scan the news every day for things about the Magnus Institute, particularly the head of it getting arrested.

During this time, you do a little better. You have a nice apartment now, you think. Nice by your own standards, at least. You decorate the place a little. Get some video games that you like--or well, they aren't the same ones as in your world, but close enough you think?

Months pass.

One day it hits you that maybe the papers would never actually report on Elias being arrested.

Oh shit, you think.

You go back to the Magnus Institute then. By this point, Rosie recognizes you. She grants you the same expression one grants a wayward alley cat. You ask who the current head is. You are told "Peter Lukas."

Shit.

"Can I make a statement?"

Rosie looks nervous. "Um, the Archivist is on medical leave."

"Okay can I talk to one of his assistants?"

Rosie gets this very tired look in her eyes.

"I'll... ask."

Rosie phones the archives extension

it rings

it rings

it rings

"They've all really been through it recently," Rosie tells you. "They don't--like to talk to anyone else, now."

"I have to talk to them," you say. "Um, can you--can you tell Martin Blackwood specifically that I need to talk to him? That it's about Jon?"

Martin is--you like Martin. Martin will be nice and safe. He'll be easier to talk to than Melanie at this point, or Basira. Still, Rosie looks tired again.

"I'll have a chat with him," Rosie says. "How about you go home for now, and I'll call you when I've talked to him."

"But--"

You're bad at this. You were always bad at this. You can barely sign up for anything on your own. Your mother has done so many calls and filled out so many forms for you.

You never cultivated the skill of standing in a lobby and insisting to talk to someone. Maybe you'll just irritate Rosie and she'll blacklist you if you dig in your heels now. Anyway, you're already so tired from this. You think about going home, and playing some Medal of Honour IV.

"Fine," you say.

You go home. You play the game. You sleep.

You're not giving up, you say to yourself. You're just--biding your time.

Rosie does not call you.

It pains you, but you realize you have to go back in and ask to speak to someone again. You'll go today after work, you decide.

No, wait, you're too tired from work today. You'll go tomorrow.

Maybe on the weekend.

----

You finally go back

Rosie tells you she just--hasn't been able to get a hold of Martin.

"Fine," you say. "Any of the other assistants."

Rosie actually looks a bit worried for you. "Um, they're not--they don't take well to unexpected visitors. Let me wait and chat them up about it."

You do not listen this time.

You march down into the basement level where the archives are. The door is--well. Shit. It's barricaded? You knock. You keep knocking.

"Melanie! Basira!" you say. "I have to talk!"

The door opens too quickly. You barely get a glimpse of Melanie's snarl before she strikes and your vision goes white.

She hits you a few times. No knives, just fists. You hear Basira in the backround, barking for Melanie to stand down. Once there is an opening and you can blearily see again, you run away in terror.

It's not--you didn't intend to run. You were just afraid.

----

You go home, and realize that Melanie didn't even really hit you in a super serious way. Nothing that would warrant a hospital trip, at least. Nothing that has left you with a lot of pain, outside of the immediate terror of physical violence.

You probably could have stuck it out there. You should have.

You think about all the months--no, years now--that have passed without you making any progress.

"But that’s not my fault,” you say.

"I was having a really hard time. I was homeless. I've been struggling with my mental health. I still have to keep the rent paid and feed myself."

"It's not my fault. It's not."

"I will do something. Just--I need some more time."

You sleep.

You decide to wait a bit for your bruises to heal up before going back.

When you do drag yourself back to the Institute, now there is a PTSD reaction to going into the Institute on top of the social anxiety.

You leave quickly. Rosie looks so sad for you.

You do try to go back. You do try to get back in contact with the Archives, or go back when Jon is back up. But there's always something. Not something directly stopping you. Just--

Tiredness. Work. Illness. Doctor's appointments. Panic attacks. The Archives staff being unreachable.

The world is going to end. You're the only one who can stop it.

"That's not true though," you think. "I mean, technically anyone could. I just have a little more information that could help."

"It's never one person's fault," you tell yourself as you crawl into bed after another flight of anxiety struck you as you were about to cross the street to the Institute. "It's everything. It's--a whole system. It's Jonah's fault really. If I don't--I'm not to blame."

“I’m not to blame.”

----

You are playing Medal of Honour V when your phone lights up with a notification that there was an outburst of violence at a place known as the Magnus Institute, and billionaire Peter Lukas has disappeared in the confusion.

You should get up. It’s going to happen, and happen soon. You hand twitches on the controller.

You remember a quote you saw before you ended up here, on Facebook of all things.

"Don't wonder what you'd be doing in Nazi Germany. Whatever you're doing now, is what you would have been doing then."

Because bad things were happening in the world all the time, your preachy Facebook aunt said. There is always genocide, and famine, and war. It’s not some movie fantasy from the past.

You think about that. About the horrors in your world. Those movements that you retweeted support for and occasionally donated $5 to. The protests you awkwardly passed by on your way to work.

You quietly realize what kind of person you are. What you would have been doing in Nazi Germany, or the civil rights era in the U.S., or during the catastrophes in your own world, or right now.

It's what you were always going to do.

And so you get back to Medal of Honour V.

----

You're still dreading the apocalypse of course. It won’t be easy.  It will be around six months to a year of full on torture, specifically designed to be the worst you have ever felt. Something about that soothes you. Something about knowing you are a victim too, or maybe knowing that you’ll be punished.

But--it will end, and then you'll be alright. Everything will return to normal, and you can go back to your apartment and your job and your games. It’s not all that bad.

You feel a twinge of guilt for Martin and Jon, who you could ave intervened for. You feel more than a twinge for the worlds the Entities will infect after. But--maybe it will all work out okay. Maybe the universe is a kind place. Maybe other worlds will be able to handle the fears better.

Who knows! There is always hope!

----

[When the sky turns red and the great Eye opens, when you start to hear the howls of your apartment neighbors through the wall--

Nothing happens to you. You are fine. It does not touch you.

Oh.]

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

Jonathan Sims Is Dead In The End

Chapter 9: Neural Pruning (AO3) (My Fic Masterpost)

Originally Posted on 4/18/2024

Rating: M

Summary:

neural pruning is when neurons die, but like, intentionally.

no, i do not mean intentionally as in "i intentionally killed my brain cells by consuming substances such as alcohol." i mean it in a brain development context- when ur a little baby child, you have a shitton of neurons. you still have a shitton of neurons btw but you had a Bigger shitton when you were a baby (technically speaking you had the Biggest shitton before you were born due to prenatal brain development and apoptosis but whatever it doesnt matter)

so. lots of baby neurons doing their baby neuron thing. except this costs a lot of energy! so then you hit puberty and your brain's like "okay this is fucking untenable like look at how much energy we're wasting here" and cuts certain connections by getting rid of some neurons that weren't really getting used but WERE using energy. so then the remaining neurons shuffle around to increase efficiency in communication bc theyre closer together now

so. you finish puberty and you look back to when you were a child and youre like "man i was dumb." but you werent dumb. you had neural connections you didnt use then (and dont use now) that made things slower and less efficient in terms of the way you think now

Sasha takes his hand.

He stands up as he pulls her upright, moving just enough to free her a little at a time, probably to keep her aware of the fact that she's still at his mercy. They're still in Tim's apartment, and if anything happens, he can claim self-defense, legally speaking- of course, that's assuming that she'll try anything. She won't even breathe wrong right now, not with how tense this all is, not with how scared Tim clearly is, no matter how well he hides it. She knows him better than almost anyone, she can tell when he's afraid.

She loved him, once, in a way that she doesn't think most people would call love, in that classical fairytale way. Still does, sort of. She trusts him, less than she did before, but she still cares about him. He wanted her in that way, he once liked her in that way, and Sasha had tried to let him down easy instead of telling him she'd never reciprocate, but it turns out she failed in that too. She thinks that if she ever felt what everyone else calls "love," the real storybook romance stuff, she would feel it for Tim; but she doesn't, and she hasn't, and she doesn't think she ever will.

She thinks that might be part of the reason why she doesn't feel betrayed the moment he puts the knife against her wrist. It's lighter this time, there's less pressure on it, but the threat to her life is still very much present.

"I don't know what your game is. I don't know what the hell you think you're trying to pull, but if I find out you're exactly what I thought you were? I'll make your death as long and painful as I possibly can." Tim stares her dead in the eye, and says every single word with cold intent. There's nothing warm left in his voice, nothing of the man in the pub a few hours ago, only a man who is completely and totally willing to get blood on his hands.

Again, she nearly adds to that, but the first time doesn't count. It was in the future, after all, and Tim hasn't even met his murder victim yet. It's not right to hold it against him now, no matter how much she reflexively brings it up in the back of her mind.

Besides, he's justified- more so than he was the last time, anyway. He's justified in his fear and suspicion, all he knows about any of the real kinds of monsters is that there are things that pretend to be people but just a little off, and all of a sudden she shows up in the Archives and she's got different colored eyes? She's surprised he hasn't outright killed her yet. He's probably more impulsive with people he doesn't know as well.

"I'm not. I'm still- I'm still me, I promise. I promise." Her voice is shakier than she wants it to be, too quiet for her liking, but she doesn't look away from Tim's gaze, just holds the same stare as he is. She doesn't say that she's still human; in a technical sense, she's closer to human than a mannequin, which is what he's looking for, but she doesn't think she can call herself fully human anymore. She's done things that no human should do, a hundred thousand times over, for better or for worse, and now she can't rightfully consider herself one of them. A reflection of a refraction, maybe. A copy of a copy of herself as she should have been.

"Prove it." Tim doesn't hesitate to dismiss her word. Why shouldn't he? Why should he trust promises that are, as far as he knows, empty? His voice is quieter, but no less harsh than it was a moment ago. She doesn't know why it hurts more than the knife he's still holding to her wrist- maybe because the knife isn't cutting her, barely even touching her, and his grip on her hand is just firm, not overly tight.

The nerves around the cut on her throat send pain signals to her brain. She ignores them. The stinging isn't anything compared to the things that aren't scars anymore.

How can she prove it, though? How can she prove that she's still herself, beyond what she's already said? There's nothing she can think of as an argument. There's no concrete, golden proof that she can pull out, nothing that something else couldn't guess if it took her over. All there is is to prove that she's from the future, and that's easy and impossible at the same time. What would she tell him? Everything?

If only. No, she's alluded to future events enough that he knows what her story is. He knows she's going to claim she's from the future, and it's up to her to sell him on the truth.

"I'm from about three years in the future. Things... things have changed. A lot. My eyes are the least of it, if only you'd seen all the scars we both picked up- but that's beside the point, isn't it?" She waits for half a moment, waiting for an answer that she knows won't come, and then continues. "There's a Statement in one of the boxes near Jon's desk. It's by a man called Carlos Vittery, he was haunted by some sort of ghost spider. He's dead, so you can break and enter as you please, and in his old basement is where you'll find Jane Prentiss. You know who she is by now, right?" She shifts her tone easily to business. It's easy to Know where Vittery's Statement is, easier still to remember that as the place that Prentiss was hiding out before Martin found her.

"Yeah. Everyone does. You honestly expect me to believe all that?" He acts like he's caught her in a lie, but he doesn't so much as move anything other than his mouth. That's not enough to say he believes her, of course, but it is enough to say that he hasn't decided that she's lying.

"I'm not stopping you from going. What, do you think I'm secretly in contact with her, and friendly enough to give her a location that would be safe to hide out from police and everyone? We can go to the Institute right now and find the address if you'd like." She doesn't keep being all cooperative without at least a little bit of attitude. Does he really believe she can just manipulate things like that? He doesn't, of course not, not unless he's deluding himself.

He hesitates. He keeps hesitating, for longer than she thinks he should, before finally taking the knife away from her wrist and helping her actually stand. The knife doesn't leave his hand- he doesn't trust her, not yet, which is fine because she doesn't quite trust him either, not so much as to believe he wouldn't kill her under the right circumstances- and he backs away by a single step.

"We're leaving in the morning." He says, and she knows he's calling her bluff. She would do the same thing in his shoes, really, so she shouldn't feel it get under her skin the slightest little bit.

"Can I go home, or am I sleeping over?" She doesn't ask if she's being held captive; there are enough clothes of hers over here anyway, from various nights in his bed- without a hookup- that it would almost be like being held prisoner in her own home. She's not even going to word it like that if she can help it.

"The couch is comfortable enough." Tim says, and she really shouldn't have thought it would be any different.

[spoondrifts]

all characters in tma can be divided into a few categories

Valid:

- simon fairchild (who just wanted to skydive for eternity)

- helen richardson (I don't need to explain this one)

- gerard keay (goth, absolutely decked jurgen leitner, what else is there to say)

- jude perry (could top me. in love with the messiah of destruction)

- hezekiah wakely (just wanted to chill in a hole in the ground. an absolute mood)

Clowns:

- jonathan "lets blow up a building that we're all inside of" sims

- jurgen leitner (crusty old man trying to control his demon books acting surprised when his library burned down bitchass cunt)

- nikola orsinov (plastic mannequin)

- michael shelley (man I sure hope my boss doesn't sacrifice me to the throat of deceit, whoops)

- tim stoker (wdym you didn't bring me here to blow myself up? unhealthy coping mechanisms? blocked)

- martin blackwood (I'm sure that self isolating and destroying all connections with other people will solve my problems)

- melanie king (tries to murder the guy who can literally See everything)

- mike crew (but only because he used his powers to harass people instead of having any fun whatsoever, but he's not a complete bastard because he's kinda sexy)

- oliver banks (wanted to sleep so bad that he committed identity theft, stole a ship, and got everyone on board killed)

Bastards:

- peter lukas (introvert sea captain on his sixth divorce from his omniscient husband, fucks everyone else over with his power play)

- elias bouchard (body hopping bitch on his sixth divorce from his sugar daddy, manipulative as hell and frustratingly sexy)

- mary keay (bitch. killed her husband because he was disabled. bound herself to a skin book. 0/10 would not try again)

Competent:

- sasha james (could've been the damn archivist but elias was scared of her)

- georgie barker (feels no fear. takes no shit. owns a cat)

- gertrude robinson (ruthless and got shit DONE)

- basira hussain (I don't need to explain this one either)

- annabelle cane (I think you all know why)

Feral™:

- daisy tonner (goes batshit multiple times)

- not!sasha (almost went on the bastard list but her creepy-ass voice and general monstrous tendencies landed her in this category)

- jared hopworth (takes people's bones)

- melanie could also go here

Vibing:

- michael (many doors, many hallways, has the Cackle down to a T and knife hands)

- simon fairchild could also go here

- agnes montague (messiah of the desolation, melted a dude once, 10/10)

- jane prentiss (loved her worms. also made of them. overall poor execution but at least she was having fun)

no I don't take constructive criticism but you may suggest characters to be added

[ghostbustermelanieking]

tma fic masterpost

love letters (of a sort)

(jonmartin, seasons 1-5, fluff, angst, wc: 13k)

Want to grab dinner later? I know you're going to be working absurdly late anyway, and there's a new Italian place I've been wanting to try. — M

Yes, that sounds nice. I'll try to be finished by 7:00. — J

Oh, yes. God forbid you don't work absurdly late. ;) — M

-

Or: The notes and letters Jon and Martin have written each other, through the years.

cracks

(post mag 200, tim & sasha, jonmartin, wc: 1k)

Sasha finds a tape on her kitchen table. A new one. The last one. She doesn't even need to listen to it to know it's the last one. And she has a voice-mail on her phone from Annabelle Cane.

She calls Tim first, right then, at one a.m., and he picks up. She knew he would. She knows he felt the change, too. "We have to go," she says. "Right now. We've got to go back. Something's happened."

microfics: tender, trembling hands, drastic

in the moonlight

(wtgfs, pre-canon, fluff, wc: 2k)

6. things you said under the stars and in the grass

Or: Georgie and Melanie on a late-night ghost hunt (in an "unromantic" field).

after words

(jonmartin, mag 102 au, hurt/comfort, wc: 3k)

things you said prompts: "13. things you said at the kitchen table."

Or: After Jon's escape from the Circus, Martin offers for Jon to stay with him.

warm

(jonmartin, scottish safehouse period, wc: 2k)

things you said prompts: "1. things you said at 1 am"

Or: Huddling for warmth after the Lonely.

reunions

(post mag 196, canon divergent, jonmartin, wc: 2k)

Martin and Jon find each other again at the remnants of Hill Top Road.

cursed grounds

(bly manor au pt 1, jonmartin, ensemble, slow burn, wip, wc: 14k)

When there's a lull, Martin speaks up, because he has to, he knows he does, he won't get a better opportunity. He says, "I've got a story," and when they look at him with interest, he adds, "A… a statement, really. It might be hard to hear, but… I think we all need to hear it again."

He shifts in his seat, sits up straighter, clears his throat and looks out at the lot of them and begins. "Statement of Martin Blackwood," he says, "regarding the Magnus Institute, and everything that happened there." He takes a breath, hears the familiar words in their familiar cadence rattle through his mind: the Archivist is taking a statement. He says, "Statement begins."

--

Or: In 1985, after the disappearance of Gertrude Robinson from the reclusive grounds of the Magnus Institute, Jonathan Sims is brought in as a replacement. As he adjusts to the new job, and begins to bond with his new coworkers, the strange happenings on the grounds that the Magnus Institute sits on become harder to ignore.

Years later, Martin Blackwood makes a statement.

variations on a death scene

(ensemble, jonmartin, wtgfs, aus, revenge stories, wc: 6k)

Or: Eight times Jonah Magnus was killed, and everything was fixed.

tapes winding forward

(jonmartin, time travel, season 1/season 5 au, word count: 48k)

Chapters: 6/6

Martin gets a closer look at the calendar, and his breath catches in his throat. He's gotten a look at the year, and it's wrong, it's all wrong. 2018. October, 2018. Right there, in Martin's own handwriting, on a Saturday, he's written things on little dates that Martin can't read, because he can't take his eyes off the year. 2018. 2018. They look differently. They have scars they don't recognize. Their hair is longer. 2018.

Martin seizes the calendar off the fridge and goes back into the living room. Jon's still at the coffee table, poking through the tapes piled there, but he looks up when Martin comes back in and says, "Martin, where…" with a familiar bite in his voice.

Martin ignores him, stops him mid-sentence to say, "Jon, what have you heard about time travel?"

---

Martin and Jon wake up two years in the future. It goes about as well as can be expected.

cat's cradle

(georgie & jon, wtgfs, the admiral, s5 au, cat angst & fluff, mag 189/190, word count: 5k)

Jon and Martin go out one day, on a trip to the eldritch horror-trap grocery store, and show back up in the tunnels after a few long hours, longer than any of the trips to the store that Georgie has been on. Martin has a bag of horrible spooky food, and Jon has a bag shut at the top that is wriggling suspiciously in his arms. "Oh, great," says Melanie, when Georgie fills her in. "What monstrous thing has he brought home now?" Georgie would giggle if the situation wasn't at least a little potentially dangerous, Jon could have anything in there, really.

---

Or: an exploration of the fate of the Admiral, after the end of the world.

rising static

(archivist!martin, jonmartin, s5 au/canon divergence/spec, word count: 14k)

Martin forces his eyes open to look at Jon, bruise blossoming at the top of his forehead, eyes red and wet. "Wh-what's gone?" he asks softly, almost afraid of the answer.

"It. All of it, or at least some of it, I don't know… I can't feel it anymore. The statements, the Beholding, it's—it's…" Jon breaks off mid-sentence, shaking his head. He leans forward so their foreheads are together, and Martin can feel him trembling all over. He says, voice low and thick with fear, "I'm… not sure I'm the Archivist anymore."

---

The initial confrontation with Jonah Magnus goes badly, and Martin wakes up outside the Panopticon to find Jon missing. In the wake of this initial loss, something about Martin starts to change.

northern-bound trains

(safehouse fic, jonmartin, post mag 159, pining, word count: 6k)

Martin rides with Jon to the train station. He insisted. Said he shouldn’t have to go there alone. “Nothing worse than leaving on a trip with no one to send you off,” he’d said. Jon had nodded, gratefully, and swallowed back the burning lump of what he wanted to say—Come with me, come to Scotland, I don’t want to leave you alone again. He kept hearing Martin’s words in his head: I really loved you. And he couldn’t ask Martin to do that, to leave his whole life and everything behind to become a fugitive, cower in Scotland and throw his whole life away. It’s too much. And Martin has already sacrificed so much for him.

He’ll be content with Martin seeing him off. That can be enough. That will be enough.

knowing

(s1 archives crew, timsasha, season 4 au, word count: 3k)

Jon falters, looks at the ground, one hand over his mouth. "You… you were both in the same place. In a… domain. D-Daisy was in one, too, a different one. I got her out. And I… I thought, afterwards, that maybe I could get the two of you back, too."

---

Or: After the Unknowing, after the Buried, Jon finds Sasha and Tim again.

journeys at the end of the world

(wtgfs, melanie king, season 5 au/spec, word count: 8k)

Melanie doesn't remember what happened after the world ends.

(Or: Melanie searches for Georgie in the wake of the apocalypse.)

a hidden statement

(season 1 au, s1 archives crew, jonmartin, timsasha, wc: 100k)

Chapters: 5/15 (wip)

Martin finds the tape in the wall. Specifically, in a small hole in the drywall, tucked behind boxes and stuffed with so much crumpled paper and tissue that it's almost impossible to see anything else in there. It's a cassette tape, the sort Jon uses to record statements, labeled on the front with a brown strip of tape. It's addressed to the Head Archivist in a spidery handwriting.

--

Or: Gertrude Robinson made a tape as a warning to the next Head Archivist. What if he had gotten it?

[rabdoidal]

i know you listen to a lot of podcasts and ive found some of my favourites from hearing you talk about them! do you have any favourites?

under the cut! my top 10 podcasts at the moment:

Alice Isn’t Dead Genre: horror, thriller, drama, Lovecraftian, Americana Episode count: 30 (completed) Description: A truck driver searches across America for the wife she had long assumed was dead. In the course of her search, she will encounter not-quite-human serial murderers, towns literally lost in time, and a conspiracy that goes way beyond one missing woman. Thoughts: This podcast is, to me at least, completely flawless in every way. I would consider myself a person that listens to a lot of horror podcasts, but Alice Isn’t Dead takes the cake for its depictions of liminal middle America, the horror that is capitalism, and the most tender, realistic depiction of lesbians in any podcast. Anything else I could say would spoil it and for this, I don’t want to spoil it because I want every person alive that can stomach horror to listen to this.

Archive 81 Genre: horror, comedy, sci-fi, Lovecraftian Episode count: 35 (ongoing) Description: Archive 81 is a found footage horror podcast about ritual, stories, and sound. Thoughts: The latest podcast I’ve tried, and it’s definitely one that grows on you. The audio mixing is some of the best I’ve heard in any podcast, and every bump and scratch and hum of frequency weaves to form moments that are truly and viscerally gory. Season 3 and Left of The Dial are my favorites because again, I love Americana horror, and anything that involves family!

Artificial Ghost Radio Genre: non-fiction, discussion, comedy Episode count: 75 (ongoing) Description: Our Sisyphean music recommendation challenge with hosts Miles (he/him) and Jupiter (she/they) challenge each other to find songs based on arbitrary themes and to spin the WHEEL OF DISCORD to talk about a random song from their library! They can be found on twitter @artghostpod. Thoughts: Gotta plug my own podcast! We’re still small, but the people I’ve met from doing AGR has made my life richer and fuller, even through the ups and downs. I recommend starting with #58: Songs about Aliens ft. our friend Liz (@thescaryjokes)!

EOS 10 Genre: medical drama, comedy, sci-fi Episode count: 34 (ongoing) Description: Doctors in space, a deposed alien prince, a super gay space pirate and a fiery nurse who'll help you win your bar fight. Thoughts: It’s been a hot minute since I listened, but as someone that inherently loves things like Star Trek and procedural comedies, EOS 10 is a quick and hilarious listen! Fair warning some of the earlier stuff is a little bit ignorant when it comes to their LGBT characters, but it gets a lot better over time.

King Falls AM Genre: horror, comedy, Lovecraftian Episode count: 100 (ongoing) Description: King Falls AM centers on a lonely little mountain town's late-night AM talk radio show and its paranormal, peculiar happenings and inhabitants Thoughts: I’m a bit behind, but again, gotta love some Alpine American horror! King Falls AM perfectly captures the feeling and sound of listening to a small late night radio show with two bros, but it really goes from typical dude dialogue to heart wrenching found family alien conspiracy real quick. Same as EOS 10, fair warning for some ignorant language and LGBT stereotypes, but they address it and it gets better as it progresses.

Not Another D&D Podcast Genre: actual play Dungeons and Dragons, TTRPG, comedy Episode count: 128 (ongoing) Description: Welcome to the campaign after the campaign! Three unlikely adventurers attempt to right the wrongs caused by a party of legendary heroes who screwed up the world while trying to save it. Thoughts: I’m only like 40 episodes in because they’re thick, meaty ‘sodes, but god is NADDPOD fucking hilarious. I’ve tried a fair few TTRPG shows, but the chemistry and care that the cast has together is unmatched by others in the genre. I’m a complete sucker for shows that are so funny and so tragic in equal measures, and the entire concept of a D&D game set after the world has been so drastically changed by a different D&D game is so unique!

The Faculty of Horror Genre: non-fiction, horror, philosophy, sociology, feminism Episode count: 86 (ongoing) Description: Tackling all things horror with a slash of analysis and research, horror journalists and occasional academics Andrea Subissati and Alexandra West are your hosts for brain-plumping discussions on all things that go bump in the night. Thoughts: A little non-fiction in this list of fiction podcasts! The Faculty of Horror is a concise and educated intersectional feminist podcast, and it’s a breath of fresh air to listen to anyone that isn’t a cishet white guy talk about horror. I highly recommend the episode on Cabin in The Woods or Jennifer’s Body!

The Magnus Archives Genre: horror, office comedy Episode count: 180 (ongoing) Description: The Magnus Archives is a weekly horror fiction anthology podcast examining what lurks in the archives of the Magnus Institute, an organization dedicated to researching the esoteric and the weird. Join new head archivist Jonathan Sims as he attempts to bring a seemingly neglected collection of supernatural statements up to date, converting them to audio and supplementing them with follow-up work from his small but dedicated team. Thoughts: TMA is, similarly to A81, a bit of a slow burn to get into, but I think once you listen to a few episodes you’ll know if you want to continue. It’s a pretty standard prompt for a narrative, but the sheer amount of individual short horror stories they’ve managed to write is insane! And I love the slow break down between recording statements and the stuff happening within the archives. Also one of the best redemption stories in a character that starts off as such a grumpy fuck!

The Penumbra Podcast Genre: sci-fi, neo-noir, romance, comedy, found family, magic, medieval fantasy, adventure, mystery Episode count: 75 (ongoing) Description: At the Penumbra, you might follow Juno Steel, a brooding, sharp-witted private eye on Mars, as he tangles with an elusive homme fatale, tracks dangerous artifacts of an ancient alien civilization, and faces his three greatest fears: heights, blood, and relationships. Or you might enter the world of the Second Citadel, where the merciless Sir Caroline must corral a team of emotionally distraught all-male knights to defend their city against mind-manipulating monsters...even the ones they’ve fallen in love with. Thoughts: On god TPP was a life changing podcast for me. Having creators that are genuinely concerned with accurately representing minorities with care and dedication makes me feel spoiled when I try listen to anything else. The two main universes are so different with their own set of histories and cultures, but I love them both so completely. If you want LGBT+ representation, this is the seminal podcast for everything non-binary, trans, queer, and people that aren’t afraid to change and have that change be known! I haven’t listened to another podcast that actually depicts transitioning like they do, absolute king shit.

Wolf 359 Genre: space drama, comedy, action Episode count: 61 (completed) Description: WOLF 359 is a radio drama in the tradition of Golden Age of Radio shows. Set on board the U.S.S. Hephaestus space station, the dysfunctional crew deals with daily life-or-death emergencies, while searching for signs of alien life and discovering there might be more to their mission than they thought Thoughts: Wolf 359 is like if you fell down the stairs and at the bottom of the stairs was a bear trap, and then after you step in the bear trap someone helps you take off that beartrap, but then they kick you in the nuts. Just replace physical pain with emotional pain. It can be so funny but also so fucking stressful and sad – w359 isn’t afraid to kill its darlings, and it will break your heart but you will still say thank you.

[bondsmagii]

Regarding beloved toys becoming real a la the velveteen rabbit

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Matthew Calhoun, regarding a living childhood toy. Original statement given January 23, 1998. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

I didn’t have any friends as a kid. I’m not exaggerating – I didn’t have any. There’s always that one kid in every class who’s just… well, a reject, really. It sounds harsh to say, but I don’t really blame them for it. Of course, I would have preferred it if they’d just left me alone; ignored me rather than tormenting me, but that’s how it goes. I can’t excuse their cruelty, but I can excuse their dislike of me. I really, really can’t blame them. Now I’m an adult, looking back on it all, I really… well, is it bad to say it? I suppose I should just be honest. I’m about to admit to much worse. Alright – I hate my child self. I’m embarrassed by him. If I had a kid like that, I—I don’t know if I could say I wouldn’t love him, but let’s just say my sympathy would be limited if he was getting teased. I was unbearable as a child. I was a swotty little know-it-all; I snitched on my classmates; I always had a smart answer for everything. I’d try and get people to talk to me or hang out with me and when they didn’t want to, I’d stick my hand up and tell the teachers they were being mean. I was a grubby little kid, too, which wasn’t really my fault at all because my parents didn’t have a lot of money when I was growing up, but I had other gross habits I could have probably avoided. I didn’t like to brush my teeth, so my breath always stank. I picked my nose in class with absolutely no shame, wiping it underneath the desk. God, when I think about it now I could just throttle myself. Like I said, I don’t excuse the cruelty that my classmates – and sometimes my teachers – inflicted on me, but I do think back and wonder why I managed to feel so victimised over the fact nobody wanted to hang out with me. I mean, who the hell would? This, along with the fact I didn’t have much to do at home thanks to my parents’ low income, combined to make me both very bored and very lonely, and that’s what led to the reason I’m here today. It’s a confession, as much as anything else – the only reason I don’t want to go to the police is because I know they won’t believe me at all, whereas at least I stand a little chance of being believed here. Maybe then you can judge me accordingly. It’s what I deserve.

When I was eleven years old, I murdered one of my classmates. Her name was Vanessa Smith, and the newspapers reported that she had been attacked and mauled by dogs while walking home one late afternoon. Her injuries were so severe they couldn’t think of what else could do it. Of course, no dog was ever found. They tested so many of them, inspecting them for traces of blood, for pieces of human remains in their waste. Nothing showed up, because no dog killed Vanessa Smith. It was me. Alright, not by my own hand, but I was the cause of it. Let me try to explain.

When I was four or five, my grandmother read me a story called The Velveteen Rabbit. It’s a children’s story about a toy rabbit who comes to life because the little boy it belongs to loves it so much. I was fascinated by the idea, and for years believed that such a thing was possible. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t have any toy animals, or really any toys to begin with, because my parents really had no money at all. We lived in a tiny house where all of the furniture was on loan; we had one sofa, a wooden chair, a bare mattress to sleep on each, and really not much more. My parents were on a steady upward trajectory as I grew up, so by the time I made it to high school we were at least managing to present as normal, but when I was a kid my toys were whatever I could find in the garden. My parents would send me out the moment I got up and I’d come back in as it was getting dark; in the winter they let me stay out until bedtime, because it was warmer for me to be running around outside than sitting still in our heatless home. Those were cold, lonely hours, and as I grew I found myself thinking back time and time again to that story – about the power to give something life because it was so loved. I thought this was fully possible. I was only a kid, and kids will believe anything; that was also my general understanding of how babies were made – that two people loved one another so much that they created a third. Well, I didn’t have another person to help me, and I didn’t want a little brother or sister. I wanted a friend. The thought that I could bring a toy to life myself, just out of love, utterly consumed me.

First, though, I needed a toy. Even second-hand toys were out of the question, money-wise, and I had no friends to ask for cast-offs. In the end I improvised. I found a scrap of fabric from one of the old sheets my mother had fashioned into curtains, and I lay it flat on the ground and filled the centre with a few rocks for weight, and as many dry leaves as I could find. Then I pulled all four of the corners up, twisted the fabric down to meet the filling, and tied it off with an elastic band. The end result looked kind of like a radish, I guess, or a strangely shaped ghost. Still, a felt-tip pen gave it eyes and a friendly smile, and I even drew a couple of fangs at the corners of its mouth, just to make it a little more boyish. I called him Sammy, and he became my best friend. He went everywhere with me aside from school, because I knew damn well what the other kids would do to him. Outside of school, though? We were inseparable. We ate breakfast and dinner together, we went roaming around together, he watched me as I dug around in the back garden or on the trails behind the house. He sat on the toilet seat as I had my cold baths; he slept next to me in bed. When he got a little crushed and out of shape, or the leaves disintegrated beyond anything I could shape them back into, I would play at putting him to sleep so I could “operate” on him and fill him back up again. I still remember the glorious day that one of my parents’ pillows split beyond repair, and my mother, meaning well, I’m sure, gave me some of the stuffing for Sammy’s head. After that he was almost a proper stuffed toy, soft instead of jagged, but I think it was that improvement that doomed me. He got stronger after that. I started to dream about him.

I was eight when I first made Sammy. I was ten when the dreams started. At first he would just be there, normal as ever. I would be carrying him around, we’d be doing our thing. Then one day the dream was different. The two of us were sitting at the breakfast table and it was dark outside, but the sky was a strange, beating red. Sammy was sad; I knew this somehow. I asked him what was wrong, and he said to me, “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart”. Then he lay his head on the table and began to sob. I woke up, feeling utterly wretched; I wasn’t even scared. I pulled Sammy to me and cried myself. I was utterly despondent. I knew I had to do something, but what? That was when I realised I could make him a heart. It might not be great, but it would be something, right? That very morning I drew a heart on a piece of paper, coloured it in my most vibrant red, and tucked it into Sammy’s fabric, securely tied underneath the elastic band. I thought he seemed much happier after that, and increasingly I was certain that he wasn’t in the same place as I’d left him when I got back from school. This excited me, because I was sure it would work somehow. I loved Sammy more than anything. He was my only friend in the world. I knew that some day soon, Sammy would have to come to life.

The hearts kept getting crushed out of shape, or fraying, or otherwise getting worn. Every time they did, Sammy would whisper to me – no longer in dreams now. In my head, in my ear. His breath tickling my cheek, smelling of mulch. Always the same things. “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart.” I kept making new ones but he started getting angrier; they never lasted. “I’ll never be a real boy without a heart! I’ll never be a real boy without a heart!” I wanted to do my best for him but he was starting to scare me. I didn’t know what to do. I told him this. For the first time, I got the impression he was mad at me for being sad, when he never had been before. But what could I do?

I got my answer the summer I turned eleven. The rabbit had been left right out on the trail I always walked to get from my parents’ house and into the woods behind it. It had been mauled by something – a fox, I thought – but not eaten. Its chest was open, and its small little heart was right there for the taking. I don’t know why I did it. It was disgusting, and what’s more I knew that if I put a real heart in Sammy it was going to rot, and stink, and Mum would make me throw him out. I knew all this, but I still couldn’t stop myself. I walked quite calmly to the rabbit, carefully pinched its heart between my fingers, and pulled it free. It came so easily. Nothing needed to be cut or wrenched; it just slid out, and within moments it was tucked inside Sammy. I heard it begin to beat.

Sammy wasn’t mine after that. I still tried to love him, but I was scared of him. I couldn’t understand what had happened. I thought love was supposed to be a good thing, you know? That’s what I’d been told. I wondered what it meant, that my love had created this. Everyone else’s love created nice things, fun things, safe things, warm things. My love had created this… this monster, this wretched little thing… I loved it out of fear. I was too afraid to let it know of my contempt, because I didn’t know what it would do to me. I think it knew anyway, of course. I think it knew I feared it; I think it realised, on some level, that I still had some of the power. I could throw it into the fireplace, for example. I thought about that a few times; even thought about asking my mum or dad to do it for me, act like I grew out of Sammy and was embarrassed of him. Sammy could sense it. I could have done it, I think, when it had the rabbit heart. Only a small heart, a rabbit heart. Not good for too much exertion. But I hesitated, because I was scared, and I thought if I ignored it and just left the heart to finally fail – because it had to eventually, right? – Sammy would be back to begging me in dreams and I could get rid of him – of it – once and for all.

That’s not what happened. I was out playing in the woods, must have been August. It was near to school starting back, and I was stressed about it because for me that was a line in the sand. I’d tried to tell myself I’d get rid of Sammy before I started Big School, high school, you know, but I hadn’t done anything and I was really wigging out about it. Sammy was with me, of course, sitting propped up against a rock while I dug around in the mud by a small stream. I guess it was the running of the water that muffled the footsteps, because when I finally heard them and turned, it was too late. Vanessa was stepping out from between the bushes, and her eyes had locked on Sammy. She wasn’t ever overly cruel to me at school, but she laughed with the rest of them whenever I was being put through the torment of the day, and like all kids that age she had it in her to be cruel. I was frightened of her, in the same way I was frightened of all my classmates, and the look on her face as she looked between me and Sammy told me this was going to be wholly unpleasant. I just adopted the stance, you know: feet together, eyes down. Waiting for abuse. She asked me if this was my toy, and then she went on to tell me how stupid and ugly it was, and then she went on about me getting some real toys, oh, wait, you can’t afford that… normal stuff, and at least she wasn’t going to hit me, because the girls never beat me up. She did go to pick up Sammy, though, and I yelled at her not to. Not out of any protectiveness towards Sammy, but because I was scared. Vanessa didn’t know Sammy like I did. She hadn’t noticed Sammy’s beady little drawn-on eyes somehow managing to swivel, to follow her, to lock onto her. The way his smile widened slightly, and I finally noticed how many teeth he had.

“I’ll never be a real boy without a heart.”

She reached down to snatch Sammy up. She was saying she was going to throw him into the stream. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even call out a final warning. She reached down and he was on her. I still didn’t see him move. He was just… there, and there was blood, and I could hear something tearing, and Vanessa was screaming so loudly. I should have helped. I should have tried to do something, but I was too scared. When I finally managed to move it was to run away. I fled through the woods, not bothering to keep to the trails. I ran blindly, crashing through the undergrowth, falling, dragging myself up. When I got home my parents were both at work. I scrubbed myself, scrubbed the worst of the mud from my clothing, tried to breathe. Tried to convince myself that I had seen it wrong. Vanessa would be fine, right? I even managed to tell myself Sammy was scaring her for me, sticking up for me. I waited in terror for Sammy to come home, but he never did. I was glad, but I also… I mean, it’s always better when you can see the danger, right? The thought that Sammy was out there, of what he might do… but I never saw Sammy again.

Vanessa – or what was left of her – was found the following morning. The woods aren’t big. Pretty much as soon as it was light, search parties found her. I don’t think anyone was happy with the dog story. I’ve avoided looking it up over the years, but I’ve heard things here and there. I know they say that the injuries inflicted on her were severe, even for a large dog. It’s more like something you would expect from a bear, or a big cat. Plus none of her was eaten, I don’t think. I mean, I’ve never heard it. Nobody suspected me, because why would they? My parents didn’t even ask about where Sammy had gone. I guess they figured I’d finally grown out of it.

I don’t know if there’s anything you can do with this statement, or if you’ll even believe it. I doubt there’s much room for research. I just wanted to tell somebody. Maybe if I was religious this is the point where I might go to confession, ask to be absolved. I’m not religious, though, and I’m not sure I can be absolved of this. That’s it.

ARCHIVIST

Statement ends.

Mr Calhoun is right. Not much can be done in regards to looking into this further. Attempts to reach Mr Calhoun for a follow-up statement were thoroughly unsuccessful thanks to the fact that he committed suicide shortly after making this statement. The records show that eleven-year-old Vanessa Smith was indeed mauled to death by a large dog or dogs in August 1971, though the story never really gained traction in national newspapers and further information is scarce. Martin spent an afternoon looking through online newspaper archives for the area and managed to find only one piece of new information; something that could easily be dramatization considering the fact it stopped being reported within twenty-four hours. I include it here only because it seems significant regarding Mr Calhoun’s story. Apparently young Miss Smith’s body was badly mauled but mostly uneaten – there was only one missing body part, believed eaten, and that was her heart.

Aside from that, there is nothing new to say about this one.

End recording.