#siren!jane prentiss

[offbrandhand]

Siren!Jane prentiss my beloved

Lineart and closeups below the cut

As much as lining that tail made me want to rip my iPad to shreds I had so much fun with this piece.

[ao3feed-jonmartin]

Salt in the pages

read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/rLbK7hE by Offbrandhand Martin knows he is different from humans and he knows the risks of living as one, but being raised by a human mother being only given stories of the sea makes the transition difficult. Especially when he’s lived in the same town for nearly 30 years living as a human and caring for his sick mother before she passed, so he just keeps people at an arms length. Careful not to get too close to anyone to keep himself safe. He was good at that, at least until a trio of researchers came along and uprooted all the safety nets he had in place. ——— AU where Martin is a selkie and Jon, Tim, and Sasha are all cryptozoologist who do field research with The Magnus Institute in a small costal town. I decided there wasn’t enough selkie AUs so I made my own. I am going to be trying my damndest to update consistently and actually finish this fic so fingers crossed I can do it. I have an outline and everything. (Ps I’m really bad at summaries pls read anyways) Words: 4664, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: The Magnus Archives (Podcast) Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: M/M Characters: Martin Blackwood, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Mentioned Elias - Character, mentioned Martin’s mother, Jane Prentiss, but shes a siren Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Tim Stoker, Sasha James & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James & Tim Stoker Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Selkies, Selkies, TimSasha if you squint, Cannon Typical Worms, but they’re eels, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Archive crew is all queer, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, No beta we kayak like Tim, Semi Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, No fears but shit is still whack, Everybody Lives, I decided there weren’t enough selkie fics and made this, Selkie Martin Blackwood, chapter art made by me, CW at the beginning of each chapter, I apologize in advance for not being British enough I’m from the southern US I tried read it on AO3 at https://ift.tt/rLbK7hE

[st7arlight]

actually im going to post this here because i feel like you guys would love this: an analysis of Jane Prentiss and The Crawling Rot from the perspective of a queer person with OCD and frankly too much trauma lmao

CW/TW for jane prentiss, misogyny, sex culture, addiction, and talk of abusive relationships of all flavors

My latest post is a little bit of a commentary on the tie of eroticism with the body in its barest form and the societal stigma of body hair on the female form. something about the supposed revulsion of body hair on a "woman", when Jane Prentiss is far beyond the point of a woman here. When she died and became the Hive she obviously wouldn't have been at the absolute physical peak of eroticism- she was struggling with delusions and compulsions and the siren song of The Crawling Rot. I also find that the bare legs (eroticism) paired with hairy underarms gives a unique view on the objectification of AFAB people in society. Jane Prentiss is a woman but she is also the thousands of wasp maggots living in the husk that is her body. being the epitome of eroticism with her form and legs and dress but showing decay/waste/disease/offness in her flesh is very true to her purpose. I was also deliberate in having the maggots and holes so small on her body. She is supposed to look not only fairly normal, but attractive from a first glance. It is only when you look closer that you realize that something is horribly wrong. I had intended to give her skin more discoloration but given the time period I had planned this to be (sometime around the events of Timothy Hodge's statement, MAG 6) I think the illusion of clear skin from a distance works very well.

In terms of the greater symbolism of The Crawling Rot (and the source of most of the content warnings):

its important to me how essential the idea of eroticism is to Jane's manifestation of the Corruption- the corruption is gross icky buggy things but its also sexual abuse, power imbalances, toxic relationships, cults. it's the nausea you feel when you learn that someone has exploited you for something you never wanted to give, it's the fear of your consent being undermined. its the confliction of loving someone and knowing they are corrupting you but still not wanting to lose the wholeness you feel with them. It's a friend who convinces you to steal or drink or smoke or fuck then some then all or worse with them because it will make you feel better, more whole, more connected, but all it does is make you want to crawl out of your skin then burn your own corpse. this here is actually where i feel the corruption and the spiral & web tie together fairly well- all of them can feel like alternative perspectives on the same event, just focusing on different fears and traumas that could stem from it

[mickeymagpie]

🌍What tags or warnings will your / one of your wip(s) need if you intend to share it?

September House has a good amount of body horror.

The vampire story has some violence/gore, ofc.

uhhh what else. A lot of child endangerment all the way around...

since Siren's a major player in the superhero wip mind control is just. a big thing there. idk if that's smth to warn for, it feels squicky in some contexts but that's like. the point of the character.

oh September House also has a lot of bugs and contamination horror. jane prentiss type nastiness. i keep having to get up from writing a specific scene bc it gives me that phantom-bugs-on-your-skin sensation 😭

[taiey]

It's honestly hilarious how often Elias in 160 goes "and then I got lucky!" when it was, in fact, the Web. 

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was. 

Yeah, you weren’t wrong about that one.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked

The Web orchestrated literally everything about Jane Prentiss’s attack on the archives. In 032 Jane speculates that spiders led her to break into the attic where she found her wasp nest. A ghost spider drove Carlos Vittery to move into the apartment block above the basement where Jane was hiding; Carlos’s name also appeared in 123′s Chelicerae website code. Martin went back and broke into that basement in 022 because he remembered seeing “quite a lot of spider webs”. John sees a spider in 038 and squashes it, breaking a hole in the wall and setting off Jane’s attack before she had fully built up her forces. Spiders eat the worm corpses in the tunnels afterwards.

Meanwhile Jonah thinks periodic monster attacks are a natural inevitability. We learn in 167 that the Web fed Gertrude “a steady string of plans to foil”.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus.

This pleasant bonus was the result of the web table being delivered to the Institute alongside the web lighter.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast. 

Given that John left Jurgen to smoke a cigarette with, uh, what lighter..? I conclude that the Web thought this too, slightly earlier.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right

I only noticed this recently, so I’m going to quote 117 at length here. They have entered the wax museum and notice:

DAISY Come on. ARCHIVIST Right. [He makes a sound of extreme disgust – it almost sounds like he’s straining with something.] DAISY Shut. Up. It’s just cobwebs. ARCHIVIST There’s no such thing as just cobwebs.

yeah the timing being just right wasn’t a coincidence.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him. 

John went to Jared Hopworth because while considering anchors for the Coffin he listened to a tape that he found "in a corner of my desk drawer, covered in cobwebs” that described “the siren call of flesh”. Elias screwed up the timing; the Web fixed it.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

Daisy Tonner was forced into the Coffin during the Unknowing, in that waxwork museum festooned with cobwebs. Jonah didn’t have a plan for it.

I have two conclusions. One is that Elias is metaphorically bragging about how he became super rich with only talent, effort, and a small loan of a million dollars from his rich father.

The other is that the Web didn’t just benefit from the world ending. The Web made the world end.

[aerialflight]

Fic Recs (cause it's always nice to give a shout out and get people into things I'm into rn)

[The Magnus Archives] (I recently finished the podcast and I fell into a hole for a while so here you go)

Sing a Song of Sixpence by Kaiel

Ship: Jon/Martin

In which Jonathan Sims is a Siren, and he fails to notice any new abilities granted to him by the position of Archivist. Or really anything about the Entities at all.

Takes place in season 1 featuring Jonah Magnus’s slow decent into madness

(The new mythology interwoven with tma's worldbuilding is so freaking good and I love how all the characters change and develop because of these changes. Also, f you Elias)

Along Came a Spider by Dribbledscribbles

Ship: implied Jon/Martin

Sasha James is the Archivist, as expected. Martin Blackwood is menaced by Jane Prentiss, as expected. Elias Bouchard weaves his web, as expected.

All goes as it should.

At least until something calling itself Jonathan Sims steps in.

(Web!Jon in this makes me want to weep, it's so freaking good. A pretty long, very excellent oneshot on what could've happened if Jon got taken by the web when he was a kid. And Sasha as the Archivist is ALWAYS so cool, we love her in this house.)

A Break in the Clouds by Ash_Rabbit

“I’m eight.” the kid sniffs as if eight was any different from four, maybe not an unspeakable horror then, just a regular horror. “And I heard that the Magnus Institute deals with-” his little nose scrunches, cute. “-spooky things.”

“Do you have a-” he cracks a grin, and then rethinks it as small hands tighten against their burden.”-spooky thing to deliver?” gods he hopes not, it’s bad enough when adults walk in and lay out all of their baggage, but for a child-

“There’s a spider in this book.” the kid says solemnly, raising his textbook sized parcel. “It ate Evan Pritchard.” a bloody fucking Leitner. Of course an eight year old would find a murder spider book. “This seemed like the best place to bring it.”

(I never thought about what the Original Elias could've been like AND NOW I CAN'T STOP THINKING ABOUT IT BECAUSE OF THIS FIC. I LOVE HIM, HE'S COMPLEX AND HE CARES AND JON CARES AND THEY BOTH CARE ABOUT EACH OTHER. THIS IS THE CONTENT I WANT, OMG. Also, Jon being even smaller than usual is adorable, so cute. No wonder Elias wants to hug him, a LOT.)

See the Line where the Sky meets the Sea by The_Floating_World

Ship: Jon/Martin, Jon/Oliver Banks

When Jon is a child he looks into the infinite abyss of space. The Vast looks back into him.

(One of my all time fave fics in this fandom, no questions asked. I have reread this three times and am open to doing it again, god. Vast!Jon, such a concept. It's written so beautifully and the relationships Jon develops, so good. ugh. My heart. Please please read.)

Sweet As Roses by Prim_the_Amazing

Ship: Jon/Martin

“Come in, Martin,” he says, not looking up from his notes.

“Hi, Jon,” he says, and Jon stops writing at the sound of his voice. “We’re out of the green tea, but we’ve got lemon?”

Jon looks at him. Martin smiles at him in his usual tentative way as he sets the mug of tea down on Jon’s desk. Heat spikes so sharply in his gut that he twitches with it.

“Thank you, Martin,” he says, mouth dry, and he stands up.

“Oh,” he says, sounding almost surprised. He smiles again. “No-- no problem-- um, what are you--”

Jon takes Martin by the shoulders, leans up on the tips of his toes, and kisses him.

(You have no idea how much I howled through this fic, my god. *buries face in hands* The number of times I wanted to cry from sheer hilarity and horror reading this good lord.)

Things Could Always Be Worse by theOestofOCs

Ship: Jon/Martin, Georgie/Melanie

Sometimes, the most horrifying thing of all is what might have been.

Somewhere, Jon could swear he heard a crowd laughing.

Or: in which Jonathan Sims is forced to swap places with his alternate self—a tall, chivalrous hero extraordinaire, who knows neither fear nor nuance—and is sent to the aggressively straight alternate universe the Magnus Archives was never meant to be.

“Whatever place this is,” Jon announced, “I just want to be sure it knows I hate it.”

(I will say this once, THIS IS THE MOST CURSED THING IVE EVER READ EVER. Like holy hell. I can't believe this thing exists. please read it oh please please please)

-

[Supernatural]

heard from your mother (she don't recognize you) by Schmuzz

Ship: Dean/Cas, Jessica/Sam

A man named Cas wakes up in 2003 with no memories, but he's able to piece together a few things:

1. Supernatural creatures exist, and most of them will hurt innocent civilians if he doesn't stop them; 2. He has abilities that no human hunter should have, but he knows enough about human hunters to keep that to himself, and finally; 3. He keeps running into another hunter named Dean Winchester, who seems to be about as lonely as he is if he's willing to put up with those former facts long enough to help Cas unravel the mystery of who (or what) he really is.

For his part, Dean's still (not) dealing with Sam's departure to Stanford, and figures distracting himself with a bit of mystery and intrigue is as harmless as it gets, right? Right.

(THE fic I'm most into right now, been following this from the very start and it's AMAZING. Cas has agency and is making friends and S1 Dean is growing out of John's influence and is becoming a Person and the both of them first being friends then more. The slow burn as their relationship develops, SO GOOD. SO SO DAMN GOOD. *screams* Seriously one of the best spn fics I've read in a long, long time.)

anamnesis by cenotaphy

Ships: Castiel/Dean, Sam/Eileen

Chuck is depowered, Jack is the new god, and the world is free. Dean and Sam get into the Impala and chase down the miles on an endless highway, and their story is finally, finally their own to follow. At least, that's what Dean tells himself. But the diners and motels and painted interstate lines are blurring together and the smallest details keep catching at his brain like tiny fishhooks and he can't quite shake the feeling that not everything is exactly as it should be.

* Fix-it/alternate series finale. Canon-compliant through the end of 15.19.

(THIS IS THE FIC THAT GOT ME THROUGH THE FINALE OKAY. WHY COULDN'T THIS HAVE BEEN CANON. It's Disturbing and honestly plot-wise this makes more sense. Why couldn't we have had this. *screams*)

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[Avatar: The Last Airbender]

where the stars do not take sides by WitchofEndor

Ship: Sokka/Zuko

When Azula is nine, she becomes an only child. She hears the Fire Lord call for Zuko's life, and in the morning, her mother and brother are gone. Azula may be young, but she isn't naive. She knows what happened to them.

Which makes it all the more surprising when Azula tracks the Avatar down and fights his group of peasant friends, only to find herself staring into an eerily familiar face.

(The fact one of the tags in this fic is, "Sibling Dynamic: Fucked Up But Wholesome" should give you an idea what this fic is like. Chaotic as HELL and I just love Azula here, she loves Zuko so much in her messed up way and Zuko loves her back in the exact same way lol. It's batshit and I am Here For This.)

-

[Naruto]

Eclipse by AislingRoisin (JayBird345) for HybrisAnaideia

Ship: Nara Shikaku/OFC

"In life, it's easier to remain stagnant and wallow in your troubles. But life isn't merely about continued existence, nor is it meant to be gone through alone."

(This is a fic that's slept on and I NEED people to read this. A self-insert fic that I find really interesting in its approach and the worldbuilding for the post-third war shinobi world is fantastic. I feel like there's a certain pattern with self-insert fics, not that is a detriment in any way to how much I enjoy them, so this fic feels fresh to me in a way I haven't read in a while. I am waiting eagerly for this to get updated! Please read!)

On Freedom and Other Formalities by iaso

Ship: Kakashi/Genma/OFC

When push comes to shove, Hiwa Inuzuka doesn't go down easy. Reborn into a new, dangerous world? She puts her past life as a spy to work. Thrown into a war? Hiwa does her duty, for Konoha. And when she's forced into an arranged marriage? All there is to do is beat them to the punch and get married first. Thankfully, Genma Shiranui is willing to lend a hand. Literally. SI/OC

(Listen, LISTEN, it's about the slow burn, the longing, the communication (it both has and hasn't and isn't THAT great??), the messy way you fit three very different people together, it's so freaking good! Also, Kakashi is so Chaotic here this is my fave characterization of him, you can't change my mind. And Genma is a Good Boi who is Doing His Best, along with the Self-insert character who I LOVE SO MUCH, SHE'S FANTASTIC FNEIWOPAF. Sped past this fic in the speed of light, I could not stop reading!)(Honestly, read all of the author's fics, they're all really REALLY good!)

Building a Castle by WhisperingDarkness

Without needing anyone to tell her, Sakura knew that talking to someone no-one else could see or hear would make her weird. It would draw the bad kind of attention to her, something people could make fun of her for.

She didn’t like being weird, but she did like the voice. Her inner voice was helpful and it was a part of her that had always been there. The idea of it not being there would have been so much weirder than anything else.

It was during her first year at the Academy that Sakura realised the voice was not in her head at all, but that it came from a cloudy shape floating next to her.

(Basically a short-ish retelling of Hikaru no Go. Only with more Shogi and Nara and Ninja's)

(Sakura can see ghosts (I'm noticing this is a popular trope for her) and it's really cute haha! Her relationship with Tobirama is sweet and I just enjoyed reading this so much.)

-

[The Magicians]

So Long (And Thanks For All The Books) by IncompleteSentanc (Erava)

Ships: Quentin/Eliot, James/Julia, Quentin/Margo/Eliot

When Quentin is told Julia wasn't admitted to Brakebills, he realizes he has a drastic decision in front of him. If he tells Julia about magic, he'll have his mind wiped as well as hers. But he can't just leave her behind, either. He can't lose his best friend, and he can't let her life a life with her magical potential stolen away from her.

So he makes a third choice.

(Really, and I mean REALLY well-done canon divergent fic, this is the Quentin & Julia friendship fic I have been looking for forever. It explores so much of what could've happened and I just love Quentin here, I really really do. Characterization done so right. I also recommend the author's other works too. Been a follower of them for a long time, they're great.)

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[Game of Thrones]

The Road to Victory by writing_as_tracey

Too late in preparing for the Night King and the Long Night, the last stand at Winterfell is close to falling. Bran takes desperate measures to ensure victory, and Jon, Sansa, and Arya pay the price for it in a time unfamiliar to them, on the cusp of another war. [GoT, time-travel fix it]

(I swear, this fic made me laugh so many times, all the Stark are BAMF and fantastic, and Rhaegar gets Wrecked lol. It's crack btw, and the plot goes in directions you'll never guess and it's amazing hahaha!)

-

[Haikyuu!!] (I am very very late to the fandom but here I am)

Ballare (To Dance) by MidnightSparks

Ship: Iwaizumi Hajime/Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru, and platonic Kageyama & Kentarou (really love their friendship)

Kageyama’s first love is volleyball. His second, however, is ballet.

In one world, Kageyama Tobio is left behind by his parents. In this world, the existence of soulbonds keeps Kageyama’s parents in Miyagi and leaves Kageyama in the care of his grandma and grandpa.

(In which soulmates exist and that changes everything and nothing at the same time.)

(*buries face in hands* I have fallen for this ship so hard and I can't get out fudge me. I understand now. Their DYNAMICS FIEWONPAF)

Kings of Tomorrow by bokubroya (liarielle)

Ship: Kageyama Tobio/Oikawa Tooru

On the eve of Tobio’s 16th birthday, he counts down the seconds to midnight, and emerges with Oikawa Tooru’s name on his wrist.

It’s been two years since then, and Tobio thought they had an understanding. A silent, never spoken about understanding that this thing between them is nothing, and they’re going to pretend it doesn’t exist.

Of course, it’s just like Oikawa to change the game and leave Tobio wondering what comes next.

(I am WEAK for soulmate fics between these two, I don't even really like soulmate fics half the times what is WRONG WITH ME-)(Please suffer with me, I'm begging you. Its a good fic, thumbs up.)

-

[Crossover]

Honey and Magic by JustARatherVerySillyWriter, White_Squirrel for Super Carlin Brothers

Fandoms: Matilda (yeah you read that right), Harry Potter

Everyone knew Matilda was a rather extraordinary child, but even she didn't know she was a witch. Matilda Honey receives her Hogwarts letter in the year of the Triwizard Tournament, and soon, she will leave her unique mark on the magical world.

(Do I even need to explain how amazing it is to have Matilda in the wizarding world? And Matilda is a HUFFLEPUFF AND I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL THIS FIC IS GREAT PLEASE READ!!!)

An Eye for an Eye by DpsMercy

Fandoms: The Magnus Archives, Welcome to Night Vale

In which Jonathan Sims is not from the UK but instead, if you took his origins and turned them sideways twice then flipped them over, he technically would be from the US, the town of Night Vale specifically. Elias can’t do shit about it and gets a headache and slowly creeping madness instead.

(Look, I know probably everyone has read this because if they haven't, what have you been DOING with your lives??? Jon interning at Night Vale is Incredible, nothing phases this man, it's Delightful. I laughed so many times reading this, I'm not even kidding right now. Read or perish.)

The Favour by R_Cookie

Fandoms: Harry Potter, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them

Ship: Original Percival Graves/Harry Potter

Percival is ten years old when his grandfather tries to tell him that he's ensured the greatness of the Graves legacy for him, that he ought to be eternally grateful - but the explanation is hijacked by a stranger who manages to intimidate Chester Graves with an ease never seen before.

or: Hadrian (Harry) Potter is the Master of Death, who grants Graves a boon. Nobody could have known that the Deathly Hallows didn't turn you so much into the 'Master of Death' as into the anthropomorphic personification of Death. And so, Death becomes Percival's guardian angel, and Percival does not spit out his cereal.

(Look, I don't know how I stumbled back into the FBAWTFT fandom either, it just happened and I'm grateful for that. Otherwise, I wouldn't have found this amazing fic. Their relationship is slow and strange and I just love how Percival is characterized here. Also, one of the tag promises that it deviates from canon so I am really, really excited for that! XD)

baby that's what i do by natanije

Fandoms: Naruto, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!

"Are you telling me," Hidan exclaims, incredulous, "that you collect money all this time to give to orphans?!"

Kakuzu pauses. He blinks a few times.

"Huh. I guess I do."

(Tsuna reincarnates as Kakuzu and it's HILARIOUS. HE'S SUCH A MOM HAHAHA)

[heyerald]

❛ i’m trying something different . ❜ :)

* 𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋  𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇. || @sspirallings

IT DOES not make him feel any better. Given the nature of... whatever Michael (or the creature that named himself Michael, maybe the thing that used to be Michael, much like Jane Prentiss was) is, different isn't quite the reassuring word. Sitting at his desk, tape recorder still whirling and eating words and silence, Jon swallows. This isn't helping. Paranoia has barely had him sleep as of late, he's been wearing himself thin between statements and the exploration of the tunnels, and Michael's... visit has put him on edge, all senses alerted, all sirens going off. It must be his nature to be this cryptid, but, still.

"What... ah..." He swallows again, knuckles turning a lighter shade as he holds onto his own hand. (He doesn't want to know. He has to know.) "What is it?"

[batsandbabydolls]

Alright, guys! I’m gonna tell you all about how The Web was actually responsible for this whole ritual!

Sit down because this is a long one! Big shout out to @throatofdelusion who crafted this theory with me. You should check his blog out because he has some really cool thoughts and theories (especially about the Distortion).

So, I know this sounds super far fetched, but just hear me out. I have evidence for the Web’s involvement in 8 out of Jon’s 14 marks: the Web, the Eye, the Corruption, the Stranger, the End, the Flesh, and the Buried.

Was the Web involved in the other 6 as well? Possibly, but possibly not. My current theory is the Web only intervened when something was going wrong, and just let Jonah do his thing when he had the right idea. There’s evidence of the Web’s involvement in most places that Jonah credits to “luck”. And isn’t it very on-brand for the Web? To get someone else to perform her ritual for her?

WEB/EYE

JONAH I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was. 

So this one’s obvious and probably doesn’t require explanation. Even based on Jonah’s understanding, the Web did this one on purpose. I could speculate about motives, but I don’t think that’s necessary. I think there are two important things to take away from this:

The Web, not the Eye was Jon’s first mark.

If Jon was sent to the Institute by the Web, that would make the Web responsible for him being marked by the Eye, too.

CORRUPTION

JONAH I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

Who orchestrated The Corruption’s attack? Not Jonah! By his own admission, he just watched it happen (you’ll see this become a running theme), but...

[SOUND OF CHAIR SCRAPING]

ARCHIVIST I see you…

[THUMP… THEN SOUND OF COLLAPSING SHELVES][NOISES OF EXCLAMATION][DOOR OPENS]

SASHA Alright?

ARCHIVIST Ah… Yeah. A… spider.

SASHA A spider?

ARCHIVIST Yeah. I tried to kill it…. the shelf collapsed.

SASHA Look.

ARCHIVIST Oh… uh… Got dented when the shelf collapsed, I guess.

SASHA No, it, it goes right through. I, I thought this was an exterior wall?

ARCHIVIST It should be.

SASHA Hmm. I, I think it’s just plasterboard. [LOW NOISES OF DEBRIS] Do you see anything? [QUIET, BUILDING SOUND OF WET WRIGGLING]

ARCHIVIST No, I don’t think so, it… [WORM SOUND INTENSIFIES] Sasha, run. RU - [CLICK]

(MAG 38)

A spider is what let the worms into the Archives.

Not to mention the reason Martin encountered Jane Prentiss to begin with. He was investigating a Web-related case. And:

MARTIN And then I remembered that I’d seen quite a lot of spider webs in the brief time I was down there, and maybe I should check it out again. I mean, like I said, I’m not really afraid of spiders. So… I went back for another look.

(MAG 22)

STRANGER

JONAH The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus.

Oh, really? Jonah didn’t do this one, either? I wonder who did. The not-them was bound to the table that was delivered to the Institute by Breekon&Hope (along with a spiderweb lighter). The table, you may recall, is also web aligned. Its original location was Hill Top Road, and when Jon smashes it open:

[SOUND OF SHATTERING WOOD AND THE STRANGE MUSIC DISAPPEARS]

ARCHIVIST Hollow. Just cobwebs and dust.

(MAG 78)

Sasha was replaced by the not-them after being entranced by the table in artifact storage. Jon encounters Not-Sasha in the tunnels, perhaps by chance, or perhaps...

ARCHIVIST I’m in the tunnels. I was exploring and I got lost. I haven’t gone down any of the stairs and I - I think I’m still under the Institute. There were a couple of spiders, so I changed routes and found, I think it’s a gas main.

NOT!SASHA Jon?

[ARCHIVIST CRIES OUT, STARTLED]

Jon is that you?

(MAG 68)

I actually believe that the Web’s influence is the reason he broke the table. From the beginning, multiple people were advising him to break it. But he thought that was a bad idea. He changes his mind rather suddenly. He believes it’s his decision while he’s doing it, but it seems like such a bad idea to him after. I don’t have solid evidence to support that, though. Just speculation.

END

JONAH And [The Unknowing] did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

I don’t know if the Web was responsible for his brush with the End, but she definitely had a hand in him surviving it.

OLIVER Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks.

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

(MAG 121)

FLESH

JONAH I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have seen my face when you voluntarily went to him.

And why did he do that? Because of what he heard on a tape.

ARCHIVIST I found this tape tucked in a corner of my desk drawer (sigh) covered in cobwebs. I suppose subtlety has gone out the window a bit, and the question is now simply… how much I trust the Spider to have my best interests at heart.

About - About an anchor. What was it she said, “the siren call of flesh.” Hm. It’s possible, I suppose. It would - hurt, but - well, what’s another scar?

(MAG 130)

BURIED

I mean... see above. But also:

DAISY Jon… When you went in the coffin, was it you choosing to do that? Did you actually think you could save me, or was that something telling you to do it?

ARCHIVIST It was me. I was - drawn to it, I’ll admit, but it was my decision.

(MAG 136)

LONELY

JONAH Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Jonah very much acts like he knew what he was doing in this one. But the whole thing would have fallen apart if Jon never found out what was happening.

MARTIN Will I be coming back?

PETER You’re not going to die, if that’s what you’re asking, but- no. If all goes well, you won’t be.

ARCHIVIST This tape was left on my desk. I don’t know by who, but to my mind, there are three options. Martin has left it here to let me know that whatever the situation is with Peter Lukas, it is entering his final act and he needs my help. Alternatively, Peter may have left here to… Goad me into action? Or just to gloat, to highlight my helplessness at everything. (sighs) Or Annabelle Cane is trying to manipulate me into thinking it’s one of the other scenarios. Previously, the spiders have made their presence clear when they’ve sent me… hints… but I can’t take that for granted.

(MAG 157)

The fact that Jon even considers Annabelle in this situation is pretty telling. And given what we know about the situation, it makes no sense for Martin or Peter to have left the tape. Martin was trying to protect Jon; he wouldn’t risk his safety by trying to get him involved, especially because he thought he had the situation under control. And Jon’s appearance would do nothing to help Peter and, in fact, would have been likely to hinder his plans. Jonah may have been a likely suspect if he weren’t still in prison at the time. So that leaves only one option.

So what does this mean?

Well, my prediction is that the ritual isn’t going to grant Jonah the power he’s expecting. I believe the ritual isn’t centered on the Eye, but on the Web. Jon is an Avatar for the Beholding (probably? but that’s a whole other story), but he’s very deeply marked by the Web, a lot deeper than he realizes.

I think we’re going to see a lot more from Annabelle in season 5.

[alecvolturi]

list your top 10 favorite characters from 10 different things, then tag 10 people!

I was tagged by @lovingcharlieswan​ (thank you!!!) 

1. Jane Volturi, Twilight  

2. Rebekah mikaelson, The Originals

3. Hermionie Granger, Harry Potter

4. Mare Borrow, The Red Queen

5. Polaris, The Gifted 

6. Ryn, Siren

7. Emily Prentiss, Criminal Minds

8. Mazikeen, Lucifer

9. Ziva David, NCIS

10. Claire Fraser, Outlander

I am tagging (no pressure) @volturialice​ @volturisecretary​ @volturi-or-die​ @like-rain-or-confetti​ @bvbliga​ @hallowedhuntress​ @twinkvolturi​ @tinyjanevolturi​ @bellasredchevy​ and @maryaliceswan​

[offbrandhand]

Siren!jane prentiss from a little thing I’m working on. Just need to share sexy monster lady please and thank you

[mimosaeyes]

Jon still gets nightmares.

Set in a post-canon ‘verse where they save the world, build a life together, and adopt a cat. It’s a series now! This fic (2.7k) works standalone, but is best read after the others, especially I Was Found (13.2k of softness). Everything below the cut will spoil you for the end of that fic.

Beta-ed by @emberidzae. Thank you for telling me it’s probably fine.

There is a special kind of quiet that occupies a room near two in the morning. The refrigerator hums, the water pipes whine, sirens go off in the distance — this is London, after all. But beneath that lies stillness, elusive like the space between breaths.

Jon sits on the sofa, rocking ever so slightly and waiting for... he doesn’t even know what. For peace to slip into his lungs. Be carried along in his blood, spread throughout his brain. Every time he blinks, he thinks he sees horrific afterimages on the backs of his eyelids. Tonight, his dreams have been full of bodies: burning, running, festering, falling, twisting, crying, choking. Closing in on all sides of him, until his sight was completely obscured.

Out of that apparent void, a single, all-encompassing eye mired in spiderwebs had opened, and looked directly at him. Under its scrutiny, it was as if he and Martin had never fixed the world he’d broken. Never torn themselves out of the Mother of Puppets’ plots, or away from the Ceaseless Watcher.

He exhales slowly, burying his face in his hands. Surely he should be used to nightmares by now. He’s had a long history with them, between statement givers and his own encounters with entities and avatars. The dreams were always vivid and hallucinatory, clinging to him as he struggled toward consciousness and woke gasping, often clutching the arms of the office chair he’d dozed off in. Later, after he ended the world, he’d stopped sleeping entirely. Slumber no longer carried the promise of rest.

No one remembers clearly what happened to them in the domains during the apocalypse. That collective, polyphonic torment now lives on only in Jon’s mind. He may not be affiliated with the Beholding anymore, but some part of him will always be the Archive.

The frustrating thing is that over the last year and a bit, the nightmares have been happening less and less frequently. He’d actually thought they were going away, but all week now, Jon’s been waking up screaming or sobbing, tangled in the sheets, his pyjamas soaked through with cold sweat. Martin hasn’t gotten through a night undisturbed, either. They’re both exhausted; that’s probably why he managed to slip out of bed without alerting him initially.

Just then, a slight sound makes him look to his left. What he sees is so incongruous to his mood that he begins huffing in silent laughter.

Boo, the smaller of their two cats, is using one front paw to bat at his ear, on which a large dust bunny appears to be stuck. It’s a slightly lighter grey than his fur, else Jon may not have even seen it. 

Jon knows the exact moment Boo notices him looking, because he stiffens for a second. He’s been with them for a little over a month now, and while their efforts to make him feel at ease in their home have paid off somewhat, he remains jumpy.

Jon holds perfectly still. After a few seconds, Boo returns to his scratching, but to no avail. The dust bunny somehow ends up entangled in his whiskers, stretching between them and the tip of his ear. Boo shakes his head once, twice. Then he sneezes — and arches his back, his fur standing on end. 

He had actually startled himself with his own sneeze. Jon can’t help cracking a smile, endeared and grateful for the distraction, inadvertent though it may be. 

Clearing his throat quietly, he asks, “Would you like some help with that?”

Boo ignores him, which is ideal. It takes a certain amount of trust on this cat’s part to be considered beneath notice — meaning, not a threat. When Jon gets off the sofa and tries to approach, though, Boo freezes and watches him warily. So he sits down on the floor instead, thinking.

After a while, he begins softly singing the alphabet.

Immediately, Boo’s look changes from alert to curious. Whenever Jon has had the opportunity to do so, he’s been reading aloud to get Boo used to hearing his voice. Assembly instructions for a new shelf, dubious job listings he finds online, the weekly shopping list. At first, this strategy had been very successful. Boo learned to stop diving for cover every time Jon or Martin called for each other from another room. Then came the day Jon paused midway through washing up after dinner, to find Boo sitting not two metres away from his feet. It had been a crowning moment of triumph until Martin said, “You hum songs when you do the dishes, did you know? I think he likes it.”

Jon had somehow not been aware of this habit. He was instantly embarrassed.

Not that he’s stopped since it was pointed out to him. He’s actually been experimenting. Boo may have a certain fondness for ‘90s power ballads.

Which he is hardly going to attempt at this time of night. Instead, Jon cycles through the rainbow song and that one about the teapot, making no move as Boo cautiously approaches, blue eyes huge and unblinking. When he’s within an arm’s length, Jon stops singing and offers his hand for Boo to sniff at.

Purring now, Boo lets himself be pet. Jon seizes his chance and gently pulls off the dust bunny. “Now where did you even get this?” he wonders aloud. They’re generally diligent about household chores, especially keeping the place clean. Martin has allergies, and Jon likes the routine.

Boo nudges up into his fingers and leaves a smudge of fine dust on them.

A sneaking suspicion enters Jon’s mind. He narrows his eyes at the cat. “You’ve been in the study all day,” he says. “I saw you go in. And the desk has that jammed drawer, doesn’t it?” 

They’ve been meaning to fix that. The drawer is stuck just wide open enough for dust to collect on the inside. And apparently, for a skinny, timid cat to make his hiding place.

“Well, that’s one mystery solved,” Jon muses, continuing to pet Boo despite the dirt. “Filthy boy,” he says affectionately. “Scruffy. Crumpet will refuse to cuddle with you.”

Mrow, Boo protests in his low, bullfrog-like way. He’s much less vocal than his calico counterpart, so Jon doesn’t get to hear this often.

“I suppose you’re right. She’ll probably just try to clean all this off you. She dotes on you, doesn’t she?”

He falls silent for a while, until Boo indicates with a flick of his tail that he’s had enough. Jon lets him wander some distance off and begin grooming.

In the lull of activity, the memory of his nightmare comes back with a vengeance, screaming in his brain and making him suck a breath in through his teeth. He had known their names as they struggled in their personal hells at the end of the world, had drunk his fill of their suffering and felt sated in that most inhuman side of himself. 

It’s since been ripped away, of course, taking with it the voyeuristic detachment that had, in a perverse way, protected him from the distress his nightmares now cause him. Yet it scares Jon that that had ever been a part of him. Ever found suitable soil and taken root.

He’s fine, though. Or so he keeps telling himself. These aren’t the worst dreams, after all. No, those are the ones where he loses Martin. In the Panopticon. In the house on Hill Top Road. To the call of the Lonely. To the slip of a knife in the Hunt. There were so many ways one or both of them could have not survived. Not gotten to have everything they now have together.

Jon swallows and massages his temples. “Boo,” he says, “you’re afraid of everything. Any tips?”

Boo looks at him for a long moment, then yawns.

“I see,” Jon starts to say, just as a strangled cry comes from the street below. One of London’s many foxes, probably. Jon has learned to tune out this sort of thing, but the sound sends Boo scrambling for shelter.

And he runs to Jon.

“Oh, it’s okay,” Jon murmurs. “Just a fox. It’s over now. It’s okay.” After hesitating a moment, he picks Boo up and deposits him on his lap, then encircles the cat loosely with his arms. He doesn’t squish him — it’s Crumpet who likes to be bundled up and snuggled. He just sort of surrounds Boo, letting him mash his face into the crook of Jon’s elbow.

It takes a long time for Boo’s fur to settle back down. Jon starts stroking him after a minute, keeping his movements soothingly slow. “You’re safe here,” he tells him. 

Then he sighs and repeats quietly, to himself, “You’re safe. You’re here. It’s over.”

Boo leaps off his lap, rumbles at him, then darts back into the study. Jon watches him go, shaking his head. A problem for tomorrow.

He sighs, then pauses and deliberately takes a deep breath. He holds it for a count of five before releasing the air. He imagines tension bleeding away as he does.

Martin had taught him this technique back in the safehouse in Scotland — far from the first time Jon had had nightmares, but certainly the first time anyone had been there to comfort him when he woke up. Progressive muscle relaxation, Martin said it was called. He’d used it himself during his stay in the Archives, whenever those thirteen days he spent trapped in his flat by Jane Prentiss came back to haunt him. 

“Breathe in, tense? Okay, now hold,” he murmured, sitting up in bed next to Jon, his silhouette familiar and comforting against the yellow glow cast by the bedside light. It had been on by the time Jon surfaced into consciousness, still panting and crying.

“One one-thousand, two one-thousand, three, four, five,” Martin counted for him. “Release, breathe out.” His hands ran over Jon’s shoulders, warm and soothing. “Better?”

Jon nodded. “A bit,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. He must have yelled in his sleep before Martin managed to rouse him. “Listen, you... you don’t have to do this. I can go sleep on the couch.”

Martin went silent for a moment. “The other day, when I dreamt I was back in the Lonely. Did it cross your mind to kick me out, even for a second?”

“No,” Jon said at once, shocked. “Of course not.”

“Then that’s settled,” Martin said firmly. “You’re not okay, and I can help. That’s all there is to it. On to your arms next, ready? Breathe in, tense...”

Alone in their living room, but following Martin’s instructions from before, Jon works his way through various muscle groups until he gets to his hands, at which point he clenches his fists and presses his knuckles down against the floor on either side of his thighs. That probably isn’t recommended. He hasn’t done it hard enough to hurt, though, and he needs the sensation, he thinks, to ground himself in reality. To remind himself that he’s here in their tiny apartment, and if he goes to peer out the window, the sky will not look back at him. 

He’s here and it’s long past midnight, but if he texts Daisy, she will grouse good-naturedly, then call him to ramble about how the new podcast she’s started listening to is pretty good, but could never measure up to The Archers. If he goes back to the bedroom and tells his husband he needs him, Martin will rub his eyes and get up to make Jon some tea. He’ll put in milk and sugar, which always seems too indulgent for Jon to do himself, and they’ll cuddle up with a book, or in front of the telly with the volume turned way down.

The people he loves, who love him in return, are within reach. Even when they’re not there next to him. Jon knows this in a way that has nothing to do with the Beholding. It’s just hard to remember sometimes.

He exhales one final time, and that’s when Martin appears in the doorway to their bedroom.

“Hey,” he says quietly, looking soft and rumpled in his pyjamas. His voice is rough with sleep, low with concern. “I woke up and you weren’t there. Is this a bad night?”

Another one, you mean? Jon wants to say bitterly. He bites it back; it’s only the sleep deprivation talking. “I just needed a moment to clear my head,” he says, clambering to his feet. “Let’s go back to bed.”

He honestly feels a lot better, and he thinks he’s done a decent job of sounding normal. He must still look like a mess, though, because Martin frowns and stops him from squeezing past. “Wait. Do you want to talk about it?”

Jon’s already shaking his head. “No. It was just... more of the same.” The first few times, Martin had stayed up with him while Jon stammered out the things he’d seen in his dreams. He listened and tried to reassure him, and it had helped to an extent. But the more Jon spoke, the harder Martin’s lips pressed together in that way that meant he was horrified and trying to hide it. Jon had grown all too familiar with that expression during their walk through the domains.

He clears his throat. “Really, Martin. Everything’s fine.”

“Then why’d you come out here by yourself? Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Well, I thought one of us should get some sleep,” Jon says drily, only he’s tired, so it comes out rather snappy.

Martin cants his head at him, his brows pinching together. Jon can practically hear the gears whirring in his mind. He shifts uncomfortably.

“I know it’s been a bad week,” Martin says at last, softly, “but please don’t shut me out.”

As soon as he says it, Jon knows that that’s what he’d been trying to do tonight. Keep his nightmares and guilt to himself, protect Martin from the horrors he knows about anyway. At least, that was his excuse. It’s not that Jon didn’t want his help; he did. It had simply felt too selfish to ask for it.

Jon watches him for a long moment. He thinks about fear, and love, and self-isolation. He thinks about Martin waking up in the safehouse smelling like sea spray; about telling him to Breathe, just breathe. You’re not alone. Not anymore. He thinks about a little grey scaredy-cat who feels safe with Jon, of all people.

“I won’t,” he says. “I promise.”

Martin gives him a small smile. “Okay. How can I help?”

Jon bites his lip. “Would you... would you just hold me, please?”

“Oh, Jon.” Weary though he is, Martin’s look is full of sympathy. “Of course.”

Jon follows him back to bed. As he lifts his side of the covers, Martin says, “Ah, careful. I think Crumpet’s settled in the warm spot you left.”

He peers in the darkness. Indeed she has. “Your Royal Highness,” he greets her, bowing slightly. That’s the appropriate form of address for a princess. It doesn’t roll off the tongue very easily, but Martin groans and rolls his eyes whenever Jon says it, so he keeps doing the bit.

He can never bear to move either of their cats if they look comfy, so he gets into bed gingerly and ends up pressed close to Martin, who loops an arm over him. They’re face to face, with mere inches separating them.

“Hi,” Jon says, somewhere between shy and pleased.

“Hi,” Martin says back at him, his smile colouring the word. Jon thinks they could be seventy years old and still greet each other like that, bashful and sweet as teenagers with a crush.

Jon tucks his face against Martin’s shoulder, humming in contentment at the warmth and solidity of him. After a while, he mumbles, “By the way. Boo needs a bath.”

Martin laughs. “That’ll be an adventure. Why?”

His voice is light, but betrays how tired he is. Jon shifts and presses a kiss to his cheek. “Tell you in the morning. Go to sleep.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“Yes,” Jon says slowly. “I think I will be.”

[my TMA fic on AO3]

[yellowocaballero]

The worms were coming too thick and fast, squirming with long and loose bodies. Moreover, they were arranged perfectly in the shape of the archway, boring through the loose soil until they formed a gate made out of flesh and rot. Jon felt his Eyes opening, almost unconsciously, reaching for his power. A thrill snuck its way up his spine, and the back of his neck prickled. His powers were muted here, but it was impossible to ignore the siren song of a confession.

Right behind him, he could feel Gerry clutching onto the back of his trenchcoat. He hissed to Agnes, “I thought Jane Prentiss was dead .”

“She is,” Jon said, mouth moving unconsciously. “Her ashes are inside the Head Archivist’s desk. This is just...a remnant.  Pilgrims, paying fealty to a god whom no longer walks among them. Traces of former glory.”

“Really? They just look like worms to me,” Gerry said.

In which Agnes and Gerry investigate a disappearance, Daisy fails to save Jon from himself and Jon opens a door.

And Sasha James really wishes she had stayed dead. 

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘Dig’ (S03E08) Analysis

And poor Martin is back as our narrator this week, diligently doing his job.  He seems to be the only one, and feeling the stress. The statement this week certainly didn’t help him with that stress.  Come on in to hear what I thought about ‘Dig’.

So Basira hasn’t seen Daisy, nor has anyone else at the police station.  And given how Basira reacted to ‘full operational discretion’, I think it’s very clear that Daisy has every intention of killing Jon as soon as she finds him.  I also think that Daisy doesn’t often go off the grid for this long.  She vanishes from time to time, but this has been enough that it has even her former partner poking around looking for her.  And thankfully for everyone, she’s well aware how dangerous Daisy is.  Now if only she’d felt like sharing that with the rest of the class, because Martin has been left in the dark by literally everyone.  Maybe she’s not talking to him because she’s aware that if she’s looking to Martin for Sims’ location, Daisy will be as well.  That seems to be the ongoing reason for everyone not to tell Martin anything.  

In protecting Sims from Daisy, I definitely think that Basira and Tim have both left Martin in Daisy’s crosshairs.  How long is it going to be before Daisy gets tired of looking for Sims and decides to use a more direct sort of bait?  Martin is literally the only personal connection that she knows of for Sims right now.  You can bet she’s going to use it, and that’s going to put them both in serious danger. If we’re lucky, Basira is watching Martin as well, and might be able to step in.  

I wonder if it’s something about that job and that office.  Last season it was Jon who was almost entirely isolated.  This season it’s Martin.  Literally none of his colleagues are telling him anything.  Tim is ignoring him and the entire job.  Melanie is skulking around researching ‘statements’ for Sims.  Sims himself is gone, and Martin doesn’t know if he’s okay or not.  Basira isn’t being at all helpful, and Daisy’s more likely to put a gun to his head than keep him company.  One of Martin’s defining features is his optimism.  He always wants things to turn out all right.  This week was the first time I’ve really heard a strain in him about that.  He’s cracking under the weight of being the Archivist, of recording the statements, and of being completely and utterly alone while being surrounded by people.  

Or maybe the theme of this episode is not that Martin is being isolated because of the supernatural, but instead that somehow the Institute has managed to amass a group of people who are singularly shit at talking to one another.  Seriously, I know this is horror, and terrible communication is one of the great horror tropes, but if these people would take a moment to get on the same page, a lot of badness could be avoided.  Melanie needs to talk to Martin, who is shaking apart with needing to know Jon’s okay, even if he can’t know Jon’s location thanks to Daisy’s surveillance.  Just a little reassurance, some hint that he’s not trapped and alone in the archives, might well go miles toward stabilizing Martin into something resembling mental health.

Basira also needs to talk to Martin, and level with him as to what ‘full operational discretion’ means. Again, she might not be able to tell him everything, but Martin currently just sees Daisy as a bully.  He needs to know that she’s homicidal, and stupendously dangerous.  Basira might also want to tell the same thing to Tim, since he’s the one most likely to tell Daisy what she wants to know.  

Tim and Sims need to have a season-late session to hash out their differences, and to get over themselves. Then they need to both agree that at some point, they should be the ones bringing Martin sandwiches and tea.  And they need to thank Melanie for getting involved in this shit-show, even if she didn’t realize exactly how bad it could get when she dove in.  

In fact, the only person no one should be talking to right now is Daisy, because Daisy isn’t going to listen.  She’s just going to shoot.  And I don’t think she’ll be overly choosy with who she uses to get that shot in, or who stands in the crossfire.

So, yeah. Communication saves lives, people. Try it some time.

Given how much stress Martin is under, and how close he seems to totally falling apart, it was particularly harrowing to hear him read the statement of someone steadily losing his mind. He’s taking on more and more of Sims’ cadence and rhythm, and this statement reminded me of nothing so much as Jane Prentiss’ statement.  So having Martin go from sweet and awkward to the narrator’s mental state by the end of the statement was a particularly dreadful journey to take.    

Both Martin and Enrique, the statement giver, have had something they enjoyed twisted into a compulsion.  For Enrique it was a hobby in metal detecting; for Martin it was his job.  Martin is compelled to record, even as it leaves him rattled and disturbed, and Enrique was both horrified by and in love with the digging.  

Hearing that makes me worry about Martin and Sims.  It seems very likely that they, just like Enrique, are slowly digging their own graves. They’re compelled to consume information until they drown in it, or become something altogether other than human. Is an aspect of one of the Great Old Ones still considered to be the individual it once was?  Or is that individual obliterated to make room for the new being?  

Again I think that a lot of those answers might lie with Nikolai Dennikin.  He was the only one of the claimed I can think of who actually up and left that life to go and have a family.  How did he do it?  Does he prove that the aspects do retain some semblance of self, and that semblance can actually rise up to totally define that person once more?  Are there more breakaways who used to serve one of the Great Old Ones, but now live normal lives?  How would Sims even go about finding people like that?

A final note about the statement itself was with Enrique’s perceptions.  It’s clear that, in another parallel to Sims and Martin, the deeper he sunk into the grip of the thing that has claimed him, the more he could perceive. And in that perception, he seemed to have found something genuinely interesting about the Institute.  He referred to something in the Archives (specifically in the Archivist’s office, if his attack on the floor was anything to be believed) as “a hollow space that all Eyes point toward”.  Something is there, or someone, and it’s powerful enough to act as a siren song for Enrique, and a point of utter fixation for the Beholding.  Is that the tunnels, or is there something else?  Something hidden beneath the floorboards of Sims’ office, just waiting to be discovered?

Conclusions

A short but excellent entry. Alexander Newall is really getting to sink his teeth into some good statements this season, and his acting is fantastic.  Listening to Martin the character getting the statements inflicted on him is less fantastic of course.  Gripping listening, but more stomach-clenching than fantastic.  Given how much pressure he’s under right now, Martin needs some sort of relief and soon.  I was hoping Melanie would be sensible and at least help him out enough that he could relax a bit, but it sounds like she’s spending all her time researching Jon’s projects.  And while that’s necessary, it basically leaves Martin right where he started: working alone in the Archives with two people there who are unwilling to pitch in. And the only person who could really understand the growing hold the Archives have on him is currently hiding, and specifically not talking to Martin because they’re considered close enough that Martin is being watched.

I could think of half a dozen ways around that, which wouldn’t draw suspicion from Daisy, but for those to happen, Melanie would need to be aware of the stakes they’re playing for. Because so far, the audience has more pieces than any of the characters.  We can see the shape of the danger they’re facing far better than any of them.  It’s an awesome way to build suspense, but you’ll have to forgive me if I’m gripping the edges of my seat and shouting at every one of the characters to damn well talk to one another.

[stilitana]

stop me if you’ve heard this one before | 5k | complete

Jon returns from his kidnapping to find that his assistants need some training in the proper art of recording statements.

(I thought it would be fun to hear Jon's reaction to MAG 100 and hence, this fic was born.)

Jon slinks through the institute doors looking ragged and threadbare and with such a scorched intensity in his eyes that the receptionist, Rosie, merely nods slowly when he pauses in the lobby to blink at her and then presses a finger to his lips. He slips on by, still the same awkward hunching in his shoulders and swift, jerky step but a new rigid cast to his body, as though during his long absence he has somehow become wound impossibly tighter. Rosie’s finger hovers over the intercom button on her desk phone, ready to dial Elias’ extension. Then she lets it go. She has a feeling that if the boss doesn’t already know his favorite employee has returned, he will very soon. She makes it a point not to become too closely involved in whatever goes on with the archival staff. They all do. 

Jon hurries through the institute’s drab, winding halls, resolutely avoiding eye contact with any other workers he passes, pressing himself to the walls when they go by. He ignores any odd looks cast his way. In the back of his mind, he is dimly aware that he must be quite a sight, but can’t find it within himself to care. He never cared what they thought before he started turning into a – whatever it is he’s turning into. Why start now? 

Michael, or the thing Michael became, or that became Michael, or the thing Michael wasn’t –  its   statement played back in his mind over and over. How Gertrude had burned through her own assistants like they were nothing more than fodder. How they had trusted her, how she had taken their trust and twisted it until they gave themselves over for her designs gladly.   Is a thing evil when it simply obeys its own nature?   Michael had asked. Although Jon had gotten the sense it wasn’t really a question. It was so very much like the sentiment expressed by several statement givers (  But you can’t fight what you are. Or even what you aren’t.  ) that it took his breath away. His thoughts were starting to loop. Nothing like a full picture was coming together, but his mind was picking up the threads of inconsistent repetition – names, places, turns of phrase. He’d said such words himself, once, before he even knew how deep he was in –   How many of these monsters were once people? Unable to resist their new natures. They don’t even think like people anymore.  

Did he think like people? Did people think like this – with the stitched together fragments of a hundred stranger’s voices describing their darkest secrets and the worst moments of their lives? 

Before going into Elias’ office, he steels himself for confrontation. He needs to be relentless. He needs to be strong, have a little backbone, not give in. It is vital that he not bend. Like he always bends. Permitting more and more inhumanity until the bar has shifted so far he can’t see it anymore, and then how will he ever find his way back? 

Elias is a murderer. Jon has never killed anyone. That, surely, must count for something? 

He gives a dry, humorless laugh and barges into the office where Elias is waiting and smiling at him as though he beheld the return of the prodigal son. And he feels his resolve begin to droop and wither. 

Were the stakes not so high, the unknowns so vast, then he knows the only good and sane thing to do would be to turn Elias over to the police, no matter the personal cost. But the stakes just might be the world as they know it, or at least their own lives, and he would very much like to stay alive and never have another person hurt because of him. And the unknowns gnaw on him, a literal feeling of hollow appetite in his gut. So when Daisy barges in to kill Elias, Jon does what Elias says. He stops her. 

In the aftermath, the archives go strangely quiet as everyone drifts away from the commotion, retreating to their separate corners. Jon feels them watching him as he walks from Elias’ office across the floor to his own, eyes fixed on the ground. 

“That it, then?” Melanie says. “You fuck off god knows where for a month, leave us here with that vicious freak, and now we’re just supposed to carry on as though we aren’t prisoners here, as though this place is normal?” 

“I did try to warn you,” Tim says, his voice so dry and brittle it makes Jon wince as he remembers how warm and rich Tim’s laugh had once sounded. 

Jon keeps walking. His whole body aches, his mind feels fuzzy and disorganized, thoughts scattering like beads of oil on water. The odd dissociative see-through feeling that had settled into him while speaking to Michael has yet to fully abate, and he rubs his hands up and down his arms as though to dispel the numb tingling. The pins and needles go deeper than the skin though, and he wonders idly if this is just going to be another new scar to deal with. He feels nothing more than disinterested curiosity at the thought. As though it’s all happening to someone else, someone who doesn’t matter much. He feels unmoored, adrift. Unsure where he ends and thin air begins. Can they see his thoughts, bleeding out into the air? How much do they know? 

The familiar ugly nausea of paranoia makes his breath hitch. No. No, he’s not going to do that again. That time is over. His hand hurts. God, his hand hurts badly. He hasn’t unwrapped the bandages to look at it in a while. He should have gone to a doctor but it’s too late for that now. There was so much physical therapy even after Jane and her infestation, and that had been when he still half bothered taking basic care of his body. It’s never going to be the same. Maybe if he just never unwrapped it, he could go on pretending it was still just burns keeping his hand curled and aching and painful, and not scar tissue. Not the result of his own negligence. 

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Melanie says. “Don’t you turn your back on me, Jonathan Sims. It’s your fault we’re all in this, the least you could do would be to – but what did I expect? Fine. Go hide in your office.” 

“J-Jon,” Martin says. “What happened to your hand?” 

Jon gets one hand on the doorknob to his office. He can all but hear the statements on his desk singing their wretched siren’s call. His head throbs. He wants nothing more than to get this door shut behind him, a physical barrier between himself and these people who hurt too much to look at, to lose himself for a few minutes in someone else’s story. He stops and says, “You’re right.” He clears his throat when his voice comes out quiet and hoarse, and turns around. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I should – say something, try to explain. I wish I could, Melanie. I wish I had something – anything reassuring to say to you, to all of you.” 

He glances at them each in turn, unable to look at them for long before darting his gaze back to the ground, to the walls. He winces when he looks at Basira, thinks of her signing her name while Elias watches her with that knowing smile. It was a look he’d become acquainted with when he first began working for the institute, and Elias took an odd interest in him. He hadn’t known why, then. He’d done his best to hide it, but the truth was that it – it had flattered him. Having his boss notice him, acknowledge his work. It just makes him feel sick now, to think of it. How easily he’d been played for a fool. 

He clears his throat again and makes an effort at affecting the tone he used to take, in the early days, when reading statements. Safe, protected, reserved. Messy emotions hidden neatly away behind crisp enunciation and academic dispassion. “I would have been here – or at least in touch – if I could have. I didn’t mean to be gone so long, but there were – something came up. I was being held hostage, actually. Rest assured I am no happier with our current... situation  than any of you are, but at the moment I think that all we can do is...our jobs. For now. We can talk, but – just give me a moment to – just give me a moment, please,” he says, and then yanks open the door to his office and shuts it behind him, his heart pounding wildly. 

He leans against the door and breathes in the familiar smell. Old paper, the musty close smell of the air in the archives, leather. This office felt like safe haven once. Now it is as discomfiting as it is comforting. He fiddles with the tape recorder in his pocket, runs the pad of his thumb along its grooved side, and ventures to examine the stacks and boxes on his desk. 

He doesn’t have long before Martin comes in, looking hesitant and with such a small, fragile flicker of hope that it's all Jon can do to swallow a lump in his throat and look away, fingers clenching around the tape recorder in his pocket, the one that stops and starts of its own accord these days, just like all the others. And then they talk. Martin is, predictably, worried, but doing his best not to be overbearing, and Jon appreciates the effort. He couldn’t take much fussing right now and doesn’t want to snap at Martin, who is looking at him with such genuine concern. Concern for Jon, not about him. He is beginning to treasure the difference. Martin’s worry is entirely about his well being and not at all about his humanity, as though the latter could still be taken for granted. Jon is so, so grateful he could just – he doesn’t know. Maybe in other times, before Prentiss...but things are different now. He is different. 

And so is Martin. When Jon hears the others have been reading statements, it takes him a moment to parse what exactly his reaction is. Surprise, certainly. And then concern. 

“Are the others helping you?” 

“Oh, well, yeah, you know, when they can.” 

“Make sure they do. Martin, please don’t -- take it easy, with the statements, all right? I don’t care what Elias tells you. They can be...a lot.” 

“Oh.” Martin stares at him for a moment, his look too complicated to read. Or maybe Jon is just too much of a coward to read it. And then Martin gives that nervous, self-deprecating little laugh that used to make Jon grit his teeth but now just makes him sad while simultaneously loosening the knot of tension in his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed hearing it. Or that he’d missed it at all. He blinks, blindsided by some great gulf of feeling he doesn’t dare look at head-on. “I know. I mean, I knew, before, what they were about and all, but I didn’t really – I don’t know how you do it.” 

“Someone has to.” 

“Do they, though?” 

Jon just stares at him and Martin laughs again, fidgeting with his sleeves. “Right. No, I – yeah. For now. I get it. But Jon, are you – really, are you all right?” 

“Yes. I will be.” 

“Your hand–” 

“It’s nothing. Just a burn.” 

“Oh.” 

“But I’m – don’t worry about me, Martin. Are – are  you  all right?” 

Martin looks flustered and Jon feels a pang at how surprised and taken aback the other man is, watching Martin look down and wet his lips and huff out another breathy little laugh. Has he really been so callous that Martin thinks he wouldn’t care about his wellbeing? 

“Oh, I’m – you know me,” Martin says. “I just – steady as she goes, and all that. No worries here.” 

“Really, Martin, I–” 

“I’m fine, Jon,” Martin says. His tone shuts Jon up at once. It’s firm and there’s a warning edge to it that he decides to heed, at least for now. If Martin doesn’t want to be fussed over – well, there’s a certain irony there, but he can understand. Martin’s voice is softer as he goes on. “Just -- just tired, is all, like everyone.” He nods at a box on Jon’s desk. “I gathered some of the stuff we’ve been working on there, for if you – for when you came back. Some research and a few statements and such I thought you’d want. Not that the statements are...well. You know. It’s not the same if it isn’t you taking them.” 

The phrase is somewhat odd, but Jon might have let it slide without comment had Martin’s tone not aroused suspicion. It was purposefully light, as though Martin were treading carefully around an exposed nerve he didn’t want to hit. But why? Why did he think Jon would take offense to them recording statements? He knew he could be...perhaps  intense  about the statements, sometimes, but that didn’t warrant this sensitivity on Martin’s part. “What do you mean, it’s not the same?” 

“Well, I don’t – you know, Jon.” 

“I don’t think I do.” 

“It’s just – I don’t know what it is, it’s just a thing, okay? We don’t have to talk about it right now. Do you want tea? I’m going to have some,” Martin says, and then retreats from the office, closing the door behind him. He – well, he fled, really. Jon blinks at the closed door for a moment before letting out a heavy breath. 

“Okay,” he says, and picks up the first cassette and begins to listen. 

 Melanie and Basira are flicking pellets of rolled up notebook paper at each other across a long desk while Tim watches with dull, glazed over eyes and Martin struggles valiantly to focus on his research when Jon’s office door bursts open and they all look up with wary anticipation. 

Jon clutches a tape recorder, looking flushed and flustered. “Excuse me,” he says, his voice comically thin and distraught before he clears his throat and lowers it. He holds up a cassette, schooling his expression into something prim and stern. “What is this?” 

“Something awful, I’m sure,” says Tim. 

Jon takes a breath and lets it out through his nose. “Listen. I know things have been – less than ideal around here, lately.” 

“Is that really how you’d put it?” Basira says. 

“Okay, things have been bad. But I would have still thought that while I was away, you’d have continued to take this seriously. Take – the statements seriously, at least.” 

“You weren’t even here, and you’re going to critique our work performance? Seriously?” Melanie says. 

“I wouldn’t have to if you’d – listen, I know Elias asked you to record, or so I’ve been told, but I’d rather you just – leave the statements alone. Don’t read them, don’t look at them, don’t even think about them if you aren’t going to – just don’t.” 

“You warned us he’d get jealous,” Melanie mutters, looking at Martin, who blushes and shoots her a glare. 

“Fine by me,” Tim says. 

“But, Jon – Elias did ask, and – and well, there are a lot of statements, don’t you think you could – use the help, a little bit?” Martin says. 

Jon licks his lips, looks cornered. “I – I just – one moment, please.” 

He hurries across the floor with quick, jerky steps, knocks primly on Elias’ office door before letting himself in. Melanie walks over to the door and leans close. 

“What are you doing?” Martin hisses. 

Melanie just presses a finger to her lips. In a moment, Basira joins her. Martin looks around, bites his lip, and then goes to hover beside them. 

“–don’t appreciate you delegating work to my assistants without asking me first, Elias.” 

“Well, Jon, you weren’t exactly making yourself available. What would you have them do, just sit there gathering dust?” 

“No, but I – there's other work to be done.” 

“Other than what?” 

“You know what.” Jon’s voice goes high and distressed, and Martin can imagine him wringing his hands. “They’re – the statements, they have to be done a certain way, the  right   way, understand? I don’t like them – they just don’t – they aren’t right, and it’s just not necessary to have other people touching – I mean, recording them, or doing anything with them, I have a – there's a certain way they’re supposed to be – not anybody can just – and it’s like those ones are used up now, and it won’t be the same when I re-record them, which I have to do, but it won’t feel the same, because I already listened to them, they’re – just   less   now. And it isn’t -- I don’t think it’s safe, either. They – get into your head. I would feel better if on just this one thing at least you would   listen  to me.” 

“This sounds like a management issue, Jon. If you haven’t trained your staff properly, well, that’s really your own shortsightedness, isn’t it? I suggest you speak with your assistants and address these concerns yourself.” 

The smug mockery in Elias’ tone turns Martin’s stomach. It’s almost as nauseating as the desperate, helpless confusion in Jon’s voice as he stammered and raved about the statements. Martin feels sick. He wishes he’d never touched those damn papers. But he knows it’s not his fault, Jon’s distress. He doesn’t know who or what’s fault it is, exactly, but he is beginning to suspect that it is the same force which makes him feel the uncomfortable sensation of a heavy gaze prickling the back of his neck nowadays every moment he is in the institute. 

He shouldn’t have told Jon they’d recorded. Should have filed the damn recordings away, never mentioned them. Only it wouldn’t have felt right, somehow. And although it goes against everything in his nature, his need to be of use, he doesn’t think there’s anything he can do to protect Jon from this. To protect any of them from this. 

“Get back,” Melanie hisses, and they all scramble away from the door and try to look busy when it creaks open and Jon steps out. He stands there regarding them for an awkward moment, straightening his shirt and fiddling with the tape recorder. He sniffs and holds up the cassette stiffly. 

“Right,” Jon says. “So. It seems I’ve been somewhat neglectful of my duties in regards to properly training you all.” 

“It’s the best thing about your management style,” Tim says. “Feel free to go on as if we aren’t here.” 

“No. No, let’s – let’s talk about this. I was maybe a little harsh earlier, I was just – surprised. So. Statements. Let’s go over how we record statements.” 

“Not much to it really, is there?” Basira says. “You find one, you read it, done.” 

“Well, that’s – the general idea,” Jon says. “But there’s a little more to it than that if you’re to get it right.” 

“Ah. You mean the voices? Let me just stop you right there, boss, keep you from wasting your time – never going to happen,” Tim says. 

Jon falters, taken aback. “Excuse me? What – what voices?”

Melanie snorts. “God, is that what this is about? We aren’t being theatrical enough for you, seriously?” 

“I don’t – I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Sure you don’t,” Tim says. “Listen. What you have to do to keep work interesting is your own business, but personally, if I’d wanted to move into the entertainment field, I’d have stuck with publishing. They’re statements, not a radio drama. I’m not going to read them like one.” 

Jon glowers at him, his voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Since there seems to be some confusion, let’s have a listen to one of the statements in question, shall we?” 

Jon presses the playback on his recorder and Tim’s long-suffering sigh comes from the machine along with an undercurrent of static. “Statement of, ah...Benjamen Hatendi. Hateendi...ugh...regarding, uh...ah...blanket, a dead friend, monster... Regarding his  unavoidable   and gruesome end. How he tried to hide – he couldn’t. Statement is from...ugh. 1983, March 2nd , and I guess...ugh...I guess I’m doing this one. Tim Stoker. Archival assistant. Archival prisoner...at the Magnus Institute. Statement. My parents never let me have a night light, I was always afraid but they would just – ugh.  Wh  – this is stupid. This is stupid. Look, look, if anyone’s listening to this   useless  tape, it was stupid when Jon was doing it, and it’s stupid now. I mean just – what's the point? We might as well be engraving them on wax cylinders, wh – whoever's listening to this, right now, you’re wasting your time. And if you work for the Magnus Institute, get out. If you can. I mean, that’s what really pisses me–” 

Jon clicks the recorder off and crosses his arms, eyes narrowed. “Well?” 

Tim heaves a rattling sigh. “Are we really doing this? You’re going to take offense at that? Listen, I never made any secret about what a waste of time I thought it was to digitize documents we already have on file. This is petty, even for you.” 

“I don’t care about that,” Jon says, frowning and waving the recorder. “I care that you – that you spoiled the integrity of the statement with your personal grievances.” 

Tim splutters. “Spoiled the integrity of – Jon, seriously, listen to yourself. Who gives a shit? And not to mention, it’s not as though you don’t bitch and whine into those recordings plenty – don’t lie, I’ve heard you doing it.” 

Jon flushes and raises his chin, summoning all the haughtiness he can, however hollow it might be. “I’d appreciate it if you’d watch your language, Tim. This is still our workplace, and I am still technically your boss. You are free to add personal reflections at the beginning or the ending of a recording, if you feel compelled to. That’s not the issue.” 

“Then what, oh almighty archivist, is the issue?” 

“You have to introduce the statement properly, and once you start, you need to set yourself aside. No – no cross contamination. There’s a certain – order, to the words, and you have to – you have to do it right, and the same way, each time, or else – it's not whole, it’s not right.” 

Tim stands, takes a step towards Jon with his hands clenched at his sides. He stops when Jon mirrors him by taking a step backwards, something like fear flashing in his dark eyes. Tim swallows down his sympathy. There was no space for it any more. “Get a grip, Jon,” he says. “Seriously, listen to yourself. You’ve always been particular, but for god’s sake, you’re – you sound  possessed , or something. Don’t you see what he’s doing to you, to all of us?” Tim says, gesturing behind Jon at Elias’ office. “This isn’t you. Or at least, it wasn’t always. This is – something else, and I don’t want any part of it. But I guess I don’t have much of a choice,” Tim says, trailing off in defeat as the fight drains out of him. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

Jon clutches the recorder, staring down at the ugly carpet in silence for a moment. His voice is small and carefully neutral when he says, “I just need them done a certain way, is all.” He gathers his wits and looks up, his gaze sharp and his voice stronger. “Melanie did an all right job, though I have some pointers for her as well. Martin, you too, you did, ah, well. Well enough.” 

Melanie presses one hand dramatically to her chest. “Oh god, what a gift – backhanded praise from our illustrious leader who can do no wrong. I will treasure this moment always, Jonathan.” 

Jon frowns and clears his throat. “Well. I did say it could use a little work.” 

“By all means, oh mighty one,  please  enlighten us poor ignorant inferiors.” 

Jon sniffs and glares at her. “Please stop that, Melanie. You’re making me uncomfortable. But fine, I will show you how I would introduce this statement. You don’t have to do it the exact same way, obviously, but you should – should have your own way of doing so, that’s consistent, and uninterrupted by personal thoughts. All right.” Jon clears his throat and begins, and the tape recorder in his hand clicks on. He doesn’t seem to notice and the rest of them don’t bother pointing it out. “Statement of Benjamin Hatendi, regarding a reckoning with a childhood fear of the dark. Original statement given March 2nd, 1983. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.” 

The moment Jon began introducing the statement, his voice shifted. The strain and uncertainty left it to be replaced by brisk self-assuredness, unhurried and controlled. Once he was finished, he paused for a moment, finger twitching on the recorder as if to switch it off and move on with lecturing them, and then a sort of slight spasm went through him and his eyes glazed over and he continued to speak, his voice altering as he did so. Not to the extent that it was a stranger’s voice coming from his mouth, but close enough to be uncanny, and Martin suppressed a shudder at the sudden impression of Jon as an extension of the recorder in his hand, playing back, mechanical and puppet-like, a ventriloquist’s dummy with a cassette sitting at the back of his throat speaking through him. 

“My parents never let me have a night light. I was always afraid, but they were just that sort of stubborn which doubled down when I screamed or cried about something, instead of actually listening. So no matter how terrified I might have been, I would always end up sleeping in the dark.” 

“Is he really going to read the whole thing to us?” Basira muttered. “Because if so, I’ve got some filing to do.” 

“I already read that one, and I did a fine job,” Melanie said. “You’ve made your point, okay, now stop.” 

“He’s – he’s not reading,” Martin said. 

“I  wish  he wasn’t,” Tim said, glaring at Jon, who was still speaking the statement. 

“No, he – he doesn't have the statement with him,” Martin said. “He’s just – saying it.” 

“Oh.  Oh ,” Melanie said. “That is – freaky. Jon, stop. We get it. We suck at reading statements, you’re the master of amateur voice acting, lesson learned.” 

“This is sick,” Tim muttered. 

“Jon,” Martin said, stepping forward tentatively. “Would you – can you stop?” 

 Jon’s hazy eyes focused on him and he faltered, then went quiet, blinking at Martin in irritation. It reminded Martin of the look of someone woken abruptly from a deep sleep. “What?” Jon snapped. 

“It’s just – you don’t have to re-record the whole thing. Melanie already did it.” 

“I’m not – of course I don’t, I wasn’t going to – oh. I see,” Jon said, looking down at the tape recorder in his hand. He looked up at Martin with an uncharacteristic hint of vulnerable uncertainty in his gaze, and gave a sheepish, self-conscious laugh. “I guess I – got carried away. That – can happen, sometimes. One of the hazards of, of statement reading, as I’m sure you’ve all – all realized, having done it yourselves.” 

“Nope. Can’t say I have,” Tim said. 

“Well – it happens sometimes,” Jon finished lamely, casting a lost look down at the recorder. 

“How’d you know what it said?” Melanie asked. 

Jon looked up at her, brow wrinkled. “What?” 

“The statement. How’d you know the lines?” 

“I don’t – what?” 

“You weren’t reading off the paper.” 

“Of course I was reading off the – oh. I – well, you already recorded it once, that must be – that must be why. That hasn’t happened before, I mean not with a, a fresh one. I guess I just – just remembered, since I listened to your recording. 

“Hell of a memory you’ve got,” Basira said. “Must be convenient.” 

Jon smiled tightly. “Yes. Yes. Good memory. That’s all.” 

“Oh, definitely,” said Tim. “Not that this place is turning you into some kind of abomination with a tape recorder for a brain and statements coming out your ears. Couldn’t be that.” 

Jon flinched. “D-don’t say that.” 

Tim’s gaze narrowed. “Why? Does that bother you?” 

“Of course that bothers me,” Jon hissed, his voice sharp with undisguised fear. “Don’t you think – don't you know I–” 

“What? It was just a little joke, Jon, about your workaholism, but by all means, please tell us why it’s struck a chord. You don’t have any reason to think this place might be turning us all into monsters, do you? Not like Sa – ugh.” 

“Stop,” Jon says, his voice strained and tremulous. 

He needn’t have bothered. Tim had lost all momentum at his own mention of Sasha and now sat still, looking tired and drained. He sighed. “It...doesn’t really matter, does it? Not like there’s anything we can do about it, I guess.” 

“That’s not happening, Tim,” Jon said. “I won’t let it happen.” 

“I appreciate the sentiment, boss. But I don’t really think you have much of a say in what goes on around here. I think it has a say in you.” 

Jon clutched his recorder and looked down. His voice was restrained and stuffy when he said, “I was going to also address your abysmal recordings of statements taken direct from subjects. They were – alarming, to say the least. Alarmingly incompetent, that is. But I think – I think that’s enough for today, I need to...you’ll all just have to work on your interviewing skills, or else leave taking direct statements to me.” 

“My interviewing skills are just fine, thanks very much,” Melanie said. “It was the strangest thing – the statement givers were just incoherent. And then I realized, no, this is  normal  – what isn’t normal is how eloquent they normally are. When they’re talking to you. What...why is that, Jon?” 

Jon wouldn’t meet her eyes. “I-I – I don’t – I’m a good listener?” 

“Daisy and Elias, weren’t they just saying something about you –  compelling  people to tell you–” 

“No,” Jon said, cutting Basira off. “No, that’s – I don’t know what that’s all about yet, it’s not – I don’t  make  people tell me the statements, they want to talk. It’s – it’s completely voluntary. That’s how it’s always been. I don’t have – I can’t – the simplest explanation is the correct explanation. Is it not much simpler to believe that all of you just have poor bedside manner when it comes to statement givers than it is to think that I have some kind of – of power, or something?” 

“No. Not really,” said Tim. 

“It is,” Jon snapped. “This conversation is over. We’ll – continue training later, I have – I have work to do.” 

He crossed the room and went back into his office before any of them could stop him. Not that they would. Why would they? They were all probably glad to have him away. 

He sank into his chair and slumped against his desk, idly playing with the tape recorder. There was an itch at the back of his skull. He bit his lip. He could do some filing to take his mind off the steady compulsion building behind his teeth, beneath his tongue, inside his head. He could organize his paperclips by size and color. He could alphabetize the filing cabinet, he could...but who was he kidding? 

The tape recorder clicked on of its own will and he sank further down in his chair and gave in, released a shaky breath. He clutched the recorder close to his face and murmured, “statement resumes,” and then he finished Benjamin Hatendi’s account through to the end. 

By the end of it he only felt worse – the statement was stale, used, had failed to scratch the itch in his brain. Jon rubbed his eyes, ignored the burning ache behind them, and switched the recorder off, holding his finger on the button for fear that it would click back on and fill the air with its hateful monotonous whirring. He sat very still. If he could be very quiet and very still, then maybe the danger would pass them by overhead without taking notice, and they would all be spared from further harm. If he could only stay very still. 

[taiey]

Honestly, I’m still not exactly sure why I’m here. But you know better than anyone how the spiders can get into your head. Easier to just do what she asks.

friendly reminder that the Web/Annabelle Cane sent Oliver Banks to the hospital in 121 to convince John to wake up from his anti-coma.

I found this tape tucked in a corner of my desk drawer (sigh) covered in cobwebs. I suppose subtlety has gone out the window a bit, and the question is now simply… how much I trust the Spider to have my best interests at heart. ... About - About an anchor. What was it she said, “the siren call of flesh.” Hm. It’s possible, I suppose. It would - hurt, but - well, what’s another scar? (small sigh) It’s been two weeks since I heard from Basira. I’m not waiting any longer. I’m getting Daisy back.

friendly reminder that the Web/Annabelle Cane sent the tape in 130 that convinced John to go to Jared Hopworth to get his rib taken out as an anchor for the Coffin, marking him for the Flesh and Buried

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

friendly reminder that Jonah Magnus didn’t have a back-up plan for getting that Flesh mark on him

SASHA A spider?

ARCHIVIST Yeah. I tried to kill it…. the shelf collapsed.

friendly reminder that the spider John killed in 038 sparked Jane Prentiss’s attack before she intended to, possibly saving his life from an unstoppable swarm of worms

I was heading home when I got to thinking, and I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you, since I got so freaked out by the basement and all. And then I remembered that I’d seen quite a lot of spider webs in the brief time I was down there, and maybe I should check it out again. I mean, like I said, I’m not really afraid of spiders. So… I went back for another look. 

friendly reminder that Martin went back to more deeply investigate the basement in 022 where Jane Prentiss was hiding because he remembered seeing spider webs

When did I first hear it? It wasn’t the nest, I’m sure of that. I never went in the attic. It was locked and I didn’t have a key. I spent a day sawing through the padlock with an old hacksaw. My hands were blistered by the end. Why would I have done that if I didn’t know what I would find? ... Was it the spiders? There were webs in the corners, around the entryway into the attic. I would watch them scurry and disappear in between the wooden boards. ‘Where are you going, little spiders?’ I would think.

friendly reminder that Jane Prentiss might have been led to the wasp’s nest in her attic by spiders—

Friendly reminder that the Web made the world Change.

[taiey]

134

PETER There are two powers that, to my knowledge, have never attempted to fully manifest. Never had followers set them up for a ritual. Mother of Puppets, and Terminus. The Web and the End. The Web, I’ve never really been sure about. If I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is: playing everyone against each other. And so on.

guys. guys, listen, please. :c please—

Peter Lukas is a Lonely avatar, not a Web avatar, he wouldn’t instinctively-sort-of-know

He’s a Lonely avatar, he doesn’t talk to people

He’s Peter Lukas. The guy who lost to newspaper op-eds. He’s real stupid and he wouldn’t know!

I’ve never really been sure about

If I were to guess 

g u e s s

I’m pretty sure the point of this line is as a red herring to distract the-audience-during-season-4 from the fact that the Web sent Oliver to wake John up and the tape with the “siren call of flesh” line to push him towards the Buried and Flesh marks—not to mention more ambiguous points like him crushing a spider and setting off Jane Prentiss’s attack before she’s ready to eat them all, and Leitner’s death—and that there’s a ritual in progress that’s going to end the world real soon.