#the-manila-institute

[carlocarrasco]

Nuclear power is key to preventing power shortages in the Philippines

If the Philippines is to keep growing economically in the long-term, it needs to have abundant energy and that makes nuclear power essential (for related posts, click here, here, here and here). That being said, the Philippine Nuclear Research Institute (PNRI) recently stated that nuclear power can prevent power shortages in the country, according to a Manila Bulletin news report. To put things…

[rhk111sblog]

Pro-US Vietnamese in Singapore accuses China of possibly sabotaging Philippine-Vietnam Relations

[0bticeo]

jonathan sims | get some rest (tomorrow is already here)

summary:

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk. but jonathan sims is a stubborn man, so he must be coaxed into doing so. 

“a massage.”

"a what?"

wc: 2.5k

tw: massage, making out, reader being a horny mess, jon being exhausted and a cranky bastard, hinted at elias' voyeuristic tendencies, usual tma ominous feelings, fluff (shocking, i know)

the analog clock reads 3:27, stark red embedded upon your retina. you sigh, fingers rubbing at the back of your neck as you step into the archives, weary bones aching.

it’s not your fault if you fell asleep in a secluded corner of the archives departement, squeezed between two shelves and piles upon piles of unlabeled statements. scratch that: they’re labeled. chronologically.

they do not make sense, however, because jonathan sims’ predecessor - whose name you curse with every breath and sleepless night you spend organizing her damn mess - left the whole department in such a state of disarray you might spend the rest of your life making sense of it. damn her. and damn your boss for being so uptight about it all.

you feel the weight of the institute, a looming force of knowledge pressed at the back of your neck, sweet pinprick of pain. you’re watched. oh, orwell, how right you were.

you make your way towards your desk, stepping over sasha’s pink slippers and picking up an empty mug. grab your keys, get out, and walk home. you’re not too far away from the institute. no trouble.

as you lean forward, palm pressed flat against a manila file, something catches your eye.

light. 

thin rays of it crawl, seep out from under the wooden door of the head archivist’s office, stark golden in dull gray penumbra.

he’s there, jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute. holed up in his office, recording a statement, voice poised and measured and controlled in every way he isn’t upon being confronted with his poor sleeping schedule. 

you should leave.

you hear the soft click of a tape recorder being stopped. a long, deep-suffering sigh. a drawer opening, more muttering, some shuffling, rustling papers - oh no he won’t.

in three decisive steps, you’re before his door, your sharp knocking rinnging like gunfire in the quiet of the office. 

“who-who’s there?”

unease. suspicion.

you’re quick to answer with a long suffering sigh of your own, forehead pressed against the door.

“it’s me, jon.”

a pause. an exasperated sigh.

“what do you want?"

you take it as your cue to step inside his office, dimly lit by a lone desk lamp, dust particles turning midas-gold under its rays. your foot catches on a discarded paper - another statement, this one regarding a gambling fool of a soldier. 

(he who tries to cheat death gets the fruit of his labor and weeps upon tasting it.)

you pick it up, and let your gaze roam about the place.

a cork board takes up the majority of a wall, red strings twisting and turning in a web of confusion.

bookshelves align themselves in neat rows, cramped against one another, overflowing with statements, indigestions of facts made up and real.

a cluttered desk - a switched off tape recorder, manila folders, an open computer casting its blue glow upon the sharp edge of jon’s face.

he’s glaring at you.

“have you grown deaf since the last time i saw you?”

you let out an amused breath and make a move to put the statement on his desk. finding an uncluttered space is harder than it proves to be.

jon all but snatches the damn paper from your grip. if looks could kill, you’d be in bad shape. you lean back, arms crossed over your chest, hip pressed against the edge of his desk.

“no, merely mute with shock upon your wretched appearance.” you smile, teasing edges fading into concern. “seriously, when was the last time you slept?”

“that does not concern you-”

“it does, actually. you’re my boss. i can’t let you waste away, who would pay me otherwise?”

“elias pays all of us-”

“and he probably would have me promoted as a glorified secretary if you were to overwork yourself to death. i hate accountance, jon.”

he pinches his nose with long, deft fingers, glasses riding up ever so slightly. they reveal the deep circles under his eyes, embedded in his olive skin. you can practically see the tension oozing from him, the knots in his shoulders.

“if you’re determined to waste my time-”

“i came to help, actually.”

he raises a quizzical eyebrow, the living embodiment of judgment.

you feel his gaze rake your form, the own dark circles under your eyes, the crumpled shirt, the dust that clings to your skirt, what he’s sure is the imprint of the shelf you fell asleep against on your cheek.

you raise your hands in mock surrender. (you miss the way his gaze softens a little.)

“you’re exhausted. hell, i can feel your nervous energy from here.”

he opens his mouth, frowning, protest ready on his tongue. you cut him, merciless.

“when was the last time you’ve gotten more than three hours of sleep?”

that shuts him up. his frown deepens. you want to smooth out the wrinkles on his forehead.

“that - look, if you have nothing better to do than pester me-”

“it’s three in the morning and we’re the only living souls in this institute.”

maybe. you don’t really want to know what lies in the tunnels. or in the artifact storage. or what’s watching you.

“you’re not going to sleep at all at this rate - no, i know you’re not, because i know you. kinda.”

he sighs, exhaustion crawling out of his very marrow, and leans back in his chair. you take in the wrinkles in his shirt, now exposed because lo and behold, jonathan sims’ jacket is not sewn to his body and - 

and he’s loosening his tie, two fingers digging in his windsor knot, smooth silk gliding away under skilled fingers. you wonder what they might feel like slipping under your shirt.

“what do you propose?”

you take in a sharp inhale. you should leave. drag him away from his desk and into bed. but jonathan sims is the living embodiment of stubborness, so he must be coaxed into doing so.

“a massage.”

“a- a what?”

you laugh a little.

“don’t pretend your neck isn’t stiffer than the stick up your ass.”

“i do not have-”

“jon, please let me help.”

silence. again, he pinches the bridge of his nose. at least, he’s considering it.

you eye the piles of statements on his desk, half-discarded, half-classified. there’s a pattern in the way jon operates, even if he’s not conscious of it.

he only ever calls for your help when he’s sure the statements at hand are lelgitimate. this means he rules out those he deems written by lunatics and madmen. this means he does most of the work. this means-

“all right. but under one condition."

you tilt your head to the side, curious.

“one last statement.”

“only if i massage you while you record it.”

a glare.

“we’re wasting time, jon.”

“fine. get over here.”

you smile, palms smoothing out the pleats of your skirt as you make your way behind his desk.

he pays you no mind, long fingers selecting a manila file from a pile, opening it with care. there’s a certain stiff grace with which he carries himself, you muse as you step behind him. 

you watch the ripples of tension in the back of his neck, the fine strands of auburn hair tainted penumbra-dark brushing against his nape, and gently run your knuckle against his skin. he’s warm.

“whenever you’re ready,” you breathe, fingers resting on the back of his chair.

he coughs a little. composes himself. hits record.

“continued statement of trevor herbert regarding their latter years as a vampire hunter. original statement given july 10th 2010, audio recording by jonathan sims, head archivist of the magnus institute.”

you watch with fascination as the calm, composed, formal voice slips into something… else. something between jonathan sims and trevor herbert, and it’s fascinating, because for a brief second, split second instant of Knowing, you can See him, the tramp and his collapsing lungs, writing away his youth and hunts on bland institute paper.

you blink and it’s gone. 

there’s only you, the “lofi charm” of the tape recorder, and jon. his nape is bare. intimate knowledge settles in your mind, the fragility of mortality. bury a sharp needle there and his body collapses. 

you frown. push it back. roll up your sleeves and rub your hands together, warming them up because they’re always cold, and the least you can do is give him a modicum of comfort.

slowly, carefully, you put your hands over his shoulders. he tenses at that, briefly, until you start rubbing away the years of tension gnawing at him.

slowly, surely, you knead poor, exhausted muscles. slowly, surely, he relaxes under your touch, head leaning back ever so slightly.

from this close, you can smell him, you realize. cold coffee, dusty paper, cedarwood aftershave and something like a hint of sweat. 

“good?” you whisper, almost silent, voice lost in the quiet static of the tape recorder, in the dust-soft penumbra.

he nods, cheek brushing your wrist. your heart hammers in your chest. a strand of hair brushes the back of your hand - they’re graying a little. you wonder why he exhausts himself so. why he spends nights buried in his office, burrowing himself in piles and piles of files. 

hypocrite.

the only reason as to why you’re here, massaging your fucking boss and growing desperately wet at his deep sighs of content, is because you, too, spend much more time than reasonable trying to make sense of it all. 

the only reason as to why you’re here, taking in the gentle mess that is jonathan sims, is because you both leave at ungodly hours. because he can keep his eyes on you and so he knows that you cannot be responsible for gertrude’s murder.

you think he might trust you.

his hand settles over yours, and you startle.

he’s warm, palm large enough to cover the entirety of your hand, from wrist to fingertips. you don’t know what to do with this knowledge.

you don’t want to think of what you might do in the quiet death of the night, your hand slipping under your covers, down the apex of your thigh-

he slides your hand lower. oh. oh. 

you lean forward, until your cheek brushes his, skin on skin, and unbutton the first two buttons of his shirt. you think he might be leaning into your touch. you think you might cut yourself on the edge of his jaw, on the sharpness of his words. 

your hands meet his bare skin and you feel like you’ve caught fire, breath stolen away as you feel him in a way the cotton of his shirt didn’t allow. there is a sharpness to him. you can feel his jutting clavicles under your fingertips, sharp angel wings of bone, and your heart tightens. 

he works too much.

it’s quiet, for a while.

you don’t know what sets it off. one moment, you’re massaging him, relishing in the feeling of his skin under your hands. the next, your fingers catch a particularly tight spot in his shoulders and he groans , and fuck, you should not feel familiar heat curling in your lower belly but you do. 

you should stop. bid him good night and leave him with his precious recording. 

you don’t. 

instead, you rub at that spot, tentatively, and watch as he bites his lip mid-sentence, voice catching on a word. he’s a little breathless.

you are, too, heart hammering in your ribcage, hummingbird trying to flee its bones.

his hand wraps around your wrist and tugs you forward, free hand settling on your lower back, guiding you until you’re in his lap, looking up at him.

you think you might be dying of a heart attack with the way he looks at you, with eyes so dark you can barely make out the beautiful green of them.

“just what do you think you’re doing?” he growls.

you feel like you're on fire with how close you are. how his hand still encases your wrist in an iron hold. how you can feel warmth of him. how you can see the fluttering pulse of his throat, adam apple bobbing up and down as he swallows and fuck you want to take a bite.

your mouth feels dry.

“i- i don’t-” 

his grip tightens on your wrist. 

“answer me.”

somehow you’re closer. close enough to feel his breath on your lips, to find yourself staring up at him through hooded eyes, to find him staring back with parted lips. 

whatever’s left of your resolve dissolves into a puddle of desire. 

“jon, please, let me kiss you.”

a pause. the faintest glint of disbelief in his eyes.

then his lips crash on yours. 

you startle, hand shooting forward to grasp the nearest thing for purchase and find only him, him and the crisp cotton of his shirt, all exhaustion and boiling frustration.

he puts his mouth to you like one would to a lover’s and kisses you slowly, deeply, unraveling you like a beloved mystery. 

your body sings for him, and it’s so right you dismiss the ever-present pinprick pressure at the back of your neck. 

his palm cups it, your nape, warmth consuming that pinprick pain, until the only thing you can do is sigh in his mouth and press yourself closer.

his lips part from yours, briefly, a breath away, and it’s too damn far, so you tug at his cravat and pull him down. your fingers dig in his shirt, his hair, and he groans at the way your nails rake his scalp.

your lips part for him in a soft, whisper-quiet moan of his name, and he swallows it down almost greedily. you feel his tongue brush against yours and let out a low, needy sound, molten desire coursing through your veins.

his hand slips under your shirt, reaches for the soft skin of your side and presses up, up, up until it meets your breast and his thumb presses against your nipple in tight circles and you’re almost sobbing against his lips. 

you’re not aware that your hips are grinding against the hardness of him until his hand settles on your hip, slowing you down to a stop, and you part from him, breathless, and so, so needy.

there’s a thread of saliva between you, thin little spider-web intertwining your fates.

he looks at you, disheveled, glasses slightly askew, their lenses foggy, shirt half-opened for your gaze to meet tantalizing skin. a feast for the sore eyes.

“you might want to make me breakfast instead.”

“not like this,” he mumbles, thumb swiping against your bottom lip. “not- at least, let me treat you to dinner first.”

he chuckles at that, a little breathless, a little exasperated, definitely fond.

“cheeky.”

you peck his lip, sweetly. his hand tightens over your hip.

“look at the time, jon.” 

he rides up his sleeve ever so slightly to reveal his watch and with it, the tantalizing softness of his pulse, beating wildly against the tender skin of his inner wrist. almost four in the morning. you press your lips there, feel the yearning of his beating heart. 

he doesn’t think he’s seen you this beautiful. you, disheveled, on his lap, almost chest to chest with him, bringing his palm to your cheek and pressing fluttering kisses to his fingers. you, smiling up at him, exhausted, worn to the bone, but happy, and -

“oh.”

“what is it?”

your gaze lands on the tape recorder. oh.

“still recording. i should -”

“go home, get some sleep and finish what you started - me included - later.”

he sighs. there’s still a smile on his lips, exhaustion melting down to affection. 

"fine. end recording.”

[ilaw-at-panitik]

[L]ibraries in the Philippines have been traditionally low in number, appallingly so in proportion to the population of the country. In the 1930s, for example, when the population was at around fifteen million, the estimated number of public libraries was no more than seventy-five. [And] while the public library system saw some growth in the succeeding decades, there still remained a shortage of libraries for the rapidly increasing Philippine population. In 1999, there were 545 public libraries in the country; the population was well over seventy million. The lack of libraries in the Philippines has not allowed for such institutions to play a part in the life of towns and cities. Or perhaps it is just well to say that the life in towns and cities did not allow a part for libraries. Filipinos generally associate libraries with formal education, as institutions where students and scholars go to further their learning rather than as centers where any person can visit to gain some enlightenment and recreation.

Patricia Jurilla, from "Tagalog Best Sellers of the Twentieth Century: A History of the Book in the Philippines" (Ateneo de Manila University Press, 2008)

[beautiful-basque-country]

This is random, but someone reminded me that governments all over the world are shutting down their archives / access, so then i thought i'd ask before it's too late: do you know where one would start to look for an ancestor who shipped off to the Philippines, sometime during the colonial period? as far as i know we have a big blank on this fellow. i admit i should have more homework done, but again - i don't want to line it all up, and then find resources vanished. thanks!

Kaixo anon! Thanks for your ask!

If your relative traveled to the Philippines once the Suez Channel was operative, I'd contact the Catalan Government or the Barcelona City Council because that's the city the ships to Manila departed from. Maybe they have their archives online or they can give you more info or steps to take than I can.

If this person moved there before the Suez Channel existed, I'd do the same but with the Andalusian Government and the Seville City Council, since most of the ships to America or the rest of the colonies started their voyage here.

If these institutions fail to have their archives available online, then I'm sorry to tell you you ran out of luck to investigate via internet. If you know where your ancestor was from, the other option would be the Church - baptism and marriage registration - but don't count on them to have any of these online because it's the fucking Church and time doesn't work at the same speed for them.

I'm sorry I can't be of more help.

[future-crab]

This isn’t to throw shade at other people’s theorizing - we’re only 8 episodes into this podcast, a lot could happen, I DEFINITELY don’t think I know everything about what’s going on - but I’m REALLY surprised at how many people think the Celia we see in the Magnus Protocol might not be the same person we saw in the Magnus Archives. Given that:

she thought the OIAR’s vibe would be more “manila envelopes and tape recorders,” consistent with Archives-verse!Celia having given a statement at the Magnus Institute 

She wondered if she could search for cases related to “being buried alive, or meat,” implying that her frame of reference for these things is very influenced by Smirke’s 14

She recognized “Chester’s” voice. I’ve seen some people saying that since she knows (a) Georgie, she might just know Jon as her ex-boyfriend, and I’m not going to discount that possibility, but the cagey way she responds when Sam asks her how she recognizes the voice reads to me as a “I’m hiding something” rather than a genuine “I don’t remember”

She’s looking into alternate dimensions (!!!)

She goes by “Celia.” We’ve gotten pretty good evidence that people’s names stay the same or at least similar between universes - tma gave us Anya Villete/Annie Willet, and now tmagp has given us Gerry and Gertrude (who we can be pretty sure are from this universe given that their archives-verse selves are dead) - and tma strongly implied that Celia was not originally named Celia, it was just the name she ended up with after her time in the Stranger domain, so her protocol-verse self would likely have an entirely different name

As for whether the Georgie in tmagp is the same as the Georgie in tma, that I’m not so sure about. But personally, I’m feeling pretty confident about Celia

[bigmilkagenda]

Of the many, many plates of pancakes* that were offered to the listener in magp 1-07, this one may be my favourite

[ID: A screenshot of an unofficial transcript to The Magnus Protocol. CELIA is saying "Yeah. I mean, it's an old system, but it could have been worse. It's not like we're wrestling with tape recorders and manila folders." /end ID]

When we meet TMA-Celia for the second time, she's lost her name. She was Lynne Hammond, and now she's not. She doesn't seem to remember Martin, either, but it's not clear how much of herself and her life from before the change she does remember. She's freaked out by the tape recorders that start showing up, and there's no indication that she associates them with the Institute specifically.

If Celia Ripley is, as we are clearly intended to believe or consider, the same Celia as in TMA, why is she making knowing comments about manila folders and tape recorders? Tape recorders in particular are hardly standard equipment at what seems to be mostly a text data-entry and cataloguing job. She could have said typewriters, or carbon paper. Fax machines, if we're dunking on Freddy specifically.

She says "tape recorders and manila folders." Celia Ripley is referencing The Magnus Institute, particularly the outdated technologies in use in the Archives.

Maybe she learned more from Melanie about what the recorders were and did at the Institute, sometime after MAG 190. Maybe she has those specific memories of giving her statement in MAG 100, and little else. Maybe Martin grew an apocalypse beard and she remembers everything, but just didn't recognise him out of context and in a tunnel and during A Pretty Weird Time Overall.

Maybe she stuck around with Melanie-Georgie-Basira for a while after things returned, and that's how she learned about the particular significance of tape recorders.

Maybe she found some tapes and listened to a couple hundred of them.

Or maybe she's simply an AU Celia, with a knack for oddly specific and kind of clunky comparisons, drawn into this through the powers of metafiction and string theory.

Or maybe someone filled her with spiders and sent her to finish the job of spreading Fear to this particular world.

And the reason this particular plate of textual pancakes** (short stack, butter and nightmare syrup) is one of my favourites from "Give and Take" is because I genuinely have no idea! None of these are theories because there isn't enough evidence to point me in any particular direction. It's a mystery!, Jon voice, etcetera.

If you cornered me and paid me to have an opinion about it I could say which options I thought were more likely, I guess. But the odds are high that I'd be wrong, and I think the boat for me getting paid to interpret texts probably sailed fifteen years ago, besides. I'm in this for the love of the game.***

November is the true spooky season in the northern hemisphere.**** Yeah, October ends with Halloween, but you know what month starts with Halloween? Mmhmm. By November of 2019 TMA had been on my list for a few years, and someone I was getting to know and really liked recommended it to me specifically in the days after 159 aired. The conditions were correct for me to get into something new, is what I'm saying. I still remember listening to "Anglerfish" for the first time, walking home from my office job in the blustery November dark. I got home starry-eyed and red-cheeked and thrilled by the story I'd just heard.

It took a couple of months for me to catch up, and though I loved having so much to listen to there were times when I wished I'd started earlier, to have the experience of seeing things unfold.

And now we're back at a beginning, and get to experience the horrible joys of finding out.

[ID: A screenshot of an unofficial transcript to The Magnus Protocol. LENA is saying "Of a sort. I hope you're as ready for it as you think you are. Consider yourself "in." /end ID]

*Sabrina pancake meme

** the best kind, especially if it's a contest between textual and fluffy pancakes. Keep those spongy bastards away from me, I'll take the kind with a typeface instead

***Being a huge nerd

**** For more of my opinions on November, see https://www.tumblr.com/almostmolly/188799234276

[pannaginip]

Located 62km north-east of the capital Manila, Daraitan village in Rizal province is home to about 5,700 residents, a majority of whom are members of the Dumagat-Remontado indigenous people who consider vast hectares of the mountain range as part of their ancestral domain.

But the village may soon disappear under the same waters that give it life, once the Philippine government finishes building the Kaliwa Dam – one of 16 flagship infrastructure projects of former president Rodrigo Duterte that is being funded by China.

The new dam is expected to provide Metro Manila with an additional 600 million litres of water daily once it is finished by end-2026. Officials said building the 60m-high reservoir is even more necessary now that the country is starting to feel the impact of the El Nino weather phenomenon.

But it was only in 2021 under Mr Duterte that construction finally broke ground, three years after Manila and Beijing signed the 12 billion peso (S$288 million) loan agreement.

Of the 119 on the list [of flagship projects of the "Build, Build, Build” infrastructure programme], Mr Duterte turned to China to finance 16 big-ticket projects in a bid to cement his legacy by the time his presidency ended in 2022. He embraced Beijing during his term and even downplayed Manila’s claims in the disputed South China Sea in favour of securing loans and grants from China.

Analysts have criticised Mr Duterte’s infrastructure programme as ambitious. Perennial domestic issues like local politics, right-of-way acquisition problems, lack of technology and red tape in bureaucracy led to severe delays in the projects.

The same issues hound the China-funded projects – which come under Beijing’s Belt and Road Initiative (BRI) to build infrastructure in developing nations – with the problems made more severe by Beijing’s high interest rates in its loan agreements and local backlash due to displacement of residents or potential environmental damage.

Critics say the BRI has been detrimental in the long run to some recipient countries, especially those that have been unable to repay their loans, like Sri Lanka and Zambia.

The Duterte government’s failure to take advantage of its BRI loans was a “missed opportunity” for the Philippines, said infrastructure governance specialist Jerik Cruz, a graduate research fellow at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

The four completed China-funded projects under Mr Duterte were controversial too. But they came to fruition because they had the support of local politicians allied with Mr Duterte and therefore increased his political capital, said Dr Camba.

Tribal leaders said they were not properly consulted regarding the project that threatens their traditional way of life. Environmentalists from the Stop Kaliwa Dam Network also say the project would destroy 126 species of flora and fauna in the Sierra Madre.

The Philippines’ Indigenous Peoples’ Rights Act states that the government must first secure a tribe’s free, prior and informed consent before building on its ancestral lands.

But Ms Clara Dullas, one of the leaders of the Dumagat-Remontado in Rizal, alleged that the Duterte government had either misinformed or pressured other tribe members into giving their consent.

She could not bear to hold grudges, though, noting that the Dumagat-Remontado organisations that eventually agreed to the Kaliwa Dam were each given 80 million pesos, or $1.9 million, in “disturbance” fees.

“The Kaliwa Dam is the reason why our tribe is divided now. There is a crack in our relationships even if we all come from the same family,” said Ms Dullas. “I can’t blame the others because we lack money. I believe there was bribery involved.”

The government requires them to present identification documents, and only those given passes may enter. Mr Dizon said this is to ensure that no unidentified personnel enter the area [close to the construction zone].

“We feel like we are foreigners in our own home because the Chinese and the people in our own government are now preventing us from entering the lands where we grew up,” said tribe leader Renato Ibanez, 48.

Mr Ibanez also accuses the Philippine authorities of harassing tribe members who are vocal against Kaliwa Dam. Some of them have been accused of working with communist rebels, a charge the tribe vehemently denies.

Unlike his predecessor, Mr Marcos is more aggressive in defending Manila’s overlapping claims with Beijing in the South China Sea, but still fosters economic ties with it.

Geopolitical tensions between the two nations and Mr Marcos’ stance towards Beijing are going to dictate the fate of the pending China-funded projects the President inherited from Mr Duterte, said Mr Cruz.

Tribe members said they would be more amenable if Mr Marcos would revisit Japan’s proposed Kaliwa Intake Weir project that Mr Duterte had set aside.

“We like Japan’s proposal. It would not destroy our forests. It would not affect residents here. The Philippines would not be buried in debt,” said Ms Dullas.

This was among the alternatives the Dumagat-Remontados offered during their nine-day march in February 2023, when some 300 members walked 150km from Quezon and Rizal all the way to Manila to protest against the Kaliwa Dam.

But they failed to secure an audience with Mr Marcos. They remain wary of the President’s position on the Kaliwa Dam and other controversial China-funded deals.

“As much as we want to fully pin our hopes on him, we don’t. We’ve learnt from past efforts to trick us, make us believe a project is about to end, only for it to be resurrected again years later,” said Ms Dullas.

2024 Mar. 3

[zooophagous]

Ursula sat in front of her computer with her trademark weary scowl. She had slain vampires, wrangled werewolves, and even dealt with the FBI on more than one incredibly unpleasant occasion. All of that was fine. All of that was in her wheelhouse. 

Scheduling, however?

Grueling.

Mark had asked for Thanksgiving off. Only twenty minutes later, Sabrina had also requested it off. They were both late, and both lacked seniority, and now Ursula was tasked with applying the proverbial wisdom of Solomon to rectify the hole in staffing, and regrettably couldn’t just fix it by cutting someone in half. Both of them were young and had families. Both of them had to be out of town. She could, of course, plug the hole in staffing herself by working a double. Again.

She ran her fingers through her silver curls and rested her head on her hands, and her elbows on her desk. She plugged her own name into the empty spot. So much for a day off. It was fine, it was fine. What better way to spend the day than with unpaid overtime? Besides, Artie was her only real family, and Artie would more than likely still be here. She was always here. 

Maybe that was part of the problem. It wasn’t really normal for someone to be this addicted to work, even by Ursula’s standards. She had a few work friends, sure. But one of them was dead. And she wasn’t really supposed to be getting as close to that one as she seemed to be. Codependent relationships with a vampire were certainly unhealthy for both parties. Maybe Artie needed a vacation. Maybe they could take that trip to the Hagia Sophia or the Vatican.

She clicked off the scheduling app and into a search bar for some sort of plane tickets. It would be very doable with the right budget. Spend a week, no- two weeks away from work and research and far away from any Goddamned vampires for just a little bit and maybe the distance would give her some perspective and-

“Miss Harker?”

The intercom buzzed and shattered her reverie. 

“Yes, Sandy?”

“There’s um. A Mr. Akeley here to see you?”

Ursula paused. “Akeley?”

Sandy was silent. Ursula slammed the button down hard in annoyance.

“Sandy did he say his name was Jonathan Akeley?”

The intercom clicked on again to a cacophony of muddied voices, Sandy among them loudly protesting “I said wait by the-” and “You can’t all go in there-”

“Hello Ursula.”

She looked up from her desk to see a man, then two, then four, pouring into her office from the hall. They all wore uniforms not dissimilar to the ones on the Institute’s own security team. Their apparent leader was tall and athletic and all too familiar. A lawyerly smile made of porcelain veneers grinned sarcastically down at her from a head of sandy blonde hair. 

He always did have an incredibly punchable face.

“Jonathan. I don’t know why I’m surprised. I can smell you coming from the parking lot.” She huffed. “What is this little dress up game you’re all playing? Is this your idea of dressing for the job you want, and not the one you have?”

“Cute. You think I want to work for you. Actually, Harker, you work for me now.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what the fuck you mean.”

“Oh? Haven’t you heard?”

Jonathan produced a manila envelope and made a show of placing a set of reading spectacles on the tip of his nose. “By the order of… oh, how embarrassing. His holiness the pope? We’ve been granted the authority to remove from the control of the Van Helsing Institute a one “Project Symbiosis” and any living, unliving or deceased subject(s) from the premises with extreme prejudice and by any means deemed necessary and likely to prevent further human harm.”

He tossed the envelope to her and it flopped onto her desk. She grabbed it in her fist and furiously began to read it. 

“What the Hell is the meaning of all of this?! And they sent you of all people! Why?”

“Oh, something about how your little pet project has been running amok in the city, claiming victims and otherwise being out and about without a chaperone. More than once I may add.”

“His victims are alive and unhurt and were fairly compensated by the-”

“Oh?” Jonathan cut her off and reached into his coat pocket for yet another envelope. “So these photos I have of a father Gregor White flayed like a fish in his own home aren’t anything to you?”

She blanched. “Gregor… I don’t. What do you mean flayed? Father white is dead?”

“Yes, very dead. Incredibly dead. And it just so happens that we have some pretty clear photos of the director and… Strauss, is it? Leaving his house via one of the Institute’s vans. The body was discovered just a few hours later. Pretty damning stuff, Harker.”

“I don’t understand.” She breathed heavily and began to reach beneath her desk for the emergency security button. 

“Of course you don’t. It is the belief of the church that you all have fallen under the sway of a powerful elder vampire you thought you could control, and now you’re enabling him instead. Don’t be embarrassed, you aren’t the first weak minded thrall to be a victim to these predators. You couldn’t be given any advance warning of the project’s takeover, or the specimen would have time to mount a defense, you see. Don’t worry though Harker. I’ll take it from here.”

“Like Hell you will.”

“We thought you might say something like that. Hell can be arranged.”

The floor shook. Picture frames rattled on the walls behind Ursula’s desk. She gripped the arms of her flimsy office chair as if they could catch her. A dull roar like a crashing semi croaked through the frame and foundation of the building.

“What… what have you done?!”

“Don’t worry about it Harker. Worry about yourself. You’re under arrest. And so is everyone here. You’ll all come quietly if you know what’s good for you.”

Strauss stood in a corn field. It was not unlike the one he had nearly lost his life in, not that long ago- except that this one was green and soft. It was sunny here, but not painful. A figure approached him, wading through the swaying crops. It was Artemis.

“I’m happy you found me.” He approached her with a smile. She opened her mouth to speak.

A harsh siren escaped from her open jaws. Strauss opened his eyes. The emergency alarm was going off, but it was different this time. There was a secondary noise to it, one of a higher pitch, quickly throwing off his equilibrium. He clamped his claws over his ears and desperately fumbled for his ear plugs, dropping one, inserting the other and making his way to the hall with one hand clamped over the unprotected ear.

This alarm was not one of Troy’s outbursts. A loud pop, a flash of light, and a thick shroud of painful, acrid smoke filled the hallway. He struggled still half asleep to parse what was happening. Red light, loud noises, and smoke could only mean one thing.

Fire.

There were shapes moving in the haze- not the staff, armored shapes, the likes of which could have fallen out of his old memories of war. The pain of the smoke and the siren and the anger at what could only be some manner of attack was outweighed only by the deep, instinctual fear of flame. It wasn’t a fight he could win.

He turned away from the intruders and he bolted.

Artemis and Troy sat at the plastic dining room table with their phones in their hands. Artie’s phone buzzed, and she huffed a little quiet laugh through her nose. “Where do you keep finding these stupid sad cat memes?”

“Instagram literally will not stop recommending them to me.” Troy replied as he casually hit send on a couple more. The quiet moment was interrupted by a loud clunk! And then a clank! And then a pop, bang, fizz. The hall outside the commissary lit up with a white flash, and then became opaque with gray smoke.

Artemis jumped to her feet and furiously waved for Troy to follow, though he was already halfway out of his own chair. The path to the dorms was a wall of haze. It hurt to look at, and it was already making her throat close. The fire alarm screamed to life in an instant. Distant hollering could be heard bouncing chaotically through the facility.

“What the fuck is that?!” Troy yelled.

“Be quiet. Something is wrong. Really wrong. We need to go. Emergency exit in the south garage bay.” She grabbed his shirt and began to power-walk him down the hall.

“We can’t just leave everyone behind in a burning building-”

“We can’t do very much to help them. The staff will have to remember their training.”

“What about Strauss?”

“The dorms are a fire break. If he stays put he can wait it out.”

“Does he know to do that?”

“I sure hope so Troy.”

The pair met with a herd of staff moving towards the garage bay in a very organized panic. The presence of the director gave at least a tiny semblance of control. 

“Wait.” Troy broke away from the pack.

“Where the fuck are you going?” 

“The mice! Strauss’ mice!”

“You are not risking your life for some Goddamn MICE Troy!”

“I’m not leaving an innocent animal behind to burn to death.”

Artemis grunted in annoyance and ran down the bay after him. 

Ursula stood at her desk with her hands pinned behind her back. Her trademark snark was eerily silent. Partially because she was worried deeply for the staff- Sandy was already getting hauled away despite her protests. Poor girl. There goes another receptionist- And partially because the more clever parts of her brain were busy working on the next steps.

 

One thing she was not worried about was Artie. Artie knew what to do and how to do it. No doubt she was already leading an evacuation with Troy and Strauss in tow. Though really, would it be a bad idea to leave Mr. Strauss? Dead weight, in more ways than one, after all.

“Ok granny. You got anything in your pockets that’s going to stick me if I frisk you?”

“I certainly hope so.” She replied to the dull man who had her arms in a lock.

“You gonna cooperate or do we need to make this even harder?”

“I don’t care if your job is hard. I don’t care if you die today.”

“Alright. Lets get to the car then.”

“No.”

“Wasn’t asking.”

He yanked her up rudely by her arm and began to ‘escort’ her to the front door. This was all so stupid. If Mr. Strauss were truly a formidable vampire, a REAL one, like the good old days, this sort of thing would already be dealt with. A REAL elder vampire wouldn’t suffer fools so well, or be such a lousy dead weight. 

Hm. Dead weight. Now there’s a thought.

She did her best impression of a sack of sand and went limp in the ersatz cop’s hands. He struggled to keep her up. It was harder playing dead than it looked, being dragged by one’s arms was actually quite painful- but so was breaking your lower back trying to haul a body that very much did not wish to be hauled.

He dropped her with a grunt.

“Lady, enough with the drama. Just get up and get in the van.”

Ursula was silent.

He leveled a kick at her gut. “I said get the Hell up, fatass.”

She swung her leg and knocked him off his feet and onto the floor. He landed flat, and before he could get up, she raised that same leg up and brought it down hard into the man’s temple. The heavy heel of her sensible office appropriate shoe struck him like Cain slaying Abel. 

He was probably dead. Ursula didn’t much care. It took some very uncomfortable shimmying to scoot her hands to his belt, and to free the keys to the handcuffs. It was taking minutes- minutes she didn’t have. Finally her hands were free, and she busied herself retrieving the weapons from the increasingly corpselike man who oozed saliva onto her freshly mopped floors. 

“Tch. Of course. Jonathan would give his lackeys the cheapest possible service weapons.” She mocked.

“It will have to do.”

She set off down the hall to her office. The weaponry was almost certainly gone, but her gas mask might still be there. She would have to do a sweep and make sure none of the more flighty or panicky staff members managed to get themselves stuck in a dark corner and suffocated to death. Or worse, Mr. Strauss using the opportunity to run off yet again. She’d have to find him first. 

It hurt to breathe, so he didn’t. Strauss held his breath and blinked through the annoying haze of the smokescreen that filled the dormitory. It destroyed his sense of smell, and what was worse- his hearing was overwhelmed by the incessant alarm. He wanted to run from it. He needed to run from it. He kept one hand clamped over his unprotected ear, and with his eyes, ears and nose all shut he groped along the wall with his free hand, looking for the door. 

There were more people here, all likewise clad in the ugly armor of the slayer. These were not the uniforms he had seen when he or Troy came abreast of security. Two of them spotted him and immediately leveled a rifle in his direction.

His senses were overwhelmed, his head swam in agony, it was easier to submit. He raised his hands and spread his claws wide.

“I yield! I yield! Please, do not harm me-”

A bright flash came and then a searing hot pain tore into his collarbone. He clamped his claw over the bullet wound and fell to the floor with a shriek of pain. He could feel the bullet inside of him like a slug of red hot metal. A silver munition. The gunman prepared to fire again. Strauss bolted forward and narrowly escaped a second shot. He never weighed much, but now, with sour adrenaline churning in the pit of his stomach, gravity barely touched him. 

Down the hall at a sprint, and then a leap and a snarl, arms wide, landing and enveloping the shooter in a cloud of sharp edges. The silver threads of the armor stung his fingertips. Pain was a motivator. Break the shell, find the sweet nut-meat in the center. The second gunman was leveling his weapon. Strauss held the mauled body aloft in front of him.

Loud shots echoed in the smoky hall. Strauss felt the vibrations of them wrack his human shield. He threw the limp corpse into the second gunman who crumpled, pinned beneath the weight. Strauss bent over the heap and yanked the rifle from the struggling fool. He broke the weapon over his knee, sending bullets scattering. He took the spent butt end of the broken thing and rammed it into the remaining gunman’s head. Then rammed it again. And again. 

The gunman’s skull gave way to a soft pulp. There was a lot of good blood in that pile. Blood he’d have to leave behind. He dug his claw into the wound in his chest and ripped out the burning bullet, along with a not insignificant hunk of his own flesh. 

Pity. He liked this shirt.

Others were coming. That was not a quiet kill. Another shot narrowly missed the vampire. The haze and chaos had spared him their aim. He took off again down the hall. He thought of Artemis, and Troy, but there was little to be done. Besides, it was him they wanted. The further he was from his friends, the better. He escaped the dorms and ran towards the library.

Troy ripped the lids off of the screened aquariums that held the white lab mice that made up Strauss’ meals. He’d always sort of dreamed of doing this, truthfully. Strauss had to eat something, but that wasn’t important at the moment. Hopefully he had figured out what to do and got the Hell out.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to try and take them with you.” Artemis pleaded.

“No, just letting them go. Give them a fighting chance. They deserve that much.”

He upended the cages onto their sides and let the colonies of white rodents run free. Hopefully they, like Strauss, could be guided to safety by their instincts. Artemis set to work freeing the rest of them. Whatever. They’d deal with it later. If there was a later.

“Hold it right there.”

The two of them turned around to see a stranger in a strange yet oddly familiar outfit.

“The fuck are you?” Troy demanded.

“Director Van Helsing?” The stranger, demanded, ignoring Troy. 

“Yes?” She stepped back, answering with a guarded tone.

“By the authority of the papacy and the Witchfinder’s alliance, I’m afraid I have to place you under arrest.”

“Bullshit.” Troy squared up.

“Troy, please. You’re making this worse.”

“What, you’re just going to listen to this fucker? Who even are you? The fuck is a witch getter or whatever your stupid name is?”

“Troy.”

The stranger drew a yellow taser from his coat. “I really recommend listening to the director on this one.”

“You’re not taking her.”

POP!

“Troy!” Artemis screamed as the taser sent electricity arcing through Troy’s body. He went stiff and fell to the ground with a grunt. The witchfinder grabbed him by the wrist and wrenched it behind his back to cuff him.

“Stop resisting!” He demanded, while Troy continued to groan in pain and struggle beneath him. “Stop resisting or you’re going to get tased again!”

“Stop! Stop! You have no idea what you’re doing! Get off of him!” Artemis grabbed the stranger and began to pull. The witchfinder dropped Troy, now cuffed, and turned to her.

“Interfering with the process isn’t gonna win you any favors Van Helsing.” He grabbed her by the wrist. 

“Just listen to me! I’m trying to help you! We have to get away from him! We have to get out of here now!” She pleaded.

“He’s in cuffs, relax. I have it under control but I need you to-”

Clink- clink- clink. The sound of metal bracelets hitting the floor in pieces. There was a momentary silence, punctuated by ragged, heavy breathing. The witchfinder turned slowly to see Troy had burst from the cuffs, burst from his clothes, burst from his entire skin. A massive, hairy head full of massive pointy teeth gleamed down at him with ropes of angry drool framing the heaving jaws.

He fired his taser. The bolts hung uselessly in the thick hide of the lycan. Troy lurched forward and took the man’s entire head into his mouth, hoisted him into the air and began to shake him furiously.

Artemis curled into a ball and backed into a corner. Blood arced over the walls as the beast whipped his trophy back and forth until it was broken to gory pieces. He dropped the headless corpse with a disgusted grunt. The creature glared at Artemis, who only stared fearfully back at him. He turned from her and began to run back down the hall. Back into the smoke.

Strauss ran down the hall like a bat out of Hell. He knew he was being chased, he knew the building was full of these people. These slayers. Any corner could have an armed death dealer around it. The lighting in the halls grew a dull orange, and the smoke had not abated. The institute was on fire, well and truly, now. 

He remembered the library, the criss cross pattern of ugly pipes on the embossed ceiling tiles from the fire suppression system. The brick walls and heavy door separating it from the newer portion of the building. He lacked a clear escape route, but this was the next best thing. Fire at least he could run from.

He burst through the library doors and finally allowed himself to take a breath. The world was quiet here. The sirens were a distant dull roar. He began to hunt for a hiding place. A shelter. The door swung noisily open behind him. 

Another gunman stepped in. Strauss ducked his head and began to run. A dangerous breeze sailed over his head and tore through the pages of old books behind him. Another just missed his head and shattered a bookshelf, sending splinters into his face. Strauss grabbed a heavy tome, “Thurgood’s Illustrated Guide to the Erotic Vampire.” Ew. He threw it as hard as he could into the gunman. It struck true and bought him a moment of time.

He fled into the backroom of the library. The medical wing. He startled as the door opened, there was someone here? No. The figures were skeletons mounted on displays. Mummified heads. Skulls with mouths open in silent screams. 

He was not, it seemed, the only vampire housed in the institute. There was precious little room to hide here. He was cornered. The shooter arrived looking angry and slightly bruised from a leather bound book to the head.

“Come on out Mr. Strauss.” He ordered. 

The room was silent and still. Quietly, carefully the slayer made his way inside, weapon drawn. “I’ll take you alive if you surrender now. Make it easy on me, I’ll make it easy on you.”

The silence was unbroken, and the library was still. The slayer scanned the shelves and specimens with a quiet intensity, looking for movement. He stopped at one display. Very lifelike. He looked at it hard a moment and then raised his rifle to fire.

Strauss ducked from his makeshift hiding spot as the bullets ripped into a shelf of jarred specimens. Yellow preservative spilled across the floor in an explosion of glass and ruined organ meat. The gunman kept firing. An errant spark from the barrage caught the flammable fluid on the floor. It caught and spread in an instant and blanketed the floors and shelves in a tower of flames. 

A loud alarm screeched to life. The pipes rattled and hissed, and the library was bathed instantly in a haze of fire suppressant. 

No water came from the pipes. Dear Mrs. Harker, in all of her wisdom, would never risk her library to the perils of fire or water. Gas filled the room and smothered the flames. The slayer gasped and began to cough and choke as he was doused in it.

Strauss stepped out of the cloud of smoke and nitrogen and argon. The gunman fell to his knees and looked up with watery eyes at the predatory face that loomed above him. Strauss tilted his head curiously. 

He grabbed the stranger by the scalp and raised the struggling man into the air. His jaw clicked as it opened wide, and he tore into his would be killer’s exposed neck. He had once watched Troy tear into a sweet, ripe watermelon with incredible gusto. He pictured it now. The red bits and fibers tearing and falling away. The pink juice, so incredibly sweet, running down his chin. So delicious, and yet so insubstantial, one could almost eat the entire thing before realizing it. 

He dropped the spent body carelessly to the floor. Slowly, he padded towards the exit. He swayed in his steps as the heaviness of the meal and the intoxicating thrill of the kill swam in his system. He messily licked his claw clean and sucked his fingertips with a messy smacking sound. He leaned on the walls for support and left a trail of bloody handprints behind him.

The fire in the hallway had spread. The building wouldn’t last much longer. Strauss held his breath and began to jog through the halls. He cared little about the slayers anymore. They’d be dead soon in this, if they were foolish enough to stay. A burning ceiling collapsed in front of him. He stopped and ran back the other way. Fire climbed the walls. He began to panic. Had he escaped death by firing squad only to be burnt at the stake?

It was impossible to see through this, and increasingly impossible to even guide himself out by gripping the walls as the heat behind them built up and broke through as fire. He fell to the floor and began to crawl, finding a small gap of air beneath the blanket of smoke that he could see through.

Another figure appeared in front of him. He stopped- another slayer? This one wasn’t dressed like them. This figure wore a gas mask, and wasn’t in armor, and wasn’t armed. They came to him and began to pull him to his feet.

Could this be the fire department? He clung to them like a scared kitten. Fire caused another wall to noisily collapse behind him and he fell to his knees shaking in apparent terror. 

The firefighter bent down and grabbed him, and hoisted him up and over their own shoulders in a fireman’s carry, and began to slowly but steadily plod with determination towards the south garage bay with the petrified vampire in tow.

They turned the corner and were met with a short wall of gunmen guarding the last of the exits. Three rifles in a row leveled and ready to make an end of their quarry. The firefighter skidded to a stop. Strauss held on for dear life.

Behind the gunmen came a terrible noise. It was something deep and reverberating like the motor of a large vehicle. The lycanthrope burst through the garage doors and slammed into the nearest slayer like a freight train, sending him sprawling. The other two began to fire in a panic but heedless of the crossfire. One struck the other, before a mighty paw came down on top of him and slammed his head into the concrete floor. The last, wounded gunman was grabbed and dragged screaming back into the garage.

The firefighter hesitated a moment, but then resolutely went into the bay after them. They stumbled over a shredded limb, and followed the trail of blood deeper into the bay. They dumped Strauss onto the floor.

“Get up and walk. I’m too old for this nonsense.”

“Frau Harker?”

She pulled off the gas mask. “I was hoping I’d find you with Artie. Where is she?”

“I hoped she was with you. What is happening?”

“I’ll tell you when we have a moment. Needless to say it is ENTIRELY your fault but I’ll kill you myself later when this is over.”

A vehicle was chosen. An SUV. Strauss climbed into the back seat and curled into a nervous ball with his knees against his chest. The truck began to move, but Ursula slammed on the brakes and opened the door.

“Artie! Artie over here!” 

Artemis came out of her hiding spot and ran to them. The screams of Troy’s victim were silent, but his infuriated roars were filling the bay with sound.

“We have to help Troy. We can’t just leave him here!”

“We’ll leave the door open and he’ll find his own way out. Do you want to go grab him?”

It was all the convincing she needed. She jumped into the front seat and they began to speed away before the garage door even opened completely. There was a ring of strange trucks around the door, and many more strangers in strange uniforms. They lept out of the way of the speeding car, but were quickly distracted by what appeared to be a grizzly bear tearing out of the building and into the terrified rabble.

“We’re just going to leave him to fend for himself?” Strauss demanded as the scene grew smaller and smaller behind them.0

“Lycans are much harder to kill than vampires. He’ll be fine.”

“The town might not be if he gets to it.”

“All we can do is hope he remembers his training.”

“Frau Harker, what happened? Where are we going?”

“I don’t know. We’re going to drive till we can’t and then we’re going to figure it out. Are they following us?”

Strauss looked out the back window. “No. I think they are distracted by Troy. If they harm him in any way I will kill them all.”

“They’re probably going to be on the receiving end of the harm, given how poorly equipped they were.” Ursula huffed. Artemis sat in stunned silence in her seat.

Strauss reached his hand up to hers, she grasped it, and held on, and continued holding on for many miles.

[slow-writer]

TMAGP Episodes 7 & 8 Reactions

That was totally my face during both episodes, I swear.

Spoilers below!

Okay, I'm freaking out on a cellular level, it feels like.

Episode 6 had the introduction of new OIAR employee, Celia Ripley, who is voiced by Lowri Ann Davies. Those of us from the TMA fandom recognize her as the voice of Lynne Hammond who later became Celia because her name was taken from her after the Change. There have been speculations on whether she is playing the same Celia (even though this is a separate universe) or if this is just a little wink from Jonny and Alex behind the scenes. But then came the next 2 episodes.

The sheer amount of lore that was dropped in these 2 episodes has the fandom REELING. So, let's get into what we've heard!!

EPISODE 7: Right off the bat, Celia not only references that the dated computer system is basically better than "wrestling with tape recorders and manila folders." This feels like a TARGETED MISSILE at the TMA fandom. But right after that, she asks if any of the spoken cases have anything in common, and if there's a way to search the cases that have common threads, like, "Oh I don’t know. Every case about being buried alive or meat or… whatever." And if that wasn't enough, she recognizes the voice that Alice calls Chester (AKA, John!).

Those statements alone have me thinking with 99.99999999% certainty that this is the SAME Celia from TMA (or at least, she's tapped into her memories in some way).

Apart from Celia, we have Hilltop being referenced in a case, which could very well mean that it's a similar situation from TMA. Very possibly a rift in space-time or whatever. Some nexus of power or something.

Then Sam received a supposedly internal email from someone called "John" that contained an address and a name. Does this mean that John is truly trapped in the computer system like we've all been theorizing? Is this his attempt at making contact and warning Sam not to follow in his footsteps? AGH!

And then we have poor Colin, driven mad by whatever's corrupting the code he's been trying to maintain, taped over his webcam, and full on refusing any electronics to enter his office (that weren't already there, and he must have clearly tampered with them so they cannot spy on him). He even attacks Sam when he pulls out his phone. That man has a lifetime subscription to Paranoia Plus, if you ask me, poor thing.

Lastly, we get confirmation that Lena at least tried to kill Klaus, but may not have succeeded, and Gwen's blackmail of her puts her in a new role of "External Liaison," whatever that may be. (Oh boy, oh boy.)

And if that wasn't enough, we have today's episode....

EPISODE 8: No preamble on this one, just straight into a case. And man, are we having fun with the whole liminal horror plus Stranger vibes in this one! But the GOOD SH*T comes after the case ends.

Poor Colin's been put on Mental Health Leave, so I'm really hoping that wasn't the last we'll 'see' of him. And the banter between Gwen and Alice has much more of an edge now that Gwen's been promoted. But!!!

Sam and Celia went off together after they ended their shifts early (ooooh), and who did they meet?

GERRY EFFING KEAY AND HIS 'GEE-GEE' GERTRUDE!!!!

And I checked, yes, they are 100% voiced by their TMA counterparts, Jon Gracey and Sue Sims (Jonny's mom).

Gertrude calls Gerry her grandson (though I'm curious if this means Gerry's actual mother is dead here too, and when Gertrude stepped in as a surrogate, or if she's actually his grandmother).

When Sam and Celia ask about the Magnus Institute, they both kind of go quiet, like they don't know what they're allowed to say or if they can trust these strangers who randomly showed up to their house. Sam reveals that he was part of their "gifted kids" program (hello, ARG info!) and saw Gerry was also listed and wanted to "swap stories." Gertrude seems to want to push them away, all protective, but Gerry just says he doesn't remember much.

Did Gertrude blow up the Magnus Institute in this universe and adopt Gerry after she found him there?!?

And finally, after Gertrude kind of rushes them out, Celia makes a deal with Sam. They agree to keep track of anything that falls under each other's mystery interests. Because she's "doing a favor for Georgie" (HFGJHFD!), she needs to look into "Weird physics stuff: time travel, other dimensions, teleportation, all that good stuff."

Was Celia sent here from the TMA dimension to do recon?!?

Anyway, there's so much more to dive into, but those are the things that are currently making my brain buzz. How has your Thursday been?

[atropos-aeneas]

remembrance and knowledge

Martin is not fine; Jon hasn’t actually spoken to him, but he knows it for a fact, as sure as he knows that whatever is happening, it’s definitely Peter Lukas’s fault.

Or, a retelling of season 4, if Martin leaned even further into the Lonely, and Jon was forced to lean into his own monstrosity in order to save him. Written for @hatthief as part of @magnusforgaza

3,460 words

------

Barely a week after waking up from the coma he’s apparently been in for six months, Jon asks Basira a simple question. 

“Basira,” he says, holding out a manila folder, “can you pass along these papers to Martin when you get the chance? He’s, er, still avoiding me.”

Basira tilts her head as she takes the folder. “To who?”

“Martin.”

“Martin…” There’s a faraway look in her eyes before she finishes, “oh, yeah, of course.”

Jon exhales a small laugh. “Did— did you just forget who Martin is?”

“No, I just didn’t hear you the first time.”

Jon would have let it go there, if the Eye weren’t screaming the truth at him. She’s lying, Jon Knows, not as words but as a simple fact. She really did forget him, briefly.

Basira must see the suspicious look on his face. “Jon, drop it,” she snaps, before he can say anything, “he just slipped my mind for a second because, in case you haven’t noticed, there’s a lot going on right now besides whatever weirdness is going on between you and Martin.”

“…fine,” Jon sighs. He has bigger battles to fight than this, especially right now; he still doesn’t even have a complete picture of what happened during and after the unknowing, there are records from the Flesh’s attack on the Institute to sort through, and on top of all that, the usual duties of the Head Archivist still remain, as unimportant as they may seem now.

So, that’s that. He won’t worry about it. Martin will be fine.

------

Martin is not fine. Or maybe he is, Jon isn’t actually sure, he still hasn't spoken to Martin, who seems supernaturally talented at avoiding him. But, given the way the world seems to be gaslighting him regarding Martin, he’s fairly certain that Martin’s status is, decidedly, not fine.

“What do you mean, you never did that interview?” Jon asks Daisy, bewildered.

Daisy shrugs, clearly not as worried. Jon’s fairly certain he sees a piece of dirt fall off her shoulder, despite it having been many days and showers since their escape from the Buried. “I mean just that,” she says, “I never interviewed ‘Martin.’”

“You did, though,” Jon continues, trying to mask his own growing worry. “I had the tape, it was right here, and now it’s not. After Leitner’s death—“

“Murder, you mean.”

“—yes, obviously, after Leitner’s murder, you interviewed Martin first, then Tim, then Elias, I remember listening to it on tape.”

“No,” Daisy says, slow and patient as if talking to a child, “I interviewed Rosie, who went to get Tim, who sent in Elias. I never interviewed anyone named Martin.”

The phrasing sticks in Jon’s mind. “Anyone named— do you remember him at all?”

Daisy frowns. “What was his full name again?”

“Martin! Martin Blackwood! Martin K. Blackwood!”

“Oh— right, of course. But no, I never interviewed him. Never even met him before he got here with Lukas.”

Jon’s heart pounds. He’d be willing to let this go, to write it off as foggy memory and  if not for the fact that this is far from the first time it’s happened. Everyone in the Archive— and outside the Archive, too, for that matter —fails to remember Martin, or at least to remember him correctly. Melanie, in her rare nonviolent moments where Jon gets the chance to ask, swears that Martin has always been Lukas’s assistant. Basira doesn’t remember seeing him in the Archive at all, and all her notes from her police days of investigating the Institute omit him— she, too, is convinced that Martin has been with Lukas from day one, having arrived at the Institute with him after Elias’s arrest.

None of them remember him as an Archival Assistant. They don’t remember the drinks they got with him, or the efforts he went through to get Elias arrested. Jon would use the tapes as proof, if he could find any of them, but they’ve all mysteriously disappeared, and that scares him more than anything. The last time all his tapes proving someone’s existence disappeared, Sasha had been long dead by the time he’d realized it.

It’s Lukas’s fault, it has to be— this began when he came in, after all, and the one thing everyone can agree on is that he’s hardly ever seen without Martin trailing behind.

Just then, Melanie walks by his office– and Jon flags her down. “Melanie! Melanie, please.”

She limps into the room, still recovering from her impromptu leg surgery. “What do you want,” she deadpans.

“I— you, and Daisy, neither of you remember Martin the way that I do. A-and neither does Basira.”

“Martin… Blackwood? Assistant to Lukas?” At Jon’s nod, Melanie looks to Daisy. They lock eyes, and share a skeptical look. Finally, Melanie says, “…but all our stories match up? Me, Basira, and Daisy all agree on who ‘Martin’ is?”

“Well, yes, but—“

“Then how do you know you aren’t the one misremembering?”

“Because I know! I remember it, and in case you haven’t noticed, my memory has been very accurate as of late!”

Daisy rests her head in her hands and says, “Alright, Jon, let’s calm down.” Before Jon can argue, she asks, “what exactly do you remember about Martin?”

“I told you, he was my assistant!”

“I get that,” she says, her patience clearly running thin, “but who was he? Like, as a person.”

“He was—“ Jon stops. How can he answer something like that? “He wasn’t a very good assistant, but he— I don’t know, he made good tea, he was shockingly cunning when he needed to be, and he— he cared, a lot. And now, he… it just doesn’t seem like he cares at all, and that’s not like him, and I know it has to be something Lukas has done to him.”

“…oh-kay,” Melanie says, after a beat of silence. “And you’re sure you didn’t just dream up a boyfriend while you were in a coma and then assigned Blackwood’s face to him?”

“Martin was never my—“

“Right, right.”

“Melanie, please,” Jon begs, and he hates begging, “you of all people must understand how dire this situation is. I haven’t had a tape disappear like this since Sasha got replaced by the Not-Them, and you— you remembered Sasha, so y-you have to remember Martin, right?”

Melanie’s face scrunches up, just slightly, and Jon’s stomach churns at her pity. “If I see anyone with the wrong face, I’ll let you know, I guess.”

Jon looks back and forth between Melanie and Daisy, who refuses to make eye contact with him.

“Fine,” Jon says, his resolve hardening, “if you won’t help me figure this out, I’ll find someone who will.”

He storms out of the room before either woman can get the chance to stop him.

------

“…that was when Mr. Blackwood turned to me and told me I wouldn’t remember him, that I would just completely the paperwork and put it on his desk, not knowing who I was submitting it to.” The researcher— Jon didn’t catch his name before beginning to take his statement, although he Knows in the back of his head that it’s David— drones on.

“And Lukas?” Jon prompts.

“Lukas… yes, Mr. Lukas, too, insisted that Mr. Blackwood be forgotten. And it worked, until now. Until you asked. Now… my head hurts. Is it supposed to hurt this badly? I don’t remember what I’m supposed to forget…”

“…right, I see,” Jon says, although only partially true. “Thank you, then, David.”

David holds his head in his hands and sniffles. “It hurts… why does it hurt?”

Jon just walks away. No sense in trying to comfort him— his attempts at comfort certainly didn’t help the last two researchers that he asked about Martin, no reason it would help David anymore.

He walks through the halls of the research department, his old workplace, looking for someone else he can Ask about Martin. Everyone thus far has given useless information, only confirming what Jon already knows: that Martin is in trouble, sinking deeper into the Lonely, and it’s all Lukas’s fault.

But then he turns a corner, and instead of seeing more office doors and researchers walking aimlessly through them, he sees—

“B-Basira!”

“Jon.”

Oh, she’s furious. “What brings you to research?”

“Do you know anything about the reports human resources has been receiving?”

“No, why would I?” Jon lies.

Basira chews the inside of her cheek, an effort to keep calm that clearly isn’t working. “Maybe because they’ve all been about you and how you’re going around traumatizing people.”

“Oh. That.”

“Yeah.” Basira says blankly. “That. Now, are you going to come with me willingly, or am I going to have to chase you down?”

Jon goes with her willingly, down the stairs into the Archives and all the way to his office. He steps in, but Basira doesn’t follow— she just locks the door from the outside and shoves a chair against the handle.

He gets a bit worried, after that.

Later that night, he overhears Basira and Daisy speaking in hushed voices at their desks. Jon pressing himself against his office door to hear it as clearly as possible:

“It’s a bit… medieval, doesn’t it? To keep him locked up like this?”

“We have to, Daisy. Listen to him, he’s gone mad. It’s only a matter of time before he’s too far gone.”

“All the talk of this ‘Martin’ guy… it is worrying.” He barely catches Daisy’s sigh. “Speaking of which— did you find anything in the employment records?”

Basira’s silence is answer enough. Jon curls up against the door and stays there for a long, long time.

------

On his eighth day of isolation, Jon escapes.

To their credit, Basira, Daisy, and Melanie have been very careful over the last week to keep one person on guard outside Jon’s office at all times. They take turns sleeping, alternate going to the break room for food, and even coordinate their bathroom breaks as needed. But anyone would slip up after a full week of constant alert— and unfortunately for them, Jon Knows exactly when that happens.

It’s as easy as walking out the door. Jon follows his instincts, not entirely sure why he’s going the way he’s going but being certain of it anyways.

There— the library, that’s where he wants to be. He pushes open the heavy library door to see a single woman at the front desk— she has the information he needs, he Knows it, he just has to Ask.

She sees him and tenses up. “I— Mr. Sims? I’m afraid the library is closed right now, if you need somethi—“

“Where is Martin Blackwood?”

“H-He’s—“ she stutters, but the words don’t spill out the way they should. “I’m sorry, Mr. Blackhood has requested privacy at this ti—“

“Where is he?”

“He’s in fiction, browsing the mystery novels.” She gasps, choking on her words as she continues, “When I was seven, my sister died in a car crash. At least, that’s what people told me…”

Even as hungry as he is, Jon doesn’t stay to hear the rest of her statement; he just pushes on to the mystery section. At first glance, there’s nobody there— but Jon makes many, many glances at once, and through them all he sees Martin, hiding in plain sight.

“I know you’re there, Martin, please,” Jon pleads to an empty bookshelf. “I just want to talk.”

Martin makes himself visible, closing the book he’d be reading. He checks the spine for the book’s ISBN, and then slowly scans the shelves for the book’s proper home. Once he’s slated the book into place, he finally turns to look at Jon. “What is it, Jon?”

“I told you, I want to talk.”

“Your reports as of late have been satisfactory. Lukas is pleased with your performance as Archivist, and your dedication to uncovering future rituals in action is admirable— Lukas was particularly impressed that you went into the Buried, and all the way up to Ny-Ålesund. That being said, the HR department is a bit frustrated with all the complaints regarding your… diet.” Martin recites, as if rehearsed. He sighs. “Is that all?”

“You know that’s not what I meant.”

“Then tell me what you want, Jon. I don’t have all day.”

“I want you back in the Archive!” Jon bursts out, surprising himself with his own voracity. “I want you to get away from Lukas, and I want things to go back to how they were before he destroyed everyone’s memory of you!”

“Everything I’ve done has been of my own free will.”

“Has it? Because from where I’m standing, Martin, it doesn’t look like it.” Jon takes a cautious step forward, and speaks a bit softer when he says, “I just want to help.”

Martin’s face hardens, and although he doesn’t step away from Jon, he does cross his arms to close himself off. “Why do you want to help me? You don’t even know me.”

“Martin, please, o-of course I know you, we’ve been coworkers for years.“

“What is my last name?”

“What?”

“My last name. Clearly, you know my name is Martin, but what about my last name?”

“It’s— it’s—“ Jon knows his last name. He does, he’s sure he does, he— why can’t he remember Martin’s last name?

Martin— damn it, what’s his last name?! —looks at Jon, a resigned disappointment in his eye. “That’s what I thought,” he sighs. “Goodbye, Jon.”

“Wait— Mar— M— hey, y-you, wait!” Jon tries, he really does try, to hang onto the memory of this man whose name he can’t remember but who he’s certain he cares deeply for; and yet, he feels it slip away like a dream he’s just woken up from.

As he tries to blink the fogginess from his eyes, a man in front of him walks away into a fading hallway, and Jon wonders who exactly he is. He hopes he’s ok.

------

Jon is handcuffed to his desk. He’s ‘too dangerous’ according to Melanie and ‘a liability’ according to Basira. Daisy doesn’t say anything, really, although her disapproval is evident nonetheless.

It’s fine, really, just annoying. He has all the paper statements he could ever need right here, and is perfectly capable of researching potential rituals in the relative comfort of his desk. It’s frustrating, of course, to not even be able to stand up, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t at least a little justified. Apparently, after escaping the Archives last time, he’d gone on a bit of a rampage in the library. According to Daisy, the librarian is still reeling from their encounter. He feels a bit bad about that, even if he doesn’t remember it especially clearly.

And yet, he can’t shake the feeling that he’s forgetting something— rather, someone. He can’t even identify what that feeling means. It’s not like he has any events coming up that he forgot to invite someone important to. Hell, he barely has any important someones in his life at all.

He’s thinking about exactly that, one day in his quiet office, when he hears something. It’s not any of the usual sounds of the others working in the other room, nor is it footsteps from the floors of the Institute above.

It’s… waves, lapping at a shore.

Oh, he realizes, looking around at what is no longer his office but is instead a misty, dreary coastline, his wrists clean of metal or chains. I’m in the Lonely.

What a shame, then, that he has a hard time caring.

------

He spends a lot of time sleeping. Sleeping on wet sand isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’s not awful, either. When he’s not sleeping,

He hears voices, in those foggy moments of lucidity when he actually starts thinking about his situation, about how very alone he is. They taunt him with interaction, before eventually fading away again, like everything. Like everybody.

He’s fairly certain they’re hallucinations. Half of them are of dead people, after all; Tim, in particular, comes to visit a lot, to remind him that his isolation is best for everyone— just look at where his freedom landed Tim. But there are other voices, too, ones he doesn’t completely recognize. They taunt him all the same, of course.

“I didn’t know…” A new voice echoes through the beach, coming in and out as if Jon is listening in to one side of a telephone call. “…you didn’t tell me you’d do this…!”

How strange, it doesn’t seem as if this voice is talking to him for once. Interesting.

“…bastard… I thought I was saving the world… I would never have… if I’d known…” The voice trails off in a choking sniffle, before coming back with sudden, startlingly clear: “Fuck you! I’m done!”

It’s quiet after that, but just as he thinks everything is going back to his strange version of normal, the voice comes back, this time with a body that appears as if formed out of fog itself.

“There you are!”

“…hello?” he says, his own voice smaller than he remembers it being. He looks the large man up and down again, and belatedly realizes that the other voices don’t typically come with visuals. “You’re… here.”

“Y-yes?” the man answers, even though it wasn’t a question, “I, I am, yes, now let’s get out of here—“

The man goes to grab his arm, but he jumps away before he can, the sand digging into his feet. “I’m sorry? I’m not going anywhere with a stranger, thank you very much.”

“A— a stranger?”

“I’ve had enough bad encounters with Strangers for a lifetime, I think.” He doesn’t actually know that for certain, he realizes suddenly, but it’s certainly a strong instinct that tingles across his skin. “Now leave me alone.”

The man’s face drops. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

He doesn’t, no, and it must show on his face, because the man starts to panic.

“No, you— you have to remember me.”

“I’m… I’m sorry, I really don’t.”

“No, please, Jon, you can’t— I can’t be too late, I just can’t.”

“Look, I’m sorry, I really don’t…” he hears his own voice trail off. “What did you just call me?”

“J-Jon?”

“Yes, what is that?”

“Jon, that’s your name. Jonathan Sims.”

“Right,” he— Jon remembers. “I knew that, of course.”

“Of course you did,” the man smiles, although it seems somewhat more mocking than kind. Then his eyes— those foggy blue eyes, how lovely —widen, ever so slightly, as if he just got an idea. “Is there anything else that you… already know, but might want to double check with me?”

“I...” Jon is going to say no, but with the returned knowledge of his own name, the other gaps in his memory become more obvious. “Who am I?”

Sadness passes the man’s face, just for a moment, before it hardens into something akin to resolve. “You’re Jonathan Sims—“

“Yes, we’ve established that.”

“—right, I know,” he smiles again, “and you’re— well, you’re an Archivist, but you’re also a damn good writer. I’m always impressed by the smooth flow of your statement reports, not to mention the acting you do for every statement you read. I mean, I know at least some of that is the Archivist in you, but I know there’s a non-zero amount of ‘theater kid’ in you. I’ve always meant to ask where that came from.”

“Ok,” Jon nods, and yes, that all makes sense— he did theater all through school, after all, of course he’d bring some of that to his job. “What else?”

“W-well…” The man blushes. Why is he blushing? “You’re also very cute when you want to be,” —oh, that’s why— “and you act all cool, but I know you care about us. About all of us. About me.”

“About you. I… I care about you. You.” Jon repeats it like a mantra. “You— Martin!”

The sudden return of his memories is almost too much to handle, and Jon slumps forward into Martin, who takes Jon in his arms and puts him back on his feet.

“There you are Jon, you’re alright. I’ve got you.”

“You— Martin— Martin! You’re Martin, Martin Blackwood, you were my assistant, and you— you care.”

“Yeah,” Martin says, breathlessly, “I do, I really do, and I’m— god, Jon, I’m sorry I ever didn’t.”

“I— god, Martin, there’s so much I want to talk about—“

“I know, I know,” Martin laughs, bringing the sleeve of his sweater up to Jon’s cheek. “Let’s get out of here first, alright?”

Jon laughs, too. “Yes, please.”

They leave that desolate beach, marked by the Lonely but free from it nonetheless, and run. Eventually, a statement will arrive at their door that will change everything, but for now, they can be happy.

[featheredenby]

The Empire Archives: Statement of Raven Arsinoe

Written by: Featheredenby

Word Count: 1,293

Part One of The Empire Archives

Featuring a cameo for @queenarsinoethepoisoner

Tape recorder clicks on.

[Gem] 

Well this sure is an interesting situation, and boy is this room messy. Back to the start though, my name is Gem Tay, I’m the new head archivist at the Empire Institute, London. I’ve worked here for about a year or so now but I was recently promoted after my predecessor *snickers* Gandalf. Who names their kid that… after he disappeared. A few of the others have worked here longer than me but Xornoth, he runs the institute, appointed me as head archivist. Sadly my predecessor was not particularly organized, so I’m currently sitting in here with piles of manila files with case labels. 

Upon the realization about how many cases that I would have to go through, a few others who work here were moved to help. It helps that I know them already as they’re two of my friends who I made through working here and my brother Fwip. My friends being Pearl and Sausage, although really Sausage is just here for some sort of moral support. But uhm, I should start looking through them…

*Throat clearing* Case number: 0200206. Statement of Raven Arsinoe, regarding an incident in which after visiting a tattoo parlor they started growing feathers? Sorry, sorry, original statement given June 2, 2020. Audio recording by Gem Tay, head archivist of The Empire Institute, London.

[Gem : Statement]

You know I’ve always been kind of scared of death, I suppose it’s just startling. The idea that one day you’ll just be gone and you won't even know it. I’m getting off topic though, for awhile I had wanted a tattoo but I wanted one with meaning. And well I’m named after a bird so I did some research about birds that represent life. After a while I chose to get a crane on my right forearm as they represent  longevity and wisdom and as a plus that’s a part of the name of a band that I like. I researched different places where I could get the design done, it took a little while but eventually I found a place called Ink & Feathers. I looked at their website and found that they had good reviews so I booked an appointment.

About a week later I left the house to go to the appointment and nothing felt off at all. Eventually I got to the tattoo parlor and saw that it was a small building, painted dark green with two big windows on each side of a glass door. On the left window they had the business name you know, standard stuff. I walked inside and sat on a bench while waiting for my turn. I sat there for a while and was eventually greeted by a person who said that their name was Jade. They led me to a chair and I showed them the reference of what I wanted. We got through the details and eventually they started on the stencil for the tattoo, once they finished it they left the main room for a minute. I was alone in the room and finally had time to take in the details of the room. 

It was an average size room for a place like that, the counter in the front was simplistic and there were two chairs for people to get their tattoos against each wall. They had plants all around the room and some magazines sitting on shelves, like I said before it was all pretty standard stuff. Jade came back into the room and started working on the tattoo. It was fine, I didn’t really feel anything, I’ve always had a high pain tolerance. I know that this doesn’t seem to be important but trust me it is. Well I finished with the tattoo and was given instructions on how to take care of it while it healed. 

Nothing else really happened until the next day, my night was completely normal. I went home, had dinner, and went to sleep. When I woke up the next morning my skin felt a bit itchy so I went to the bathroom to grab some lotion. However when I got there and looked in the mirror I saw that there were red spots all over my skin. I figured that I had just had an allergic reaction to something from the day before and just went on with my day.

And all things considered it was a pretty normal day. I just went about my life, I went to work and even hung out with some friends afterwards. When I got home I looked in the mirror again and well there they were. Tiny, little feathers growing out of my skin where the red spots were. So I logically panicked.

I rushed into my room and threw on a raincoat. I ran outside of my house and jumped into my car and drove over to the place that did my tattoo the day before. I’m not sure what was going through my head at that moment but I panicked and was just looking for a solution. I parked on the street outside and pushed open the door while walking inside. There was another person in there with Jade who was getting a tattoo of a bird on their leg. I think it was a bluejay but that doesn’t really matter. Jade walked over to the counter and greeted me, asking if I was there to get another tattoo. 

I pulled off my raincoat and showed them the feathers but they didn’t really seem surprised. In fact I think I heard the other person in the room laugh. They just told me it was fine and escorted me out of the building.

I’m not sure what to do. My skin won’t stop hurting and I find more feathers on my skin everyday. They won’t stop appearing. I tried to pluck them out at one point but the only thing that happened was me bleeding a lot. I just need some help with it. Nothing I do works… Please, I just want to get rid of them. They hurt so much.

Statement ends.

[Gem]

Along with this statement there was a bag of slightly bloody black feathers and a photo of some feathers growing off someone’s skin. I had Pearl look into the tattoo place but she couldn’t find the address. Fwip attempted to do some digging as well to find it but in the place where it should have been there was nothing but an old warehouse. Sausage called the phone number that they had left on the statement to look into doing a follow up but Raven declined.

Fwip also did some online snooping and found some scattered reviews for the place but none of them mentioned similar events. They did however mention another person working there named Feather who apparently had very realistic bluejay wings sitting on their back. Along with that, later reviews mention that Jade had gem-like eyes. However I am not inclined to believe that either of those mean anything.

I’m putting this case into the category of “to be determined” as we do not currently know whether it’s real or not. I think that’s it for now though-

[Someone knocks on the door.]

[Gem]

Yeah? You can come in.

[Pearl]

Hello Gem! I found another piece of information on that case.

[Gem]

Thanks, I’ll take a look at it.

[Pearl]

No problem.

[A door closes and some papers are shuffled around.]

[Gem]

It looks like the tattoo parlor has been seen in five locations since the incident that was described in the statement. I would send someone to check it out but it appears to currently be in Japan. Odd. That’s it for now though.

Tape recorder clicks off.

[0bticeo]

j. sims, e. bouchard| love is an open wound still raw.

part one out of four. (part 2.) (part 3.) (part 4.)

summary.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

wc. 2.6

tw. worms, jon patching up reader's wounds, heavily implied that elias is having the time of his life watching them go at it, fluff (in this economy?? written by obticeo??? shocking), handjob, blowjob, overstimulation (so um. non sex averse jon.)

work at the magnus institute, they said. it’s a good idea, they said. you thrive on knowing things and burying yourself in niche research topics for days on end for hyper specific information. why not give the esoteric and supernatural a try?

you blame the decent paycheck for signing the contract so quickly. 

(there is, really, nothing to blame but your own, insatiable curiosity. an institute studying supernatural happenings. how is the damn thing even funded?) 

oh, it wasn’t that bad. not at first, despite your instinct screaming not to trust the devilishly handsome head of the institute and to run away. the archives were a mess, courtesy of gertrude robinson’s piss poor organization. you did not want to know what layed in the artifact storage department. you dutifully ignored the sharp, pinprick pain at your nape, the weight settling over your skin like an accusatory finger. you’re being watched.

again, it wasn’t that bad.

then there were worms.

your fingers clench, dig in your palms. even now, weeks after the flesh-hive broke into the institute, you can feel it. smell it. 

the scent of decay, flesh rotting away, peeling bit by bit from brittle bone, and maggots. so many of them, worms everywhere, stark white fleshy mass wriggling, crawling towards you, biting you until they burrow in your flesh.

you should’ve seen it coming, really, what’s with martin being forced to reside in the archives until further notice and the occasional worm managing to crawl its way in.

you hadn’t. 

(drip, drip. 

blink, and you’re bleeding in a safe room, jon’s palm pressing down your thigh as he wrenches away the worms digging in your flesh with a corkscrew. your leg aches. your wrist is a bloody mess. all you can do is try to bite back a scream and fail, miserably. 

blink, and you’re safe, three months later. on bad days you can still feel them crawl, burrowing deeper and deeper in you, hungry, so terribly hungry.)

today, the archives are silent. the others are still quarantined, so the only noise filling the room is that of your breathing and the click, click, click of your pen. 

no martin to bring you a cup of coffee with a sheepish smile, debating over the merits of tea over coffee. no tim to prank you with the false statement of joe spooky and his encounters with the horrorsTM, holding back his laughter as you squint at him suspiciously. no sasha to gossip with, to laugh, delighted, voice lowering in a conspiratorial whisper as she tells you the latest tidbit of info she found out about jon - your prickly boss! in a band!

normally, the usual hustle and bustle of the archives (and its rowdy archival assistants), is almost enough for you to forget the permanent, oppressing feeling that you’re being watched. it’s always there, at the back of your mind, pinprick pressure at the edge of your neck. eyes, thousands and thousands of them watching you, knowing you, how you wake up screaming, nails digging bloody trails on your skin to get them out- 

breathe. 

you’re in the archives. you’re at your desk, tightly clenched hands resting on a manila folder. before you is the portrait of the founder of the institute. jonah magnus, green-grey eyes boring down upon you. you look back, tired eyes dead and unblinking. 

the watch on your wrist tells you it’s five and a half in the afternoon, give or take. the sun is declining. you’ve kept the lights off. penumbra settles over you like a blanket and you lean back in your chair. you’ve been there for three hours and haven’t moved an inch. 

you should probably go home. you should probably quit, actually. go up to elias’ office and politely tell him that you did not sign up to have your life threatened by worms, supernatural or not. 

you don’t.

the manila file in front of you contains a statement regarding robert montourke, given by one of his jailers. you should probably find a tape recorder. maybe there’s a spare in jon’s office. 

so you get up and set about getting that tape recorder. a beat. you think you catch the contours of one of these wretched worms, fat larvae half crushed by a bow full of statements. blink and it’s gone.

you all but slam open the door, only to reveal the head archivist in the flesh. he startles, almost dropping the pile of statements he’s been neatly stocking away in a cardboard box.

“what- how long have you been there?”

you stare at him, blankly, hand still resting against the doorknob.

“i- three hours- sorry, i should’ve knocked-”

“yes, yes you should have!”

your shoulders tense. he’s glaring at you with barely concealed suspicion, and all you can do is fight back the creeping panic that settles over you, because you can remember being in this very office, half leaning over jon’s desk, laughing with him, before the wall broke and the worms-

“what are you doing here?”

you take in a sharp inhale.

“i was looking for a tape recorder.”

jon lets out an aggravated sigh.

“here, in the archives.”

“i-”

“you should still be at the hospital, resting-”

“i’ve been discharged three days ago.”

he scoffs, running a hand through his tousled hair. it’s grown, you realize. a few inches, now long enough to brush the sharp edge of his jaw. there and there, creeping up his neck, his fingers, his wrists, you can see the scarring tissue of his flesh, puncture wounds like many cigarette burns. worms.

you swallow.

you don’t realize he’s in front of you until he calls your name, tone sharper than his wit.

“i’m going to talk to elias. this is ridiculous, having you work while you’re barely healed-”

“like you’re one to talk.”

he glares down at you, a scowl twisting his features. you meet his stare, lone sailor in the eye of the storm. his gaze trails over your features, takes in the scars crawling up your forearms, the skin left bare by the rolled up sleeves of your shirt. his frown deepens.

“one of your wounds has reopened.”

slowly, you glance down to your hand. there’s a small puncture wound on your palm, surrounded by the imprints left by your nails. it bleeds, red seeping out of the flesh in neat droplets of crimson. your fist tightens.

drip, drip. 

“it’ll heal.”

“it might get infected.”

“oh, and what are you going to be able to do about it?”

“i have a first aid kit.”

with that, he moves behind his desk and opens a drawer with an aggravated sigh. he rummages through it, discarding stationary and a paperback of poe’s selected tales. he’s got taste, you muse, drawing closer, footsteps silent on the carpet. at last, jon pulls out a red box and motions for you to sit down on the edge of his desk. 

“give me your hand,” he mutters.

you extend your hand, slowly, holding it up by his desk lamp. his fingers come to cradle your wrist, brushing your pulse, pressing against the faint outline of the bone. your breath hitches. slowly, he gets to work, critical gaze assessing the wound. it doesn’t need stitches. small blessings. 

he pulls out a sterile compress and pours disinfectant on it.

“it’ll sting.”

he’s gentle, jon, the compress held firmly against your palm, but not harshly, no. you let out a low hiss, pain like an inferno setting your nerve ablaze. you think you see his frown deepening at the pained sound that manages to fly past your gritted teeth.

the compress comes out stained. finally, he discards it and grabs the gauze, carefully wrapping it around your palm. 

in the dim lighting of the room, you make out the sunken cheeks, the five o’clock shadow adorning his jaw, the exhaustion creeping in the deep green of his eyes. they meet yours. your heart skips a beat, then another. silence stretches, stretches.

he’s been watching you, you realize. 

“you didn’t have to do this, you know.” 

he scoffs, throwing away the stained compress.

“somebody has to take care of you, if you don’t do it yourself.”

you let out a dry chuckle.

“hypocrite.”

“i am not-”

“no? when was the last time you ate? have you slept in the past three days?”

with each question, you get closer and closer to him, until you’re a breath away from him, tired gaze boring into his. there’s defensiveness in his eyes, protests piling up in scathing retort on the tip of his tongue.

“why don’t you take care of yourself, jon?”

you see his shoulders tense under the white cotton of his shirt, fingers flexing, gaze flickering, looking anywhere but you. something like resignation settles over his features, clouding the blazing green of his gaze.

“it’s rotten work.”

“not to me.”

your hand finds the sharp edge of his jaw, palm like a balm against his cheeks. you feel him relax, leaning into your touch, lips brushing against your pulse. you drink in the sight of him, worn to the bone, scars etched in his skin, reaching for his soul. he’s soft, in the sunset, all ragged edges tiredly melting away as you take one step closer to him.

“please, jon. let me take care of you.”

a beat. he chuckles, the sound low and rich, vibration reverberating in your bones.

“i can’t stop you, can i?”

“no, you can’t.” 

you fall into his orbit, in the magnetic pull of him. your lips brush against his, brushing hesitantly against the chapped skin. you hear a startled little sound of a gasp, surprise dying on his tongue, melting as you press yourself against him, bandaged hand splayed over his chest. do not still, beating heart. it stutters under your touch, hummingbird yearning for escape. you’d cradle it in your hands and swallow it whole, his heart, keeping it safe.

as it is, you cannot turn bones and spread the open wings of his ribcage apart, so you settle for Knowing him, mapping out each prickly edge of him. 

your lips grow firmer in their relentless pursuit of his own. he nips at you, wounded animal desperate for respite, so you cradle him against you, kissing him over and over, until his mouth parts for you, until, finally, you share the same breath.

you melt a little against him, fingers digging in his shoulders for support. the world narrows down, optical adjustment until it’s only you and the warmth of his fingers on your waist, comet tail blazing a path of desire over your clothed skin. your knees go weak.

you pull apart for air, and it feels like losing a part of yourself.

jon looks at you, green eyes dark and heavy, lips kiss-swollen and red and so very inviting. 

more…

you don’t know which of you broke the silence. doesn’t matter when jon grabs the front of your shirt and yanks you forward until you stumble in his chest. doesn’t matter when he sits back on his chair, when he lets you straddle him, slender fingers coaxing you out of your clothes. 

he kisses you against, and he’s hungry for it, like he’s longed for this, longed for you, you with your mouth like an offering, so warm and safe against him. his hand finds the back of your nape, thumb pressing down, and you dissolve in a sweet puddle of need. he tastes like nicotine and tea, bittersweet in all the right ways, and it feels like a revelation.

your hands set about knowing him, wandering the paths made up by the dips of his ribs, the valley of his chest, going further and further south until your hands press against the buckle of his belt.

“yes- ah!”

you’re gentle about it, really. palming him, tracing the outline of him through his slacks, relishing at the deep, shuddering exhale of your name. his hand wraps around yours, dwarfing yours. your mind goes deliciously blank, his long, slender fingers pulling down his slacks just enough to free his length.

need burns in your mind. 

jon chuckles, low and teasing, something like mirthful amusement in his eyes.

“it’s not going to bite, you know.”

“i might.”

with that, you wrap your hand around his cock. jon hisses, hips bucking in your grip. pink dusts his cheeks like dawn rising as he watches you, like he’s committing you to memory.

(he is. he wishes you could see yourself, stark silhouette burned in his retina, clothes unkempt, shirt half-opened to reveal the tantalizing edge of your bra, lips kiss-swollen, eyes wide and dark, hands slowly pumping his length.)

he groans, head lolling back, his hand tightening on your hip.

“you’re a tease.”

“and you’re pretty.”

he gasps at that. you laugh, and press your lips to his, speeding up your rhythm until you feel him tense and writhe, hips jerking against you. beds of wetness drip down on your fingers. you bring them to your mouth and hum, tongue darting out, licking them clean. jon’s breath catches at the sight.

you want to taste him, you realize. know each and every part of him, so you slide off his lap and get on your knees, skirt riding up your thighs. your hands run up his shin, fingers dancing over his knee as they tread the path to his core.

your tongue flicks out against the flushed head, lapping at his pre. he shudders at that, a low groan leaving his lips. you feel him twitch in your grip and speed up, pressing fleeting, fluttering kisses against the soft, heated skin. when your mouth closes on his length and you taste and know him, static buzzes in your mind. 

a hand, broad and big and warm, settles on your head and pushes you closer, fingers threading through your hair. you whine. he’s big and heavy, filling up your mouth until all you know is him. your nails rake his thighs and he moans at that. you can’t help but look up through your lashes.

he’s the picture of sin, jonathan sims. his pristine shirt is crumpled, haphazardly unbuttoned to reveal the knife-edge of his collarbone. his fingers tighten on the armrest, deliciously firm in their desperate attempt to find purchase as you bring him closer and closer to his release. and gods, the slow, sublime arch of his neck, the way his head lolls back in rapture as he comes again with a startled gasp-

you hum, delighted, swallowing every last drop.

ah, but you’re not done yet. you’re not done learning about all the sweet moans you can coax out of him, about what makes him tick and come in blissful rapture. so, you make him come. 

again, and again, and again, worshiping every precious inch of him as you go, sucking  bruises in the tender skin of his neck. mine. his moans fill the room, startled little gasp and desperate pleas for more, for you to stop because it’s too much, to please, please-

when you pull back, your breath catches in your throat. he’s a masterpiece of debauchery, glasses askew, tears of overstimulation trailing down his flushed cheeks, lips parted in harsh, ragged pants. 

you nuzzle against him with a coo, one hand slipping under his shirt, settling over his chest, over the thundering beat of his heart.

his hand settles on your thigh, his forehead pressing against yours as he desperately tries to catch his breath.

“w-wait… you didn’t get to… let me…”

“shh…” you peck his lips, the kiss sweet and chaste. “this is about you. for once in your life, let yourself be cared for.”

he nods, reluctantly, fingers tightening over your thigh in a promise.

“fine. but i’m treating you to dinner. that is non-negotiable.”

you laugh a little, smiling fondly up at him.

“boss’ orders.”

[cindytoast404]

‘it’s not like we’re rattling with tape recorders and manila folders’ THE SCREAM I SCREAMPT CELIA WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT THE MAGNUS INSTITUTE

[corruptivist]

CELIA KNOWS ABOUT THE ORIGINAL INSTITUTE BECAUSE SHE WAS THERE FOR THE EYEPOCALYPSE

SHE APPEARS IN A STATEMENT IN S5 OF TMA. THATS WHY SHE SAYS STUFF ABOUT TAPE RECORDERS AND MANILA FOLDERS AND HOW TO SORT THROUGH THINGS BASED ON STUFF LIKE BEING BURIED ALIVE AND MEAT, AND A PERSON GETTING CRUSHED UNDER A MASSIVE SHOE. AGH

IM SHITTING MYSELF

[androgynousblackbox]

Dead Main Course. 2 [Appleradio, Radioapple]

As the news for his murders grew too much for comfort, Alastor had to relocate to the most affordable place he could until he got an actual job. The advertisement for this new place looked promising. He had all the qualifications required, but the part that most called out to him was that the owner already had a large chain of fast food restaurants across the country and this was the first time that he was intending to cater to the most sophisticated palates. The name recognition was there so, if anything, he would have guaranteed a better pay than what he had to endure on his previous job. 

A part of him also was just curious to see the place. Morningstar was the brand that appeared in multiple restaurants that pride itself on selling the biggest and juiciest burgers of the market, but it was the first time that he saw it plastered over a building and not turned out tacky as all hell. The crystal doors were covered by windows, impeding seeing inside. A sign glue on the front announced that interviews were being carried out inside.

Alastor took the piece of paper and crumpled it out, putting it in his pocket. He didn't have huge hopes of that making that big of a difference, but any little help he could take in order to get the position was all fine for him. "Fair competition" was a comforting lie that fools told themselves when they weren't brave enough to do what was necessary.

Inside the place looked like one huge dome. Gold, white and blues were the main colors he could see all over the walls and even the ceiling, reaching out to a source of light that kinda looked like the sun, which he imagined was the idea. Right at the center there was the statue of a tree with red ribbons tied on their branches. All the tables and raised chairs were placed just around the tree, as if a little planet were trapped in its orbit. 

"Hey, buddy" called a voice and only then did he realize where everyone else was. An open kitchen was in the farthest zone of the place, with a bunch of already waiting chefs with their white coats on top. The person who talked to him and looked like already was on a sour mood was a huge man, dressed in a suit of gold and electric blue that just walked the line between tacky and opulent. His pure white hair was pulled back and the clear blue eyes could have been one of his most attractive traits when he was a lot younger, but now they just seemed like something that reminded him of fish's vomit. Murky and unpleasant. "Did you get lost or something? Didn't you read the sign outside? We are kinda busy here already."

Alastor hid his surprise at the other chef. He had made sure to come half an hour earlier than what they told him to, hoping to be one of the first ones. It looked like at least four others had the same idea.

"I came for the interview, sir" said, walking up with his hand extended. When it was obvious the man wasn't going to take it, he straightened up his back and took out his resume, in a manila folder as he was told, to extend it again. "I was told to come here around this hour. I hope I am not too late."

"You did?" The man masticated those words like it was tobacco and quickly looked over the papers, taking out some tiny golden glasses to read it quickly. Only after that did his expression soften up somewhat. "Ah, right, right. You come from the Institute Hazbin. Heard good things about it."

"Thank you, sir" said Alastor, receiving the resume back. 

He was exceptionally good at small talk, but he could clearly see that the patience of this man was already running thin and he would appreciate just short, efficient answers.

"Well, the bathroom is over there. Change quickly so I can finally fucking explain how we are going to do stuff here."

Bathroom? They didn't have a changing room yet? Alastor saw beyond the open kitchen, noticing a ladder at the background that surely was part of the production still not finalized. So they were already hiring staff before having the place completed. He had no idea if that was smart or not, but in any case, it wasn't his aspiring job to ask about it.

The bathroom in question was on another point of the room. Alastor walked as fast as he could to get prepared for once. Before entering he could hear the water flowing, indicating to him that someone was already inside. Another one of the chefs? How many did he have to crush to get this position. 

But once he came inside, they had already closed the door to one of the cubicles before he could see anything. For a second he considered doing the polite thing of greeting him, creating a false sense of camaraderie to ease him before the moment he could show the truth, but, frankly, he didn't have any interest in that. Whoever it was, he was going to crush him anyway. 

He used another of the cubicles to take out his jacket and put on his white coat. The other guy didn't bother to talk to him either and wasn't coming out. With any luck he was suffering from explosive diarrhea because of his nerves and wouldn't be an issue at all. Once he was presentable, he went to join the group of the chefs present.

"Good, finally. Very well" said mister Morningstar, rubbing his hands together. "Now let me very fucking clear with all of your from the fucking start. Do you all know what the Morningstar brand is? What does it represent?"

There was a moment of hesitation, as if they weren't sure if that was a rhetorical question or not. One that Alastor took advantage of.

"Great flavor to accompany great moments of everyday life" answered. 

Morningstar laughed, a scratchy and jumpy sound like how an old dog would laugh.

"At least one of you did your homework" approved the man and Alastor modestly accepted the recognition, not looking at the competition. They all could choke on their jealousy for all he cared. "But yeah, that is the mission that we have tried to carry out since the start of the business. Now we intend to do things a little more differents" said, coming close to a tray with a bunch of plates. "We want to keep feeding people with the flavor that they came to expect and want from us, but more... What is the word? elevated, you know what I am saying? Make it more complex, but still edible. I am going to test all of you to see what you can do with our old menu."

The man moved to a tray that was in the center of the kitchen and lifted the cover, revealing a typical meal of Morningstar burgers and fries. Alastor almost let the disgust seep into his face. 

"Sir?" asked another of the chefs, lifting a hand shyly. "I don't understand. What exactly should we do with that?"

"You didn't hear a fucking word I said?" Morningstar shook his head and let the shiny metal cover clank against the surface of the table. Everyone but Alastor jumped a bit at that. "Take this and make it as fancy as you can, but remember to make it still enjoyable or else what the fuck are we doing here. And none of that deconstructed abstract symbolic nonsense that some places do where they give you a plate of oil and tell you that represents bread. You all have experience on the field, alright. I want to see now how creative you all can get. The ingredients are all in the back and you can grab whatever you want. But god save you all if you make me waste a fucking thing today."

Did this guy think they were part of some cooking show? Just how stupid of a premise was that?

Morningstar suddenly clapped his hands together, again, making everyone jump but Alastor.

"Well, I need to repeat myself? I don't have all day." 

"Yes, sir" answered all of them at once, running up to the freezer first because, clearly, a new version of a burger was going to need the meat. 

While gathering an assortment of veggies and some fruits that he thought could be useful, Alastor looked around to see just the same amount of chefs grabbing as much they could or seemingly stopped by their own plans of what to do. Maybe the guy in the bathroom was a janitor or something, that is why Morningstar didn't care to wait for him.

All the better for him, frankly. 

Soon enough all the ovens were turned on as they cooked the meat, condimenting it to each of their preferences. Two of the chefs went out to Morningstar to ask each a portion of the burger to taste and compare, which he could see even at the distance that the man didn't like, but still allowed it. He didn't need to do that for his part. Once something had entered into his mouth it stayed there forever, shelved and organized into categories and ready to be pulled whenever ready, as if testing it all over again.

Part of his "homework" had included visiting his local Morningstar place to order a classic burger, just to prove himself he still remembered perfectly well how it was or if they had changed the formula since the last time. They had not. His tongue again had proven to be infallible. Not that he ever doubted it.

A little bit of spice, gentle but fun, like a little surprise you don't quite expect. That was one of the things that food critics kept praising about their meat so he had to play to that strength. Otherwise it wouldn't be Morningstar anymore.

The aroma of their different meals filled the air. Morningstar had seen them sitting against the bar where the waiters were going to receive the orders to take it to the customers, but after a while he started walking between them and asking questions. It was a job interview after all and it was obvious that the man wanted to see their reactions while cooking at the same time.

"What was that you said?" The voice of Morningstar elevated over the sizzling on their pans, just behind the back of one of the chef who needed to compare with the other burger. "I couldn't hear you. Speak up. We are on a fucking kitchen, didn't you see?"

"I said that no, sir, I haven't worked with a lot of meat before."

"Because you come from a pussy ass vegan restaurant, don't you? What are you doing here then?"

"That was my training, sir, but I can learn."

"No, you are not" Morningstar turned off the pan the chef was using and turned to him. "This is not your fucking school, kid. I expect professionals that know what you are doing. Get the fuck out."

Well, that was easy, thought Alastor, concentrating on his own work, but keeping his ear attentive to whatever the man was doing. One less annoyance to concern himself with. After the chef had abandoned the area, thanking him for his time still, the man moved to the next chef.

"What are you doing?"

One by one, the man demanded explanation for what they were doing, why they were doing it and other questions that were clearly meant to disorient them. Why are you choosing to work on a new restaurant for a fast food brand? Did no one else wanted you? What did you do for this to be your first option today? Do you even remember what a simple cheeseburger tastes like with all that fancy meal that you used to make before? When was the last time that you ate fries? Do you really think that you have what it takes to be on the first of many other restaurant like this one that were going to open in the future?

Alastor answered as honestly as he could, coloring his narrative just enough to maybe play into the sympathies of the man. Instead of having eaten that one burger a week ago, he ate them whenever he had no energy to cook for himself. He wanted the job because he respected the brand name (true), so he wanted to have a hand in seeing it grow (kinda true). He had left his previous job when the owner sold the restaurant to new owners who wanted an entirely new staff (true), and he came to the city looking for opportunities to expand his opportunities (false, but said as true). The man was standing so close that it was clearly meant to be claustrophobic, invasive, but he stood firm during the whole process. 

The other chef managed to keep working all the same, but the one next to them got stuck stuttering an answer and Morningstar applauded, the strong impact seeming to echo through the entire building.

"Speak! Did a fucking cat bit your tongue? You got taught how to cook, but don't know how to speak? How I am supposed to trust you to move on my kitchen freely if you can't even have a completely sentence out?"

The chef in question finally managed to say something. If it was acceptable or not, Alastor really couldn't tell, but at least didn't immediately ask them to get out of the kitchen. When Morningstar stopped asking questions, he took that as his sign to not waste any more time.

By the end, they all presented their dishes in front of Morningstar. The man barely looked at them, his eyes fixated on the direction of the bathroom with a slight frown. Alastor took note of that, but let it slide for now as he explained to the old man what he had done.

"Spicy" was the only comment he received as a reward and he resisted the urge to try to coat any clarification. 

Was that too spicy? Not enough spice? What did that mean? The worse is that he knew very well that had him wondering that was exactly what Morningstar was looking for. He was getting the impression this was the kind of boss who enjoyed having his workers being on edge wondering how to please him. 

For the next one, one bite was enough for the man to say "bland" and the final one "boring." 

"Too safe, both of you. Especially you" said to the one chef who stammered through their words, spitting into tissue to throw it into a garbage can. "I don't need people who are just going to second guess everything and just do the most predictable thing they can imagine. Get out."

Finally, just one other chef. Alastor felt more convinced that he may as well have had the job already. There was no way that someone who got a "bland" description of their work could be more qualified than he was. 

The next "test" was to create a new version of the most popular dessert at the other establishment, the one thing everyone wanted the most. Their famous apple pie with sweet sauces to select from, made in the shape of a circular pastry lightly powdered with cinnamon.

They wanted chefs that could do everything, not just dedicated to one station. Alastor wasn't a sweet tooth guy at all, but at least knew what people who were usually liked on their plate. Dessert at restaurants of the high caliber he worked at were usually small bite sized, meant to be enjoyed with every spoonful and wishing for more. That seemed to be the approach that the other chef was going with, going out of their way to create little sculptures out of sugar and chocolate that he had to refrain from laughing at.

While he waited on his own creation to rise up in the oven, he cleaned up his hand while pretending he wasn't paying attention to the way that Morningstar seemed to be getting more and more pissed looking at the bathroom. After a while, because apparently nothing of what he expected to happen was happening, Morningstar took out his phone and typed out pressing on the screen harder than necessary.

"You both are done?" said, already annoyed, looking at both of their plates like neither of them was impressive. "Good. Now, I am going to be honest with you, I don't care for this stuff. But SOMEONE" added, looking back", is better that I am so he will be the one judging."

At that moment the cellphone of Morningstar let out a notification sound and he smiled while reading it.

"Finally" sighed, crossing his arms as finally someone came out.

Alastor stopped hearing whatever was coming out of the man when he saw him. A tiny man, even shorter than Morningstar, made his way to them while brushing his hair back with his hand. Unlike them, the man also had a chef coat on top, but this was mostly red with details in white for the neck, sleeve and front pocket. 

The red was that perfect dark tone that reminded someone of wine or blood, so of course Alastor immediately imagined that small hand holding a knife and drenched on a new victim without losing that image of pristine composure. His eyes were an intense kind of brown, focused and unexpressive as he stood right next to Morningstar.

Alastor took half of a step back as if his presence had been louder than any of the commanding claps of his future boss, while the other chef was just waiting for what came next. Something had gotten stuck on his throat all of the sudden and he was forced to swallow as silently as he could.

"Gentleman, this is my son Lucifer and if we choose any of you today you will be working at his side. He studied at the Heavenly Culinary Academy and graduated with the highest honors" explained Morningstar, patting the shoulder of the blonde man who turned his head as if wanting to roll his eyes at the praise. "He is my sweet expert guy, so if there is anyone who I trust to judge this is going to be him. It's his sweet tooth who you have to impress."

Alastor stared at Lucifer some more while Morningstar was presenting them and thought that made no sense. No, a man like that didn't belong in a kitchen. He had to be a model or a muse for some artist who would kill themselves because they could never replicate such beauty with their measly mortal hands. Someone that inspired art and maybe a lot more with his entire body, not just his hand. If not, wasn't that just a waste? What an absurd idea was that! Either of them had to be joking!

Even the way that he let out a small sigh before turning with them with a smile made that impression all the more stronger. This had to be part of the job interview at all.

Of course he had heard about Heavenly Academy. Just one of the most demanding and highest rated places in the entire world to get education from. Alastor didn't even try to apply there when he found out about their monthly rates and their scholarships weren't that much accessible.

Lucifer, the chef that couldn't be a chef, breathed out a sigh before smiling at them and extended his hand to shake them. 

"Don't mind my father, gentlemen. I read both your resumes and you are quite impressive already" said with a soft smile that made Alastor almost completely miss what he was saying, along with the social cue to shake his hand. A strong beat on his chest later, he forced himself to give a firm squeeze. "It would be a pleasure to work with any of you. Unfortunately we have the kitchen almost already completely full. We only have room for another co-main chef in the kitchen. Good luck."

When the man let him go, Alastor immediately put his hand on his back to clean himself up, suddenly overwhelmingly aware that it was clammy. His mind seemed to suddenly be put on a snail speed mode, so it took a full second to fully process what that tiny man had just said.

Co-chef? He wasn't going to be in charge of the whole kitchen after all? Well, that was clearly unacceptable. He had applied for that job with the notion that he would occupy a better position than a simple sous chef, the usual one he had been stuck with up until now. And yes, technically speaking co-chef was better, but not by enough! With a little pretty nepo baby too just to add more salt to the injury...

But all those thoughts flew off the window when Lucifer grabbed a spoon to start tasting their dessert. Mainly the one from the other chef, a small apple parfait that looked like a perfect bubble with a chocolate decorative chocolate shaped like an apple on top, because in two bites it was already entirely gone.

"Mmm, this is very good" said Lucifer, beaming to the other chef, who for the first time during the entire morning did Alastor wanted to slaughter in the most painful way that he could. Fucking asshole now even had the audacity to smile back to Lucifer, proud and satisfied. "I like that you kept it somewhat sour. The chocolate with raspberry filling was a nice touch."

"Thank you, sir."

Thank you, sir, mocked Alastor on his head. Why don't you sit on my face, sir. You are so precious, sir, thank you for recognizing me, sir, do you want to shove your boots on my throat while I lick it, sir. Don't worry if I start choking, sir. My life either way has no meaning if you don't pay attention to me, sir. I am a pathetic fool who only lives to serve, sir, as you can clearly see on my stupid inferior face, sir.

Alastor took a breath and squeezed both his hands on his back, doing everything in his power to keep a face perfectly neutral as Lucifer now went on to his own creation. He explained what it was and his idea behind it while looking at the plate, trying not to pay attention to the almost golden brown eyes following him.

Choux Au Craquelin, in a bigger size than usual, with fresh apple filling at the center, powered with white sugar around and chocolate sauce on the side to deep in at choice of the consumer. The crispy texture still brings to mind the original pastry of their famous apple pie, but softer and warm to make the filling feel all the more sweeter. 

Lucifer nodded and cut a piece, making a little oh sound when the apple started to spill, and then collected as much of the chocolate sauce as he could before bringing it to his mouth. Definitely his father wasn't lying when he said had a sweet tooth. 

"Mmm!" said Lucifer, louder than he did for the other dessert and Alastor relaxed instantly when his smile now was directed at him. "This is also pretty good! It's very comforting too. I can see it being a hit during winter or autumn."

Hah, suck it, other chef. His compliment was longer and therefore clearly more meaningful.

"Thank you, sir" said Alastor, feeling like he had taken a bite with him and received the same impressions.

He thought he could be just fine feeding a man like that more often if that meant making him that happy. But then Morningstar had to ruin it all with another clap that made Lucifer almost drop the spoon. Alastor had a sudden peak of murderous rage that confused him for a second.

"Well, thank you both for coming. " Morningstar shook their hands again, offering at last a professionally crafter smile. "We are going to receive more candidates today for later and then we will be making our choice. I will have someone call you if you are the chosen ones."

Alastor couldn't care less about his farewell, but perked up a bit when it came to the turn of Lucifer.

"Thank you again" This time Alastor put a little more attention into the hand, trying to decipher what was bugging him about it. He battled against himself on his impulse to examine his fingers closer to try to find out about the entire life of this man. Long, slim fingers that probably handled knives with surgical precision, every muscle intentional on his objective. Painter hands? Maybe a musician? Could I be a pianist then? But he wasn't so much of an idiot to not realize how awkward that would be, so he only had his question to ponder on his own. "Have a good day. Hope to see you again."

"Me too, sir" said Alastor, before further confusing himself by realizing that it was true.

Something that rarely was the case for him. He went to the bathroom with the other chef in order to change back, but when he was out again Lucifer had already left his father again to hang on the exterior garden one of the windows displayed. He was looking at his own phone while brushing his hair back, the bored expression back against that face. Alastor wondered vaguely who he was texting with before he almost tripped with a chair on his way out. Morningstar luckily hadn't noticed, barking orders to some other employees to leave the kitchen spotless again, so luckily there was no witness as he hastily made it out of the restaurant.

---

"I am obviously getting the job, of course" commented Alastor later that night, chasing after a man that was currently trying to run away despite the slash on his thighs that was leaving behind a red trail for him to follow. His mouth was closed with a gagball and a lot of tape around his head so he wouldn't bother him with his screams. 

Normally Alastor would love to hear them, more so when they had such a nice setting like an abandoned building to do as they pleased, but tonight he felt talkative and didn't want interruptions. Letting some steam didn't just mean get out hunting, it was also just voicing the thoughts that he had bouncing around his head the entire day. Sometimes that was helpful for him to clear things up with himself and think about his next move.

"I am not worried about that at all. But that tiny blonde chef on the other hand... I just can't stop thinking about it. It's like this nagging bug that slipped inside of my ear and is laying eggs. His larvae just keep consuming my brains as we speak. I don't like it" commented when he got close enough to the man, who was trying to make himself just as small as possible on the corner. "And I searched for him, of course I did. I never heard of Morningstar having a son before so any person would be curious too, right?"

He stabbed him again on the other leg, exactly on the place where he knew he wasn't going to survive for long. More muffled screams that Alastor nodded to as if they were reinforcement of what he was saying.

"I know, I know" said, as he grabbed him by the stupid tie that for some reason was still there. The man raised his hands as if trying to defend his face and Alastor tilted his head barely as he stabbed an eye through his palm, to see if that taught him to calm down already. 

What a rude fellow! Didn't he know that the best way for a killer to keep you alive for longer was to amuse him with conversation?

"I am not finished, would you stop rushing me?" sighed, rubbing his temple as he could the other body relaxing under him. If it was because of the loss of blood or he was finally taking the hint, he didn't care. "Well, as I was saying, it turned out that he was, actually, a model so I was right. But that didn't stop the bugging! I just kept thinking about his hand and his face and those clothes he was modeling were no help at all, I can tell you that much!" 

Alastor sighed, sitting on top of the chest of the man, his face scrunching up as he was coming up with an awful, disgusting realization.

"Is this what a crush is like? It is, isn't it?" asked, genuinely mortified, and stared at the man. Pathetic, crying man. Alastor rolled his eyes and resigned himself to cut out the tape, pulling out the gagball to throw it to a side. "You must know a thing or two about what that is like, I imagine. I personally don't have a lot of experience in that area so I am not entirely sure what else it could be. I could ask my friend Rosie, I suppose, but you are here so, be a good man with your last breath and tell me what you think."

The tears, mucus and sweat have truly made a mess of this man's face. 

It didn't look anything at all like the simple businessman that Alastor had lured there with the promise of drugs and a good time. At least he didn't lie about the good time. He just didn't say good for who.

"Well?" encouraged Alastor, finding it funny how his arms were still struggling a little under the weight of his legs. 

It was kinda cute, in a way, like the last convulsions before death. The point where the conscious mind had entirely checked out and it was pure nervous impulses sent by the brain.

"S-sounds... like it" managed to pronounce the business man, his vision unfocused, the fear very much alive at the back of his own exhaustion. "C-con-gratulations..."

Alastor groaned, rubbing his face with the hand that wasn't holding the knife.

"I was afraid you were going to say that. Well, that is rather unfortunate. Not to mention just plain inconvenient. What should I do now with these... feelings?" said, as if the word itself was repulsive and not just foreign in his mouth. "Those are not really conducive for a professional collaboration in the kitchen, aren't they?"

The man took a forceful breath in, as if it was costing him a monumental effort to keep his eyes open. Alastor had to get his ear closer to even understand what he was saying.

"D-date... with coffee...?"

"Oh, now I know you lost your mind, my friend" Alastor shook his head, disappointed. "Did you already forget what we have been doing for the last hour? Do you think you are going to be the last one? How do you figure that the man who is doing this with you is just going to have a coffee date with a cute blonde chef afterward? Come on, be reasonable now."

But before the man could think of a better answer, his phone started vibrating in his pocket. Alastor went out to grab the gagball and put it in the mouth of the man again. He didn't think he had enough energy to cry out for help anymore, but still, just in case.

"Hold that thought" said, looking at the screen and realizing it was an unknown number, from the city. "Hello?" greeted after answering.

On the other side of the line he heard a totally new voice confirming his name. The man stirred somewhat underneath, but otherwise kept silent.

"Yes, that is me. How can I help you? Oh, from Joseph Morningstar? Well, that is a neat surprise" said, shaking his head indulgently to the man as if saying I told you I had this on the bag. "Oh, I got the job? That is splendid. Such good news. When can I start? Monday the 23 at 8 AM. Yes, I am totally writing this down. Please tell mister Morningstar I am so thankful for this opportunity. I can't wait to work alongside him and... his talented son" said, his grin becoming more tense as he finished that sentence.

Luckily the secretary of Morningstar didn't notice or wasn't paid enough to care at all about his state. Instead the voice just confirmed that whatever doubt that he had regarding his job he could call back to this number.

"Thank you, I will. Have a good night" Alastor hung up, sighing more relaxed with the promise of seeing that chef again. 

Then he caught that thought again and stared at it like asking why now, after all this time. And this was with just one meeting, without even having seen him again. How was it going to be having him close every day of the week? 

"I can already tell this is going to be so annoying to deal with. How do you normally handle these situations?" asked Alastor to the man, but his eyes were glossy, stuck to the ceiling. Alastor put the knife right under his nose and saw a tiny cloud form there, so he was still breathing. Just very slowly. "I guess you don't really have in you to help me out any longer. Well, c'est la vie! Or I guess it would be la mort in your case. Don't worry, my friend, I won't keep you waiting much longer" assured, putting the knife right about his chest and letting it go down with a firm push. "You will make for a fine celebration dinner."