#SOMEONE ASK HER ARCHIVIST QUESTIONS

[wake-up-and-face-the-sun]

A PANEL WHERE PEOPLE GOT TO ASK LORE QUESTIONS AND STILL.. NO ONE ASKED ABLUT THE ARCHIVISTS… IM GOIKG TO EAT GLASS

[duckwnoeyes]

Sasha Archivist au

Tossing my hat into the ring to answer 'What would have happened if Sasha had been made archivist instead of Jon'.

Personally, I believe that Sasha as head archivist would not start the apocalypse, but everything would still be sad and terrible. Let me explain:

First and foremost: addressing Sasha James' character. Since she died in season one (crying), we actually have fairly little to go off of. In that one season, we can only say a few things about Sasha. BUT mag 161 then goes ahead and turns everything we know about her on its head. She tells Tim that there's really no such thing as a real you, and we get the sense that maybe we didn't really know Sasha at all.

So, what does this tell us about Sasha as an archivist?

I think the most important piece of information regarding Sasha James, as a character, is her connection to Gertrude Robinson in Mag 161 and 162, and I believe it tells us all we need to know about an archivist Sasha.

Significantly, Gertrude named Sasha as her successor. This little piece of info drives me up the wall bc why did Gertrude choose Sasha??? Gertrude purposefully left the archives a mess so I doubt it was because she thought Sasha was the best academic.

Gertrude dedicated her entire life to preventing the apocalypse, sacrificing literally everything to save the world. Gertrude Robinson, needed to select the right successor, someone who would carry on her work. And Gertrude Robinson, who was an avatar of the watcher, of knowledge, must have had a good reason to choose her successor.

Because it is so important that Gertrude's tape in mag 161 is intended for Sasha. Gertrude tells her that she is entering "A place that will often demand a high price from you. Pay it without hesitation, because one way or another, the world is now on your shoulders." Gertrude has seemingly handpicked someone who knows exactly what it means when she tells them "Do what you have to do."

Because whilst we, the audience, don't know a whole lot about Sasha, Gertrude did. And what I think Gertrude Knew, is that Sasha would be able to do the same thing as her. Gertrude Knew that Sasha James would be just as ruthless and pragmatic in dealing with the apocalypse. That Sasha would make any and all necessary sacrifices.

Sasha immediately saw through Gertrude's mask of being a frail old woman. Who knew that Gertrude purposefully left the archives a state, wouldn't do what Jon did and try to reorganise them. Sasha having experienced artifact storage, would wait and trust in Gertrude's system.

Sasha, who invaded her co-workers' privacy by hacking into their computers, would have little problem joining up with the eye. Gertrude Robinson who again, knows an awful lot, put a lot of trust in the hope that Sasha would be just as cutthroat as her.

Archivist Sasha would still be a tragedy, and would still mirror Jon's descent into monster hood, but it would be a different kind. It would be Sasha's descent into ruthlessness, her making the kind of choices that Gertrude made, the kind that would have the story end with just as many dead archival assistants as in canon. But, no Armageddon. Because if you thought Gertrude feeding Michael Shelley to the distortion was bad, imagine Sasha leading Tim with a detonator to the Circus of the Other.

TLDR: Gertrude choosing Sasha is incredibly significant and implies that Sasha actually was or could have been just as ruthless as Gertrude as head archivist and thus would have prevented the apocalypse by sacrificing all of her assistants.

[glacierruler]

Anglerfish

Song 1 of The Magnus Musical! It's not done, I've got to find sounds to create a more dynamic song, and ideally someone else sings it. But this is how it goes:

Please tell me what you think, but don't be rude if you don't like something /gen

Also, any negative comments about my voice get immediately blocked.

Taglist: @cameforstuff @greenbunny7 @randomnerd737 @bren-the-chicken tell me if you want to be added/removed

Transcript under the read more!

Legalities: This is strictly fanwork!

Jonathan Sims:

Testing Testing 1 2 3 Testing Testing 1 2 3

My name, Jonathan Sims Recording on this dusty old thing

My job, Head Archivist For the Magnus institute in London Position received under Gertrude's leave Her mess of a system left for me to sync

Reasearch on the paranomal Investigating these Come here Submit a statement Put it in the Archive For the Archive holds everything

… [Spoken] Although it's a mess. Thankfully I have two assistants, well, 3 I guess. But Martin hardly counts, he'll only cause delays.

[Sung] They'll research and I'll insert Information on each case at the end of our time Heading through the Archive

[Spoken] Speaking of time, it's time to begin reading The statement of one Nathan Watts Given during April of 2012 Encountering something in Edinborough And here's what he says happened

{Notes: For this next bit, anything italicized is sung by Both Jonathan and Nathan. Also Time Change}

Jonathan + Nathan

Memories of the event, calling forward now It's been years, yet the mind is clear I see what happened then Can you tell me what happened when

I was studying biochemistry, I happen to be In a flat full of second years, Younger than me

Partying with a friend, drunk in a funk Walking home, late at night Only, something strange did I hear

Something asked me: "Can I have a cigarette"

I could not see whoever they -or is it he? Seemed to be. An alleyway stranger Swaying I assumed them drunk and not a danger

But then something seemed off, their face was sunken in An anglerfish, drawing me with the light of their question Yet their mouth moved none, and I wanted a closer look Shined my phone light and off it went

I researched and yet no folklore, no mention of ghosts nearbye And yet, a disappearance of a friend caught my eye

Same party, and yet he left later than I And cigarettes, my brand, in his pocket by chance.

Jonathan:

In light of this statement read I thought to be discredited and dead

Except Sasha, an assistant, looked a bit into this And found missing persons reports of six

Yet the phone of one reveals a hand Beckoning, beckoning still

Statement Ends

[kairos-polaris]

au Jon and Elias got married pre canon

----

"Have you thought about a divorce?"

Daisy realizes it's the wrong question as Jon stiffens and clutches his pen harder. She wonders if she isn't the first to ask. She wants to ask about that too

"Nevermind," Daisy says instead because she didn't mean to make Jon uncomfortable and he visibly doesn't want to talk about it.

"I…have. Of course I have. After he killed Leitner, I imagined asking for divorce as soon as my name was cleared. But then there was the Unknowing and I had no time for the bureaucracy," Jon explains, looking like every word was dragged from his throat. A perfect explanation. He must have answered this question many times, Daisy thinks distantly. She should just nod and not say anything else.

"And now?" She asks instead and Jon sighs as if he expected that.

"And now it's just not worth it. We are separated anyway." Daisy doesn't think she imagined the bitterness in Jon's words. "Elias refuses to see or talk to me, divorce would just be a waste of time and energy."

Daisy could say how it's worth it if only to be as separate from Elias as possible while he is still the Archivist. She could say it could be freeing, even, but she knows that's not how Jon would see it. So she asks instead if he wants a divorce. He stutters, predictably.

"I-," Jon looks stricken, overflowing with guilt. "Of course I do."

And had she been anyone else, Daisy could have believed him. If she wasn't a cop for so long, if she wasn't so good at seeing lies. If Jon was a better liar.

It shouldn't be surprising Jon wanted to stay married. And in hindsight it really wasn't. Daisy thought back to the few times she saw them together and the way Jon seemed to turn to Elias, to seek him out. Whatever made him say yes a couple of years ago was still there in spite of all that Elias did to him. Daisy wishes she was more surprised.

"I understand," she says and Jon must know what she really means because he looks impossibly more tense. "It's fine, Jon. I mean it."

Jon breathed a sigh of relief as he sat down next to her, resting his head on her shoulder. This is familiar still, comforting even in spite of their previous conversation and tension still obvious in Jon's shoulders.

Daisy opens her arms in a silent invitation and Jon hesitates just for a moment before coming over to her. They both weren't the most tactile of people and this, the proximity and closeness, this was new to them, made familiar by the time touch was their only comfort in the Buried.

"I don't want to divorce him," Jon whispers into her shoulder like a confession of a terrible sin. And perhaps to someone else it would be. To Daisy it was just an admission of vulnerability. She hums but doesn't say it was obvious. "It's stupid but I have been changed by him and his… our master. I will forever carry his claim so I just want to pretend he was mine the same way he made me belong to him." Jon chucked, self deprecating. He lifted his head from Daisy's shoulder and looked her in the eyes. "You must think me stupid for this."

How could Daisy think it's stupid when she understood the need to claim and be claimed in turn so well? When she knew how much Jon needed someone to belong to him?

"I understand," Daisy says instead and watches Jon's eyes be flooded with relief that his admission was met with understanding, not blame.

"Not like it actually matters. I bet the only reason Elias himself hasn't divorced me yet is because it's not worth the effort to him. I bet he doesn't even wear his ring anymore." Jon must have tried to sound uncaring about it but Daisy could hear the strain and the hurt in his voice. He wanted Elias to care as much as he did.

"Basira told me he still wears his ring." She mentioned it in passing once, how she expected Elias to take it off since Jon isn't around to see him wear it. I would think he had forgotten about it but he touched it every time the topic of Jon arose, Basira said then. "He fidgets with it."

"Ah," Jon says so quietly, Daisy would have missed it if he wasn't so close. "I didn't think he would," the hope in his words is raw and bleeding. Jon wants to, needs to believe his husband cares, if only a little.

"You love him." She tries to but fails to suppress the accusation in her words.

"I- I don't think so," Jon confesses. "I feel owned by him and I want to own him in turn. But I don't think it's love."

"I understand." And she really did, she was familiar with the need to belong to someone in a way that was not romantic but not platonic either. "I really do."

They sit in silence for a while, just enjoying the other's presence. A comfort freely given to two monsters who didn't deserve it but gave each other nonetheless. A peaceful quiet that made the maddening starvation just a bit easier to bear.

"Thank you, Daisy," Jon whispers and she squeezes his hand. This, she could give him and take in turn.

[kell-5]

Wing's secret

Warning: romantic content, mild jealousy, hint of a more intimate moment, gender-neutral reader, possible spelling and lexical errors

addressing : you, your, yours, they, their

Character: Wing x reader

____________________________________________

The Crystal City glowed, as always, in cool shades of blue, but your heart was hot with tension. You, the Archivist of the Circle of Light, were sorting through old archives when you came across the unexpected - Wing's holorecord, hidden among the training reports.

He started playing and his voice was usually calm, it sounded gentle and thoughtful

"I will never forget you. You were my continuation, my strength.." - the audio holorecording sounded

You didn't immediately understand who he was talking about, as a thought occurred to your processor, what if he was talking about his ex-partner, you thought it would be worth asking him who this "continuation" was, you weren't one of those who gets jealous, since you trust Wing, but now you felt a slight twinge of this jealousy, you were interested in how often he mentioned his ex, your fingers squeezed this recording, but you loosened your fingers in time so as not to break the datapad, you exhaled trying to calm down.

Suddenly the door to the archive opened, you threw the record away with a serious face and continued sorting through other datapads, the one who entered was none other than Wing

"Are you busy?" His voice was calm, but his optics were meticulously studying your servo wires, which were too quickly translating the datapad to "deferred"

You didn't look up, but your energetic movement of the servo wire betrayed your confusion.

"Yes. Archiving. Usual work"

He came closer, you didn't move from your place, so as not to show your embarrassment even more, your optician looked for a moment at the drawer of your desk where the record was, and immediately returned to her task, sorting the datapads

"You are so diligent with me" he tilted his steering wheel, his voice was warm, and curiosity played in the optician "found anything important?"

If you could sweat you would be covered in sweat in an instant, you didn't plan on talking to him about it right now so you forced out while still trying to keep a serious tone

"No"

Silence

Wing reached out the servo cable - not to you, but to the nearest rack and took a random datapad

"Then ....I won't interfere" he diverted the datapad in the servo cable, but his gaze slid to your table "if you need.... help ..."

You had to run, or confess, or ....

"...Maybe it's time for a snack?" You stood up, locking the necklace

Wing looked at you in surprise, then laughed quietly

"Snack?" He put the datapad back in place "okay."

......

Crystal Bridge. Circle of Light Training Hall.

Wing stood in the middle of the hall, his sword gleaming in the cold light of the crystal walls. He was sharpening the blade—not because it was dull, but because the routine helped to organize his thoughts.

He knows that his Conjunx Endura, the archivist, but today they were very tense, it was noticeable in their gestures, the way they tried to hide their emotions under seriousness.

Wing already guessed that they had found something in his past, nothing shameful, but there were things he did not talk about.

...

You thought about how best to ask Wing about what you had seen and heard.

So a little later you went to the training room, where Wing was. Wing had just finished another training session, he turned around as he heard someone enter the training room, Wing smiled at you.

You came closer

"Aren't I distracting you?" You asked

"Not anymore" his calm, light smile was still on his face

"Wing ....I have a question.."

"I'm listening to you, worldspark"

"Did you have someone before me?" You asked a little innocently

.

.

.

You looked at Wing in anticipation, you held the datapad you found behind your back in the servo wires.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, did you have someone before me?" You asked more directly, you showed the datapad and gave it to Wing

Wing watched the recording again, but to the end where it said that he was talking about a sword, and you didn't have time to watch it to the end, your optics widened from understanding how you looked

"Sweetiapark I was talking about a sword" Wing smiled looking at you, his smile still remained light

"What? Really?" You were surprised and didn't know where to go from shame, because you started to be jealous of Wing for his "ex" who turned out to be a sword, if you could your face plates would be very, very red

"You were jealous of me for a sword?"

"... A sword? A sword?!" Your processor froze for a second. If there was a way to get through the ground, you would have used it.

Silence. Even the hum of the fans seemed too loud.

You stared at the floor, where your fingerprint was already starting to burn out in shame.

“It was... an emotional breakdown,” you whispered, quite ready to disappear.

Wing put a hand on your shoulder:

“Flame, if you had watched the recording...” He turned on the hologram - the image of the blade appeared in the air. “...you would have known that I would never trade you for a weapon.”

Pause. Then - his eyes flashed:

“Although it did look good in my hands.”

You pushed him desperately in the chest, but Wing was already laughing, pulling you closer.

Shame turned to something warm as Wing held your servo, his fingers sliding over your wrist.

“You know…” his voice was low, on the verge of irony and tenderness. “If I were to truly compare you to a sword, it would only be because you are the only one who can break me.”

You were getting excited, but he didn’t let you say a word. His lips stopped a moment before touching, deliberately provoking:

“Say, flame… Do you really want me to stop joking?”

“No.”

Your response was instant. You gripped his shoulders, finally closing that damn distance.

The kiss was passionate and hot, so hot that your cooling systems had raised their activity level to mid-level.

Wing's digits traced the contours of your details on your waist, studying them and memorizing what they felt like.

After the kiss, he looked at you and smiled his usual smile, but there was a faint tenderness in the smile.

"Here... too open," you whispered, feeling his energy field hum at a low frequency.

Wing stifled a laugh in your neck module:

"You know the rule if no one sees the violation, it doesn't exist."

Suddenly, footsteps in the hallway.

You fell to the floor in a perfect battle roll, pretending to practice dodging. Wing stood above you with his sword as if demonstrating a technique.

The door opened. Dai Atlas froze in the doorway.

"Are you... training?" his voice was full of suspicion.

Wing calmly lowered his blade: "Yes. Yesterday the flamethrower lost to me at chess. Today he's working off his debts."

When Dai Atlas left, Wing opened a hidden equipment compartment, cramped but large enough for two.

"No one will find us here," his voice merged with the rustle of the ventilation system.

You felt his fingers find the sync connector on your back:

"You're not against unconventional training, are you?"

Your answer disappeared into his mouth module.

————————————————————————

(this was supposed to be a short fic, but whatever, I'm happy with the result)

(English not my native language)

[sonja-artefact-storage]

//current ongoing event: break time! read here :3

Hi, I’m Sonja Villanueva. She/Any.

I’m… taking a break from work right now. Just at home right now. And outside, too— well. not in the Institute would be a good word for it. And, er— Please don’t disturb me too much. I’d rather not think too much about work right now.

Let me know if you have any questions.

asks are open

unreality warning for the whole blog!

ooc, rules, and info under cut :D

yoyoyoyooo @iiinkos back at it again with another tma rp blog!! just an idea i had, probably less big and crazy as the others :)

i also run the rp blogs @gerry-the-archivist (an au in which gerry became the archivist) and @a-thousand-little-things (my 3 avatar ocs)

info:

- (ooc) or // = out of character

- sonja’s mentioned once in one line in dig as someone to look to talk to about artefact storage. and considering artefact storage’s reputation (sasha in mag 39), i thought, “what if she was terrifyingly competent and also definitely traumatized?” so i’m here now c:

- she can take in artefacts and all that if you wanna give her some :)

- she can also do rps where she belongs to other universes and in different timelines :D if she does, and no other member of her specific universe is in that thread or whatever, she will not have been replaced as head of storage during her break, and instead will still be head.

- rn she doesn’t know about the fears :3 my reason for this is that jon (canonically a good researcher) couldn’t find shit on smirke’s supernatural bullshit (mag 50). and even if sonja did find out somehow, she’d also probably. tell her assistants and employees and shit. including sasha. who’d probably tell jon and the others :p so yeah she doesn’t know and has basically had to rely on vibes and herself when dealing with The Spooky <3

- update! sonja is now aware of the fears!!! she’s still learning about them and she’s pissed that elias didn’t say shit :3 i encourage yall to take advantage of that

- i’ll make a post linking lore stuffs and all when it happens :D however i don’t plan on doing anything very extreme lore-wise with sonja, but she does have a backstory c:

- sonja was hired to work in the magnus institute when she was 21, and is currently 31. if we’re going by canon timeline, she’d be born in 1984 and hired in 2005 and it’s currently 2015, but in this universe there isn’t really a canon time for the “present day,” so. only the age stuff applies ig

- her last name being similar to syl’s, while being intentional, has no bearing on the plot, i just thought it’d be funny

- she is mixed black and filipino (filo because i cant stop projecting on characters)

rules:

- flirting allowed

- i might be ok with rping a relationship? but i can’t promise i’ll be good at it, and i might call it off if i feel like it’s too much :P she’s neptunic tho so no men or masc aligned

- no sexual content, or suggestive for that matter

- it’s fine to start new rps, join old rps, or just generally interact, i don’t mind

- anyone can rp with me, doesn’t matter if you have an rp blog or not, or are just an anon, or whatever

have fun c:

mod uses they/them

[sparrowrye]

The Archivist's Oath || Alastor x Reader, Chapter 21: better than I remember

Summary: Alastor finds an archivist who can translate Old World texts. Equally bound to their duty, reader and Alastor traverse the tricky landscape of love and commitment…but to whom and to what?

Chapter Synopsis: Grab some popcorn and a drink because you're gonna be here for awhile. This juicy near-6k chapter is packed with everything you could think of, so take your time 😉

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It's hard not to feel insignificant when you're sitting at a table with three of the most powerful people in the entire nation. Lucifer sat to my left, Alastor to my right, and Lady Carmilla directly in front of me. We were in a small, gloomy gray room in Lucifer's castle.

Lady Carmilla, head of the Military District, was the spitting image of feirce feminine beauty. She had two long, white horns protruding from her head and her large claws were folded neatly over each other on the table. The way she talked and held herself spoke of a level of elegance and intelligence that rivaled Alastor.

She had a perpetual glare that looked me over with a combination of scrutiny and curiosity. It made me wonder what people expected an Archivist to look like. Did I live up to that expectation? Or was I a downgrade? A small, scared, female Archivist without her wings or magic, and a novice in the world of social etiquette.

I expected Lady Carmilla to be intense, sharp, and all business. And while she was certainly the latter, there was also a surprising gentleness to her. I couldn't quite explain it, but it didn't feel condescending. It felt as though she genuinely saw me as someone who mattered in the conversation.

She gave me a rundown of everything they knew about the White Angels. They had a large camp just north of the city, directly on the coast, and traversed the land with stolen airships. Alastor seemed particularly upset about it, if the rough static catching in his throat and strained smile were any indication.

The White Angels had been a problem for the past five years, travelling with terrifying speed and wiping out communities within range of their camp and even beyond. My bunker, which was hidden in an oasis in the desert region, was often used as one of their temporary camp. Luckily, they never realized I was there.

The broadcasts Alastor—The Radio Demon—had sent out, made it sound like he, and Pentagram City for that matter, were defending these small communities from the White Angels. But he wasn't. He was racing against the White Angels to capture remaining communities before they could wipe them out. If the White Angels killed off all the communities, then Pentagram City wouldn't have people to conquer.

I glanced sideways at him, wondering if he could feel my confused animosity towards him.

"This particular angel," Carmilla said, referring to their recent prisoner, "didn't carry a gun. She had a spear and immediately surrendered when we found her."

"She was by herself?" I asked shyly.

Carmilla nodded. "She was injured, too. We believe she might have been outcasted."

Guns weren't common but they did exist. Alastor's men used them and so did Carmilla's soldiers, yet from what I was hearing, they were somehow inferior to the ones the White Angels used. Carmilla didn't go into detail about it.

Lucifer was oddly quiet during the whole conversation, dare I say uncomfortable even. He leaned against the armrest of his dark chair and repeatedly looked between me and Carmilla, attempting to gauge my reaction to something. His fingers tapped an unsteady rhythm on his cane as he did and I found myself bracing for an intervention of some sort...but it never came.

Carmilla went over the questions she wanted me to ask the angel if I could understand them. My apprehension grew with every passing moment. What if I couldn't translate? It somehow felt like a failure; a disappointment. I lived and breathed Old World language but speaking it was an entirely different thing.

And what if I could translate? What then? I would be an interrogation tool. I could be used in intense interrogations if the angel didn't willingly give up information. Could I handle something like that?

No. I wouldn't.

I wouldn't stand by and let them do something like that and use me as just another tool in their great conquest. I was still a prisoner–maybe not in the way Vox's people were–but it seemed I was able to get away with certain things. Although, I wasn't sure how lenient or brutal Lady Carmilla could be.

The height difference between Lucifer and Lady Carmilla was painfully evident from my viewpoint as we walked down the winding hallways of Lucifer's castle. The tap of his cane echoed loudly off the stone walls and Carmilla walked with her hands folded behind her back.

Alastor walked unusually close to me. The hairs on my arms stood up from the static electricity his magic was emanating off of him, making me wonder what he was using his magic for.

The hallways grew dark and colder the further we walked, until we eventually came to a seemingly random door. My heart lurched at the sound of metal jingling together as Lucifer withdrew a ring of large metal keys from his pocket. As he did, Carmilla opened a small slot on the door and peered inside. She slammed it shut and used Lucifer's keys to unlock it.

But she didn't open it.

Everyone turned to look at me and my heart skipped a beat. This was it.

I tried to swallow around the fear in my throat but that almost made it worse. Instead, I fisted my pant leg in a tight grip and took a moment to breathe, fighting to calm my nerves.

Alastor leaned down in my ear. "I'll be right behind you. You have nothing to fear."

It wasn't the angel I feared. It was them. It was him. What would happen if I couldn't translate? What would happen if I could translate? There was so much in the air, so much unknown, so much uncertainty. I just might get sick.

I took another deep breath then stepped up to the door. Lady Carmilla pulled it open with a loud creak and entered first. I moved around the corner, braced myself, and stepped into the cold cell.

My stomach churned at the sight before me. A woman, maybe my age, was huddled in the corner of the room. Her wrists were tightly bound in her lap and a metal chain was looped around her neck that connected to a random spot on the floor.

She wore nothing but white pants and a short sleeve. Her short, silver hair was disheveled and her face was spotted with dried blood from an injury on the other half of her face, now covered in dirty bandages.

Her remaining eye slowly looked up. Her head lifted slightly at my presence, confused but wary. What kind of interrogation had she already gone through? I should've asked Carmilla.

Silence stretched for several heartbeats. Was I supposed to initiate the conversation? I didn't know how to pronounce any Old English words. I could make a guess but I didn't know if it would be accurate. I had hoped the angel might say something first but, based on her physical state, I feared she wouldn't speak at all. I couldn't blame her, either.

I could feel everyone's eyes on me, awaiting my word. I felt a familiar prickle of fear crawl up my spine.

But then I realized something. I looked over my shoulder at Lady Carmilla. "Where are her wings?"

Carmilla first looked at Lucifer, then at Alastor, before answering. "Their wings aren't real."

"Aren't real?" I questioned, glancing back at the angel huddled in the corner. "What does that mean?"

"They developed technology that allows them to wear metal wings strapped to their backs," she said.

I slowly turned back to the angel. They were flightless.

Yet once again their technology surpassed anything Pentagram City had developed. It was no wonder I found Alastor half dead on my bunker doorstep that fateful rainy night.

The angel and I blinked at each other. I really wanted her to try speaking to see if I could understand something as simple as a greeting, but she did nothing but stare directly at me.

I felt Alastor step up behind me and I stuttered forward. I went as close to the angel as comfortably possible then knelt down so I was at her eye level. She shrank away from me–it was a subtle gesture but was enunciated by the heavy chains wrapped around her neck. I offered a small, sympathetic smile, hoping it would coax her into saying something.

It did.

She said something–asked something–and I immediately found that I couldn't understand her. She said something else but that too was garbled nonsense I didn't recognize.

I took a steadying breath and glanced over my shoulder at the awaiting leaders. Alastor stood closest, his eyes wide with an eagerness that made my stomach turn.

"I can't understand her," I finally said. Their shoulders sagged and their disappointment washed over me in a cold wave. I lowered my head, ashamed, then glanced at the angel. She looked between all of us, confused, and mumbled something else.

Alastor placed a tight hand on my shoulder.

I stood up but froze at the sight of writing on the floor. It was the phrase Alastor had copied down: when the waves are calm, more will come.

"Wait–" I pushed Alastor's hand off my shoulder and pointed to the angel's inscription, "—she can write." I looked between the three of them. "Do you have paper or something I can write with?"

Their eyes lit up in understanding and Lucifer used magic to withdraw a roll of paper from inside his coat. I grabbed the paper and pencil from him and sat in front of the angel again. I spread out the roll and wrote: can you understand this?

Her eye widened and I immediately knew she could read it. She shifted closer to the paper, the metal clanking obnoxiously against the cold stone, and accepted the pencil from my open palm. Her fingers were bruised and shaky, and it looked like she might have chewed or broken her nails at some point. She was cold to the touch.

You know English?

I took the pencil from her. I can read and write it. Not speak it.

She narrowed her good eye and I leaned away, unsure where the sudden animosity had come from. She took the pencil from my hand again and hurriedly scratched one word:

How?

Uncertainly, with a glance in Alastor's direction, I shifted closer to sit adjacent to her and the paper.

I'm an Archivist.

She spoke incoherently and it sounded like a curse or an expression of shock. She took the pencil. I thought you were extinct.

Not extinct. Hidden. Very few left. We exchanged a strange look, a feeling of confused understanding. I wrote again. What happened to you?

She was much more gentle when she took the pencil this time: Outcast. When I pointed to my eye in reference to her injured one, she wrote: my people did this to me.

I took the pencil but Alastor cleared his throat before I could write more. "What are you discussing?"

I glanced up from where I knelt beside the angel. "She was outcasted. Her own people hurt her." I leaned down and wrote my next question: Can you tell me about your message? I then pointed to the area on the floor where she had written her original message.

She nodded. When the waves are calm, more of us will come. They want to kill everyone on this side.

I furrowed my eyebrows. This side?

This side of the ocean.

I don't understand.

She thought for a moment, debating how to best explain it to me. There is more land on the other side of the Atlantic.

I quickly took the pencil. With people on it?

Yes.

My mouth dropped. Is that where you came from?

She circled Yes.

My grandmother had been right–people had survived on the other continents. All the textbooks in my archive said everything had been wiped out on that side of the world by weapons and war and famine.

My texts had been wrong.

Clearly I wasn't the only one who had been misled because the angel wrote next: we didn't know people were still alive here.

I pushed away my burning questions and asked the one we've all been waiting for: what do you mean by calm waves?

She winced from one of her many injuries as she shifted to write easier. Storms make ocean travel dangerous. When ocean is calm, more will come from my homeland.

"What is she saying?" Alastor pressed. I looked up to find him and the other two leaders inching closer, eagerly waiting for my translation.

I first looked at the angel, then met Alastor's sharp gaze. "When Storm Season is over, more White Angels are coming from across the ocean."

"That's not possible," he snapped. "No one has ever been able to cross the ocean."

"Their technology is obviously more advanced than ours," I argued gently.

"The angels we know are likely scouts," Carmilla declared. "They were probably sent ahead to secure a base of operations." She gestured to me–to the paper–in a silent command to ask the angel for confirmation.

Alastor continued to argue while I translated. "The angels have been around for five years. If they were a scout then the rest of them would've already arrived."

"They've been arriving in small groups," I explained, reading off the angel's writing. "They've been building a larger ship to take more of them over this time."

Lucifer paled and stared at the ground. I understood his panic after spending so much time working on the Agriculture District. The city would barely recover from Storm Season before more deadly White Angels arrived on their coast. If a small batch of scouts could cause as much damage and struggle as they have been doing, then an entire civilization of them could wipe out the whole city—and even the entire nation.

I turned the paper over and wrote: what kind of technology do you have?

She took the pencil. Radio. Guns. Electricity. Solar Power.

I leaned back against the wall and rubbed my face, completely distraught. "They have solar power."

"Not possible," Alastor hissed.

"Well it is!" I stumbled to my feet. "Nothing we know is true. There weren't supposed to be people over there. For all we know, the entire world could be perfectly fine but our nation is the only one destroyed and cut off from the rest of the world. Old Humanity didn't even use solar power very heavily and now the White Angels have revolutionized it."

Carmilla gave Lucifer a look. "We can't stand against an entire nation of White Angels. Their technology and manpower would outmatch us."

Lucifer didn't respond, instead rubbing his face and turning away from us. My eyes fell on Alastor and so did the words that were about to come out. I wanted to tell him my texts were skewered, biased, wrong even, and that my whole life might have been devoted to a lie.

But Alastor wasn't there anymore.

It was the Radio Demon.

The three leaders fell into discourse over the next plan of action, forgetting all about me and the angel in the corner of the dark cell. I met her eyes. She was afraid, too.

I carefully took the pencil from her dry, cracked fingers and wrote: What is your name?

A small smile finally broke through her tough, scared exterior.

Vaggie.

{|}

Alastor and I walked in silence back to the Magic District. The wind whistled and howled loudly over the storm barriers above. The first few drops were beginning to fall, signaling the downpour was moments away.

I stayed a pace behind Alastor so I could watch him closely for any change in mannerisms. He was tense, angry, and his magic occasionally pinched my skin, like a small shock when you touch metal after getting off the couch.

Walking into his tower felt like walking back into a cage. My arms felt heavy and a subtle feeling of dread crawled into my lungs. I immediately went upstairs, ignoring Niffty's cheerful greeting, and wrapped myself up in my grandmother's quilt. I heard Alastor go into his room and close the door behind him.

I stayed that way for awhile, listening to the rain drum against the single window. I stared at nothing and thought of nothing. The only sign of the world continuing on without me was the dimming of natural light in my room.

Finally, when the world was dark and the thunder loud, I managed to peel myself off the bed. I lit a lantern and carried it to the corner of the room, surveying my tower of books—of my life's work. Was any of it true? How much was biased? The texts about herbs, about technology, about science—all of those were fine. But the other ones?

I knelt down and peeled open the loose floorboard. I pulled out one of the massive books, carefully setting it on my lap. I ran my fingers over the archivist insignia on the front.

History.

Propaganda?

I slowly flipped through the pages my grandmother had written. Every two generations, a new copy of the Archivist Timeline needed to be made. My daughter would've been the next one to rewrite it.

The timeline said the world fell apart. Every country was at war with one another, slowly killing each other off with bombs, machinery, famine, and diseases. Eventually, the entire right side of the world simply ceased to exist.

The left side of the world had also suffered losses, and it never fully recovered after the war. Human pollution suffocated what little resources were left and Mother Nature took over what was once hers through storms, flooding, and landslides. It was by some miracle that a handful of people managed to pull through.

And yet that wasn't entirely true.

The White Angels were living proof that there was an entire civilization on the right side of the world. Their technology was advanced, so did they not suffer a Great Downfall? What was their history like? Did they have Archivists, too, or historians of some kind?

But Vaggie knewabout the Archivists. She thought we were extinct. How did she even know we existed if she couldn't speak our language? How much of our history overlapped? What else did I not know? What would my grandmother think? Or my mother? My brother? My ancestors? Why was I left with all the hard decisions? Why was I left alone?

Why was I alone?

A water droplet fell on the yellow page. Then another.

I sniffled and gently pushed the book off my lap. I pulled my knees to my chest and wrapped my arms around them, resting my chin on top.

Why was I alone?

I stared at the Archivist insignia. There was no way to prove that any of what I believed was true. I couldn't fact check any of it. How was I supposed to move forward? Did my oath hold any weight to it anymore?

The creaking of floorboards drew my attention, and I looked up to find Alastor standing at the top of the stairs, his hand resting on the railing. He wore a red long sleeve but his monocle and staff were missing.

I turned my head away and wiped the tears with my sleeve. His steps drummed against the floorboards as I repositioned myself to sit crisscrossed. I didn't bother trying to hide the books again—it wasn't like they mattered as much anymore.

I expected him to put a hand on my shoulder, but he didn't. Instead, he sat beside me, one leg bent and resting his arm across that knee, the other hand propping him up as he leaned slightly my way.

For a few minutes, we said nothing.

The storm continued just on the other side of the stone walls, howling and whistling like the world inside my head. I could feel him watching me.

"What upset you?" he finally asked.

My eyes stayed glued to the open book in front of me. "Nothing. I'm just thinking."

He fell quiet again, eyes glossing over the book. They drifted back to me but I turned my head away from him.

"Had something been left out of your history books?" he chanced.

I scoffed quietly. "You mean the entire damn thing?"

"I fail to see how the prisoner could cause such a—"

"They came from across the ocean!" I threw my hands out in front of me. "No one is supposed to even exist over there. If my timeline is wrong about that, then what else could it be wrong about?"

I pulled my legs up again and punched my cheek into my knee, staring at the empty fireplace. I shouldn't have yelled at him but I didn't feel like watching my tone. My world was falling apart again.

He didn't respond right away. Silence prevailed as much as the storm. I wiped away tear after tear until the cuff of my sleeve was soaked.

"My oath was supposed to be a framework," I mumbled. "All my decisions were based on that oath but that might not even be true." I glared at him over my shoulder. "I suppose you're happy to hear that."

He knew the needle was on purpose—he'd have to be deaf not to—but his reaction was one I wasn't expecting.

"Logistically speaking, yes. But I'm not happy to see you so distraught over it."

I turned back to the empty fireplace, completely without a comeback. He let out a heavy sigh. "Perhaps before you condemn an entire lineage of archivists, you should speak with the prisoner some more."

Before we left Lucifer's castle, it had been decided that I would continue to question the White Angel under Carmilla's supervision. Vaggie seemed open to conversation and I guessed it had to do with being outcasted by her own people. Though I couldn't understand why they had let her live instead of killing her. That seemed like something they'd do.

Alastor's words had some merit to them. History wasn't perfect—nothing ever made by humans was—so I didn't need to question my entire life's work based on a small detail that might've been overlooked. After all, how was anyone supposed to know what was happening on the other side of the world when the Internet and power grid went down?

"Alright," I muttered. Despite myself, more tears fell and I wiped my face in a desperate attempt to keep my sniffles quiet.

But he knew.

He placed a gentle hand on my back and it made something break inside me.

I choked out a sob and hugged my legs tighter, my body jerking with every gurgled inhale. I tried to be quiet—I did—I even tried crying into my shoulder so my wailing wouldn't be so loud.

I wanted him closer. I wanted to rest my head on his shoulder and feel his arms hold me close. But he didn't like touch. The most he ever did was put a hand on my shoulder. Even in my bunker he had been particular about his personal space.

I curled even tighter into myself.

His hand slipped from my back and the cold rushed to replace his warmth. I lifted my head, expecting to see him walk away, only to flinch when I found him moving closer instead. My tears stilled as he wrapped his arm fully around my back, leaning in just enough for our shoulders to touch.

"What are you doing?" I wiped my nose on my sleeve. He stiffened, his grip loosening a fraction, like he wasn't sure if he should be touching me.

"...Comforting you?" His tone was uncertain, like he wasn't convinced he had used the word correctly.

I sniffled. "Why?"

He furrowed his eyebrows. "Because you're distraught? Why else?" It sounded as though he was annoyed that I needed him to explain it at all. The irritation in his voice nearly masked the concern beneath it.

"I didn't think you'd care."

He sighed heavily. "You say that a lot. And yet this is the third time I've cared for you when you're..." He struggled to find a word. "Emotionally spiraling."

I wiped my nose with my sleeve and struggled to hide my smile. "I figured by now you'd be a master at comforting me, then."

The corner of his lip curled slightly upward at the jibe. "Perhaps if you were more open." He tilted his head forward slightly, catching my eyes. "You rarely speak your true thoughts unless we're arguing."

I glanced away at the forgotten book and mumbled, "Says the one who isn't very open, either."

He squeezed my shoulder--not in an angry or threatening way, but more like a comfort. "Well, I was stuck in a secret bunker with a woman who threatened to undo my stitches if I didn't bathe."

I met his gentle, ruby-colored eyes. "You did that all on your own," I said, referring to the night he had accidentally pulled out his own stitches because of a nightmare. "And used up the last of my bandages."

He glanced at my wrapped feet for several heartbeats, silently debating on making his remark. "We'll call it even, then."

I rested my head on my knee and basked in the warmth his body was emanating. "We're very much not even."

His ear flicked once. "How so?"

"I still have three more wins to even the score." I recalled the numerous card games we had played on my couch when he complained of boredom.

"Four, my dear," he corrected. "And I fear we may never be even. You have much to learn." He flicked his wrist and in a swish of green magic held an ACE between his fingers.

"You cheated twice."

He narrowed his eyes playfully and vanished the card. "That is slander."

"I caught you red handed!" I leaned into him. "You were using magic and I called you out on it."

"I recall no such thing." He draped his arm over my shoulder, leaning more of his weight against me. His cheek nearly brushed mine. "But I do recall someone sneaking glances at the next card in the draw pile."

"Well, if you weren't going to play fair then I wasn't either." I wiped my face clean of tears.

His smiled widened. "Aren't Archivists supposed to be pillars of integrity?"

"Please," I scoffed. "I was trapped in a metal box with a man who thought he was indestructible, instead of bleeding all over my floor. Integrity died on day one."

He laughed—actually laughed—and the sound vibrated through my chest from our close proximity. I giggled in response, letting him push his cheek against mine. "I guess we both have our faults, don't we?"

"One more than the other." I stretched out my legs and rested my head on his shoulder. His hand moved up and down my arm methodically as he leaned back on his other arm, keeping us both upright.

"Correct," he replied. "For instance, your fault lies in your ability to be bored for hours on end." His chest hummed with every word he spoke, lulling me into a half sleep.

"And yours is that you're unable to be bored for even a second."

"A fault that was remedied thanks to your boring bunker life."

I yawned. "Rosie's right. You could do with some boredom in your life."

"And why's that?"

A smile stretched across my face and I pressed my forehead into the side of his neck. "Because you do things like this."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he let it stretch further. His hand continued tracing a gentle path up and down my arm, our steady breathing replacing the distant howl of the wind. I could feel the rhythm of his heart through his chest, syncing with mine in quiet tandem.

Feeling brave, I wrapped both arms around his torso and rubbed my cheek against his shirt. He smelled like cinnamon and leather with a tinge of smoke. He smelled like Al.

My heart skipped a beat as he rubbed his cheek against the top of my head, drawing in a deep breath that lifted his chest. I wondered what he thought of my scent. Did he only ever smell vanilla because of the incense necklace I wore? Or did I have my own personal scents, like how he always seemed to have?

We stayed that way for several minutes, wrapped in each other's warmth while the storm raged outside. For the first time in my life, I truly felt the safe.

I didn't know how long it would last, but for now, I let myself enjoy it. I savored the weight of his arm draped protectively over me; the stillness in the air; the quiet truce between us; and the warmth in his chest that chased away the cold shadows of doubt.

Eventually, the soft moment came to an end when Niffty called for dinner.

Alastor sighed. "I'm afraid the little darling will be heartbroken if we let our dinner go cold," he said, though his tone held reluctance—maybe he didn't want this moment to end either.

I gave him a final squeeze before pulling away, feeling my heart grow heavier with every inch of distance between us. Our eyes met, and just like that, I was suddenly back in the bunker with him.

The smell of rusted metal and damp earth filled my nose, and the faint sound of birds chirping echoed in the distance. The lights were dim in my bunker—the only refuge being a small lantern on the floor which casted smooth shadows across his cheeks.

His expression softened, almost uncertain but still there, and my heart skipped. I returned the smile as I remembered the way he tucked a stray piece of hair behind my ear. I remembered the way he pressed his palm to my cheek and rubbed his thumb over my skin.

His lips parted slightly. I instinctively wet my own and his gaze flickered down to catch the movement. His smile deepened with quiet amusement before he lowered his head, meeting me halfway.

Our lips brushed in a gentle kiss. Our eyes fluttered shut and we tilted our heads in opposite directions. His hand moved to the back of my head to hold me in place as we took a quick breath of air.

We pressed harder into the second kiss. He wrapped his arm entirely around the back of my head, letting it rest in the bend of his elbow and pulling me even closer. My hands moved up his sides and hooked onto his shoulders to bring him further down.

I flinched when his tongue rubbed my top lip and he almost pulled away, if not for the way I pushed against him, accidentally setting him off balance and making him fall on his back.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to—"

His claws cupped the back of my head and pulled me into a rough kiss. His tongue slicked over mine as our teeth clashed and lips burned, rubbing together and trying to engulf one another.

I shifted further on his chest but he quickly rolled over top of me, his hand staying protectively on the back of my head as his lips moved along my jawline.

I sighed deeply with content as he made his way down my neck. My fingers gripped his shirt and goosebumps went up my arms as he took my skin between his teeth. He smoothed his tongue over the bite then did it again closer to my ear.

I moved my hand across his back, feeling the lean muscles working to keep him over me. His heavy breaths and the slick sound of wet kisses directly in my ear were driving me insane. My chest burned with every breath I took.

I turned my head toward him and captured his lips again. He hummed into the kiss and I felt it all the way down my toes. His tongue felt slightly colder when he pushed it between my lips, but I didn't care.

I couldn't think past the feeling of my hands in his hair, finding the base of his antlers and ears. I couldn't think past the feeling of his knee between my legs. Or his weight on my chest. Or his breath on my cheeks.

I whined when we broke the kiss. "...Al."

I blinked up at him, realization dawning on me. He blinked back. Then smiled.

My cheeks flushed even more and I crossed my arms, turning away to stare at the lantern by my feet. He chuckled and slid a red finger under my chin.

"Eyes on me, darling."

My stomach twisted wonderfully and I fisted my shirt until my whole hand turned white. I breathed in sharply right as he kissed me again, then melted into his hand, allowing my back to arch upwards so our bodies pressed together.

Then Niffty shouted up the stairs.

Both of us jumped and sat up, right as she climbed up the remaining flight of stairs, hands on her hips. Alastor hadn't been lying when he said she would be upset.

"We're coming Niffty, dear," Alastor said as patiently as he could manage. Niffty crossed her arms then trudged back downstairs.

I hid my smile behind my hand but it was pointless. He half glared at me and got to his feet, not without grazing his fingers over my chin playfully. He held out his hand and helped me up.

I moved towards the stairs but he wrapped an arm around my shoulders to stop me, leaning into my ear to whisper, "Better than I remember."

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Author's Note:

Testing. Testing. One two. Is the fluff any good?

My Demi Demons know I like to have a long string of these types of chapters in a row 😏

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Taglist:

@drevisrose @until-thedaysof-spring @torustesseract @sirens-and-moonflowers @papas-ghoulette @eris-norwega

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Reflection Readers:

Do your thing 😉 no holding back

@until-thedaysof-spring @fynariel

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[miquiti]

There is something deeply human in these characters who cry out—sometimes in silence, sometimes in fury—to be more than the titles they carry, more than the expectations placed upon their shoulders. They are figures trapped in stories not their own, shaped by duty, heritage, or destiny. And at the center of each one, a muffled cry beats, longing simply to be themselves.

Optimus Prime wasn't born with that name. He was Orion Pax, an idealistic archivist. But the Matrix of Leadership turned him into a symbol, a martyr. They call him leader, savior, Prime. And yet, beneath tons of responsibility and sacrifice, still dwells that being who once dreamed of peace without having to embody it. Maybe he no longer wants to carry the weight of a millennia-old war. Maybe he just wishes to be a free spark with small dreams.

Hunter inherited a title he never asked for. The game was rigged against him before he was even born. The Golden Guard, right hand of a tyrant. Always masked, because behind it, there was no need to think, decide, or exist. When he took it off, he didn’t find his face, but that of another: Caleb Wittebane, a man killed for choosing freedom. Hunter is a grimwalker, a replica in a chain of repetitions. He is not Belos, nor his nephew, nor a killer, nor a redeemed soul. He just wants to be Hunter. But he doesn’t know what that means unless someone tells him who to be.

Lloyd Garmadon watched as everyone around him exercised the right to choose their own destiny, while he was denied even the illusion of that freedom. Son of Garmadon. Grandson of the First Spinjitzu Master. The Green Ninja. The Golden Ninja. Weapon and shield. Hero and legend. Symbol of hope, and living memory of suffering. Conduit of the Source Dragons. Channel of primordial balance. He was granted countless titles—except one: Lloyd. Just Lloyd. Beneath the weight of so many borrowed names, his identity became indistinguishable even to himself. He no longer knew if he was a boy destined for greatness, or a construct shaped by the expectations of a world that never allowed him to be anything else.

When a Gem is created, it’s for a reason. They emerge from the Earth already knowing what they are supposed to be—and then… that’s what they are. Forever. They’re not real people, or so they’re told. Pearls were made to belong. Their entire existence woven around the will of others. Their value measured in devotion and submission. But when one became a renegade, a warrior, a companion, a confidante—when she mistook love for freedom, and that love that once called her his Pearl, a possession with a sweet voice and absolute loyalty, walked away… the question remained: who is Pearl if she belongs to no one? What is a Pearl for, if not that? If she doesn’t belong…?

Amethyst, a malformed Quartz, was born by accident, part of an invasion. She’s smaller, less strong—an anomaly. She never asked to exist. She shapeshifts constantly, like someone apologizing for taking up space. Not knowing where she comes from… does that make her less worthy?

Garnet is a stable fusion. Love incarnate between Ruby and Sapphire, Gems of opposing ranks. Their union is seen as shameful, unnatural. But Garnet exists as an act of defiance—as the affirmation of a we in a world that only accepts I.

Jim Lake Jr. lifted an amulet and lost his childhood. The first human Trollhunter. Merlin’s champion. Protector. Warrior. They told him he had to sacrifice himself, that his life only made sense in battle. But Jim only wanted to be a son, a friend, a boyfriend, a student, an amateur chef. He wanted an ordinary life. And that’s what makes him extraordinary: that at his core, among monsters and prophecies, there lived a boy who just wanted to live—not to save.

Harry Potter never chose the scar or the title. Before he could speak, he was The Boy Who Lived. Before he could understand, he was The Chosen One. He carries his mother’s eyes, his father’s face, death as a shadow, and love as a shield. His identity was a puzzle assembled by others. Only those who saw him without a pedestal—Hermione, Ron, Luna—managed to see the boy behind the myth. The kid who just wanted a normal life. And never had it.

Jinx, or Powder, never knew which of the two was real. A girl who failed. A warrior who survived. She was called mistake, prodigy, threat. But among the wreckage of both, no clear identity remains. Only the question: what could she have been if no one had forced her to choose between being broken… or being cruel?

Leonardo, among his brothers, was the one left without a place of his own. Not the strongest, nor the funniest. The least favored son. The leader by obligation. He became arrogant to hide the fear, joking to fill the emptiness. He became the most powerful ninja of all time. He became the one blamed for the end of the world. He just wanted to read comics and watch Jupiter Jim with his family.

Lake was born as a reflection. Her existence tied to someone else’s. They told her she wasn’t real, that she had no right to an identity. But Lake chose to shatter the mirror. She chose her voice, her face, her path. She chose to name herself. Her greatest act of rebellion wasn’t escape—it was to look in the mirror and see not Tulip, but herself. In a world that denies her existence, Lake declares herself real.

Ellie was born into a broken world. She was called hope, salvation, the cure. But that expectation became an unbearable burden. She lost friends, family, innocence. She is not Sarah. She is not just a cure. She’s a teenager scarred by loss, a girl forced into martyrdom. When Joel lied to her, he didn’t just take a truth—he took the only meaning her existence had. And when he dies, her fury is left without direction. Only hunger remains. The girl fades. What’s left is a shadow of vengeance and loneliness. Her greatest fear was being alone… and ironically, that became her fate.

Cassandra grew up feeling invisible. Her mother abandoned her. Her father didn’t believe in her. She wanted to be a warrior, but they left her a servant. Assigned as lady-in-waiting to the lost princess, Rapunzel. A princess with everything she ever wanted: attention, purpose, destiny. And though they became friends, Cassandra always felt like she lived in the background. When she tried to warn of danger, no one listened. She paid the price with a wound that nearly cost her her arm… and her faith in others. She began to believe that if she wanted a place in the story, she’d have to steal it. She betrayed Rapunzel, her father, herself. And deep down, she only wanted to be chosen, just once. But in trying, she ended up used again. Once more, pushed aside. To find redemption, she had to leave. To seek her own path, her true worth, far from all that hurt her.

Moses didn’t begin his life as a prince, but as a threat. A decree sought his death before he could even speak. His mother, heartbroken, let him go in a basket, hoping the river would give him a chance. And the river brought him to the palace. Raised among marble and gold, called a son of royalty, educated as an Egyptian… But he wasn’t. The truth hit like a blow: he wasn’t the child of pharaohs, but of slaves. Not noble, but Hebrew. Everything he knew became foreign. He belonged neither here nor there. Rejected by his own, hunted by the others. He tried to bring justice, but became a fugitive. He left everything behind, carrying guilt and questions. Until God called him—not for his lineage, nor for perfection, but for his restless heart. Moses, the lost child, the prince of Egypt, the slave’s son, the divided man, was chosen to lead a people. He had to face his past, his brother, and the empire that raised him. And he did. He led his people to freedom—not as prince, nor slave, but as someone who found purpose beyond the pain of not knowing who he was. Because sometimes, losing everything is the beginning of finding yourself. And understanding that true destiny is not inherited… it’s chosen.

Anyway, it got me thinking — what if I just psychoanalyze every character ever? And if you see me posting a lot, I’m not gonna apologize. Because today I’m starting med school again and it’s about to drain my soul and any will to live I had left. So buckle up, besties 💋💅

[just-an-enby-lemon]

The people are different versions but still exist in TMAGP and that absolutly is the one thing moving a very specific TMA AU.

Basically besides joining the Institute, Tim gets very into online supernatural foruns trying to find people with similar experiences. So one day he gets a mysterious mensage from someone about the "thing wearing my brother's skin". The e-mail is about a young lady that says something very similar happened to her and her uncle and she has been investigating similar stories since. They chat more and with Sasha advice Tim decides fuck it and meets the woman, both pretend it's a date.

Everything is well until Tim mentions working dor the Magnus Institute, she, who presented herself only by Gwen, pales and goes "oh you're one of them" and leaves after saying "I'm not playing his games. I'm not feeding him." Tim is very confused, he thinks maybe the Institue tried to investigate her case and failed. They are not in the archive yet so he asks Jon and Sasha with help without giving any detail, basically hoping Sasha conection with Gertrude means she has acess to the archives and Jon being way to into spending long nights working will help them sort whatever Sasha finds.

Except Sasha finds nothing. Until a random day were she comes up with a big grim and goes "you guys won't ever be abble to guess what I found out?" and open in a very funky web page advertising Gwendolyn Bouchard, paranormal lawyer. Sasha is laughting, Jon is ranting about what a paranormal lawyer would even be but Tim is like "oh shit, that's her".

He doesn't connect the dots at first. Or doesn't want to. But he keeps thinking about "I'm not feeding him" and he is like "random question what do you guys know about Elias" and Sasha goes research into it.

At this point he and Jon aren't close friends but they are friends and if their boss is one of the things that ate his brother he needs to figure out something. With the assumption Elias is a clown, Tim does actually notice how creepy Elias is with Jon and is fully "Jon won't belive me but Elias is totally into eating his insides or whatever". So he tells the truth to Sasha and tricks Jon into visiting Gwen's lawyer thing for answers.

I still did not figure out most of the other things, except that Alice and Gwen are together in this verse and Alice made the web design for Gwen's page. I also know I want alt Sam and I want just our Celia who keeps almost meeting them but never doing. Or even a Celia that came back and has a dificult time being at her world and interacting with different versions of people that mattered so much to her.

I don't know still what to do with Sam, because I think Martin was very clearly Jonah backup archivist and the thing is Elias will try to convince Jon Gwen is the crazy/evil one and either he'll suceed making Jon betray his friends and be the archivist but with different assistants (except Martin) or he won't and Martin will start as the archivist. And while backup archivist/archival assistant Sam makes sense I'm unsure I want that for him. I'm thinking maybe this version of Sam after failing to get into Oxford went into a "rebelious" phase instead of doubling down in trying to met his parents high expectations and ended up joining Melanie ghost hunting channel. But not sure.

Like if I actually go the route of Celia is back trying to find help for both her worlds a Sam that's not quite the Sam she knows/cares about would be interesting. Like he is deep down the same but also he isn't in some obvious ways and she might just miss her Sam more. But if this is an AU not as connected with Protocol than maybe a Sam that's pretty much our Sam but if he was in Archives would make sense. Idk.

And ofc Basira and Daisy that I'm always partial to but I have no clue how to add, except maybe with them starting as Gwen and Alice rivals because Gwen attorney bussiness interferes with their sectioned police work. Also Gwen being an attorney is a 100% because I fully think she was her normal manipulative rise to the top and keep the Bouchard's name girl and went into law school for it except she mets Alice and by the same period Jonah happens and she was close to Elias (even if in parts was because she looked better in the family eyes when they were together by comparison) and it changed everything.

I don't know a lot about Alice either but she was Lena's college roomate and atended classes with Colin (yes he is here as well, unsure what to do with him tho). She had a paranormal encounter that left a scar similar but in oposition to Georgie's where she has a "spider sense" sort of think and can feel when the fears are involved, she knows if a library or book fair has a Leitner and where for example. It happened when she was young and possibly involved meeting my boy Gerry but she tried to avoid the supernatural ever since. She was very reluctant over helping Gwen except she acidentaly overheard her talking to "Elias" and Jonah messed with her head. More importantly she knows that ignoring sometimes is worse because some secret involving her baby brother who may or may not have joined Grifters Bone and becamed a Slaughter Avatar.

The supernatural lawyer was a joke from Alice but Gwen took it seriusly and Alice was loke "really?" and guess this moron will need help to not die/became an avatar and became her paralegal (tho it had nothing to do with her actual college diploma).

[pitviperofdoom]

Jongerry prompt: reunion after one thought the other was dead?

Tim wasn’t sure what to make of the guy. 

They met in an awkward almost-collision at the institute’s front door, Tim rearing back in surprise, the other flinching away from the sudden movement. He was lanky, and probably would’ve been tall without the permanent slouch to his spine. His hair was a dull shade of mousy brown, and looked like it had been hacked short with kitchen scissors. His clothes hung loose and ill-fitting on his body. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

Tim took a wild guess. “Here to make a statement?” he asked.

The man grimaced. “Maybe later.”

“I’d make it quick if I were you,” Tim chuckled, holding the door open for him. “Jon was in a good mood before lunch, and those don’t tend to last long.”

Halfway through the door, the man froze. “Who?”

“Jon Sims, the head archivist,” Tim said carefully. “He’s the one who takes statements, so…”

“Oh.” The man’s face was blank. “He’s… that’s… down in the archives, yeah?”

“I can show you how to get there?” Tim offered. Whatever statement this guy had, it must have been rough.

"Sure, thanks," the guy said distractedly.

In spite of the accepted offer, the guy quickly pulled ahead, and Tim found himself trailing behind as the scruffy stranger led the way to the basement stairs. Before long, he was jogging to keep up.

That was why, when the man suddenly stopped at the top of the steps, Tim crashed straight into his back.

"Hey, what did you—"

A hand closed tight around his arm, stopping him from shouldering past. The man had gone still, staring intently down the steps. There was nothing to see except the bottom of the stairs, and the mouth of the hallway that led to the archives.

"Smell that?"

Confused, Tim sniffed. At first all he could smell was dust and old paper, but then, beneath it, as if carried on a draft, came a familiar musty, wet stench.

"Damn worms," He muttered. "We've had a bit of an infestation—dunno if you saw them on your way in—"

"I'm gonna need you to shut up and go back outside," the man interrupted. "Maybe pull the fire alarm on your way out, get everyone out of the building."

"Excuse me?" Tim demanded. The man was already releasing him and moving on, so Tim grabbed him before he could make it two more steps. "Hey, what the hell are you—"

"Listen." The man turned, deftly winching his arm out of Tim’s grip. "I have had a very long day. I was hoping it would end with a long shower, a change of clothes, and a minimum twenty-minute hug from someone who means the world to me. Instead, there's something very nasty down there that I need to deal with. Kindly piss off."

Tim's blood ran cold. "You—you mean Prentiss is—" He stopped. He had a million questions, but maybe just this once they could wait. "My friends are down there."

The man spared a moment to look, if possible, even more exhausted than before. "Great. Fine. Stay close and don't fuck me."

***

Tim's head swam with the gas. His body felt strangely detached as he heaved the fire extinguisher against the wall, again and again until he felt the plasterboard give way. His strange companion drew back as if preparing to do a run-up, and Tim hurled himself into the space and finally broke through.

His first view into the dimly lit storage room was of three familiar faces with varying levels of shock, alarm, and growing relief.

"Hey, guys!" Tim gasped out.

Sasha was already struggling to her feet; Tim was about to go in for a hug when he was roughly shoved out of the way. A gas canister landed on the floor with a heavy thunk as the stranger lurched his way past Tim.

A strangled cry broke the shocked silence, and it took Tim a moment to realize it had come from Jon. His friend was sitting on the floor, propped up against a stack of boxes, one leg wrapped in bloodstained bandages. He stared at the man in blank, silent shock.

The stranger moved as if to lunge, but stopped when Jon held up a shaking hand.

"Wait." Jon's voice broke. He was fumbling something out of his pocket, wincing when the movement jarred his leg. "Wait, just—" 

"Mmhm," the man said in a strangled voice, fidgeting but staying where he was.

Jon finally wrestled his wallet out of his pocket, ripped it open, and pulled out a photo—a Polaroid? His eyes flickered between it and the man standing over him.

The wallet fell to the floor. With a sudden burst of energy, Jon heaved himself upright, and managed to stand for all of a second before his leg gave out and sent him pitching forward. The man caught him before he could fall and yanked him into a hug.

"What the fuck, Gerry," Jon choked out.

Sasha was eyeballing Tim frantically, but all Tim could do was shrug back.

"I'm sorry," the man—Gerry—mumbled, face buried in the side of Jon's neck.

"I thought—she told me that you—" Jon stared blankly over Gerry's shoulder, looking at the others without seeing them. "Where have you been?"

"Couple of hunters picked up our trail in the woods in Pennsylvania," Gerry answered. "We split up. They caught me. Didn't kill me, just… didn't let me leave either. Sorry I didn't contact you right when I escaped, I just—I was afraid I'd get your hopes up and get killed on the way home."

In the silence that followed, Martin let out a strangled "Um."

Jon jumped, and his teary eyes focused back on them. "Oh. Right. Er." He tried to pull back, without much success since Gerry was the only thing keeping him upright. "E-everyone, this is Gerry."

"You just finished telling us he was dead," said Sasha.

"Yes, well." Jon managed a watery smile. "I've been wrong before."

"We had a moment about it."

"Right." Without warning, Gerry reached down and swung Jon up into his arms in a bridal carry, ignoring Jon's squawk of protest. "Let's go. We can talk later—and we will be talking later—"

"Gerry!"

"Seriously, I turn around and you're fighting the Corruption with fire extinguishers, and you're the bloody Archivist."

"Put me down, you absolute—"

"No, you've got holes in your leg." Gerry shouldered past Tim and stepped back into the tunnel, carrying a disgruntled Jon with little apparent effort. "You three coming, or what?"

[jgabriel1920]

The Archivist’s Oath || Alastor x Reader, Chapter 7

Synopsis: You discover a new friend and the pieces are put in motion.

A GABRIEL NOTE: WARNING, THIS IS CANON AND WAS GIVEN TO ME BY GOD ( @sparrowrye ). She had some problems with the internet; we tried posting on her account but couldn't for some odd reason, so sorry for the late posting and different place. I hope you all enjoy the chapter (I certainly did, muahahaha)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The woman, by the name of Rosie, arrived shortly after my conversation with Alastor. I had remained rooted to my spot in the corner of the living room, unwilling to go anywhere near him as we waited.

She was tall and thin, and her pale skin contrasted her black eyes. Her white hair was pinned in a tight bun but allowed a few curls to poke around her cheeks. She wore a flowy maroon dress with black accents on the side. A black belt cinched her waist and the dress continued over her chest and down her arms. Clearly she also enjoyed the shades of red like Alastor.

I wondered if he forced his people to wear colors of red. I certainly wouldn't let him put me in those awful colors.

"Pleasure to finally meet you, dearie," she greeted with a polite handshake. Her fingers felt boney. "Alastor hasn't stopped talking about you since he came back. We owe a lot to you for keeping our lovely cactus alive."

Rosie's wide smile and cheery attitude coaxed a nervous smile on my face. "Cactus?" I asked.

"A rather bothersome plant in this region," Alastor said as he came to stand beside the woman. "My dear, this is Rosie. The most darling, delightful, and dangerous woman in the whole city." He then introduced me, placing a red hand on my shoulder despite my effort to avoid it.

Rosie clapped her hands together. "Everyone is very excited to have an Archivist again. You're the hottest news of the century."

Great, I thought grimly. How many other Archivists would learn that one of their own is in Pentagram City?

"Come come, we have much to discuss and a lot of work to do." Rosie gently pulled at my borrowed clothes.

"I will leave you to it." Alastor bowed his head to her, casted a small smile in my direction, then swiftly left the tower.

Rosie watched and waited for a moment, then turned to me again. "Now, dear, I want you to be honest with me..." Her tone grew very serious as she said, "I'm sure you've seen a lot and had some pretty tough conversations. But I can see something happening behind those pretty eyes of yours." She paused, letting the silence weigh on the seriousness of her question. "Are you okay?"

The question caught me completely off guard and my own reaction to it, as well. My mouth tried to form words, moving around but letting out not a single word or syllable. Tears suddenly crawled in my eyes and dripped down my face. I touched at my wet cheeks, utterly stunned at whatever reaction I was having.

"Oh you poor thing." Rosie gently pulled me into a hug and I instantly reciprocated it. It had been so long since I last hugged anyone—since I was last hugged by someone. If I kept my eyes closed I could imagine my mother squeezing me and planting a kiss on my head.

My temple felt like it might explode from trying to keep my cries silent. My fingers grabbed at the soft fabric of the woman's dress. How had she known? Was it a magic thing? A woman thing? Did she have children of her own?

She eventually pulled me away and I hurriedly tried to wipe away my tears, avoiding a look at her shoulder that was damp from my tears.

"Come sweetheart, let's get you a warm bath, some fresh clothes, and hot food. It'll cheer you up." She put her hands politely under my chin and gave me a gentle smile. "And you can tell me all about what has happened to you. Alastor may be a friend but I'm not blind to his antics. Who do you think keeps the men in line around here? Us women do."

That last part brought a smile to my face.

She giggled at my reaction and took me to the bathroom on the second floor where I met Niffty. Rosie confirmed that she was the housemaid, always eager to clean anything and everything for a pretty penny or unique bug. The bathroom was lined with stone tiles and the ground was at a slant leading to a drain at the center.

"Undress while I start the bath," Rosie instructed. With a twist of a handle, hot water steamed out of a pipe from the ceiling. It touched the bottom of the bath and began to fill the tub with steaming hot water. My mouth dropped open at the contraption.

I wiped my nose on the back of my hand before Rosie gently pulled off the white long sleeve. I wasn't overly comfortable at being bare in front of someone strange but she was acting as if this was a daily occurrence for her. Perhaps it was.

I didn't want to draw attention to it if she was unbothered so I let her help me undress the rest. Fortunately, her questions distracted me as she helped me into the hot water.

She asked about the bunker, asked about the forest, asked about the communities in my region, and asked about my family. I revealed only my mother, opting to leave out my grandmother and brother for the sake of withholding information. She used a tough sponge to scrub away the years of mud, sweat, and build up. Her nails painfully scratched my scalp when she worked on my hair. She had a comb that she repeatedly tried to pull through the knots.

The conversation took a more somber turn when she asked about the time I spent with Alastor. I gave short, curt answers and nothing more. She read the cues and switched the topic around to talking about the city.

Pentagram City started as nothing more than a large community hiding away in the safety of a ravine. Storms were deadly in this region and the rock faces saved them from high winds, pockets of lightning, and dust storms. Rosie said there was a lot more history between that time and when Lucifer took over, but it was lost to the sands of time. She remembered the 'turning of tides' when the community turned from just that—a community—and into a city. Districts were formalized and trade deals were made between them.

The current districts were as followed: agriculture, technology, entertainment, military, and magic.

Alastor was Lord of the Magic District and Rosie the Lady of Agriculture. She and Alastor met as children before the districts were made. They were good friends until their fathers became the first leaders of their district. Years later, when her father passed, she became the first female leader of a district.

I had to stuff down my extreme interest in learning more about the city's history. I shouldn't care. I wanted to leave anyways.

Rosie let me dry myself off while she grabbed some things. She returned with a small bag and sat me on the edges of the bath. She combed through my hair again, silently noticing the way I closed my eyes at the more comfortable sensation.

She moved to my nails next. She had a metal stick with a small hook at the end. It pulled out a shockingly large amount of dirt from under my fingernails. Then she used a flat item and rubbed it against the tips of my nails. I watched as the white on my nails grew smaller and smaller.

She used her hook on my footclaws to get pieces of dirt that had been stuck in the grooves of the bone. Luckily she left that more sensitive part of my body alone and didn't try to file down my claws. Her next task was trimming my hair, claiming that removing the dead-ends would make it more healthy. So long as she wasn't cutting it all off, I didn't mind.

Once she was done, she brushed through it once more. When I opened my eyes again, I found my hair completely dry. She winked at me and put her tools away. I followed her out of the bathroom, still holding the towel around my chest, and up another set of stairs to a different room. This one seemed like the top most room of the entire tower.

The stairs we came up on were on the far side of the room with a railing to prevent any missteps. A beautifully carved desk sat under a round window, sunlight beaming through the glass and warming the small room. To the left of the desk was a bed built into the wall. My eyes immediately recognized my grandmother's quilt folded at the foot of it.

A small fireplace sat on the same wall and stacks of books covered the rest of the room. All my books were put in crates, but I could tell there were a lot missing. Where was the rest of it?

Rosie pulled me into the center of the room then went to the wall opposite of the round window. I finally noticed a closet behind the book stacks as she walked back with a couple different fabrics in hand. She first gave me fresh, white undergarments. The material was soft and far more supportive than what I was used to—than what was handed down through generations.

"I suppose you don't take well to dresses?" Rosie asked as she laid the clothes on the bed.

"I uh...we never really needed them."

"Then we'll start with something you're comfortable with."

The first piece of clothing was a black half skirt, half pant. The pants were sewn to the skirt that covered the whole thing. The pants cinched at my shins and a leather belt hugged my waist to keep them from falling down. There were strange patterns and symbols etched in different shades of red at the bottom.

The second piece was a loose, maroon long sleeve. The edges hugged my sleeves and waist. The collar was a small, narrow V-neck that had little black ropes that could loosen or tighten it. She topped it off with a small clip to hold my hair out of my face.

"What do you think?" She pulled me over to the closet and opened the door, revealing a mirror hanging on the inside. I had never seen a mirror that big and the person that stared back at me was someone I didn't recognize. I rubbed the soft material between my fingers, unable to fork any words. I was stuck between shock and politeness.

Then, turning around, I looked around at the room again. It was covered in wood planks and little bits of my home had been strategically placed.

"Feels like a dream," I said softly. What I really wanted to say was nightmare. I looked at myself in the mirror and felt...wrong. I turned my gaze away and grabbed my own arms.

"Dearie, what's the matter?" Rosie asked so gently, so carefully, as she closed the closet. I felt the tears building again and had to cover my mouth. "Sweetheart, what's happened? What else is there?"

I didn't want to trust her. I didn't want to tell her. I didn't want to be anywhere near her. And yet, when she touched me with a gentle hand and caring tone, I couldn't help but think of my grandmother, like she was possessing this woman to help me.

I fell to my knees and curled inward on myself. Rosie put her long arms around me and let me cry in the bend of her arm. Her fingers moved in circle on my back—exactly how my grandmother used to do it—and whispered that everything would be alright.

"How do I even make sense of this?" I mumbled into my hand. "It's all gone. It's all...I've lost it all. My family, my home, my freedom. I've lost it all."

"Oh sweet thing, you haven't lost it all. You still have that clever mind and that fighting spirit. Archivists are strategic people, are they not?" Her words were taking over my mind and distracting me. "Your people are known for turning the worst things around. Hell, you know how bad Humanity's shortcomings are but you've been finding ways to keep it alive."

I was quiet for a moment as I processed her words. Niffty appeared out of the blue with a box of tissues and Rosie handed one to me.

"I just...I thought...I thought I was doing the right thing," I admitted. "I couldn't just let him die in front of my door and not do anything. I thought I was doing a good job at preventing him from knowing where my bunker was and still heal him but...clearly I didn't."

"It wasn't your fault, dear." Those simple words dared to lift a generations worth of guilt off my chest, but reality pushed it right back down. "Once he knew what area you were in, he wasn't going to stop until he found you."

"I should've just let him die," I said firmly, not caring for the look on her face. "I should've covered his body with branches and let him bleed out. But I was stupid enough to heal a dangerous stranger bleeding at my feet."

"You saw a man in need and you helped. That's not a weakness, dear."

"Sure feels like it."

"Come here." She helped me to my feet then sat me on the bed. She pulled the chair from the desk over and sat across from me. "Alastor may know how to charm his way through just about anything and make you believe in him wholeheartedly. But that doesn't mean your trust in him was misplaced."

"He's the Radio Demon. I've listened to his broadcasts for five years. He's a ruthless leader and I'm just his tool."

Rosie sighed then took my hands. "Alastor may be complicated and a bit cynical at times—trust me, I know. I've known him since he was a boy. But...he's drawn to you for more than just your knowledge. He's bound by his duty to the city but that doesn't mean he sees you as just a tool. Just like you're bound by that oath of yours."

She patted my hands then sat back in the chair. I looked at the unfamiliar clothing over my legs. "I...I don't trust him. Not after he tricked me like he did. Not when he's asking me to just forget my oath."

"Well, sounds like you two need to talk more. Your expectations of each other are a little different than you might think." After a moment she added, "And don't hesitate to ask for me. I'm here for you, dear, even if it's just an ear to listen. Understand?"

I nodded mutely.

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

Deep in the heart of the city, in the protection of the stone walls of the palace, a meeting was taking place to determine the fate of everyone's lives. The room was far underground and closed off to the rest of the world.

A round table sat in the middle with a map spread out in the center of it. Sitting at the edges of the table, each in their respective chairs and adorned in their colors, were the Lords and Ladies of each district. Lucifer, the king of Pentagram City, sat at the head of the table with his daughter beside him.

Rosie was the last to enter. She expertly avoided the lanterns hanging on the ceiling from being naturally tall. She sat in her brown and green chair beside Alastor. She gave him a knowing look and he growled softly, ignoring the look that referred to the woman in his tower.

"Now that we're all here, it's time to discuss the elephant in the room," Lucifer began. He didn't look as small as he actually was when he sat in a chair level with the rest of the leaders. "We have our first living Archivist who holds ancient knowledge that may save our city."

"Remind me why we need a historian to 'save our city'?" The woman who spoke, Velvette, was filing her nails from her criss-cross position on the chair. She was the co-leader to the Entertainment District. Her co-leader who sat beside her, Valentino, seemed just as bored with this. Their chairs were decorated in flags of red and pinks.

"Because the Old World was more advanced than us," Vox answered her. He sat on Velvette's other arm. He was technically a co-leader as well but his main priority was his Technology District. His flag was an electrifying blue just like his claws.

"But they died off," Velvette flapped her hands out in a shrug, not bothering to make eye contact with anyone.

"They made some amazing things before they did," Vox replied. "All the electricity in your District? Came from them. All the pipes and steam engines for bathhouses and factories? That's from them too. And any rumor you hear about some mysterious, massive invention is probably also true."

"Which is why we believe her Archives might have the answers." Lucifer drew their attention back. "But we have to decide where her efforts need to go first."

"Am I ever gonna see this Archivist? Or does Alastor get her all to himself?" Vox asked, looking pointedly at the Magic Lord.

"Until she's adjusted and cooperative, she'll remain with me," Alastor returned cooly.

"The people's well being should come first," Rosie kickstarted the debate. "So we should focus on securing our resources."

Vox, naturally, argued first. "Old tech should be prioritized. We can revolutionize how we manage and maintain our resources."

"Our people are dying of starvation above all else," Rosie countered. "Our crops are always struggling as much as our livestock. I've heard stories about manmade greenhouses that can grow food without soil."

"What about our borders?" Carmilla voiced. She carried professionalism and power in every room she walked in. She was the Lady of Military, her colors a bright white and dark black. "The White Angels keep pushing through and sneaking around the edges. We believe they're using Old World weapons and it would be helpful to know how to combat those. Otherwise they'll get through and tear our city apart."

"I don't really think the people are itching for another speech about rationing and defense tactics," Velvette remarked. "All this doom and gloom is making people want to join your district less and less."

Carmilla narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth to make a remark but Alastor beat her to it, "While it's charming to see you so concerned about morale, we need to keep our priorities straight and the threats as real as possible. People want truth and solutions."

"Like you old wizard?"

Alastor was unfazed by the bite. "You seem to forget that my district has been solving everyone's little problems for years now. Wood and oil are saved for warming homes and cooking meals instead of wasted on lanterns and bathhouses."

"The stability of the city is paramount," Lucifer added himself. "Our ravine is crumbling and that landslide last season is only the beginning. Alastor's people are already stretched thin and they can't keep reinforcing our walls forever. The storms will reach us soon and we'll be worse off than before."

"But we can't ignore the needs of the people either." His daughter, whose hair was as blond as his, put her hand on his arm. "Maybe we can find a way to address all these issues together. We don't know what knowledge the Archivist has or how fast she can decode them."

"We don't have time for her to decode them all," Vox argued, arms crossed like the two beside him. "The longer we wait to discover Old tech, the more we fall behind. They were advanced because of their technology."

"We all want what's best for the city," Rosie said gently and professionally. Alastor could see her underlying impatience from the way she held her hands on her lap. "So maybe we can find a compromise that satisfies everyone. Charlie's right, we don't know what kind of knowledge the girl has."

"Maybe we can do a little of each," Charlie offered, "You know, have her decode bits about agriculture, bits about old tech, things like that?"

There was silence among the leaders. No one had any arguments.

Lucifer met Alastor's eyes. "Do you think she can do that?"

Alastor straightened a fraction more. "I have no doubt. I'll make sure she knows what's at stake."

"Very well. I trust you'll see those texts translated. I want weekly updates sent to all of us."

There was a reluctant nod of agreement, each leader mentally preparing their secret agenda and the challenges it would present. The decision made was setting the stage for the city's future, the risks and challenges hiding just beneath the surface.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

Happy Holidays!!  Big thanks to @jgabriel1920 for posting this chapter for me.  I am on vacation and the wifi doesn’t allow me to access Tumblr for some reason.

My A03 curse is getting worse. I am very very sick and couldn’t write anything special for the holidays, but I hope everyone is enjoying it!

@sirens-and-moonflowers

@papas-ghoulette

[justicewasserved]

have vaguely spoken about this before but genuinely one of my favourite things in tma is the conversations jon + helen have in season 4.

it starts off with jon feeling intense anger over her very existence - how dare she be such a cruel monster? then helen never fails to call him out on his bullshit because how could he, a monster, be so angry at someone who is so very similar to him? shown with lines like "if i am an it, then what does that make you, archivist?"

and at some point (i think around mag 146/147) it clicks for jon that she's right, they're really not so different. she's just more experienced than him. so in mag 152 he doesn't call her evil, instead he talks to her like she's an equal. he even asks her questions about being a monster and when talking about avatars says "people like us".

to me it really shows something about how jon deals with and accepts his new position in the world

[cookie-lore-keeper]

Random Facts about Half-Moon Cookie bcuz I like to ramble about my OCs

-Despite being a witch, they struggle to make magic using "the magic inside of her" around her, only being able to do small spells with it. Instead, he uses the world around him to fuel his spells. Kind of like potion making, but they don't have to be in bottles. You know that thing that witches will sometimes do in media where they grab items, crush them up, and a spell is created? That's what they have to do

-I wouldn't say Half-Moon Cookie is evil, but they're not good either. They're neutral/morally gray. Since their job for the witches is an archivist, they're only meant to watch Earthbread and note down it's history; not interfere (though, they don't always agree to this. They do like to go to Earthbread). Because of this, they mostly care about whether we something is entertaining or not. It's not like Burning Spice, who destroys to entertain himself, bcuz Half-Moon loves to create and hear the different stories of others. BUT, a lot of things are entertaining to them, whether it's good or not. Entire wars will happen and Half-Moon Cookie will treat it like its his favorite show. It's why, despite being a witch, they don't hate the beasts. The Beasts are an interesting story to them. (They don't want them to get the souljams though bcuz after the entertainment of the fight, civilization will most likely crumble and that leads to no new entertaining stories for them)

-They're good at math (don't ask me to do any, I'm shit at it)

-Half-Moon Cookie is aspec and doesn't care to be in a romantic relationship themself, but they like romance that other cookies have and think it's interesting

-Despite being aspec and not caring to have a relationship, they do like to playfully flirt with other cookies and will probably flirt back if a cookie starts

-They sometimes eat the doughs of dead cookies. In their mind, they don't think it's a big deal bcuz they're already dead

-She likes to teach. She gets super happy when people ask her questions about Earthbread because she gets to be a nerd about it

-Despite basically being a god of knowledge, he also had ADHD brain so they can easily forget things before they randomly come back to him

-Half-Moon Cookie doesn't lie. She might not tell the full truth, or she might not know something so she'll just guess, but she doesn't lie. If she's guessing or it's a theory or she gets something wrong, she'll let you know

-There's a whole list of emotions Half-Moon just barely feels anymore or only feels in specific circumstances. They used to be able to, but after being alive so long, they also learn how little everything matters. They don't feel embarrassed because they don't care what other cookie's or witches think of them, but they do feel ashamed when they get something wrong. They rarely get angry, but they get annoyed. The only time they'll be at shouting levels angry is when someone repeatedly ruins archives. Even then, it takes a bit because they can recognize honest mistakes. They rarely ever feel fear since it's hard to fear for your life when no one around you has the power to kill you (except other witches)

-When asked what their Pronouns are, Half-Moon Cookie will answer, "Anything! Be as creative as you want!" When asked what gender they are, they'll give various different awnsers each time, all wildley absurd

-Their sense of boundaries related to other cookies is basically nonexistent. It's their job to watch, so they're very nosy and know practically everything about each cookie's personal life. Despite this, they don't like other cookies snooping in their personal life

-While she can see the past and the present, she can't see the future and can only make predictions

[waterfallofspace]

omg tma!! I started re listening it a few weeks ago and obsessed again. I would love to see some more Elias from you🫣 Your previous fic with him is still one of my favourites

Thank you so much, I'm so glad you enjoyed it!!~

So I uh... meant for this to be a drabble, but it... got a little out of hand... and it's not very snz heavy, more plot/general sickness heavy, so I apologize if that's not what you had in mind, just kinda went the way it went~

A Betting Man

The one in which Peter bets Elias he won't last the day with the terrible head cold he's 'hiding'. (Definite HUGE spoilers for the M/agnus Archives, so please be aware of that!)

Characters: Elias, Peter, Tim, Rosie ( ft. lonelyeyes + mentions of Jon + Sasha) Word Count: 4.3k

It’s been a long week, even for Elias. Dealing with a new archivist is always a bit of a headache, but especially now with all that’s at stake. Near constant surveillance has left a strain on… what perhaps one could refer to as his ‘eyes’. Jon has required a fair amount of supervision to make sure he stays on the right path- or, shall we say, at the right pace. 

Leaning forward in his chair, Elias allows his face to rest against his hands. Jon’s in the middle of another statement, still adamant to deny his way through the horrors. He’ll be occupied for at least another fifteen minutes. More than enough time for a brief rest. Not a nap, just… a couple minutes to rest his eyes…

“Mr. Bouchard?” Rosie’s voice over the intercom jolts him awake from the waves of fatigue that had been pulling him in. 

Elias hits the button to respond. He barely manages to get the “yes-” out before his voice breaks. He releases the button, ducking into his fist with a harsh cough, before trying again. 

“Yes, Rosie, what is it?” His voice still sounds rough, and he silently curses the nasal quality it possesses. 

“Uh, sorry to disturb you, Tim just has a few questions about some follow up to a statement, but I can tell him you’re busy… or…” Rosie trails off, the hesitation evident in her voice. 

“Well,” a voice sounds out, ringing out like a gunshot in the silent office. “Better not keep him waiting.” 

Familiar as it may be, the sudden nature of the intrusion comes as quite the shock. Elias maintains a white-knuckled grip on his neutral expression as he turns to face the captain, heart pounding in his throat. “Peter, I believe I’ve asked you to announce yourself.” 

“Ah, you did, seems I’ve forgotten again, ever so sorry Elias,” Peter smirks, unfolding himself from the corner he’d been watching from. “Wouldn’t want to step on your toes, what with the watching and all. More your thing than mine, isn’t that right?” 

Elias simply rolls his eyes in response, glancing back to the intercom. Peter follows his gaze, chuckling lightly.

“Peter,” Elias cautions, scanning back over to Jon in his mind. Still caught up in the statement, going on about some form of… meat. Not something Elias needs playing in the back of his mind while dealing with Peter. 

“Rosie’s waiting,” Peter interrupts, pulling Elias’s full focus back onto him. “Shame to leave her hanging, sweet girl and all, just trying to do her job.” 

“If you’d really like me to answer her, you’d leave me alone so I cahh… can do just that.” 

Elias trails off for only a second, feeling the itch that he’d believed quelled earlier this morning start to bubble back to the surface. The cold medicine should have had another few hours left. Seems burning the candle at all ends has its downfalls. 

He still manages to finish strong, fighting off the sensation with a single brush of his finger. It did not, however, go unnoticed. Elias fights back a sigh as the sparkle he’s come to know all too well begins to appear in the sea captain’s eyes. The eager glisten of someone with a bet to propose. 

“We both know you’re perfectly capable of answering her with me in the room. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to be… subtle,” Peter offers, still watching Elias carefully. 

With a deep resignation, Elias hits the button again, informing Rosie to tell Tim he’ll stop by later. She answers with thanks, interrupted by Tim shouting something about ‘right-o double boss!’ in the background. A slightly mortified Rosie repeats her thanks, the intercom cutting off her apologies for the intrusion. 

Elias simply ignores it, turning his attention instead to Peter, still lingering in the office. Not undivided this time though, as Elias feels his nose twitch again. Eager to get this over with, he simply awaits Peter’s proposition. He could attempt to Know it, but with the current state of his head, and the dangerous buzzing in his sinuses, the risk seems to outweigh simply waiting.

“So,” Peter begins, eyes flicking up and down Elias, as if running final calculations. “I’ve got a wager to offer.” 

“I figured as much,” Elias replies, leaning back slightly in the chair and adjusting his suit jacket with feigned disinterest. “But I don’t believe you have anything to offer me that would entice me to accept it.” 

“I have a feeling you’ll take it anyways, Elias.” 

“And whhih.. why iihh- hehh!-” With a desperate sniff, Elias manages to pull back control, fighting back the burning creeping up his nose. 

“Because,” Peter cuts in, looking damn near gleeful at Elias’s struggle. “You’ve always been a betting man.” 

 “hiEh’mMPFfshh-uih!” Elias winces as the sneeze breaks through his control. He barely manages to catch it in the soft folds of his rapidly deployed handkerchief. Peter looks beyond thrilled at this, as if the sneeze itself was some form of acceptance. And– 

“hH’MPFSHh’uh! hiH’MFSHH–oo!” 

They both know it never stops at one. Managing to stall the onslaught with a rough massage of the handkerchief, Elias cautiously lowers it and meets Peter’s eye again. Peter, for his part, offers a blessing. Elias shrugs it off with a grimace. 

“Fine,” Elias says, internally cursing again as his voice scrapes painfully against his ever-worsening throat. “Will taking this bet get you to leave me alone?” 

“I suppose so, if that’s what you’d like,” Peter replies casually. They both know it’s not a hard sell, getting him to be alone. 

“Then get on with it, what’s the wager.” 

“A simple one,” Peter smiles, leaning forward and resting his arms on the desk. “If you manage to hide this terrible head cold you’ve picked up from the rest of your staff, then you win!” 

Of course Peter could tell. The medication had picked a lovely time to wear off, but… having this be the focus of such a wager was still… unpleasant. And besides, he had no time for such dramas. Jon was finishing up his statement by now. Elias found himself Knowing that Jon was in fact asking Sasha and Tim for the final reports on the follow up they managed to do. And for that, Tim was still waiting on him. 

With another sigh, this one hitting something on the edge of his lungs and leaving him coughing into his fist, Elias manages to gain enough composure to reply with a mild, “I’m quite the busy man, Peter.” 

“Oh I know you are,” Peter pushes the glass of the water on the desk closer, and Elias gives him a muted thanks. “However, all I’m asking you to do is- well, what we both know you were planning to do anyways. I’m just interested in making a little money on the whole ordeal.” 

“Fine, name your price and then leave me to my work,” Elias replies, managing to stall the coughing with a few sips of the water. 

“Fifty dollars says you get caught before you go home today.” 

“Noted. Now, if you’ll excuse me?” Elias stands from his desk, gesturing Peter towards the door. “I have an appointment with Tim.” 

Peter doesn’t fight this, simply offering a deeply unsettling smile as he folds back out through the door. Only a faint mist clouding the hallway and echoing in Elias’s mind lingers as any proof he was there at all. It soon fades from the doorway, though the fog covering Elias’s thoughts remains. Maybe that one is more from the fever than the visit. 

“mMFhsh’oo!” Elias groans softly into the handkerchief, already feeling the hitching start up again as his eyes begin to water. Never just the one. “mPFShh–eh’MFSHhh’oo!” 

He pulls his hands away, before ducking frantically into his shoulder for a final, “ah’tshhiew!”  that manages to slip through before he can catch it in the cloth. 

Mercifully Peter left before that particular outburst, the pitchy whine of the last burst sending a rush of heat to Elias’s ears. Peter’s never been one to shy away from a good bit of taunting when he gets the opportunity, and this would definitely have served as host to some mocking. 

Making his way down the hall, Elias gives Rosie a polite nod, wincing slightly when she calls out to him. 

“Mr. Bouchard! Sorry sir, just have a couple things to run past you, if you have a moment?” 

“Of course Rosie,” Elias replies, turning slowly to face her with a calculated smile. She means well, and he can’t find it in himself to be upset with her. It’s hardly her fault that he’s unwell, or that he had the misfortune to draw Peter’s attention. 

“I’ll try to make this fast, there’s just a few forms that need a signature, some follow up for you to review- oh! And I almost forgot, Jon was asking about a few different statements.” 

Absent-mindedly beginning to sign the papers, Elias turns his focus to finding Jon. It turns out he’s in artifact storage, looking at something related to a statement, perhaps. It’s not an inconvenient spot for him to be, should make the meeting with Tim go a lot smoother. 

“Sir?” Rosie says, hesitantly. Elias manages to pull himself back, finding it harder than it should be. This fever seems to be worsening by the minute. 

“My apologies, I’m a touch… preoccupied,” Elias pauses briefly, feeling the all too familiar sensation start buzzing in his nose once more. He manages to stall it with a quick rub. Rosie doesn’t seem to notice, too busy looking down at her stack of paperwork. 

“Oh, I’m sorry sir! There’s just the follow ups, and Jon’s questions-” 

“Please leave those follow ups on my desk, I’ll get to them after I go and see Tim. As for Jon, I’ll pop by his office and talk to him myself,” Elias cuts her off, keeping the smile on his face as gentle as he can manage. 

Rosie smiles back, nodding and jotting down a few notes on her pad. Elias nods his thanks, then making a few polite excuses, takes his leave. He barely makes it down the hall before the buzzing becomes all consuming. Handkerchief long forgotten at his desk, he settles for pressing his wrist to his nose, and attempting to stifle the onslaught. 

“ek’ngt-chh! eh’dngt! –nngdt’chh! hihh… hh’ngKT’chh–oo!” 

The last breaks through with a whiny exhale, spreading the fevered flush deeper into his cheeks. He’d always taken a sense of pride in his control, both of himself and those around him. Part of being alive, and in power, as long as he has, it comes with the territory. But this cold was determined to rob him of any decorum he had left, it seemed.

Mercifully it seems no one witnessed this outburst either, but his charade of health is rapidly deteriorating. Elias lets another internal curse slip, this time it nearly passes his lips. Discreetly wiping a thin sheen of sweat from his forehead, he continues down the hall towards Tim. 

Elias’s specific brand of Knowing has its advantages, not the least of which being the ability to find any employee whenever necessary. In this case it’s walking up behind Tim pouring himself a coffee in the kitchen. 

“I heard you wanted to speak to me, Tim?” Elias says, voice cutting through the silence. He admittedly revels a little in the shudder that runs through the (much) younger man’s spine. 

“Double boss,” Tim collects himself fast, giving one of his patented charming smiles. It’s no wonder the– well, everyone, falls for it so fast. “Uncanny how you can sneak up on someone like that! Have you thought about going into the surprise birthday planning business?” 

“I… don’t believe that’s a thing,” Elias replies patiently, offering a contained smile. It’s never a good idea to put off one’s subordinates so soon. Keep them in line? Of course. But this early on, respect and fear are both key weapons to wield. 

Tim chuckles, pouring a frankly outrageous amount of cream and sugar into the coffee before giving it a light stir. “Well if it isn’t, it should be!” 

“I think I’ll leave the party planning to you, though I’ll always find some time to stop by for a piece of cake.” 

“And you’ll always be welcome, you’re the big boss after all!” Tim smiles again, though Elias can see every ounce of sarcasm plastered throughout the grin. While he may not match Tim when it comes to charm, he far surpasses him in skills when lying is at play. He’s had much more practice, after all. 

Biting down the urge to cough again as his throat objects to the prolonged usage, Elias steadies himself with a firm, “I was told you wanted to see me? If you wouldn’t mind getting to the point, I do have other matters of which to attend…” 

“Oh, right!” Tim starts, setting down his coffee and reaching over to the table for a couple files. Elias takes this moment to duck into his wrist, managing a pair of completely silent stifles. Another trick his years have let him hone, though each new body seems to take a varying amount of time to reach perfection.

“hk’ndGT-uh!”  

This one, unfortunately, is deeply uncooperative, letting the final sneeze escape into a strangled noise. Tim doesn’t seem to have noticed, busy rustling through the files. He’s obviously looking for something. It would be much easier to simply Know, and just give Tim the answer before even hearing the question… but that draws too much attention. He’ll just have to wait it out. 

Since he’s standing here anyways, Elias takes the chance for a quick peek at Jon. He seems to have settled himself back into his office, clicking away at his computer as he translates a few statements over to the device. Hardly interesting work, they’re certainly not anything worthwhile, but they should give him something to do for the rest of the afternoon. 

“Boss?” Tim’s voice pulls him back, and Elias attempts to focus on the file being held out to him. Attempts, and fails. 

Instead, all he manages to do is offer a half strangled noise, and sway slightly on his feet. Tim, to his credit, is quick to react; pulling out a chair and leading Elias gently into it. 

“That’s quite alright,” Elias protests, attempting to stand before quickly thinking better of it. He plays off the attempt as merely changing position, crossing one leg over the other. “It was just a touch of dizziness, haven’t been sleeping enough lately, what with Jon in his new position and all. A lot of late nights, as I imagine the rest of you are pulling as well.” 

Tim’s face is nearly unreadable. Elias almost considers Knowing his feelings, but given how poorly checking in on Jon just went, he’s not eager for a repeat performance. 

Instead, he settles on raising carefully to his feet, and steadying Tim with a polite but firm look. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. Now, the files? I believe I mentioned it before, but I have quite a lot to do.” 

With a small nod, face still tightly guarded, Tim lets his gaze drop down to the files, collecting the papers he’d been holding out before. He hands them over to Elias, who recognizes quite quickly that they all feature connections to some rather big donors. This must be why Tim wanted his input before continuing. He had given Jon quite the talking to for digging in too far the other day. 

“The trails of these follow ups have led to some interesting places,” Tim begins, going on some rant about Jon’s persistence, Sasha’s lack of interest in hard work, and more meaningless drama. He’s just started on something about ‘needing a contact in the law office down the block’ when Elias feels the all too familiar tickle beginning to reemerge.

He isn’t going to be able to get away without making his departure all too obvious. No room for polite excuses or subtly in this moment, so with a slight grimace, he makes his move. 

“So sorry, please excuse me for a sehh- second.” 

Tim pauses, just beginning to ask if everything’s okay when Elias turns into his wrist, bending at the waist ever so slightly as he ducks away with a tightly contained “ih’gnDt!” 

“Oh- bless yo-” Tim starts, getting cut off by a wave from Elias, still hitching rapidly into his wrist. 

“N- nohhht… d- done… hk’nNgtchh! ih’mMFSShhh’uh! mMPFSHh! ih’MMPFShhh–oo!” 

“Christ, bless you boss! Quite the show there,” Tim laughs, clearly not too worried about mocking his superior. Normally Elias might chastise him a touch for that, but now doesn’t seem the time for such things. Instead, he merely offers thanks, grabbing a tissue from the counter and attempting a polite blow. 

There is a slight wince from Tim at this, Elias mimicking the action as his sinuses throb at the action. The dull ache spreads further throughout his head, and the world seems to spin as Elias pulls himself back to his full height. Tim’s still looking on, a touch concerned, and Elias offers a vague wave.

“Apologies, the dust down here still tends to get to me sometimes, even after these years.” 

There’s a brief pause, Tim seeming to consider this explanation, before the tension melts from his posture and it’s right back to the rambling. It’s much different from Martin’s brand. That seems to be more about nerves, his mouth moving faster than he can keep up with. Tim’s is more calculated, seemingly just enjoying the sound of his own voice. “Seems to happen to loads of people. They’re used to a much cleaner standard I think, the libraries seem to be cleaner at least, and it’s often a bit of a shock I think for people to see what disarray we’re in! I mean hell, I’ve succumbed to a few attacks of my own, and Jon– christ, you should have heard him when he first started emptying out those boxes. Nearly dragged him out by his collar a few times, just to make sure he didn’t stop breathing.” 

“And I thank you for that,” Elias interrupts with a polite smile. “Not eager to have to fill the role again quite so soon.” 

Tim chuckles a bit, but generally seems to be a bit lost in his own thoughts. Recalling memories of those first few weeks, Elias supposes. Or, shall we say, Knows. The knowledge leaves him a bit dizzy, but nothing nearly so bad to knock him off his feet this time. Tim snaps out of it quickly, returning to his line of questioning about donations, funding, and… things that sounded to be walking a fine line of legality. 

Elias gives the proper responses; a smile here, nod there, yes or nos when appropriate, some casual conversation when there’s nothing to comment on past a vague nicety. Eventually Tim finishes with his questions, Elias offering what knowledge he had– or rather, what knowledge he reasonably could have. 

“So if that’s all,” Elias says, relief beginning to spread through him as the end of this meeting draws tantalizingly close. “I’ll be getting back to my desk, and you should get back to work as well. There are still plenty of hours left in the day.” 

“Not much for me to do until Sasha gets back,” Tim starts, but Elias quickly cuts him off with a click of the tongue. 

“I’m sure Jon could always use a hand, perhaps you can go get a few more boxes to pack up the statements he’s already been through.” 

“Or,” Tim strings out the word, giving a tilted grin. “I could go help Sasha with some very important research.” 

This thinly veiled attempt at getting off work would, once again, normally deserve some form of response. The least Tim could do is pretend to be working, put a little effort into the charade. But between the chills beginning to work their way up his spine, and the consistent itch that won’t leave him be, Elias finds himself with bigger things to focus on. 

“Do what you will, just make sure you gehh– get your work done before you leave for the day.” 

The single hitch breaks through his focus, Elias fighting it off with the last of his resolve. Tim doesn’t let this one slide past though, reaching over and moving the tissues closer with a touch of a smirk on his face. Apparently eager for another display from the boss. Even as much as he despises the vulnerability, Elias can’t say the… voyeuristic side doesn’t hold its own appeal. 

It’s hardly up to him though, he’s been denying the whims of this cold for far too long it seems, and luck has run out. With the last bit of control he has left, he manages to grab a handful of the tissues Tim had so kindly pushed within reach, ducking into them as the fit finally breaks through.

“hH’RRSHHhoo!”

“Woah, bless you boss, that wa-” 

Elias cuts him off with a shake of his head, still hitching desperately into the tissues. 

“N- never… nehh… never just… hK’TZSHHhoo! eh’RZSHhhoo! Christ, I cahh… can’t– eh’RSHHh’oo! hh’ETZSHhhiiew!” 

The last one comes out more whiny than the rest, Tim at least having the decency to look concerned at the change of pitch. Elias manages to watch him through watery eyes, finding it almost amusing how arguably the most charismatic of his employees seems absolutely lost as to what he should be doing. In his defense, at this stage, there isn’t much to do but ride it out. 

“ih’EZSSH–EZSHH’oo!” The pair stumbles over each other, but leaves Elias with a long enough gap to grab another handful of tissues. He manages to get off a quick blow, wincing synchronously with Tim at the noises it produces. Not like he has much ability to save any dignity now. 

Thankfully, it seems to have stopped the attack, and Elias sinks himself back into the chair Tim had pulled out for him earlier, exhausted. Really quite astounding, with how far the modern world has come, still a cure for the common cold remains out of reach. 

“Christ, boss, bless you,” Tim offers, Elias startling a bit as he comes to the sudden remembrance he’s not alone. 

“Thagk you,” Elias replies, once again leaving them both wincing at his rapidly deteriorating state. If he didn’t know better, Elias would think Peter somehow caused this illness to behave in this fashion. Alas, he does know better. And, for that matter, Know better. This state of rapid decline is par for the course in this body. It seems to have a quite poor immune system. Unfortunately not something he can blame Peter for. 

“I think you’re running a fever,” Tim pauses, seeming to, for the first time, truly take in Elias’s appearance. “A pretty bad one too, I’d guess.” 

Elias pauses, face calm as he weighs his options. It’s almost certain the bet’s lost now. The other symptoms he could probably have waved off as more dust related problems, but a fever… that’s hard to pin on a mere sensitivity, or even an allergy. 

Still, the bet’s not his main concern. Maintaining his careful balance of fear and respect requires a lot of maintenance. Being seen this unwell, this vulnerable, that certainly could tip the scales into unwanted territory. 

“I’b–” Clearing his throat, Elias attempts some semblance of normal sounding speech, though the edges of his words still hold that heavy congested tone. “I might be a touch under the weather, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. I appreciate your concern, but all I need is a good night's sleep, and I should be good as new.” 

It seems a mutual agreement that that statement was a lie, and that neither of them is going to be the one to point that out. Tim offers a vague shrug, mutters something sarcastic under his breath about ‘not being Martin’, followed by something about ‘spreading the plague to the whole office’, but generally leaves without much of a fuss. 

The fussing, no doubt, will come in the form of a salt-tinged sea captain waiting in his office. Elias doesn’t even have to Know, to know that one. 

As he makes his way upstairs, shrugging off Rosie’s concerns with a tight, yet friendly, dismissal, Elias finds himself hurrying to duck into his office before the–

“hh’atshhew! at’shhoo! Christ.”  

“Bless you, Elias.” 

Elias turns to face the voice, accepting the handkerchief it offers out to him. “You knew I’d lose, dihh… ah’tzshh’oo! atschhew! heh’RRSHh’oo! Bloody hell.” 

“And again,” Peter smirks. 

“Didn’t you?” Elias finishes, keeping an eye on the figure standing next to his chair.

“Of course I did,” Peter replies, nonchalant as ever. “Rosie had you clocked since this morning. You had lost before you even accepted. Surprised someone of your standing didn’t… Know that already. Still, it was quite entertaining, watching you attempt to hide it for so long.” 

Elias simply rolls his eyes, blowing his nose for what is almost the first real time today. It leaves him breathless, and he follows it with a second, then third. He takes more than a hint of enjoyment from the looks of concern that flash across Peter’s face.

Placing a fifty on the table, Elias sinks into his chair, finally beginning to let down his guard under Peter’s watchful gaze. He puts up little resistance when strong arms guide him up, and over to the small couch in the corner of his office. The lack of resistance continues as those same arms pull him down, laying him carefully across the couch, head resting lightly on Peter’s lap. 

No words are spoken between them, but then again, they never really needed such things.

[vulto-cor-de-rosa]

Agnes Montague is such a tragic character if you stop to think about her for more than 5 seconds.

She grow up in a cult, with no parents, and was raised by people who really didn't know what they where doing. She wasn't allowed near other children or left alone for any length of time, completely isolating her from anyone with her age until she went to Hill Top Road, which, not a great place to grow up either. She wasn't raised as a child but as a fucked up chosen one. Even the relationships that she had with other people where tainted with her status as the Messiah, I mean look at this quote from MAG 139:

["Jude had only just joined at the time, and was – besotted with Agnes, though I couldn’t tell you if she loved her as a god, or as a woman"]

She couldn't have any normal relationship with anyone around her because everyone worshiped her.

We don't know much about Agnes as an individual. Most we know about her is second hand knowledge or from people from her cult or from the people that ended up crossing paths with her, and none of it is about who she was as a person, only about what they thought of her. We never got to know Agnes, we never got her statement or anything really. The closest thing we ever got to know what was going on inside her head is from this part from MAG 67, the statement of Jack Barnabas regarding a short-lived courtship with Agnes Montague in the Autumn of 2006:

["We sat on a bench as the sun went down, watching the sky redden, and Agnes asked me a question. It was the first time she’d said anything more than a few words since we left my flat. She asked me if I had a destiny.

I don’t need to tell you the question caught me off guard. I don’t know if I’ve given the impression clearly enough yet, being a single guy in my early thirties still working the till at a Sheffield cafe, but I don’t really see myself as having much of a destiny. Hell, I’m not even sure I believe in destiny. I certainly don’t believe in God, and I feel that’s kind of linked.

So I told her this. She looked at me, with the same sadness I’d seen on her face before. “That must be nice,” she said and went back to staring into the sunset."]

This is the only time we get to see what's going on inside Agnes head and it's so important, because it's not a stretch to come to the conclusion that she didn't want this. She never asked to be born into a cult, she never asked to have a destiny and she never asked to be the chosen one! She was raised into the believe that she had a destiny to follow, that she was the Messiah that was going to bring The Desolation into the world, but she didn't want that. I can't say that she never did, because we don't know that. Maybe she did. Maybe, after she met Jack, she changed her mind. Maybe she realized what actual real love felt like, what a normal life felt like, and she wanted more. But these are all maybes because we will never know, and that is the true tragedy! We will never know what Agnes thought about all of this. As Arthur Nolan in MAG 145 puts it:

["Never really knew what she (Agnes) felt ‘bout any of it, not really. Not in her own words. Guess that’s the thing about being the… chosen one, [...] you’re always just the point of someone else’s story, everyone clamoring to say what you were, what you meant, and your thoughts on it all don’t mean nothing."]

Agnes "Messiah" Montague is on the other side of the same coin that Jonathan "The Archivist" Sims is.

[animsid]

Alright, here’s my thoughts on Magnus Protocol’s first season as someone who hasn’t listened to Archives.

[No Archives Spoilers. Spoilers for Magnus Protocol Season 1 Finale.]

Initially I was unsatisfied with the ending. At first I was engaged with everything, but I felt a lot of questions I wanted to know weren’t answered. Like “What is the Archivist and their deal?” or “What is FR3-D1 up to? Why is Colin so afraid?” So that felt a little bit of a downer.

But after thinking about it, it was a really big and amazing finale that leaves me wanting more.

I got to admit The Custodian was the biggest surprise but also not really. Magnus Protocol has kept this formula of having a statement in the episode, and a lot of my IRL friends were doubtful there would be one but I knew there would be one.

What really surprised me about The Custodian was how he was turning to stone after he finished his statement. Every non-main character statement The Archivist took ended in death, but the death was a result of resisting the Archivist (25) or they were already dead (15/18). So to see what happens to someone in perfect health from start to finish of the Statement.

Celia was a big star in this finale, and it feels like this was the “secrets revealed” moment for her. Unclear if she has more secrets, but it feels like her biggest ones are out there now. Explains her reaction to the Doppelgänger case (17), why The Hilltop Centre has been so prominent in a variety of cases, and why she’s been teleporting to Oxford.

The only question I really have about Celia is how much does she actually remember? Throughout the season we’ve clearly seen her reference things from what I’m assuming is Archives, but in the finale she says “The Fearless One” tore her who from her what and “left her story to fall like autumn leaves.”

Is her name actually Celia in Archives? Who is “The Fearless One”? Feels like her memory is blurry, but she remembers vague details of people instead of story events in Archives (my Doylist answer is this is a way to make the story accessible to viewers who haven’t listened to Archives) and that’s why she remembers Jon and Martin?

Overall, really great work from Celia this season.

Sam wouldn’t think so though.

Sam is an interesting case. He’s been dying to know what happened with The Magnus Institute and when we finally found out (28) it made a whole lot of sense why he’s so adamant about the institute.

Initially when Sam exploded at Celia for her secrets I was like “Sam! Buddy! Now’s NOT the time.” But actually, that was the right time.

He’s been really patient with Celia not feeling ready to explain her backstory, and consistently reassuring her she doesn’t need to reveal anything until she’s ready and actively reassuring yet making her aware it’s important to share at some point. Here he is, in front of what is potentially the biggest supernatural secret he’s ever seen, and Celia has turned out to know this was here the entire time!

And Celia (in his perspective) determined to sacrifice Sam to the Rift was a really big twist I didn’t see coming. The idea that Celia has disrupted the rift between the two worlds is incredibly devastating and she wants to stay in the Protocolverse for Jack makes it heartbreaking that she has her own selfless/selfish motivation for sacrificing Sam.

Then Alice-

Oh, Alice.

I think this finale was the hardest on her. She had Teddy trying to bring something up (29) and she rushed to Sam. She had Colin terrified asking for help while she was trying to get the last train to Sam and Celia. She’s been the most connective person in their whole group trying to look out for everyone, and then everyone desperately asking for help at essentially the same time is heartbreaking.

It’s incredibly fascinating that out of the three groups (Sam/Celia, Colin, Teddy) she chose Sam every time there was a chance. It does make sense. She’s fully aware Sam and Celia are going to be encountering something supernatural, and she needs to make sure she’s there to either stop or help them. Teddy and Colin might vaguely have something affecting them, but the urgency for Sam clouds her vision so Teddy and Colin were turned away. Who knows if they’ll even be alive when they get back?

And speaking of when they get back!

Gwen, my love, you have girlbossed far too close to the sun.

There’s no way she’s surviving this. She’s assumed this whole time that Lena was trying to keep responsibility from her because maybe Lena didn’t believe in her or because of her nepotism, and Trevor Herbert was the one calling all the shots. But she found out too little too late that Lena was the one in charge and she’s been the one focused on keeping the Externals at bay. Trevor Herbert has no fucking clue what happens at the OIAR as long as it gets the job done.

I do wonder why Gwen got those files. I’m assuming it’s Jon/FR3-D1 after Sam got that email (7) but why did FR3-D1 decide to give it to her? What’s the purpose of getting Lena out? Is it for the Externals to be loose? What’s FR3-D1’s goal here? Is it somehow tied to being set free?

After this finale, I have so many questions, and while I am still kinda unsatisfied with how it ended I do have to admit this season was such good fucking food. The workplace dramadey combined with horror statements and the slow merging of the two storylines was so seamless I almost didn’t notice until the end. I’m really excited for season 2.