#and it’s not even just not clicking for the static theme (which is worse) | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

bubonickitten · 3 years

Text

Fic summary: Jon goes back to before the world ended and tries to forge a different path.

Previous chapter: AO3 // tumblr

Full chapter text & content warnings below the cut.

Content warnings for Chapter 29: discussion of Jon’s & Daisy’s restrictive diets & associated physical/mental deterioration (and potential parallels with disordered eating etc.); arguing & relationship disputes (that are not immediately resolved in-chapter); self-harm (burning oneself with a lit cigarette); cigarette smoking; discussion of suicidal ideation; panic & anxiety symptoms; discussions of grief & loss; cyclical mental health issues (post-traumatic anniversary reactions; related self-loathing, internalized victim blaming, & survivor’s guilt; generally speaking, Jon’s relapsing into self-isolating, worse-than-usual headspace, esp towards the end of the chapter); depiction of parental neglect/rejection (Martin's mother). SPOILERS through S5.

There’s also a Hunt-themed statement that contains descriptions of indiscriminate violence & unprovoked warfare against a civilian population. Oh, and a cliffhanger.

Let me know if I missed anything!

_________________

“Statements ends,” Jon says, somewhat breathless as he fumbles to stop the recording.

“You alright?” Daisy asks.

“Fine.” The word is punctuated by a click and a whirr as the recorder resumes spooling.

“Are you, though?”

“Yes.” Scowling, Jon jabs his finger at the stop button – only for it to keep recording.

“It’s the Hunt, isn’t it.” Daisy sighs, rubbing the back of her neck. “Sorry it’s been so prominent for the last few. I’m… not quite scraping the bottom of the barrel yet, but–”

“It’s fine, Daisy.”

“Still, I–”

“I said it’s fine–!” Jon winces at his sharp tone. “I’m sorry, that was… I’m just – on edge, I suppose.”

Which is an understatement, really.

Because it’s September. It’s September, and after September is October, and October is–

Well. These days, he can’t even look at a calendar – can’t even look at the time and date on his phone – without icy dread coursing through his veins.

Sporadic flashbacks have become an everyday occurrence, set off by the smallest of stimuli: a dropped glass shattering on the breakroom floor becomes a window bursting inward into shards; a thunderstorm heralds a fissuring sky, marred by hundreds upon thousands of greedy, unblinking voyeurs; his own voice is a doomsday harbinger, a key crammed into a lock he can’t keep from unbolting. The memories are too immediate, too vivid to feel past-tense.

It’s to be expected. Studies, common knowledge, and anecdotal evidence all point to the impact of anniversaries on mental health. He knows what a textbook post-traumatic stress response looks like. Monster or not, in this particular sense he remains overwhelmingly human. No matter how much he rationalizes it, though, intellectually understanding a psychological phenomenon does little to soften the lived experience of it.

And it does nothing to temper the chilling knowledge – bordering on conviction – that it may happen again.

“Would be worrisome if you weren’t stressed out, considering… you know. Everything.” Daisy leans back in her chair, stretches her legs out in front of her, and rolls her shoulders. “Speaking of the Hunt. Any new developments?”

“I mean… nothing since yesterday? Everything I know, Basira knows.”

“Basira… isn’t keeping me updated,” Daisy says, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

“Ah,” Jon says, with tact to spare. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

“It’s fine.”

“Is it?”

Daisy sighs. “She thinks that I think she’s wasting her time.”

“And do you?”

Daisy gives a jerky shrug. “Don’t you?”

“Not… necessarily,” Jon hedges. Truthfully, his answer to that question is as mercurial as his moods these days, shifting from hour to hour, sometimes minute to minute. Daisy gives him an unimpressed look. “I won’t lie and say I’m optimistic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

“You sound like Martin.”

“Well, he spent ample time drilling it into me,” Jon says with a wry smile. “I don’t have the same capacity for hope as he does, but improbable doesn’t mean impossible. If I’d had it my way, I’d have lain down and died ages ago. I’m only here now because of him.”

“Mental health check,” Daisy says automatically.

“Not thinking of hurting myself,” Jon replies, just as rote. “You don’t have to do that, you know. I’ve told you, I’m physically incapable of killing myself even if I wanted to.”

“That doesn’t stop you brooding.”

“Anyway, I wasn’t referring to anything recent.”

“Weren’t you, though?” At his blank look, Daisy gives an impatient sigh. “It hasn’t even been a year since you woke up, Sims. Up until six months ago, you were wandering an apocalyptic wasteland–”

“…I found myself utterly alone. Facing down a room full of nothing eyes, willing myself to take action. I never did, though–”

“–I wanted to act, to help, to do something, but – my mind had all but seized up, and I felt helpless to do anything but watch as events progressed–”

“–there was nothing I could do to save him – he died – so did any hope I had of – doing good in the world–”

“–there’s a sort of numbness that you adopt after months or years of bombing–”

“–I did spend a lot of time just… slumped in despair – had no reason to think it would help, but I could see no choice but waiting for death–”

“–hoping against hope that – it wouldn’t be forever–”

“Hey!” Daisy’s voice finally breaks through the rush of static. Or perhaps it was the pressure: Jon looks down to see her bony fingers caging his own in a bruising grip.

“Sorry,” he says, catching himself as he starts to list woozily.

“Not to say ‘I told you so,’ but…” Daisy gives his hands another light squeeze. “You sort of just proved my point there.”

“I’m well aware that I’m – traumatized, or whatever–”

“Not ‘or whatever’–”

“–but I’m not a danger to myself, so could we please just move on?” Jon mumbles, averting his eyes. “You wanted a Hunt update.”

Daisy scrutinizes him for a long moment before she allows the conversational pivot to stand.

“Basira said you’ve heard back from that Head Librarian,” she says, “but she blew me off when I started prying.”

“Zhang Xiaoling,” Jon says, his shoulders relaxing. “She was able to confirm some of Jonah’s intel. They do have a statement about a book matching that description in their records, and she agreed to forward a copy once it’s been digitized. They’re further along in their digitization process than we are–”

Daisy snorts. “Probably because they’re actually working on it.”

“That, and they have the benefit of a Head Librarian who actually has a background in archival studies,” Jon says drily. “In any case, they have a large archive, so it’s a work in progress. She’s processed our inquiry, though, and she says she has someone on it. We should hear back by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Huh,” Daisy says. “Sounds…”

“Like a functioning archive?”

“I was going to say ‘streamlined,’ but sure.”

“The wonders of a hiring process that prioritizes job qualifications as opposed to a candidate’s apocalyptic potential.”

“What are the chances their institution is also led by a centuries-old corpse with a god complex?”

“Non-zero, I imagine.”

Daisy wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, don’t say that.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I don’t have evidence one way or the other.”

“It doesn’t. Does she know about…” Daisy waves her hand vaguely. “All of this? The Fears, Rituals… Jonah?”

The question gives Jon pause. He thinks back to his meeting with Xiaoling all those years ago – well, last June, from her perspective.

“Some of it, I think,” he says slowly. “She seemed familiar with some of the Archivist’s abilities. There were parts of my visit that struck me as odd at the time. I didn’t realize until later that she had been speaking both Chinese and English at different points in our conversation.”

Daisy frowns. “She didn’t clue you in?”

“She didn’t, no. But…”

Elias made a good choice, the Librarian’s voice echoes in Jon’s mind. I did offer him someone, but he thought the language might be too much for him.

It does tickle me, Jonah’s voice chimes in, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose.

“I don’t know if she’s aware of Elias’ true identity.” Jon swallows with some difficulty, his mouth suddenly dry. “Or his intentions.”

“So is it really smart to trust her?”

“If she’s in communication with him, there’s nothing she can tell him that he doesn’t already know. We’re just following up on information he gave us. And he’s likely spying on our correspondence whether she’s in contact with him or not. Not much we can do about that.”

“She could have her own ulterior motives,” Daisy says.

“True enough, but… I got the sense that her primary interest is curation. Studying phenomena, building a knowledge base–”

“In service to cosmic evil,” Daisy says pointedly.

“W-well, yes, but – I don’t think she has delusions of godhood herself, and I don’t think Jonah has tempted her with the idea.” Jon huffs to himself. “He wouldn’t want to share his throne.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not saying we trust her or the Research Centre as a whole. I had reservations about their motives then and I still do. It’s not unthinkable that they’re a front for something more sinister in the same way that the Institute is. But… I don’t think there’s any especial danger in utilizing their library.”

“Sims,” Daisy sighs, “your danger meter is broken beyond repair.”

“In my defense,” Jon says, bracing one arm on the desk to leverage himself to his feet, “at this point, everything is just differing degrees of dangerous.”

As the two of them leave the tunnels, Jon’s phone buzzes in his pocket. When he glances at the screen, he sees a text notification from Naomi – in addition to two missed calls. He frowns to himself. The two of them text regularly, but she rarely calls.

“What’s up?” Daisy asks, her brow furrowing in concern.

“Naomi,” Jon says distractedly, already returning the call. Naomi picks up on the first ring.

“Jon?” Naomi’s voice sounds thick and tear-clogged.

A cold weight settles in Jon’s stomach. “What’s wrong?”

“I j-just” – Naomi pauses to clear her throat – “just needed to hear a familiar voice.”

“What happened?” Jon asks – and realizes too late that in his urgency to discover the source of her distress, he’s poured too much of himself into the question.

“Nothing.” What starts out as a self-deprecating little laugh quickly deteriorates into a half-sob. “Nothing new, anyway. It’s always like this, this time of year. Evan and I didn’t have an exact date planned, but we’d talked about an autumn wedding. Thought it would be fitting, since we met in September, you know? Tomorrow is our anniversary, actually. Or – or it would’ve been. A-and then by the time I’ve picked myself back up, the holidays will have crept up on me, and that’s always hard, and – and then before I know it, it’s March, a-and that’s its own kind of anniversary, and it’s just… it’s a lot.”

“Oh, I – Naomi, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“It’s fine,” she says with a sniff. “Don’t think I would’ve been able to get it all out, otherwise.”

“S-still, I–”

“It’ll be three years this March. And it still feels like it was yesterday. I spend six months out of the year feeling like I’m still stumbling through that cemetery, and I just…”

This time last year, Jon thinks with a lurch, I was still the monster in her nightmares.

And even now, he still pulls her there whenever they’re both asleep.

“When does that stop?” Naomi laughs again, a desperate, pleading thing. “When does the healing come in?”

“I… I don’t know,” Jon says truthfully. “Anniversaries are… they’re hard enough on their own. It doesn’t help that… well, it’s difficult to heal from something when you’re still living it.”

“What do you mean? Evan’s dead,” Naomi says, her voice breaking on the word. “He’s not coming back. It’s… it’s over.”

“There are still the dreams. The narrative might have changed, but the stage dressing is still the same.” Jon draws his shoulders in, one arm pressed tight to his stomach. “Keeping the memory fresh.”

“It’s not so bad.” Naomi sniffles again. “Better than being alone.”

“‘Alone’ or ‘nightmares’ shouldn’t be your only options.”

“I have my own nightmares, you know,” Naomi counters, sounding slightly annoyed. “When I’m asleep and you’re not. And they’re worse, because in them, I actually am alone. Nothing supernatural about it. It’s just… me.” She sighs. “This time last year – and the year before – I didn’t have anyone. And I just… I didn’t – I don’t want to be alone.”

“You’re not,” Jon says. “Not anymore.”

“I – I know, but I…” Naomi takes a breath. “I was… I was thinking – maybe tomorrow I could come by.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says gently, “truly I am – but it’s not safe. Especially for you, especially right now. Not with Peter here.”

Naomi is already the equivalent of an unfinished meal to the Lonely. That, together with her association with Jon, is more than enough to mark her as a potential target should Peter take notice of her.

“Feels safer than being alone,” Naomi says. “The Duchess helps – a lot – but I…” She lets out a fond but tearful chuckle. “I can’t expect her to grasp the nuances of… grief, or loneliness, or what have you.”

“How about this,” Jon says. “We tell Georgie what’s going on – as much or as little as you’d like, even if it’s as simple as ‘I don’t want to be alone right now.’ I doubt she’d be opposed to having you over.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose. I mean, I – I’ve not spent much time with her outside of just… spamming the group chat with cat photos. I like her, but she’s your friend. I’m just… a friend of a friend.”

Nestled between the words is a familiar sentiment, unarticulated and nonetheless resounding, echoing all of the earnest conviction it had when first she made such a confession: All my friends had been his friends, and once he was gone it didn’t feel right to see them. I know, I’m sure they wouldn’t have minded, they would have said they were my friends too, but I could never bring myself to try. It felt more comfortable, more familiar, to be alone…

“People can have more than one friend,” Jon says. “I can’t speak for Georgie, but she wouldn’t go out of her way to talk to you if she didn’t like you.”

Indeed, that might be the reason Jon was able to open up to Georgie in the first place. He observed early on that she had no qualms disengaging from people whom she had no interest in getting to know. Whatever Jon might have felt about himself on any given day, the simple fact of the matter was that Georgie would never have let him get so close if she hadn’t seen something redeeming in him.

And she likely wouldn’t be letting him stay close now if she didn’t still see something worth salvaging.

“It’s up to you, of course,” he says. “I won’t pressure you. But I think Georgie would be more receptive to friendship than you expect. And I think – I think you’d get along with Melanie, too.” Naomi is silent on the other end of the line. “At the risk of overstepping, I… I know being alone feels like the natural state of things, but it doesn’t have to be. If you want, I can talk to Georgie. Lay the groundwork. I won’t give her any of the details – it’s not my story to tell – I’ll just let her know that you’re feeling alone and could use some companionship.”

“Okay,” Naomi whispers. “Just… let her know she’s not obligated.”

“I will. On the extremely off chance she says no, or if she’s busy tomorrow, I can keep you company remotely. We can spend the whole day holding up the office landline if you want.”

“It’s a Friday.”

“And?”

“It’s a work day?”

“Naomi, my job is wholly comprised of monologuing to any tape recorder that manifests within a six-foot radius and doing my utmost to render my department as counterproductive to both the Institute’s professed and clandestine organizational objectives as humanly or inhumanly possible.” Naomi barks out a startled laugh. “I won’t be fired no matter what I do – which is a shame, seeing as it became my foremost professional development goal somewhere between finding out my boss murdered my predecessor and virtually dying in an explosion at a haunted wax museum. Barring a sudden and unexpected apocalyptic threat – which, admittedly, is unlikely but not unthinkable– I’ve already cleared my non-existent schedule for you.”

“Okay.” Naomi makes a sound somewhere between a sniffle and a chuckle. “Thanks. Really.”

“Any time.”

_________________

The statement is an unnerving, circuitous thing: a firsthand account from an unnamed member of the Drake-Norris expedition in 1589. In many ways, it’s eerily similar to the last statement Jon accessed from Pu Songling’s archives: Second Lieutenant Charles Fleming’s shellshocked, guilt-fueled confession of atrocities committed under orders.

The historical record is rife with accounts of Francis Drake’s cruelty, Jon knows: his role in the transatlantic slave trade, the unprovoked massacres committed in his name, the preemptive strikes that incited further bloodshed. The statement giver speaks in awestruck horror of the bloodlust lurking in the man’s eyes, the vitriolic fervor with which he undertook his campaign to seek out and destroy the remnants of the Spanish fleet – and the depths of his rage when his efforts ended in defeat. Humiliated, he turned his vengeful eye to the Galician estuaries.

The writer tells plainly of his own complicity in the sacking of Vigo, razing the town to the ground and slaughtering its inhabitants with indiscriminate zeal. For four days Drake’s men carried out their rampage, retreating only when reinforcements arrived to stem the tide.

“You may ask yourself,” the Archivist reads on, “how it is that a man born into the reign of Good Queen Bess sits before you today, some four centuries past his due?

“You see, as we left the shores of Galicia that day, I heard from behind us a vicious braying, as if someone had set loose a great host of hounds. They were close – close enough for me to sense their stinking breath hot on the back of my neck. Such a thing was impossible, for we were by that time far from shore, having already rowed half the distance between the beach and the waiting armada. That did not stop me dreading the dogs lunging and tearing into me at any moment.

“I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a whimper.

“As the seconds ticked by and the pack failed to descend upon us, my curiosity grew to outweigh my terror. I turned to look – and was thus ensnared. It was, I realize now, the instant at which I became beholden to the blood. My greatest folly.

“Perhaps I oughtn’t have been so surprised to see no hounds surging toward us atop the waves, but you must understand that the proximity of their snarling was far more convincing than their visual absence. In looking behind us, though, I was able to appreciate the havoc we left in our wake: the great plumes of ash rising from the smoldering rubble, backlit by a flickering orange glow, and wails of despair so profound as to combat the noise of the wind, the waves – even the discordant shrieking of the hounds.

“It was a scene of such devastation as I had never seen before or since. Looking back, I think upon the acrid stench of charred flesh on the breeze with horror and… indescribable remorse. It shames me now to admit that at that time, I had never felt such… rapture.

“That was when a motion caught my eye. Between the distance and the billowing smoke, it should have been impossible to discern such detail, yet there he was: quarry I had left for dead, emerging from the debris and staggering away from the ruins of his… wretched life. As he looked out to behold our retreat, I could see the grief playing on his face, the fury, the fear – but what most set my blood to boiling was the spark of relief I saw in his eyes.

“It awakened something in me – a famished and merciless thing, composed of tooth and claw and a mind beginning and ending and utterly encompassed by the call of the pack. With a roaring in my ears and a single-minded violence supplanting my sensibilities, I deserted the rowboat and swam to shore. A chorus of howls carried me forward, and I let them be my wings, steering me down the swiftest, straightest path to my target.

“I slowed for nothing, and I made certain my prey did not live through the night.

“As you can likely guess, the chase did not end there. Those baying devils who had so called me forth continued to hound my steps, nipping at my heels, spurring me ever onward to the next quarry. Those who once knew me would scarcely have recognized what I became. Whenever I dared look into a mirror, I would see in myself a dogged, seething violence so akin to that which had lived in the eyes of my former commander. A cruelty that once had frightened and repulsed me had become the blood and breath of me.

“For a time I sought to refrain from the chase. The longer I refused the call, the weaker I became. The hounds’ breath on my neck grew hotter; their braying swelled louder. I found myself wasting away: always hungry, never sated. Eventually my faculties began to slip. I would lose myself to such… bestialimpulses, and only the stain of blood on my teeth would return to me my reason. It pains me to confess to you now that it did not take long before I ceased my resistance entirely.

“It was at the turn of the sixteenth century that I happened upon the artefacts now in your possession. Their previous owner was a formidable adversary. I spent nearly a fortnight tracking him before I managed to run him down, and he fought like a tempest before he fell.

“Ordinarily I did not linger after a kill, instinct hastening me ever onward to the next great game. As I turned to leave, though, I was overcome by the sense that the hunt was… unfinished. Troubled, I reached down to check the man’s pulse. I was reassured to find him quite dead, but as I drew back, I noticed the brooch.

“It was a simple thing made of tarnished copper, fashioned into an incomplete ring, the ends of which resembled the heads of dogs. The moment my fingers brushed that ornament, I knew it was meant for me. It went into my pocket with nary a conscious thought.

“The itch of the hunt was still crawling down my spine, though; the frantic snuffling of phantom hounds yet filling the air all around me. I continued to search his person until I found what was calling out to me: a thin volume bound in leather. Curiosity ever my folly, I opened it.

“Up until that point, I had never learned to read nor write Latin with any degree of mastery. Yet I could understand the text within with perfect clarity. The script did not transform to English before my eyes, nor did the book render me proficient in the language. No, I simply… beheld the pages, and the meaning flowed into me.

“The story tells of Herla, legendary king of the Britons, who visits the dwarf king’s realm. Upon leaving, he is gifted a hound and warned not to dismount his horse until the dog leaps down. When Herla and his men return to the human world, they discover that not days but centuries have passed: all those they had known have long since perished, and the Saxons have taken possession of the land. In their distress, some of the men dismount, whereupon they turn to dust. Herla warns the survivors to stay in their saddles, to wait until the dog leaps down.

“‘The dog has not yet alighted,’ the author tells us, ‘and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay.’

“The next several pages are unreadable. The language resembles none I have ever encountered, and I have yet to find a soul who can decipher it. I can however attest its hypnotic qualities. I have spent many hours mired in those words, but I could not for the life of me tell you what I saw there. Others to whom I presented the text found themselves either enthralled or agitated, though none could recall such episodes once lucidity returned to them. I expect you mean to unravel its secrets, but you may do well to let its mystery stand.

“The final passage – a single page, this written in English – tells of Herla’s escape: how, weary and driven to despair, he casts the dog from the saddle and into the River Wye. The instant the hound hits the water, Herla and his band crumble into dust, at last meeting the same fate they spent so many hundreds of years trying to outpace.

“I have had hundreds of years of my own since first reading the tale to digest its message, and that is why I come to you today. Although I have killed several times since these items came into my possession – it should come as no surprise that there are those who covet them – I have not sought out a single hunt since I vanquished the man who yielded me these trinkets. The hounds at my heel have not ceased their clamoring, but so long as the brooch is on my person, they cannot sink their teeth in me. I am always hungry, yes – but I am no longer starving.

“But I am also weary. I have come to understand that even as the hounds can never catch me, they will never leave me. In my four hundred years, I have played the role of both the hunter and the hunted, and have learned that they share the same ultimate plight. Whether I be predator or prey, I am trapped in the throes of an endless pursuit. So long as I should live, my blood shall never quiet.

“And that is the key: so long as I should live. Even now, the fervor in my blood insists that the hunt is eternal, but I know now that one cannot outrun one’s end forever. Much like my constant, howling companions, Death will always be nipping at my heels. In that sense, he is perhaps the ultimate hunter. Just as I have delivered to him so many souls, neither can I escape his judgment. If ever I am to rest, I must bow to his supremacy.

“And so, like Herla, I shall cast the dog away from the saddle. I leave it in your care now, and the book. I should be so lucky to exit this life with the dignity I denied so many others, though I fear I shall be found undeserving of such a swift end. I can only hope that, whatever my comeuppance should be, I shall have the grace to accept it without complaint.”

With a heavy exhale, Jon depresses the stop button on the recorder, then puts his head in his hands, putting pressure on his closed eyes.

“You alright?” Basira asks.

“More than I’d like,” Jon mutters.

“If I thought there was any chance this guy was still alive, I wouldn’t have given you the statement to read.”

“I know. Just…” Jon waves his hand vaguely.

“Unpleasant, yeah.”

And rejuvenating, Jon thinks bitterly. It’s only been a few days since his last statement from Daisy, and already he had begun to feel famished.

“They sent along some supplemental records,” Basira says, rifling through printouts. “The statement is cross-referenced with two objects in their Collections Storage – here.”

The document she slides across the desk contains two catalog listings:

Item No. 9820702-1

Description: Pennanular brooch, copper alloy. Geometric and interlace motifs. Confronted zoomorphic terminals (canine profile). Moderate surface oxidization and patination. Dimensions: 5.5cm x 4.5cm body; 12.5cm pin. Artefact dated ca. 500–700 CE.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports mediating effect on the Hunter’s affliction (unverified). Item implicated in subject’s alleged abnormal longevity (unverified). Further study suggests dormancy and/or lack of reactivity to unafflicted subjects (see associated Investigation Log).

Storage: Special Collections – Inorganic Storage, Container Unit No. 982-05. Acid-free board housing, etherfoam packing. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain stable temperature (16-20°C); relative humidity, 32-35%; light levels, <300 lux. Handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §3.5.3: Artefact Preservation – Metals – Copper and Copper Alloys.

Access: Upon request. Curator approval required prior to initial visit. Applicants may submit statement of intent to Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator for clearance. Terms, procedures, and degree of supervision subject to Curator’s discretion.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-2.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-1;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-1.01 through -1.03.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-2;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §3.6.4: Antiquities – Adornments and Jewelry (Inert).

Item No. 9820702-2

Description: Bound manuscript. Front and back covers unembellished leather (source undetermined) stretched over wood board (source undetermined). Leather cord binding (calf, bovine). Paper and parchment leaves. Ink corrosion and paper degradation present but minimal (fair condition inconsistent with age and media). Dimensions: 8.8cm x 14.0cm x 2.5cm. Artefact dated ca. 1190–1450 CE.

Contents: Eighteen (18) pages total, one-sided.

· Title page (1) iron gall ink on parchment (sheepskin): Gualterius Mappus – De nugis curialium – xi. De Herla rege

· Pages two (2) through four (4) iron gall ink on paper (hemp pulp, linen fiber): Medieval Latin (ca. 12th century) script.

· Pages five (5) through sixteen (16) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): alphabetic script (unknown roots); refer to Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.03 for comparative linguistic analysis (inconclusive).

· Page seventeen (17) ink (chemical composition undetermined) on paper (cotton fiber): Middle English (ca. 15th century) script.

· Page eighteen (18) parchment (sheepskin): blank.

Transcripts and translations (where possible) provided in Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01*.

Properties: Primary subject (Case No. 9820702) reports total comprehension of Latin portions of the text despite lack of proficiency. Text alleged to diverge from source material (De nugis curialium – Map, Walter, fl. 1200). Both claims verified upon further examination (see associated Investigation Log). Probable association with the Hunter’s affliction.

Storage: Special Collections – Secure Storage. Environmental parameters in brief: maintain temperature at 20-22°C; relative humidity, 32-36%; light levels, ≤50 lux. Housing and handling protocols as per Acquisitions & Collections Policies and Procedures §2.5.5: Document Preservation – Premodern Inks – Iron Gall and §9.2: Special Precautions – Occult and Esoteric Texts.

Access: Restricted.

Provenance: Surrendered 2nd July, 1982 upon receipt of accompanying statement (Case No. 9820702), subject name unknown. See also Item No. 9820702-1.

Appendices:

· Investigation Log No. 9820702-2;

· Supplemental Documents Nos. 9820702-2.01* through -2.07;

· Incident Report No. 9930214.

Cross-reference:

· Case No. 9820702;

· Item No. 9820702-1;

· Acquisitions & Collections Catalog §2.1.1: Archival Media – Occult Books (Active);

· Interdepartmental Bulletin No. 9941002, “The Library of Jurgen Leitner: Lessons Learned.”

*Addendum, 16th February, 1993:Supplemental Document No. 9820702-2.01 reclassified as Restricted Access. Direct all inquiries to Pu Songling Research Library Head Librarian or Acquisitions & Collections Department Head Curator.

“So?” Basira prods. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, assuming the statement is a reliable account, it seems…”

“Promising, right?” Basira says, her eagerness tinted with relief. “If we can–”

She stops abruptly as the tape recorder on the table clicks back on.

“I think that’s our cue to move this conversation elsewhere,” Jon says.

Not that it will stop the tape recorders from listening in, but he has no desire to make Jonah’s surveillance any easier for him.

_________________

It takes some hemming and hawing, but Jon manages to convince Basira that this really ought to be a group discussion. As she recaps the statement and shares her own remarks, Jon keeps a close eye on the other two people in the room. Martin is listening attentively, leaning forward slightly but otherwise at ease. Daisy, though… she’s all corded muscles and jittery legs, taut and precarious on the edge of her seat.

All the while, Basira appears impervious to the storm brewing in Daisy’s eyes, even as Martin catches on and begins chewing on the inside of his cheek, darting nervous glances between the two of them. By the time Basira finishes her overview, the tension in the air is palpable, nearly electric.

For several seconds, no one speaks.

“So,” Martin says, his voice a bit pitchy. He clears his throat before continuing. “Magical, Fear-resistant brooch, huh?”

“It wouldn’t be unheard of,” Jon says. “Remember what I told you about Mikaele Salesa?”

“The apocalypse-proof bubble? Yeah.”

“That camera of his didn’t just protect him from the Eye, it hid him from the Powers in general.”

“What was the catch?” Daisy asks pointedly. “Got to be a catch.”

“Does there?” Martin asks. His hesitant smile falls at Daisy’s blank stare, and he tilts his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, alright.”

“It’s… not entirely benign, no,” Jon says. “In Salesa’s statement, he called it a ‘battery’–”

“–charging itself on all the quiet worries that come from living in hiding, and then when the sanctuary collapses, all that fear flows out at once. No doubt, if my oasis breaks before I die, the Eye will get quite the feast from me, but in this new world–”

“That’s enough of that, I think,” Martin says, resting a hand on Jon’s arm.

Jon bites his tongue, shuts his eyes, and takes a deep breath in, only daring to speak once the tingling on his lips subsides. “Sorry.”

“Nothing to apologize for.” Martin offers him a reassuring smile. “Just didn’t want you getting bogged down.”

“That’s one term for it,” Jon says, not quite under his breath. It’s true enough, though. Sometimes it feels like the Archive is pressed up against the door, watching for the tiniest crack, waiting for any opportunity to surge through and drag him under. Lately, Martin has grown uncannily adept at sensing when to interrupt these lapses before they spiral out of control – likely because they’ve been growing more frequent.

“That’s what I thought,” Daisy says. Puzzled at the apparent non-sequitur, Jon glances at her, but she isn’t looking at him. All of her attention is focused on Basira. “This thing is probably the same. It’s not some… some harmless miracle solution. If we mess around with it, it’s bound to blow up in our faces sooner or later.”

“I’m… not sure about that, actually,” Jon says. “The brooch didn’t free the Hunter, it just made it so he couldn’t be caught. I think that’s what it was feeding on – the Hunter’s gradual awareness that he was no different from the hunted, that sensation of being perpetually stalked from the shadows by a greater predator. It spent centuries charging itself on that fear, and it culminated in the realization that he would never escape it. He would always be waiting for the axe to fall, and Hunt was happy to keep him as perpetual prey. If he wanted the chase to end, he had to give up the artefact – and once it was no longer keeping him in stasis, he had a choice to make.”

“Go back to hunting, or let it catch him.” Daisy breathes a humorless laugh. “The Hunt, or the End.”

“But it would keep you alive,” Basira says. “It would buy us time to find a way to free you for real.”

“What about the Leitner?” Martin asks. “That’s what Jonah sent us after in the first place.”

“Turns out it’s not actually from Leitner’s library,” Jon says. “No bookplate, and it seems the statement giver had it in his possession since the 1500s. It’s… difficult to tell from the statement whether it had any significant effect on him. He called it ‘hypnotic,’ but he was already a Hunter by the time he found it. I imagine it might have different effects on someone not already under the Hunt’s influence.”

“He sort of alluded to that.” Basira takes a moment to peruse the statement, running her finger along the page until she finds the relevant line. “Here – they ‘found themselves either enthralled or agitated.’ A bit obscure, but… he says it like it’s an afterthought. If it outright turned anyone into a Hunter, he probably would’ve said so.”

“That doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous,” Daisy says.

“I never said it wasn’t,” Basira replies coolly. “The record references a transcript, so I assume they had someone read it at some point. And it also mentions an incident report.”

“What was the incident?” Martin asks.

“Don’t know,” Basira says. “They didn’t provide any of the supplemental documentation, just the catalogue listing and the statement itself. But they acquired the book in ‘82 and didn’t make the transcript restricted until ‘93, so… either it was dormant when they first studied it and became active later, or they didn’t study it closely enough to activate its effects, or it doesn’t affect everyone the same way, or – or maybe their workplace safety guidelines just changed and they decided not to risk studying it anymore.”

“Jonah did say something about its effects varying depending on how much of it a person reads, right?” Martin asks. “Though who knows where he got that from.”

“There might be some truth to that,” Basira says. “The catalogue entry does describe what’s on the title page, so I’m assuming that part at least is safe. I’m most curious about the untranslated chunk in the middle.”

And I’m a universal translator, Jon thinks, fidgeting with the drawstring of his hoodie. Basira’s eyes flick to him, as if reading his mind.

“I… suppose I could–”

“No,” Martin and Daisy say simultaneously.

Jon scowls. “You didn’t even let me finish the–”

“You threw yourself into the Buried – twice – to save me,” Daisy says severely. “You can’t keep sacrificing yourself at every opportunity.”

“I wouldn’t be–”

“What, re-traumatizing yourself by reading a Leitner?” Jon shuts his mouth, pressing his lips tightly together. “It’s not worth it, Sims.”

“Daisy,” Basira begins, but Daisy cuts her off.

“No. I’m not having him throw himself to the wolves just because you’re curious.”

Basira flinches, hurt momentarily crossing her face before her expression goes stony.

“You really think that’s what this is about?” she says, her voice shaking. “Knowledge for knowledge’s sake? Me being curious?”

“You can’t tell me you’re not,” Daisy says, and then her expression softens. “And I love that about you, I do – you’re brilliant, Basira – and driven, and passionate, and…” She sighs. “But sometimes… sometimes you need to let things go.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon notices Martin cross and uncross his legs, his lower lip captured between his teeth. When Jon catches his eye, Martin jerks his chin minutely at Basira and Daisy, a grimace on his face. All Jon can offer is a helpless, equally awkward shrug. Near as he can tell, Basira and Daisy seem to have momentarily forgotten that they have an audience, and judging from their locked eyes and thunderous expressions, he doubts either of them would appreciate a reminder right this second.

“Let you go, you mean,” Basira says tersely. “When you say ‘it’s not worth it,’ what you really mean is that you’re not worth it.”

“Well, I’m not.”

The cavalier tone is the last straw, it seems.

“Why won’t you just let me help you?” Basira slams her hand down on the rickety table, straining its wobbly legs. “You’re just so ready to–” She lets out a frustrated groan. “You never used to give up this easily.”

“Maybe should’ve done,” Daisy says flatly. “Might’ve lowered my body count.”

“Giving up Hunting doesn’t have to mean giving up on living,” Basira says. “I might have finally found an alternative, and you won’t even consider–”

“I’m not doing anything that’s going to hurt someone, and that includes exposing Jon to a fucking Leitner.”

“I’m right here, you know,” Jon mutters testily, the friction finally getting the better of his nerves. “Don’t I get a say?”

“No, you don’t,” Daisy says, rounding on him. Now that all of her brimming agitation is funneled in his direction, he regrets saying anything at all. “Because lately, whenever I ask you if you want to hurt yourself, the best you can give me is ‘it doesn’t matter because I can’t die anyway.’”

“Jon?” Martin says urgently, his eyebrows drawing together.

“Th-that’s not what I–”

“You’re not thinking rationally,” Daisy speaks over Jon’s stammering. “You’re thinking like a condemned man with a rope around his neck and something to prove, and I’m not going to be the noose you use to hang yourself with.”

“Will you listen to yourself?” Basira says heatedly. “You get on my case about double standards–”

“That’s enough!” Martin bursts out. “This isn’t helping. Daisy’s right, Jon. You’re not going anywhere near that book – I don’t want to hear it,” he adds before Jon can retort. “Not now, anyway. We’ll talk later. But Basira’s right, too,” Martin says, turning his attention to Daisy. “You can’t make amends by dying, and you can’t do better going forward if you’re not alive to try.”

“Who says I deserve a chance?” Daisy says.

“Whatever you think you ‘deserve’” – Martin gives Jon a meaningful glance as he says it – “you’ve got a chance, and people who want to help you through it, and you ought to consider that before you assume you’d do more good dead than alive.” He exhales a sharp breath. “Anyway, forget the Leitner, and forget what Jonah said about it. The brooch seems like the more promising option here.”

“I agree,” Jon says, cowed. “Between the book and the brooch, the statement giver credited the latter with keeping the Hunt at bay. And perhaps my bias is showing, but truthfully I – I’m not inclined to see those books as anything but tragedies waiting to happen.”

“What’s the difference?” Daisy says flatly. “It took a decade for something bad enough to happen for them to make the Leitner’s transcript restricted. The brooch could be just as much of a time bomb. Just because it doesn’t have any ‘incidents’ connected with it now doesn’t mean it never will.”

She isn’t wrong. Looking back, Jon had found it infuriating that Leitner would continue meddling with the books even after he witnessed the horror they wrought, all while claiming to have learned from his hubris. Just because this particular artefact isn’t a book doesn’t make it any less ominous.

And yet…

“I think it’s already shown its more sinister side,” Jon says slowly.

“You think,” Daisy scoffs.

“It doesn’t give a Hunter strength, it makes them perpetual prey. It… won’t be pleasant for you, I’m sure,” Jon admits, “but Basira’s right – it could keep you alive while we search for a better solution.”

“There might not be a better solution,” Daisy says stubbornly.

“Which is what I said before you browbeat me into taking statements from you,” Jon counters.

“I didn’t browbeat–” Jon raises his eyebrows. Daisy gives a flustered groan. “It’s just – it’s different, okay?”

Much as Jon wants to disagree, he knows better than to argue. They’d only end up talking in circles.

“I think it’s an avenue worth pursuing,” he says. “Given the alternatives.”

“Please, Daisy,” Basira says. “Just… consider it, at least.”

The for me remains unspoken, but Jon can hear it loud and clear. As can Daisy, it seems – the defiant set to her jaw falters for a moment before she tenses again.

“Fine,” she says grudgingly. “But if it starts to go south–”

“If it manifests any new properties, we’ll prioritize containing it over interacting with it,” Jon says.

“You promise?” Daisy asks, but she looks at Basira when she says it. It takes a moment, but Basira does nod.

“Do you think Pu Songling will let us have it?” Martin asks. “Seems like their protocols are…”

“Rigorous?” Jon supplies.

“You’d almost think they were running an academic institution or something,” Basira says drily.

“Yeah, but treating the artefacts like museum pieces, it’s… it’s weird, isn’t it?” Martin says. “It’s not as if they’re fragile, right? They’re held together by… nightmare alchemy, or whatever.”

“I suppose it’s to be expected,” Jon says. “I know the Librarian has a degree in information science. And I recall her telling me that the Curator is an historian with a background in museology. But you’re right – it would be nice if Leitners were as delicate as the average old manuscript.”

“At least they’re flammable,” Daisy mutters.

“We spoke with the Head Curator,” Basira says. “She’s willing to work out a trade.”

“A trade?” Martin asks.

“Knowledge for knowledge,” Jon says. “An artefact for an artefact. I get the impression that the Librarian and the Curator are both very… collections-oriented. True to their titles, I suppose.”

“Hold up,” Daisy says. “‘The Librarian,’ ‘the Curator’ – are those just job titles, or are they, like… Beholding Avatar titles?” Jon blinks at her, perplexed. “I mean – the way you keep saying them, it’s sort of like…”

“What, ‘Archivist’?” Jon gnaws on his thumbnail as he pauses to consider. “I… don’t know, actually. I wasn’t really doing it consciously? It just…” He shrugs helplessly. “It felt right.”

“Is it coming from the Eye, then?”

“I have no idea, Basira.” Jon leans forward, props his elbows on his knees, and digs the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Hm.”

“In any case…” Jon exhales slowly, forcing himself to sit up straight again. “They seem to take the research and curation aspects of their roles to heart. They aren’t reckless with their pursuits, they take ample precautions, but the scholars at Pu Songling do study the items that come into their possession. And from what I understand, the Curator takes avid interest in adding to their collection. Same as the Archivist’s role is to record stories. To what extent her efforts are driven by her connection to the Eye versus her own innate curiosity, I couldn’t tell you, no more than I can make that distinction in myself.”

“Sort of a chicken-or-egg situation, then,” Daisy says.

“From an evolutionary perspective, the egg came first,” Jon says automatically. “Amniotic eggs have been around for over three hundred million years. Birds originated in the Jurassic, true galliforms didn’t evolve until at least the Late Cretaceous, phasianids don’t appear in the fossil record until about thirty million years ago, and chickens as we know them were only domesticated about eight thousand years ago–”

“Oh my god,” Daisy groans, putting her head in her hands.

“What?” Jon says, heat rising in his cheeks as Martin muffles a snicker beneath his hand. “I’m not wrong.”

“Pu Songling’s Collections Department is larger than our Artefact Storage,” Basira interjects, “but the, uh… Curator has a shortlist of artefacts she’s been on the lookout for. I checked our records and found a match. A ring – probably belongs to the Vast, based on the reports surrounding it. Looks like the Institute purchased it from Salesa in 2014, shortly before his disappearance. The Curator considers it an ‘equitable exchange,’ but she still wants to assess the ring in person before making the trade.”

“And we still have to talk to Sonja,” Jon adds. “On the one hand, she likely wouldn’t object to being rid of an artefact, but on the other hand… I imagine she won’t be keen on letting it out into the world.”

“I think it would be a harder sell if you were just going to swap it out for another artefact – something unfamiliar that they’d have to develop all new protocols for,” Martin says. “But yeah, even if you won’t be making the brooch her problem, she’ll probably still want to know what we want with it. And I can see her pressing the Curator on why she wants the ring when she gets here.”

“The Curator won’t be coming here,” Basira says evenly, casting a surreptitious glance at Daisy to gauge her reaction. “Says she’s too busy to travel.”

“So you have to haul the ring up to her,” Daisy says.

“I mean” – Basira breathes an uneasy laugh – “it’s a ring. Not much hauling involved–”

“Oh, don’t start–”

“–and there are precautions I can take. Looks like Artefact Storage has relatively thorough documentation for this one.”

“‘Relatively’?” Daisy repeats, unimpressed. “You were just complaining about how sparse their records are. ‘Relatively’ isn’t saying much.”

“Well, it’s better than nothing.” Basira rubs at her face. “I have to do this. Just… trust me.”

“You know I do–”

“Then let me have your back,” Basira says, practically pleading. “Let me help you.”

“Fine,” Daisy mutters, her posture going slack. “Do what you want.”

It’s not exactly a resounding endorsement, but it’s as good as they’re likely to get.

_________________

Despite Daisy’s lack of enthusiasm, Basira immediately throws herself into making arrangements. The Curator at Pu Songling is more than accommodating, seemingly as eager as Basira to make the trade. The real challenge is the Head of Artefact Storage.

It takes over a week of cajoling, lengthy justifications, and a concerted, collaborative effort from Basira, Jon, and Martin before Sonja finally, albeit reluctantly, agrees to discuss the matter with the Curator. Over the following days, Basira and Jon facilitate negotiations between the two: mediating a fair amount of (professional, but nevertheless pointed) verbal sparring early on, and later arbitrating the terms and conditions of the trade.

“You’d think that in the course of dealing with literal supernatural evil on a daily basis,” Basira gripes at one point, “bureaucracy wouldn’t be the biggest priority.”

“I’ve found that the bureaucratic process gives me ample time to make assessments,” Sonja says, unruffled. “Red tape has a way of bringing out the worst in people. Sometimes that’s a procrastinating student who woke up this morning, realized their deadline is next week, and ‘needs access to our materials, like, yesterday,’” she says, complete with finger quotes and a mocking tone. “And sometimes it’s some shady rich snob who’s been consistently cagey about his motives, and eventually he starts to go from impatient and entitled to desperate and frustrated, and that’s when the red flags start popping up crimson. After a while, you learn to distinguish the mundane sort of desperation from the more sinister sort.”

“Huh,” Jon says, smiling to himself. He knew Sonja was clever, but he never knew she was so calculating. It seems Jonah made the same mistake with Sonja as he did with Gertrude – overestimating a person’s curiosity and malleability, underestimating their prudence and pragmatism, and then promoting them to a position where they were free to act in a decidedly un-Beholding-like manner.

Once Sonja is sufficiently assured that the Curator has no intentions of utilizing the artefact or allowing it to venture beyond the secure confines of Pu Songling’s Collections Storage, the process starts to go a bit more smoothly. As expected, Sonja is amenable to the prospect of having one less piece of malignant costume jewelry, as she puts it, provided the Archival staff take full responsibility – both for the ring once Basira signs it out and for the artefact they receive in exchange.

“The ring has a compulsion effect,” Sonja tells them. “Makes people want to put it on – and once it’s on your finger, it’s not coming off until you hit the ground. Luckily it’s not a particularly active artefact, at least not compared to some of the other things we have here. I wouldn’t call it safe, obviously, but” – she raps her knuckles on the wooden beads of the bracelet on her opposite wrist – “it’s never breached containment.”

The how and why become abundantly clear upon seeing the closed ring box, so caked in earth and grime that it’s impossible to make out the color or material underneath.

“Buried, I take it,” Basira murmurs, giving Jon a sidelong glance.

“Yeah.” Jon grimaces at the phantom taste of soil on his tongue. “An artefact to contain an artefact.”

“Looks like the Curator is getting a twofer,” Basira says.

“Fine by me,” Sonja says with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s the box it came in, actually. Don’t know why it works, but it does, and that’s all I care about. So long as you keep it closed, the worst you’ll get is vertigo. As far as we’ve observed, anyway. There’s always a chance that an artefact has more secrets than it lets on at first glance. Assuming you know everything there is to know is a good way to end up in a casket.”

“We’re well aware,” Jon says. “Believe me.”

“Seriously, though – if this goes tits up, I don’t want to hear it,” Sonja says sternly, all but wagging a finger. “And if you call up here a few months from now to tell me that you’ve got a rogue artefact wreaking havoc in the Archives, and I’ve got to put my people at risk to contain it, I will unleash unholy hell.”

The funny thing is, Jon believes her.

_________________

Despite the progress they’re making on obtaining the Hunter’s brooch, dissent continues to simmer within the group – particularly where Daisy is concerned. As the escalating tension in the Archives becomes ever more tangible, Martin begins to feel claustrophobic under the weight of all the things left unspoken.

Daisy is consistently ill-tempered: bellicose in one moment and taciturn in the next, frequently seeking out solitude whenever her agitation gets the best of her. Martin suspects that her volatile mood has as much to do with her deteriorating condition as it does to do with her lingering aversion to the rest of the group’s efforts. Although she and Basira haven’t had another row – so far as Martin is aware, anyway – there’s been an undeniable friction between them. On the worst days, Basira keeps to herself, burying her head in her research while Daisy slinks off to some dark corner of the Archives to brood until Jon comes to drag her away from her thoughts.

Not that Jon is much better. He’s been sullen lately, growing more withdrawn, sleeping less and jumping at shadows even more than usual. Martin often catches him in a trance, staring vacantly into space and droning horrors under his breath. More and more he lapses into statement clips mid-sentence, regardless of how recently he’s had a statement. Sometimes, all it takes is a momentary slip for Jon to lose his footing and devolve into a frenzied litany of back-to-back, fragmentary horror stories. On a few recent occasions he’s lost his voice entirely, though luckily it’s only been for an hour or two at a time.

(So far, Jon says morosely after each episode.)

Most unsettling, though, is the chronic faraway look in his eye, like he’s seeing something else. Like he’s somewhere else, lost across an unbridgeable divide.

Martin is well-acquainted with the sensation of feeling alone in the presence of others. That doesn’t make it any less distressing. It’s not that Jon intends to be distant. He might not even be aware of it; would likely be mortified if he knew just how much that detachment stirred Martin’s longstanding fears of isolation and abandonment. Jon’s still affectionate, after all. Although he seems reluctant to actively seek out comfort these days, he’s still prompt to take an outstretched hand, to lean into a kind touch, to accept a proffered embrace. Still makes a concerted effort to muster, however feebly, a soft smile whenever Martin enters a room. Still attempts to be present and attentive and open.

But sometimes it feels like Jon is out of reach, separated from the rest of the world, watching it pass him by through layers of frosted glass. Martin knows the feeling. What he doesn’t know is how to fix it.

Before long, Basira is set to leave for Beijing, an artefact of the Vast nestled away in her luggage amidst assurances to Sonja that, yes, under no circumstances will Basira attempt to take it on a plane or into the open ocean because, no, Basira does not have a death wish, thank you very much.

Martin half-expects another quarrel to break out on the eve of Basira’s departure, but Daisy is oddly subdued. Perhaps she just doesn’t want to part ways with angry words and unresolved arguments, or perhaps she’s simply come to accept the rest of the group’s decision to move forward with the plan. Considering the dark circles under her eyes, though, it’s just as likely that she’s simply too fatigued to start a fight.

A few days later, Martin descends the ladder into the tunnels to find Jon standing at his makeshift desk, staring down at the map unfurled across its surface – the product of the group’s ongoing efforts to survey the sprawling tunnel system of the former Millbank Prison. The blueprint-in-progress is an equally sprawling thing: sheets of mismatched paper layered one atop the next and taped together, its irregular borders comprised of haphazard angles and dog-eared edges.

The hand-drawn map on its surface is chaotic, reflecting the penmanship of four different authors. Jon’s contributions might be the messiest – the burn scar contracture on his dominant hand renders his lines shaky at best, and his handwriting has always been a tad chickenscratch. Daisy’s isn’t much better. Conversely, Basira’s additions are the neatest, her strokes as steady as the persona she tries to project to the world. Martin’s are passable, if only because, unlike Jon or Daisy, he actually has the patience to use rulers and book edges to trace straight paths.

To be fair, it would probably look a mess no matter how painstaking they were in constructing it. The tunnels are as labyrinthine as expected: a vast network of arterial corridors with offshoots along their lengths, branching into three- or four-way forks, most of which lead to dead ends. Occasionally, they find a path that loops back around and connects other parts of the maze, creating a series of meandering, convoluted closed circuits. It’s difficult to tell just by looking, but they are (Martin hopes) making progress. At the rate they’re going, they have to be on track to find the Panopticon before the winter solstice.

In any case, as Martin approaches the desk, he sees that familiar vacant look on Jon’s face, as if he isn’t actually seeing what’s in front of him. The effect is underscored by the cigarette burning away in his hand, hanging limp and forgotten at his side. Martin clears his throat lightly, in deference to Jon’s hair-trigger startle reflex. He doesn’t count the fact that Jon doesn’t jump at all as a success. If anything, it’s cause for concern.

“Jon?” Martin tries. There’s a slight delay before Jon glances over, giving Martin no acknowledgment aside from a sluggish blink before lowering his head again.

“I, uh…” Martin offers a weak smile, attempting to keep his tone light. He gestures at the cigarette. “I thought you quit?”

Jon shrugs, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes. “Not like it’ll kill me.”

“Might catch up with you later, though,” Martin says, scratching at his neck. “You know, once we find a way out of here.”

“There is no ‘out’ for me,” Jon says mulishly.

“You don’t know that. Or Know it.” Jon’s only reaction is to press his lips tightly together, like he’s biting back a retort. “Look, I’m not trying to nag you, I just wor– Jon!” Martin yelps as he watches Jon put his cigarette out on the back of his hand.

Martin lunges forward, grabbing Jon’s hand and yanking it close to inspect the damage. It’s the same hand that Jude shook, already textured and pitted with webs of hypertrophic scarring. Somehow, Jon managed to plant this newest burn on a patch of previously-undamaged skin, sandwiched between two bands of knotted tissue.

The contours of her fingers, Martin recognizes with a queasy lurch – followed by another when he thinks to wonder whether Jon sought out that scrap of healthy skin on purpose just now.

Jon barely reacts, staring into space with wide eyes and dilated pupils. Martin looks down again to see the circular singe mark already knitting itself back together, leaving only a small, shiny patch of discoloration ringed with a dusting of ash. In all likelihood, even that will be gone by morning.

If only all wounds would heal so easily.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Martin hisses, fighting to keep his voice even. He brushes a soothing thumb over the spot, as if to apologize to the abused skin on Jon’s behalf.

Jogged out of his reverie by Martin’s sharp tone, Jon stares daggers at him, his mouth open as if to unleash a scathing reprimand, the set of his jaw so reminiscent of those early days in the Archives. An instant later, though, he withers, cringing away and fixing his eyes on the floor.

“I wasn’t,” he mumbles, at least having the decency to sound contrite. “Wasn’t really paying attention.”

It’s not the first time Martin’s witnessed a self-inflicted injury. When pressed, Jon always claims that it’s not a deliberate, planned form of self-punishment, but rather a reflex reaction that kicks in when he starts feeling adrift in time. Somewhere along the line, it seems, he convinced himself that physical pain is as good a shortcut as any – a sort of panic button to bring him back to the present when he needs grounding.

Whatever his intentions, though, and no matter what rationalizations Jon wants to dole out, it’s not a healthy coping mechanism. And it’s difficult for Martin to believe that self-punishment doesn’t factor at all, considering Jon’s obsessive guilt spirals and his blasé attitude towards being hurt.

“‘S already healed,” Jon says with a spiritless shrug. He drops the snuffed-out remainder of his cigarette on the floor and unnecessarily grinds it under his heel.

“That’s not the point.” Martin doesn’t realize how tightly he’s grasping Jon’s hand until Jon winces. Although Martin relaxes his grip somewhat, he doesn’t let go. “It doesn’t matter how quickly your body heals, or that you’ve had worse, or whatever other justifications you want to make. You’re still getting hurt. That’s not okay, and – and if it were me in your shoes, you’d be telling me the same thing.”

“I’m sorry.” Jon’s hair falls to cover his face as he ducks his head.

It’s fine, Martin almost says – except it’s not, is it?

“Come on,” he says instead, guiding Jon to sit in the nearest chair before taking a seat next to him. Where before Jon was all stiff limbs and rigid spine, now he looks like he’s given up the ghost, drooping like a wilting flower.

Though he allows Martin to keep hold of his hand, Jon doesn’t return the pressure. And Jon’s skin is freezing – no doubt partly due to the damp chill of the tunnels, and partly because he has, by his own admission, always had shit circulation. Combined with his limp fingers and loose grip, though, the overall effect is far too reminiscent of those months spent keeping vigil over Jon’s hospital bed, his hand nothing but cold, dead weight in Martin’s.

It took too long for Martin to admit that he had been foolish to hope that Jon was still in there somewhere, aware of Martin’s presence, fighting to regain consciousness. The whole time, Martin was just keeping his own company. Jon wasn’t just unreachable – he wasn’t there at all.

(Martin had been wrong about that in the end. He doesn’t know that he’ll ever forgive himself for not being there when Jon woke up.)

Martin bites his lip as he formulates a response. He’s learned over the years that when Jon is like this, it’s best to strike a careful balance between docility and defiance. Push too hard too fast, and Jon will dig his heels in; approach him too tentatively, and he’s liable to interpret concern as pity; force him to talk about his feelings, and he’ll bolt; smother him with tenderness, and he’ll balk.

Granted, Jon has become much more receptive to tenderness over the years. Most of the time, anyway. When his skewed self-worth and convictions about what he does and doesn’t deserve don’t get in the way.

“At the risk of being a nag–”

“You’re not a nag,” Jon says softly.

“When’s the last time you had a statement?”

“A few days ago.” The response is too quick, too automatic.

“A few days ago,” Martin repeats, allowing a bit of disbelief to seep into his voice.

Jon nods stiffly. “Monday, I think.”

“Today is Tuesday.”

“I–” Jon cuts off his own retort, turning to blink owlishly at Martin. “Is it?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his heart sinking. Jon must be losing time again. “So you had a statement yesterday?”

“No, I – I don’t…” Jon squints up at the ceiling, wracking his brain. “I don’t think so? It’s – I think I would recall if it had been shorter than one day.”

“So, last Monday?”

“I don’t – I don’t know,” Jon says, growing testy. “I suppose. Must’ve been.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.” The admission is devoid of all the simmering agitation that had been there only moments before. Now, he just sounds tired.

“Well… I think you might be due for one.” Although Martin had been striving for gentle suggestion, there’s a harsh edge to the words. Rather than get Jon’s hackles up again, though, he seems to crumple under what he doubtless reads as an accusation.

“You’re right,” he says hoarsely. “And I’m sorry. I know lately I’ve been…”

“Tetchy,” Martin offers, just as Jon says, “a bit of a prick.”

“Your words, not mine,” Martin says with a tentative grin. Jon returns his own feeble half-smile, but it quickly falters.

“I’ve almost exhausted Daisy’s catalogue,” he confesses. “Only a handful left now. I’ve got to make them last until the solstice.”

An apprehensive chill runs down Martin’s spine at that. “And then what?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

There’s virtually no chance that Jon, prone to rumination as he is, hasn’t been dwelling on it.

“Basira said she has a few statements, right?” Martin asks. “Which… if you already have a statement about an encounter, can you still get nourishment from other statements about it, so long as it’s coming from someone else’s point of view?”

“Probably.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “The factual details of the encounter are less important than the subject’s emotional response. Different perspective, different story, different lived experience of fear.”

“Then… you have my statement about the Flesh attack, but there’s still Basira’s. And – and maybe Melanie–”

“I’m not taking another statement from Melanie,” Jon says tersely. “She’s been tethered to me for too long without say, and I’m not dragging her back in.”

“But if it’s consensual–”

“It won’t be, because I don’t consent.”

“If the alternative is literally starving–”

“I’ll find another alternative. Or I won’t. But I’m not asking Melanie for a statement.” Jon keeps his head bowed, but he looks up at Martin through his lashes. “The first time she quit, I was worried that she might show up in my nightmares again, but she didn’t. I don’t know if her severance from the Eye will keepher out of my nightmares if she gives me a new statement, and… I can’t risk it. I can’t do that to her. Even if the nightmares weren’t an issue… I’m not going to ask her to relive yet another traumatic experience for my benefit–”

“–I shall choose to die rather than take part in such an unholy meal–”

Jon claps a hand over his mouth, a panicked look in his eye.

“…nor shall I take my own life, whatever extremity my suffering may reach,” he tacks on, too much of an afterthought for comfort.

“Which means we need to plan for the future,” Martin says, forcing calm into his voice despite the way his heart picks up its pace.

“But it can’t involve Melanie,” Jon says – gentler than before, but still firm.

“No, you’re – you’re right,” Martin relents. “It wouldn’t be fair to her. But we could still ask Basira.”

Jon makes a noncommittal noise, his expression rapidly going pinched and closed off again.

“Lately,” Martin says, licking his lips nervously, “lately it feels like you’ve been shutting everyone out again. It isn’t healthy–”

“Healthy?” Jon’s glare could burn a hole in the floor. “I don’t need to be healthy, I just need to be whatever it wants.”

Once, Martin might have been daunted by Jon’s scathing tone. By now, he knows that Jon is all bluster – and that the brunt of it is turned inward, against his own self.

“Please, Jon. Tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

Those, apparently, are the magic words, because Jon finally capitulates.

“It’s October,” he tells the floor.

“It… is October, yeah.” Bewildered, Martin waits for elaboration. When a minute passes with no response forthcoming, he prompts, “Is that… bad…?”

“Historically, yes, it has been,” Jon says with a tired, frayed-sounding chuckle.

“I… Jon, I need you to help me out here,” Martin says helplessly. “I can’t read your mind.”

“October is when it happens, Martin.” Jon glances at Martin once, quickly, before returning his gaze to the ground. He’s twisting one hand around the opposite wrist now, fingers curled tightly enough to blanch his knuckles. “The eighteenth. When everything goes wrong.”

“You mean…”

Jon’s sharp inhale becomes a choked exhale, which in turn abruptly cuts off as the Archive takes its cue.

“…what settled over me wasn’t dread; there wasn’t enough uncertainty for that. It was doom. I was certain that some sort of disaster was on the horizon–”

“–something bad. Something unspeakable. And I would have helped make it happen–”

“–the fear never really went away. I’ve heard that being exposed to the source of your terror over and over again can help break its power over you, numb you to it, but in my experience it just teaches you to hide from it. Sometimes that might mean hiding in a quiet corner of your mind, but–”

“–soon enough, I could no longer fool myself–”

“–the calm I had been getting accustomed to had been torn away completely, and where it had been was just this horrible, ice-cold terror–”

“–that – we can’t escape the ruins of our own future–”

“–a future where – humanity was violently and utterly supplanted, and wiped out by a new category of being–”

“–there are terrible things coming – things that, if we knew them, would leave us weak and trembling, with shuddering terror at the knowledge that they are coming for all of us–”

“–I think in my heart, I have been waiting for this moment. For the final axe to fall–”

“–we create the world in a lot of ways. I suppose it shouldn’t be surprising that, when we’re not being careful, we can change it–”

There’s a breathless pause before Jon continues, in a nearly inaudible whisper: “What could I have chosen to change? Would a different path have been possible?”

“It is,” Martin says firmly, “and we’re on it. What happened last time won’t happen again. We won’t let it.”

Jon doesn’t acknowledge the reassurance.

“I should’ve known,” he says with a quiet ferocity, in his own voice this time. “It was too peaceful. I should’ve known it wasn’t going to last. And – and on some level I did know – I knew it wasn’t over – but I just… I didn’t want to be the one to shatter the illusion, I suppose.” His expression goes taut. “Didn’t much matter what I wanted, in the end. But I still should’ve seen it coming. Can’t let my guard down again.”

“How could you have known?” Martin doesn’t intend for it to come out as exasperated. He tries to reel it back, to gentle his tone. “You’ve said yourself that you can’t predict the future–”

“No, but I knew Jonah had plans for me. And I knew nothing good could come of feeding the Eye, but I kept on anyway.”

“It’s not like you were doing it for fun, Jon! You needed it to survive, and Jonah took advantage of that. Or…” No – that makes it sound purely opportunistic, doesn’t it? In reality, it was all part of Jonah’s long game from the start. “He made you dependent on statements specifically becausehe wanted to take advantage of that.”

“I made choices,” Jon says tonelessly. “I can’t absolve myself of responsibility just because Jonah was nudging me in a particular direction.”

“You were manipulated,” Martin insists, “and I’m not having you apologize for surviving it. For not starving to death.”

“You don’t understand,” Jon says, growing more distressed, reaching up with both hands and tangling his fingers in his hair. “When that box of statements finally arrived, I… I couldn’t shoo you away fast enough. I was hungry, yes, but I wasn’t starving yet. I could’ve waited longer, but I just… I wanted one–”

“–should have fought harder against the temptation – but my curiosity was too strong–”

“You shouldn’t have to wait until you’re literally on death’s doorstep before you fulfill a basic need,” Martin interrupts.

“I should when that ‘basic need’ entails serving the Beholding,” Jon says heatedly. “And I – I should’ve known better – should’ve known not to jump headlong into the first statement that caught my eye. I’d known for a while that the Beholding leads me away from statements it doesn’t want me to know. It logically follows that it would lead me towards statements that would strengthen it. If I’d had any sense, I would’ve been suspicious of anything in that box that called out to me. It didn’t… it didn’t feel any different, but I – I suppose that somewhere along the line I just got used to… to wandering down whatever path I was led. I didn’t think, I never stop to think–”

“If anything, Jon, you overthink. You’re overthinking right now.”

Martin has known for a long time now that Jon will latch onto the smallest details, allow his thoughts to branch into an impossible number of routes and tangents, tie together loose threads in countless permutations in the interest of considering all possible conclusions, no matter how outlandish. He will apply Occam's razor in one moment before tossing it into the bin, only to fish it out again: lather, rinse, repeat. His mind is a noisy, cluttered conspiracy corkboard, and he’ll hang himself with red string if given half a chance, just to feel like he’s in control of something.

“It’s easy to look back and criticize your past self,” Martin says, “but he didn’t know what you do. If we knew the outcome to every action, maybe we wouldn’t make mistakes, but we’re only human–”

“Not all of us.”

“–so we just have to do the best with what we have in the moment,” Martin continues, paying no heed to Jon’s grumbled comment. No good will come of guiding him down that rabbit trail right now. Anyway, Martin has a more pressing concern–

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this sooner?” he blurts out, immediately wincing at his lack of tact. “That came out wrong–”

“Why didn’t I tell you how quick I was to chase you out of the house and sink my teeth into a statement the moment temptation presented itself?” Jon scoffs. “Because I’m ashamed. Why else?”

“No, not–” Martin scrubs a hand over his face. It’s a struggle, sometimes, not to grab Jon by the shoulders and shake him until all of that stubborn self-loathing falls away. “About the fact that you’ve got a – a post-traumatic anniversary event coming up, I mean. You haven’t been well, and I thought I understood why – thought it was just… all of it, in general. But here I come to find you’ve been agonizing over the upcoming date of the single worse day of your life–”

“One of the worst,” Jon says quietly.

“What?”

“I didn’t lose you until much later.”

Martin’s breath catches in his throat at that, a sharp pang shooting through his chest.

“Well… you’ve got me now,” he says meekly. “So – so you don’t have to suffer in silence, is what I’m saying. What happened to you – no, what was done to you – it was horrible, and it wasn’t your fault. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s the truth.”

“Either I’ve always been caught up in someone else’s web, passively having things happen to me with no control over my life–”

“–the Mother got exactly the result she no doubt wanted, one that would lead to a fear – so acute that I could later have that horror focused and refined into a silk-spun apotheosis–”

Jon bites down on one knuckle, eyes shut tight as he waits for the compulsion to subside.

“Or,” he says after a minute, “or I do have control, and I can change the outcome, which makes me culpable. I don’t know which prospect I hate more. Which probably says some unflattering things about me.”

“It’s not that simple–”

“It is,” Jon says viciously. “If there is another path, then I should’ve found it last time!” He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, and takes a steadying breath. When he speaks again, he’s no longer bordering on shouting, but there’s a quaver in his voice, a fragility that Martin finds more disconcerting than any flash of anger. “The way I see it, there are two options. One, what happened in my future was inevitable and nothing I could’ve done would’ve changed it – which certainly doesn’t bode well for this timeline. Or, the outcome can be changed, in which case my choices matter, and had I just made better choices, maybe I could have prevented all of this from ever happening in the first place.”

“You’re not being fair,” Martin says, his hands clenching into fists – but Jon isn’t listening.

“Doesn’t make much difference, I suppose. The consequences are the same either way–”

“–billions of – people making their way through life who had no idea what was right above their heads–”

“–would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters–”

“–minds so strange and colossal that we would never know they were minds at all–”

“–idiots who destroyed themselves chasing a secret that wasn’t worth knowing–”

“–there, caught up in a series of events that I didn’t understand but that terrified me – I did the stupidest thing I’ve ever done–”

“–running was pointless. To try to escape from my task would only serve to fulfill another. I finally understood what I needed to do–”

“–I don’t know if you have ever drowned, but it’s the most painful thing I have ever experienced–”

“–I do not suppose I need to dwell on the pain, but please know that I would sooner die than endure it again–”

“Would you?” Martin says abruptly. Jon won’t look at him. “Jon, I need to know if you’re feeling like hurting yourself.”

“What would it matter if I was?” Jon still won’t look at him. “I’m categorically incapable of hurting myself in any way that matters.”

Martin blinks in disbelief. “Okay, that’s blatantly untrue.”

Jon has been a glaring portrait of self-neglect for as long as Martin has known him. That simple lack of consideration for himself, together with compounding survivor’s guilt, was the perfect stepping stone to active self-endangerment. Now that Jon’s convinced himself he’s invulnerable to a normal human death, he’s all the more careless with himself.

“I don’t want to die,” Jon whispers. “That’s the problem.”

“What—?”

“Before, I was unknowingly putting the entire world at risk by – by waking up after the Unknowing, by crawling out of the Buried, by escaping the Hunters, by continuing to read statements like it was – like it was something routine, as unremarkable as – as taking tea. Now, though – now I know better. I know what Jonah is planning, I saw what I’m capable of, and still I… I don’t want to die.”

“Well… good,” Martin says. “You should want to live–”

“It doesn’t much matter what I want–”

“–I never wanted to weigh up the value of a life, to set it on the scales against my own, but that’s a choice that I am forced into–”

“–doesn’t get to die for that – gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever – powerless–”

“–a lynchpin for this new ritual – a record of fear–”

Shit, Martin thinks the instant he recognizes the statement. It’s the worst of them all, virtually guaranteed to send Jon spiraling.

“–both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you – a living chronicle of terror – a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom–”

“Okay, okay, stay with me–”

“–the Chosen one is simply that: someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck–”

“Jon, can you hear me? Jon–”

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

Martin reaches over, taking both of Jon’s hands in his own and squeezing tightly. The pressure seems to do the trick: lucidity sparks in Jon’s eyes and he takes a deep, ragged breath, as if coming up for air.

“There you are. Are you okay?” Martin rubs both thumbs over the backs of Jon’s hands in rhythmic, soothing motions. “Hey, it’s–”

“I don’t want your kindness!” Jon snaps, jerking backwards and snatching his hands out from Martin’s grip.

Both of them lapse into a stunned silence. As mortification dawns on Jon’s face, Martin can feel the color rising in his cheeks. It only takes a few seconds for the blood rushing in his ears to be drowned out by another voice.

Martin can remember with cutting clarity the days prior to his mother’s departure to the nursing home. She had been in (somewhat) rare form, her already-short fuse dwindled down to nothing, sniping at him around the clock, full of caustic observations and spiteful accusations.

I don’t want your help, she had sneered as she entered the cab, swatting his hand away.

It was one of the last things she ever said to him.

“Well, tough,” Martin bites out, “because you deserve it, and you never should’ve had to go without it, and you’re not going to change my mind about that, so you may as well stop trying!”

“Martin, I – I – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

He saw, Martin realizes all at once, his skin crawling with humiliation.

“I’m going to go make some tea,” Martin says, rising to his feet.

Jon reaches out a hand. “Martin–”

“I just need a breather, okay?” Martin says, a pleading note to his voice. His lungs are constricting, his chest is tightening, there’s a lump in his throat, and he really doesn’t want to have a panic attack in the tunnels – or in front of Jon. “I’m not – I’m not angry, okay, I just need some air.”

Jon opens his mouth, then immediately closes it, clutches his hands to his chest, and gives a tiny nod that Martin just barely glimpses before turning to flee.

_________________

“Stop crying,” Jon hisses at himself, furiously scrubbing at his face as the tears slide down his cheeks. “Stop it.”

He plasters the heels of his hands over his closed eyelids. It does nothing to stem the flow, only brings to mind images of pressing himself bodily against a door to hold it closed, only for the crack to continue widening, millimeter after millimeter, the flood on the other side trickling through the gap, rivulets swelling into rivers, frigid eddies biting at his ankles, a whitewater undertow threatening to drag him below the waves–

“Enjoying our own company, are we?”

Once, Jon might have been humiliated to be caught mid-breakdown, raw-voiced and puffy-eyed, especially by Peter Lukas of all people. Several lifetimes spent in thrall to cosmic horrors have a way of putting things in perspective.

“What do you want?” Jon says with as much ire as he can muster.

Peter hums to himself, starting a slow, back-and-forth pace in front of Jon. “It occurred to me that I’ve been derelict in my duties as far as the Archives are concerned–”

“That’s just now occurring to you?”

“–and, as such, I thought it was high time that I met the infamous Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute.”

“Well,” Jon scoffs, gesturing at himself, “you’ve met him.”

“I must admit, I was expecting something a bit more… hm.” Peter taps a finger against his lips. “Formidable.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” The scathing sarcasm is rendered pitiful by an ill-timed, involuntary sniffle. Jon can’t bring himself to care.

“The state you’re in, you hardly seem fit to work.” A pause. “Have you ever considered taking some time off?”

“A six-months hospital stay has a way of eating up your PTO, oddly enough. I’m told that payroll already has already had to make special exceptions for my ‘unprecedented’ circumstances.” Jon chuckles to himself. “On multiple occasions. Did you know the Institute considers a kidnapping in the line of duty to be an ‘unexcused absence?’”

“I think you’ll find that Elias and I have different management styles,” Peter says mildly. “I’m open to making allowances – particularly since your department can function so smoothly in your absence. Your assistants have proven themselves to be quite capable of working independently – and seeing as your approach to supervision borders on fraternization, I imagine they would be more productive without excess drama to distract them.”

“I’ll take that into consideration,” Jon says acerbically.

“No need.” Jon squints at him, and Peter stare him down. “It’s not a request, Archivist. It’s an order.”

There was a time, not long ago, that sneaking up on the Archivist would have been difficult. Only Helen had consistently managed to ambush him, and that was because she didn’t waste time sneaking – she manifested and launched the jump scare in the same instant, giving him no chance to See her approach. Readjusting to a binocular point of view had been a process, but rarely does he find himself yearning for the panoramic field of vision that had been foisted upon him during the apocalypse.

Occasionally, though, there are moments when 360° sight would come in handy. Too late, Jon realizes this is one of those moments.

By the time he notices the tendrils of encroaching fog, they’re already curling around from behind him, pooling at his feet, ghosting across the back of his neck, affixing themselves around his wrists.

“It’s alright,” Peter says placidly, almost soothingly. “You can let go now.”

Jon shivers as his heart pumps ice through his veins, fingers and toes going numb as he struggles for breath.

No. No, no, no, no, no–

“I am not Lonely anymore,” Jon gasps out through chattering teeth.

“No,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance. Then he smiles, sharp and cold and cruel and the only detail Jon can still discern through the fog. “But you will be.”

___

End Notes:

Daisy: hey siri, google what to do if i suspect my bff has been possessed by the ghost of a fussy paleornithologist Jon: why are you booing me????? i’m right

Pretty sure this is the longest chapter yet? Probably bc of the statement. I could’ve split it into two, but, uh. I like that cliffhanger where it is. >:3c (Sorry for that, btw.)

Quite a bit of Archive-speak this chapter. Citations as follows: Section 1: 122/124/011/007/047/155. The Xiaoling quote is from MAG 105; the Jonah quote is ofc from 160; the Naomi quote is from 013. Section 3: 181. Section 5: 058 x2; 144/130/086/143/121/149/134/144/143/069; 147; 017; 147; 057/160/106/111/067/121/129/098; 155/128/160; 160 x3. Section 6: 170, of course.

I’m taking wild liberties with Pu Songling Research Centre’s whole deal. I’m conceptualizing their spookier departments as being like… actually academia-oriented, instead of “local Victorian corpse with illusions of godhood throws a bunch of traumatized nerds with no relevant archival experience into a basement, what happens next will shock you”. Xiaoling is out here like “our digitization is still a work in progress, I’m sure you know how it is” and Jon Sims is like “digitization who? i don’t know her”. (Listen, he tried once. Tape recorder was haunted, he got kidnapped a bunch, there were worms and things, he died (he got better), his boss used him as a battering ram to open a door to Fearpocalypse Hell – it was a lot.)

Likewise, we didn’t get much info about Sonja in canon, so I’m having fun envisioning her as a certified Force To Be Reckoned With (and a bit of a Mama Bear wrt her assistants). Most of the Institute is leery of the Archives (& especially Jon) but Sonja’s seen a lot of shit and Jon Sims doesn’t even rank on her list of Top Spooky Scary Things.

re: the statement – it’s not clear in-text, but I want to clarify that I’m not conceptualizing Francis Drake as being influenced by the Hunt. Fictionalizing aspects of history is tricky, and I’d feel personally uncomfortable chalking up Drake’s real life atrocities to supernatural influence, even in fiction. In the case of this particular fictional member of his crew, he was (like Drake’s real-life crew) complicit in following Drake’s orders for entirely mundane reasons and was only marked by the Hunt at the point in his statement where he first recounts hearing the Hunt chasing after him.

At some point in writing this chapter, I had 137 tabs open in my browser for Research Purposes and like 20 of those were bc my dumb ass seriously considered writing that statement in Elizabethan English before going “what are you DOING, actually.” If I’d tried, it would have come off as inauthentic at best, if not ridiculous, bc I’m unfamiliar with English linguistic trends of the 1500s, and I’d basically be badly mimicking Shakespearean English, which isn’t necessarily indicative of how everyone spoke at the time, and I don’t know what colloquial speech would look like for this particular unnamed character I trotted out as exposition fodder, and it was probably unnecessary to formulate a whole-ass personal history for him for the sake of Historical Realism for a single section of a single chapter of a fanfic, and… In the end, I decided that this pseudo-immortal rando can tell his life story in modernized English, as a treat (to me) (and also to those of you who don’t think of slogging through bastardized Elizabethan prose as a fun endeavor).

Speaking of research – shoutout to this dissertation that had an English translation of the Herla story in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium, and if you want to read the whole story, you can find it on pages 16-18 of that paper. I feel it’s important for you all to know that IMMEDIATELY after Map dramatically proclaims, “the dog has not yet alighted, and the story says that this King Herla still holds on his mad course with his band in eternal wanderings, without stop or stay,” he goes on to say in the next breath “buuuut some people say they all jumped into the River Wye and died, so ymmv. ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯ anyways, can I interest you in more Fucked Up If True tales?” (Herla throwing the dog into the river wasn’t in the original story though. I made that part up.)

Thank you so much for reading! <3

#the magnus archives #tma #tma fic #long post #tma spoilers #magnuspod

14 notes · View notes

jincherie · 5 years

Text

mystery gang; unsolved |PT.2

☾ — pairing: taehyung x reader ☾ — genre: demon au, supernatural/paranormal au, buzzfeed unsolved au/inspired, smut (oncoming), f2l ☾ — words: 6.2k ☾ — rating: adult! this one is sfw, but final part will be nsfw ☾ — warnings: demons and haunted houses, supernatural & paranormal themes! this is the part where shit goes down, so be aware of that! also some angst ☾ — notes: part 2 of 3! the next part will be the resolution and the smut, so look forward to that!! also wow man first post of 2020!!!

ever since you met taehyung in one of your first year classes at university, you seemed to click and you hadn’t parted from each other’s side since. you’ve been his friend for a few years now, and your mutual interest in the supernatural and taehyung’s propensity for finding the spotlight wherever he goes led to the two of you starting up your very own supernatural investigation vlog series. friends isnt the only thing you want to be, and one night close to hallow’s eve when the two of you get a little in over your heads in a way you never have been before, you find out that maybe it’s not only you that feels that way.

— posted; 05.01.2020 || ⇤prev. | masterlist | next⇥

PART TWO

You wish that you could say that as the night goes on, your nerves begin to ease. They don’t, though; the church, albeit slowly, proves to be feeding into all your fears. You feel paranoid, as you often do while filming this show, but tonight it feels like something… more. As though there’s a little bit more substance to your worries than usual. Needless to say, you’re not a fan.

It begins in the largest part of the church, as you’d expect. The hall where processions were held, lined with pews and intricate statues in its better days, is far too big to be giving you any comfort. There is so much space, so much empty blackness, that it actually feels like it’s closing in on you a bit. Surprisingly, in between segments you record for the vlog, Taehyung ends up distracting you by bringing up all the other times you went to places allegedly home to ‘demonic’ energies. A part of you thinks he’s doing it because he knows you’re uneasy, but the rest of you is more annoyed that he’s making fun of you again. He knows you’re wary of demons!

“You know, I think you’re taking this much better than that last house we did—you know the one a state over?” Taehyung remarks, setting up a little camera so that it can record the two of you whipping out the spirit box.

“Please don’t remind me,” you say, placing a hand over your stomach to quell the nausea rising at the mention of it. “It was popular with our viewers, but at what cost.”

“Yeah, they were surprisingly fond of you looking like you were about to vomit,” Taehyung says, somewhat nonchalant—when you direct a glare his way you can see the cheeky smile on his face, though. “Anyway, that one wasn’t as bad as this one is meant to be, and you’re already doing much better! Kudos.”

“Don’t patronise me,” you say, taking the spirit box from him and moving to one of the seats you’d set up. It feels wrong, in honesty, like sitting down in this seat is inviting a whole lot of misfortune to fall upon you. You don’t bother telling Taehyung that you’re actually doing far worse than last time. “I won’t apologise for having a healthy fear of the unknown.”

Snickering, Taehyung finishes setting up the camera and flicks it on. The lights you have illuminate only the barest patch where you’re sitting. You don’t like it, you don’t like it one bit and you hate that it feels like something is behind you, hands hovering just out of your sensory range. The muscles along your back are tense and rigid and you do your best not to show it to the camera.

“And here I present to the viewers, the crowd—and ghost—favourite, the spirit box!” Taehyung announces for the camera, voice a little louder than you’re comfortable with. You restrain the urge to shush him only because you know he’ll make fun of you for thinking that being loud will attract the ghosts. “We’ll be asking some questions in an open forum for any ghosts, ghouls and-or demons to respond—”

You smack him, delivering him with a warning glare, and he simply chortles as he sits down. You clearly mouth ‘I’ll kill you’ at him, before sitting back in your seat and clearing your throat. “Right, yeah. It’s spirit box time. I literally… can’t put into words how absolutely overjoyed I am.”

Taehyung laughs at how you blatantly forced those words through your teeth, but otherwise remains silent as you fiddle with the spirit box and do your usual introduction for the viewers and spirits around.

“Please, use this as a medium to communicate with us. We’ll ask some questions now.” You finish up the spiel, turning the box over and leaning forward to place it on the pew between the two of you. It’s as you near the pew that the hair along the back of your neck rises suddenly, prickling and making your muscles lock up for the barest second. A breeze brushes across the skin and skims your ear, and you swear you catch a word that rides with it, soft and thin yet clear as day.

“Don’t…”

You shriek as your reflexes kick back in, hand slapping to your neck and a glare already on your face to direct at Taehyung—surprisingly, he seems bewildered at the sudden heat in your gaze.

“That’s not funny!” you scolded him, attempting to pat down the hairs that rose on your neck. “I told you not to whisper in my ear like that when we’re in demon places!”

Taehyung’s hands fly up into a position of surrender. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t do anything! You can check the camera if you want!”

The panic that had already welled within you and was on track to fade reignited at that, fear stopping your thoughts from flowing as they should. There’s an unmistakeably scared edge that enters your voice, “What? But I just—someone—something just whispered ‘don’t’ in my ear, I swear.”

From Taehyung’s face, it’s clear he doesn’t believe you—or at the least, doesn’t believe that some otherworldly entity or otherwise whispered a whole word in your ear.

“No way,” he says, confirming your thoughts. There’s something that flicks across his face though, something out of place but too ephemeral for you to catch. “It was probably just a creak. This place is old, you know.”

“A creak that sounds like a whole word?” You push your case a little more, but you’re already shaking your head in defeat. You know there’s no way to sway his sceptic ass. You think a ghost could appear in front of Taehyung right now, slap him across his face and call his father a whore, and he’d still try and explain it away. “Whatever. The tape will show I’m right.”

Taehyung huffs, clearly entertained—you wish you could be as at ease as he always seems to be. He waves his hand to urge you on. “Hurry up and get the spirit box going so it can be over and done with. I hate listening to it.”

“Fine, but I’m doing it because I was already going to and not because you told me to,” you grumble, reaching for the spirit box and doing your best to force from your mind what happened the last time you were in a similar movement. You look up just in time before turning it on to catch Taehyung looking right at you, a brow raised and something heady in his gaze.

“You’re such a brat.”

You bite your tongue and resign to only sending him a glare, flicking on the spirit box and relishing in the way Taehyung flinches as the harsh sound of static replaces the heavy silence in the air. To be honest, you don’t really like the spirit box either, but it gets results. Well, you think it does. Taehyung would be all too happy to argue the differ.

“Alright,” you start, voice a little shakier than intended. You clear your throat and try to clear your nerves with it. “Let’s get it. First, is there anyone here with us now?”

The static is almost deafening, the volume turned up high enough that some of the audio-crunching is borderline painful in your ears. The device is as jarring as ever, the rate at which it flicks through channels almost distracting enough to lure your attention away from how tense and thick the air feels around you. There aren’t any prominent sounds or words that come through, and you give it a few more moments before probing some more.

“Uh, oh boy… Who… is in this room with us? Meena, are you in here?”

Taehyung snorts. “Or maybe the priest, or the groom that was meant to be married to Meena—anyone? Hello? Man, I don’t think we’re ever going to get something from this stupid box—”

It’s as Taehyung is in the middle of taking the piss that the static morphs ever so slightly, sounds forming the barest edges of words.

“he… here…” Static, louder and louder and then softer, making way for another hint of barely comprehensible sound, “…on’t g… in…”

It’s not loud enough to really count as anything, and not loud enough that Taehyung even notices it over the sound of his own talking, but you can’t help the sudden feeling that gauges a place inside you. You want to leave so badly—you don’t think you’ve wanted to leave a place this much since that first house.

You don’t even realise you’ve become all that distracted until Taehyung’s voice brings you back to the present moment. He’s leaning forward, waving a hand in front of your face; you keep your gaze on the parts of him illuminated before you and away from the pitch black beyond his form. “Yoohoo, you still there? The ghosts aren’t responding to me, it’s your turn to ask them things.”

You roll your eyes, avoiding his gaze for the slight searching edge it has adopted. “Not all that surprising. If I was a ghost I wouldn’t want to respond to you, either.”

Taehyung lets out an offended noise, and just like that the session resumes as it normally would. You can’t shake the odd tension in your muscles, but you can only hope that the hall held the title of creepiest part of the church and that the rest of the night would be smoother, less spooky sailing from hereon out.

X x x x

The rest of the night has not gone by with smoother sailing, you hoped. There are more rooms than anticipated in this building, and painstakingly exploring each and every one is beginning to really take its toll on you. The walls and floors creak, moving with you and even in your wake, like there is another pair of footsteps trailing behind you. The only sound to permeate the air is that of the wood and the odd cricket from outside—when there is complete silence, and even the crickets don’t sound, is when you’ve discovered you hate it most. Because it feels like everything suddenly stops, and everything is then waiting for something to happen. You’re definitely not a fan.

You try and upkeep your usual antics with Taehyung, but this place is really getting to you. On more than one occasion, you swear you can hear the barest of whispers, and feel fleeting, featherlight touches on the parts of your skin bare to the air. There seems to be a common theme in what you swear you can hear: ‘he’s here’, ‘leave.’ It’s not the most ideal thing you could be hearing.

Of course, Taehyung isn’t hearing or feeling a thing. You really hate that none of this ever seems to happen to him, that he’s so damn… immune. If you knew being a sceptic ass would protect you so much, you might have tried your hand at it, but then again you think you’d have a lot of trouble forgetting the things that have happened to you so far.

About midway through the building and a little over halfway through your tour, you enter one of the last few rooms (which you view as simultaneously a good thing and a bad thing, since the last room on your list is the most haunted in the building). Well, enter is a strong word. The second you stopped in front of it, an awful feeling like ice sliding down your spine came over you. The most you were able to make yourself do was stick your head in before Taehyung took the opportunity to waltz on inside, completely unbothered.

“I hate this,” you grumbled, to anyone that would listen at this point. It took you a few breaths before your legs felt strong enough to follow Taehyung into the room.

It’s tiny, admittedly. You have no idea what it would have been used for, before the church fell, and you can’t really tell since any and all furniture in here has since fallen prey to decay and rot. It’s just as you take a few steps in that Taehyung halts, turns around, and huffs.

“Nothing in here,” he remarks, turning on his heel and marching out. “Boring. Come on, let’s go to the main room—the big paranormal breadwinner of this place.”

You sputter incredulously, summoning your thoughts as you turn to follow him. He makes it out the doorway but before you can follow, only a few paces behind, the door that had been wide open for the two of you to enter slams closed with such a loud, shaking BANG you almost topple in fright.

It takes a second for what happened to sink in, another for you to realise you’re now in this room in the dark alone, and another for you to feel the hairs along your neck and back raise all at once. Completely surpassing ‘fight’, you launch at the door and bang on it.

“Taehyung!! This isn’t funny!” You’re scolding him, but you know you didn’t see him anywhere near the door. “Can you let me out? The handle isn’t working in here. Oh, what the fuck, what the fuck—”

With one palm pressed to the door, you try the handle over and over and over again. It’s like it’s locked, or stuck, as though it’s been rusted over in the same place for years and refuses to budge. Except, that makes no sense, because it was literally just open, you were just in here and there isn’t a lock on this door’s handle so it should be opening—

It’s just as panic is beginning to touch the bottom of your lungs, the organs dipping into ice, that you hear the clearest utterance you have all night. A feminine voice, carrying the sadness of all the oceans and the urgency of fishermen when thunder starts to echo across that churning horizon…

“He knows you’re here.”

“Taehyung!” It’s a humiliatingly desperate cry that escapes you without consent, something a distant part of you is already scoffing over. What is calling for him going to do? You’re still stuck in here with this god-awful feeling and now that voice—

Before you can wallow and spiral any longer, there is a splintering sound and you only have a moment to step back before the door is finally swinging open. You aren’t sure how he did it, but you’re presuming it was by force—the handle isn’t even on his side of the door anymore. Taehyung doesn’t even hesitate before grabbing you by the wrist and yanking you out, eyes wide. You have the very sudden, strong urge to just launch yourself at him and cling, but even in the beginnings of your hysteria you somehow manage to refrain. It doesn’t help that you know all it would take to feel secure in this situation is being encased in his arms.

And probably also getting back in the car and getting the hell away from here.

“What the fuck was that.” You hadn’t realised it earlier, but your breath is coming kind of fast. You feel a bit like a frightened animal. “What the fuck—”

“The breeze,” Taehyung says, the answer coming easily. When you look at him, though, he doesn’t seem entirely convinced as he usually is. You’re too shaken to even rub it in like you want to.

“Whatever,” you dismiss, antsier and more eager to get out of here than ever. “Let’s just skip the rest of the rooms and get this big one over and done with.”

Taehyung makes a soft, noncommittal noise that you take as agreement. When you go to move though, he stops you.

“Look, I know the original plan was to spend the night in that room tonight,” he begins, dark cocoa eyes gentle as they hold your gaze. “But you’re getting pretty shaken up—do you want to do some spirit box shit or something instead and just go back to the hotel after?”

Your chest warms at his concern, chasing away a few inches of fear that had embedded themselves over the duration of the night. A part of you is resistant though, the prideful part that wants to see your word through to the end. That resistant part of you isn’t as big as the rest that is thoroughly freaked out, and is therefore quickly outnumbered.

Since the words seem to have gotten stuck in your throat, you simply nod at him, hoping your eyes convey how thankful you are that it’s his suggestion so you didn’t have to ask yourself. You kind of wish he’d also suggested you scrap the part of the plan where the two of you go into the room one at a time and spend five minutes there alone, but you suppose you can’t have everything. You still needed to come out of this with enough good footage for an episode, after all, and there would have been no point coming here and getting borderline traumatised if not for that.

Taehyung offers you a slight smile, low baritone more comforting than he probably realises as he speaks just once more, “Alright, we’ll do that. Now take a few deep breaths, you’re acting like a cornered animal.”

You simply mustered a snort, not bothering to tell him that’s exactly how you feel. You almost spare a thought to wonder who could have been harassing you this whole time—Meena? Her Fiancé? A demon?—but you shut it down before you can work yourself up any more, and do as he instructs. A few deep breaths later and you feel much calmer, less fried. You’re in no way ready to go into that final room, but you’re the tiniest bit more ready to accept that it’s about to happen.

The final room that you had on your list to investigate was, as you now tell the camera and viewers, the most allegedly haunted of them all. It’s a hidden room, through a concealed doorway behind where the church organ used to be and up a cramped, spiral staircase. You don’t know what the original purpose of this room was, either, but you do know that it’s the final location in the number of tales about this place where the bad things happen.

“So, if we are to believe, let’s say, the version that says Meena summoned and made a deal with a demon,” Taehyung says as you climb the staircase, and puts weird emphasis on the word as he says it, likely in an attempt to make you chuckle. Oddly sweet of him. “Then this is the room where she did that? The demon room?”

You do your best to ignore the spike of fear that shoots through your chest. “Yeah,” you answer, voice cracking. You clear your throat. “That would be… this room.”

You’re audibly unenthused, but you’re sure the viewers will love it. They always seem to enjoy you losing your mind.

Taehyung is trailing behind you as you climb the stairs, the wood creaking dangerously under your weight with each step. The only reason you can even see which step to take next is because of the torch in your grasp, although it has grown shakier in the past few minutes than when you first started the night. Now that you think about it, why are you the first one going up these stairs?! That is so unfair!

Then again, if you were going second and something grabbed you from behind…. maybe that would be worse.

You don’t climb very far, and as you near what you presume is the landing that leads to the final room, you can’t help but notice how much heavier the air has gotten. You can feel it all against your skin, dragging along as you walk through it. There’s a feeling beginning to trickle and swirl in the pit of your abdomen, too. It’s nameless, but you know instinctively it is not the kind of concoction that heals and soothes.

“So here it is,” you announce as the two of you arrive on the landing, staring across the few metres between you and the doorway to that stupid room. “The room of the hour, where most alleged bad things in the tales about this place went down. Well, besides the chandelier thing. That was… yeah.”

Taehyung is already looking at you, camera pointed your way, and you can tell from the look in his eye that he knows you’re stalling.

“Right, so, we’re gonna do the usual—go in, spend a few minutes alone, see if we can get a response…” You trail off, gulping and feeling a little nauseous as you describe your nearing fate.

“You want me to go in first?” Taehyung asks, a teasing lilt to his voice. You shoot him a glare.

“And have you stir up any spirits and-or beings that are in there for me? No thanks.”

He laughs, but it’s much quieter than you expect. Almost sullen, you sigh and begin preparing to go in alone. You’re avoiding looking at the door, because you already feel the weird vibes seeping out and you don’t want to look in and risk actually seeing something.

Taehyung helps you with the equipment, handing you what you need. When you’re done and ready to go in, he takes a few steps closer with you—and then he freezes. You figure that’s just where he’s choosing to stay until you come back out, and continue into the room.

The second your foot crosses the threshold, the first thing that registers is how much cooler it suddenly is. The dimming torchlight reveals that the room isn’t that big at all, but in the absence of light it feels like the blanket of cold, lurking darkness stretches on endlessly. It almost feels like it has a certain sense of gravity, pulling you in, making you dig your heels in on instinct.

Oh, you don’t like this. Is it too late to bail?

“y/n…” Taehyung says your name softly, and you hear it, but dismiss it soon after when you realise he’s probably about to try and spook you. You force your feet to take another few steps in, when Taehyung’s voice sounds out once more.

“y/n, wait—”

There is a chord of something different in his voice, something you haven’t heard in him before, that makes you pause and turn around; even if it means turning your back to the rest of the room and the abyss it holds.

Facing him for a moment, you catch sight of an indiscernible expression possessing his features—his brows are furrowed, mouth parted as though he is about to speak once more. He seems to be about to do just that when he catches sight of something over your shoulder and his eyes shoot wide.

In that instant, you get the very sudden, very strong feeling that something awful is about to happen, and you want to run.

You don’t get an answer or even a clue as to what he’s looking at. Taehyung begins to move, but he isn’t fast enough to beat the door that flies closed, a sudden and loud SLAM announcing the new barrier between you. It hasn’t even registered yet but your heart instantly stills and drops as a sheet of icy air plummets over you. For a moment, it is still, and silent.

And then, the worst experience of your life begins.

Legs that had begun carrying you back on instinct, stumbling over nameless items you didn’t get a chance to see, lock and freeze at the stark and unmistakeable sensation of a hand gripping tight around your bicep. It tightens, and then you’re being dragged, pushed back with your feet scrambling across the floor, until your back meets icy wall with enough force to make you cry out in pain. Distantly, you swear there is banging on the door, but you can barely hear it over the sound of your own pulse drumming erratically in your ears.

Your breath comes in clouds, the flickering torchlight allowing you to glimpse it before the bulb bursts and you have only the moonlight filtering through a boarded window to aid you. You almost wish that you didn’t, though—

Because in the very next second, something begins to materialise in front of you, as though being formed from smoke and pools of shadow cast across the room. A long, lean body with inhuman proportions, one of the spindly limbs ending in a taloned hand responsible for the grip on your arm. A smell so foul it makes nausea roil in your abdomen crosses your nose, and the being finishes taking shape before you in the span of a saccade. Its skin is like shadow incarnate, dripping like tar into sticky pools on the floor and burning like ice where it makes contact with your own. Spikes and disfigured lumps litter its form, but you think that the most terrifying part must be its face.

For all you can see of it is a crown of curled, gnarled horns, gleaming white eyes and a mouth full of teeth half the size of one of your fingers.

Half a scream makes its way out of your mouth before the demon hisses, the sound immediately making you clam up. “Shut up.”

The fear that clenches around your heart in a vice grip is one you’ve never felt before, your knees feeling like jelly.

“It’s been so long since any human has dared come here,” the demon says, and it’s like he is grating along the nerves at the back of your neck with every word, plucking them one by one in a curdling tune. “You’ve been so fun to play with. Souls always taste better once they have been soaked in fear.”

Your eyes had been transfixed in terror on the way the demon’s teeth shifted with each word, drool slipping down some fangs and dropping by your feet. You don’t know if you would have snapped out of it were it not for the sudden increase in banging on the door, growing louder and louder with each second. You don’t know if it is the handle making that rattling noise or your teeth and you don’t have the mental capacity to dwell.

When his words sink in a split second after they enter the air, its as though you make a subconscious decision that differs from the rest you’ve made tonight. You’re cornered now, and you can’t run—your brain chooses fight so you may have a chance to flee.

“Get off me!” You lurch suddenly, legs lashing out and kicking even as you can barely control them. “GET OFF ME!”

Your boots meet his legs harshly, and it probably hurts you more than him, but when you suddenly recall the half-empty bottle of blessed water in your pocket and reach for it, throwing it across his face, its like you’ve poured a bucket of pure acid over his skin. Steam billows and smoke follows, and the demon lets out a scream so sharp you swear your eardrums burst, but in no way does the pain weaken his grip on you.

“YOU BITCH.” The demon howls, eyes clenched shut and free hand lashing blindly to claw at you. “I’LL RIP YOUR HEART OUT AND EAT IT BEFORE YOUR EYES, YOU—”

It’s like you’re suspended, floating in time as his claws swipe and almost miss you, but manage to slice lightly across your collarbone—it’s so close to your neck that you can’t help but scream, kicking harder. The demons eyes fly open and narrow on you, its hand raising again. Your eyes clench shut on instinct, not wanting to watch his claws sink as far into your skin as they were meant to the first time. It’s in the moment after that there is a familiar splintering sound, and the grip on your arm is wrought free.

With nothing substantial holding you up anymore, your knees collapse and you sink to the floor, eyes flying open upon impact that you know is painful but can’t quite feel. What you see is something you definitely aren’t ready for—it takes a moment for it to sink in.

Unlike the scene that your eyes had closed to, the demon is no longer the only other being in the room—there is something else, body shrouded in shadow yet cast in an odd glow that shifts and warps like oil beneath sunlight. At first, you think that it’s giant and hulking in mass, but you quickly realise that the shapes protruding from its back aren’t lumps or anything of the like, but large, leathery wings. They flick and twitch, before shooting out and spanning at an incredible length as the new creature shoots forward. The demon that was so close to you before is now on the other side of the room, slammed into the wall by a hand around its throat that glows with heat, a startling juxtaposition to the cold still sinking into your skin.

The demon isn’t about to go without a fight; it surges back, limbs lashing, but the new creature is too strong and pinned to the wall the pitiful being stays, screaming in rage. Curled horns stem from the newcomer’s head, catching moonlight on the ridges and gleaming as it turns its head and glances over its shoulder, at you. Instantly, your heart freezes once more, except this time in a different sort of terror.

Because you know the face looking at you right now— it’s Taehyung.

It’s not the same as the face that usually greets you—there are those inky horns curling from his head, his ashy hair is tinged red on the ends, and its longer than you remember. Beneath the eyes boring into you are black markings like upside down teardrops, and the irises themselves are different shades of violet and gold, split down the middle by a slitted pupil. There is a fang peaking out from the corner of his lips, and the tips of his ears have elongated and angled. The curves and lines of his face resemble the Taehyung you know, and this should give you some modicum of comfort, but as you continue to look at him it becomes more than apparent that this Taehyung…

This Taehyung isn’t the Taehyung you know.

There’s a certain amount of dissonance within you, warring reactions to the information currently overloading your brain, but above all else you find yourself almost hysterically, irrationally scared. You can’t move, can’t seem to breathe as the creature— Taehyung? — releases you from its gaze and turns back to the demon struggling in its grasp. Breath rushes back into your lungs and you have enough presence of mind to attempt to struggle back to your feet. It’s hard, though, with your gaze transfixed on the scene before you.

“I should have known there was something behind the stench of this place,” Taehyung’s voice as he speaks is a mere echo of what you’re used to, a guttural growl strung with rage that reverberates straight through your chest. With each word that leaves him, there is a glow that builds around his form, like St. Elmo’s fire. The demon quickly goes from enraged to terrified, and the observation has your own gut dropping. “But I didn’t think whatever it was would be stupid enough to try anything. You shouldn’t have come out tonight, you shouldn’t have laid your hands on her.”

The demons shrieking becomes diplophonic, tune changing from angry cries to desperate, pitiful pleas.

“I did not know it was you, lord! I did not know! I would not have touched the lord’s human if I had known!”

“Shut up!” Taehyung commands, wings flaring. The demon instantly obeys, but at the sight of Taehyung’s free hand rising with what you quickly realise is a dagger, coated in flames, it returns to begging and pleading with renewed vigour.

“No, lord, please! I did not know! Please do not slay me! I will leave, I will return to the underworld! I will never near your human again! Please, lord, do not—”

“You cut her,” Taehyung hisses, fury coating each syllable. “I cannot leave you alive.”

And then, faster than you can blink, the blade is embedded in the demon’s dripping abdomen, and it takes all of a split second for its to become engulfed in the same cerulean flames that coated it. Taehyung’s grip around its neck disappears and the demon crumples to the ground with a horrid, blood-curdling scream so piercing it makes your vision blur and head throb. Blearily, you watch as the demon twists and curls, warping across the ground before the flames flare and heat washes over your skin.

And then it is gone, the scream it left behind still echoing in the air until the only thing left ringing in your ears is your own hurried, frantic heartbeat.

The silence that follows is startling, the two of you seeming to be processing exactly what just happened. You’re going to need more than a moment to properly do so, but the adrenaline rush from this near-death experience seems to be propelling you back to clear thought sooner than anticipated. Without the demon here, it’s almost as though nothing happened and you were imagining the whole thing. But then, your gaze returns to Taehyung; the very same Taehyung that stands across the room and resembles the demon more in his inhuman features than he does your usual Taehyung.

There are still the slightest tendrils of fear clinging to your heart, and where you stand you can feel the weakness of your knees—when Taehyung turns around, against the protests of a distant part of you, you can feel those tendrils flare up and clench tightly.

There is still rage rolling off his form, and you can almost sense the heat of it from where you stand with the absence of the earlier chill in the room. His expression is furious as he turns to face you, taking a step forward. Unable to help it considering what you just went through, you flinch and press to the wall, the slightest sound escaping your mouth despite your best efforts to squash it.

Immediately, Taehyung freezes. Those mismatched eyes are boring into you again but this time they’re wide, concerned as he takes in your reaction and the condition you’re in, gaze zeroing in on your collarbones. In this moment, you’re scared of him, and you can see the second he realises it. Something indiscernible yet that ripples akin to sadness pools behind his iris’, and he braves another step closer, hand outstretched—a hand with talons just like the ones that had cut you before.

“Don’t!” You feel like it’s not even you talking right now, but you can’t stop the words from coming out. So much happened, too much happened, you can feel yourself beginning to freak out as your breath begins to come quicker and quicker. You haven’t had time to process this. For the third time tonight, you feel like a cornered animal. Except, you never would have thought that it would be at the hands of Taehyung.

“D-don’t come closer! Don’t—Just… don’t…”

Your gaze hasn’t left him and you can see, almost feel the way he recoils at each word; it’s like you’ve punched him in the gut. You can’t stop though, you’re so overwhelmed and you so suddenly and intensely want to leave—you need to leave. You don’t even realise you’re shaking until you take a step, entire form trembling. Taehyung doesn’t move, eyes following you, his brows furrowed and mouth parted as though he wishes to say something. He doesn’t, though. He watches you with a sense of resignation. The sight of him still in that form, standing so painfully and undeniably there, is what pushes you over the threshold.

All of a sudden it’s too much—too much, too much, too much— and you can’t hold it back anymore. Chin wobbling, you don’t even think about the equipment or anything you’ve dropped, you can’t bring yourself to think of Taehyung, you just go. In a blur, you’re out of the room, down the creaking, rotting stairs—you’re stumbling in the fear taking hold of you but there’s something else there, a bittersweet tinge of hurt, the tiniest hint of betrayal. You don’t have time to pick it apart.

Before you know it you’ve made it down the stairs, through the ruined hall and out of the church. The night is silent, not even a cricket daring to chirp in the wake of whatever just happened. It makes you feel alone, but not the kind that you’re trying to be so desperately right now. You can’t chase the feeling away, though, as you dash for the car and start it up.

As you floor it out of there and tear onto the main highway, breath still coming quick and uneven, you can’t chase the memory of Taehyung’s crestfallen gaze as it followed you out the door, either.

a/n: pls let me know what you think and if u liked it interact with a like or rb!! It helps me know how many people have read it and how many enjoy it & how well its received!!! thank u for reading!!!

⇤prev. | masterlist | next ⇥

815 notes · View notes

miscellaneous-miraculous · 4 years

Text

Painted Lady Chapter 6

Read on AO3 here

Adrien made his own nest on the couch while he waited for Marinette, complete with his Ladybug blanket, Marinette’s big cat pillow, and several textbooks. Alya and Nino had both gone to sleep figuring that Marinette would just want to crash whenever she got home, but Adrien wanted to get head start on studying anyways so he decided to wait up. The next two days were bound to be busy, akumas were unpredictable, and he needed all the time he could get studying for his Analog Electronics and Quantum Mechanics courses. The senior capstone for his business major would take up time, but from how his physics capstone had gone, it wouldn’t be too hard. His two lighter classes, one business and other a general requirement, had the later finals, so he wasn’t even going to think about them until after he got through the others – maybe some light skimming if he had time. But once those were over, he would be done. Part of him was still panicking that he didn’t know what he was going to do after school. There were a lot of things he wanted, things he liked, but they didn’t all connect easily.

The only constants were Marinette and the miraculous. Whatever Adrien did, he wanted to be by her side. For now, that meant staying in Paris and retrieving the butterfly miraculous from Painted Lady. He had already switched his major several times, entering as a business major per his father’s demands, then to switching physics, then going to a physics and business double major as he apprenticed with Tom and Sabine during the summer. “I guess flexibility is the next thing to consider?” Adrien said, voicing his thoughts to Plagg. “I have to be able to leave for akuma attacks and Marinette and I both want kids someday. I want to be able to spend as much time with them as I can.”

“I say you become a professional cheese maker,” Plagg said. “Then no one would think it was odd if you smelled like camembert all the time.”

“Very helpful,” Adrien rolled his eyes, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

"My wielders haven’t always been welcomed with open arms you know,” Plagg said. “A lot of them didn’t stay in one place for very long. This is a little new for me too.”

Adrien flopped back onto the couch, closing his textbook for the night. Rather than talking, Plagg curled up on his chest and purred softly. It still shocked him sometimes, to realize Plagg had the ability to purr. It shouldn’t have, given that Chat Noir had the ability and definitely didn’t come from Adrien, but Plagg didn’t do it often. He still remembered when Tikki had first seen him and Plagg interact for a while. She’d looked so happy, her eyes practically shinning. ‘Plagg isn’t usually very affectionate with his wielders, he must really trust you.’

The door clicked open and Marinette walked in, pulling him from his thoughts. Her hair was frazzled, a few scraps of fabric sticking to it with static electricity, and there was a large coffee stain on her shirt. “Hey,” she smiled, giving a limp wave. She kicked off her shoes, letting the bag she carried slide off her shoulder and onto the floor. “Alya and Nino asleep?”

“Yeah, they waited up for a while, but they didn’t want to fall asleep at your show.” Adrien closed his textbook. “Speaking of which, you look about ready to collapse, want me to carry you to bed?” He wiggled his eyebrows mischievously.

Marinette gave a soft laugh, rolling her eyes, “I think we’d both rather I showered first. I haven’t gotten one in three days.”

“We’ve seen worse,” Adrien shrugged. Garbage themed akumas didn’t exactly lend themselves to clean battles. “Your pajamas and towel are on the bed though, fresh from the wash.”

“It’s still Sunday, right?” Marinette asked, wide-eyed in a sudden state of panic. Wednesday was their usual laundry day.

Adrien laughed, “Yeah, I just did an extra load.” He knew Marinette loved the feeling of clothes fresh from the dyer, especially when she felt dirty.

“I love you so much right now.”

“It’s just laundry.” Adrien blushed, pushing his glasses back. It wasn’t really a big deal, but Marinette was looking at him like he’d just professed his eternal undying love for her (which he would in a heartbeat, but that wasn’t the point). Then again, tired Marinette would also sell her firstborn for a cup of coffee, so maybe she wasn’t the best judge.

Marinette walked over, squishing his face between her palms. He could see the dark circles under her eyes, and the tips of her fingers were covered in band-aids from poking herself with the needles. She only did that when she was really tied. “A literal angel on earth,” she said, her face serious, then she gave him a quick peck on the lips before heading into the bathroom.

Tikki flew out from the bag she had left by the door, looking happier than usual. “Plagg, it’s happening! She’d developed another power!”

“Already?”

“While she was working on her project – it was just, pure creation. I haven’t felt it in ages, Plagg, ages!” Tikki spun in the air. “I can’t wait to see which power it’ll be.”

“Marinette unlocked another power?” Adrien asked.

“Yes, I’m not sure if she noticed, she was so absorbed in her work, but whatever it is will manifest the next time she transforms. Oh, I can’t wait!”

“She got the luck last time, I bet you a slice of camembert this one’s the wings,” Plagg said.

“Not the shield?” Tikki asked. “That’s what Lành and Jeanne both got first, and Marinette reminds me most of them.”

“I thought the turtle was the shield?” Adrien said, his brow knotted.

“Eh, the Ladybug and Black Cat both have a version,” Plagg said. “They all function a bit differently, and the turtle’s is a lot stronger and more versatile, but the Ladybug and Black Cat need something for when it’s not active.”

“Do we have versions of the other powers then too?”

“Not really,” Tikki said. “Protection just is a concept that plays into many things. Wyazz was the first to come into existence after Plagg and I after all.”

“Huh,” Adrien said. He’d had classes where people debated the mechanics of Ladybug’s miraculous cure and Chat Noir’s cataclysm, whether it was magic or science. Adrien didn’t see why it couldn’t be both, the two could coexist in the same universe. The Kwamis themselves sometimes made his brain spin though. He’d tried to talk to Plagg about it once but the kwami wasn’t all that helpful. “I’m going to go get ready to sleep.”

Maybe he could convince Marinette to transform later just to see what the new power would be, Plagg and Tikki had gotten him curious. They had said there was no way to force a bond to come faster, but maybe if Alya could find a way to tap into ‘pure illusion’ somehow? Marinette understood creation which in turn made her understand Tikki, so wouldn’t the same idea work for Alya and Trixx? But what was illusion at it’s core? It couldn’t be something as easy as going to see a magic show or Alya would’ve done that already – and he wasn’t sure she hadn’t tried, so it had to be something more.

By the time Marinette came back, he wasn’t any closer to solving it and she noticed his pout. As she got under the covers, she pressed a kiss to his temple, “Is something wrong? You’ve got the same look as when you’re trying to solve physics problems.”

“It’s miraculous stuff, we can talk about it some other time,” Adrien said, not wanting to distract her with half-baked theories right before her final. Instead, he wrapped an arm around her waist, his head resting on her chest. “After everyone is blown away by your amazing designs.”

“I don’t remember half the stitches I’ve done since yesterday,” Marinette said, and Adrien could hear the catastrophe building in her voice.

“I’m going to cut you off there,” he said, moving back to press a finger to her lips. “Your designs are awesome, Marinette, and I bet you could fix any disaster with a safety pin and one hand tied behind your back. You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m going to be fine,” Marinette repeated, nodding to herself. “I’m going to be fine.”

“Yeah you are,” Adrien said, pulling her close again. Marinette snuggled closer, yawning as Adrien put an arm around her waist. He gave a her a light kiss, “Goodnight, ma cherie.”

Marinette was asleep before she could respond.

Continue on AO3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23580646/chapters/62459155

#painted lady au #butterfly!lila #adrinette #post hawkmoth defeat #adrien agreste #marinette dupain cheng #alya cesaire #nino lahiffe #ladynoir #djwifi #hints of chloegami #chloe bourgeois #miraculous ladybug #fic #long fic #future fic #my writing

8 notes · View notes

soveryanon · 4 years

Text

Reviewing time for MAG165! X_X

- I really wasn’t expecting to hear the calliope music again one day! That took me back to the end of season 3 – it felt like another (successful) Unknowing, a glimpse of what would have happened if the Circus had pulled through in MAG118/MAG119?

Also, confirmation that Tim definitely got his revenge and blew up the Circus to pieces, including Grimaldi/Nikola:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [LOW] I’m hoping if we’re quick, we can avoid her notice. MARTIN: “Her”? [SILENCE] J–Jon, please, don’t tell me there’s an evil clown doll down there– ARCHIVIST: No– MARTIN: –because… ARCHIVIST: N–no, Nikola died with The Unknowing; it’s, uh… [INHALE] An old friend.

At least, Tim got that T__T

- The pattern of beginning the statement with “There is…” already got broken with this one:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: … Wha…? [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] … “There is a place, deep in the heart of Fear, where you trap yourself and claim that it is safety. [STATIC DECREASES] It was once a cabin, and professes still to be such, but as with all in this new world that promises respite… it is a trap.”

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: … Alright, then. [INHALE] [SIGH] [STATIC RISES] “There is a wound in the earth. [STATIC DECREASES] A bayonet gouge, scored through the soft and sodden mud for uncounted miles. A trench that marks the front line of a war that has no name. It has always been raging, deep in the hearts of the powerful and those that thirst to see bodies piled high in their name.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “There is a sickness in this village. Perhaps you would not see it from a distance and the faint sting of rot on the breeze is easy enough to dismiss; but as you get closer, that infectious feeling of wrongness is harder and harder to shake. The grass is not the green of nature, the buildings are warped by more than age, and the voices that come from behind the inhabitants’ masks… are hoarse, and wet. They move with exaggerated casualness, a parody of idyllic village life.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: [INHALE] … Right. [STATIC RISES] “Your face is not your face is not your face [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] around the curling carousel, it twists in place to take from you and all the tattered stolen souls whose sense of ‘me’ is swollen and distended into nothing.

Could be because The Stranger (/the Circus/identity thieves/I-Do-Not-Know-You) is Like That and can’t conform to little boxes, or could be because there isn’t really a “pattern” to begin with, we’ll see with the next nightmare pockets.

Consistency-wise: the use of “you” (as a way to include/pull the listeners in?) went through the roof, but was understandable – “you” is “something/someone who isn’t me, in front of me”, and doesn’t need to be as personified as third person. Jon once again used “End recording” at the end of the ~statement~, which is… a reminder that 1°) these aren’t really statements as we knew them (Jon has never labelled them as such; actually, the only times characters have mentioned “statement(s)” this season were dead people mentioning them in the tapes Jon was listening to in the first two episodes); 2°) there is still that recording/pouring-into-the-tapes thing going on, that Jon is aware of, even if the tapes weren’t relevant in this episode for themselves. Unclear whether Jon had any influence on the tape recorder clicking on both times in the episode, or whether it autonomously reacted to stuff (Jon&Martin approaching the Merry-Go-Round, Jon&Martin walking along the edge of it while the Not!Them was coming close… or just because Jon&Martin were chatting about personal things?).

Still *squint* at what the heck is happening thanks to/through the tape recorders at the moment – it still reminds me of Albrecht von Closen pouring out his stories to Jonathan Fanshawe, there is still the possibility that Jon is feeding the tapes themselves to create something even worse, and mmmmm… (New kinds of Leitner books?)

- I’ve already forgotten almost everything I used to know about English poetry, but lots of iambic constructions (up and down) combined with lots of ternary syntactic structures (round, circularity)? My references are mostly French, but the work on sounds really reminded me of Antonin Artaud’s – though way faster, fittingly, since it was also a relentless chase in which selves kept getting stolen and lost (and so was my attention). Beautiful piece, but ooft did it keep losing me before I was picked back up and forced to run with the words again.

Lots of themes that we had seen with the Circus in previous manifestations:

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you. […] Tim… TIM: … Grimaldi. NIKOLA: Once, a long time ago, before Orsinov made me. And sometimes, even now, on special occasions. Like your brother!

(MAG128, Breekon) “When we left our destination, the mule whining at the new weight behind it, he would reach behind us and find a face, sagging, sloughing off its skull, and would pull it to him. He’d place it over the one he wore already, and he would laugh, and laugh, and laugh. Sometimes it fell off. Sometimes it stayed for weeks. I kept the face we chose, but I loved him for our levity, and the corpses piled ever higher. […] But with the Circus we were amongst our own kind at last. They all had names, true enough, but none would dare pretend that names were real. Faces changed more often than clothes, and nobody truly knew who anybody was, save for their function within the show. […] We didn’t like the puppet, when Orsinov began to carve it. It seemed wrong to us to try and bring one like us about; to create or remake it in such a solid, static shape. We were wrong, of course. When Orsinov carved into the thing that had once called itself Grimaldi, and fed the pieces they didn’t need to the shuddering organist, even we found ourselves impressed. And when the faceless puppet peeled its creator and moved itself with their tendon strings, he looked at me… and laughed… and laughed…”

Identity loss, the loss of self, permutability. But it’s interesting that it fit so well to the other Circus members we had encountered and… still was incredibly Hunt-y, with the premise of an ongoing chase where the victims become the new mob of predators (who may become victims once again if they are successful, etc.), taking place in a circular space, where things can never truly end. Really reminiscent of the concept of The Everchase, I feel? Fears bleeding into each other, etc.

(There could be something about a “(word) chain” of Fears, since MAG163 was mostly Slaughter/War and had bits of Corruption with the medical malpractices, then MAG164 was Corruption with what was identified as “strangers” being targeted more heavily, then MAG165 being Stranger with very a Hunt logic, which would lead to MAG166 going for Hunt… But I’m not really feeling it.)

- It wasn’t clear in MAG164, but this one also made explicit that people in the nightmares can’t really die-die – either they seem to respawn (or get stuck in a nightmare inside of a nightmare inside of a nightmare etc.?), either they just… can’t:

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “There is a rumbling in the earth around him, as a tank speeds along its unstoppable path, and Charlie is immediately pulled under its tread. He has a moment of shocked horror, before being reduced to a smear in the mud. […] Next to his bleeding corpse, Charlie wakes from what passes for sleep in this place. A sergeant is yelling at him, screaming for him to take his gun and get into the waiting transport.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. You lie there in the fugue of vivid pain and feel that gentle rain from violence overhead, as some fall dead or close as this place lets you lie, for truly thus to die would be too eager an escape; and listen to the ebb and swell of slow, melodic wail that well you know conducts the flowing rhythm laced into this endless, faceless dance.”

Does The End feel cheated, or is the fear of dying (or the fear of not being allowed to die) enough to feed it? Will we meet a pocket mostly dominated by a facet of The End…?

- I wonder if we’ll meet people not yet taken by a “place” since we got a couple mentions of an outside/inside and people still coming in…

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “And people do still come to the village, for however thick the paranoia, however terrible the disease, there are worse things beyond.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “But no, for all the dreams of bounding, leaping off into the great Unknown, you see the ring of broken mewling wretches who have shown the sting that comes with such rejection of the truth, so seldom spoken yet inside you all, that there is no – way – off the merry-go-round. […] It’s not the same as what you had when first you climbed the brightly painted stairs, but not the worst “who” you have been.”

Are the places making people feel like they could leave/that there are newcomers, when they’ve actually been stuck here forever? Or are there people who are still “free” until they’re taken by one of the places? (I mean, outside of main characters: we already know that Daisy is tearing through these places, and that Basira is following her (though that… sounds like a Hunt nightmare in itself), and Jon was unable to tell where Melanie&Georgie were – so unless they’ve been taken by a Dark nightmare, they’re probably outside of the boxes somehow.)

- I’m still trying to narrow down what is making me feel uneasy this season so far, and it’s sadly not something that will be warned for in the content warnings: it’s… about the whole ideology regarding free-will, agency, guilt and responsibility.

So far, all the “nightmares” we have encountered made it clear that it was, yes, people prisoners of a nightmare tailored to make them suffer, but also in which… most of the violence was committed by people against people:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “Something moves outside, struggling to crawl upon a hundred reaching grasping hands. It shudders, and grips the earth, pulling itself along as nails rip free and skin scrapes loose. It is afraid of what it has become, and where it might be going. […] Outside, it is raining. Heavy drops fall, ice-cold and laced with salt; tears of voyeuristic delight from The Eyes that see and drink in all – it sinks into the dry cracked ground, and from the mud faces struggle to push themselves free and breathe. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] They cannot breach the surface, as the slick soil flows down their throats.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: “Ishaan had been afraid, terrified that they were going to strap him to it, pin him to the Goliath’s hull like all the other flayed flags of war, striking fear into the hearts of the enemy. But instead they fed him to it, tossed him into its burning innards and sealed the hatch behind him. Now, his body has contorted itself to fit, his fingers clutched around the firing lever; pulling it frantically is the only thing that will reduce the impossible heat even for a moment. From the tiny slit in the metal, he can see other soldiers: baby-faced friends and the monstrous, pig-faced enemy, both falling beneath his iron coffin’s advance. He tries to cry, but his tears turn to steam. […] Hasanna’s eyes fall on the entrance to the tent, and she sees the line of civilians, stretching away into the distance. They are no less maimed, their agonies no more bearable; but there is simply no room. She tries to apologise – but instead, she closes the tent. […] Far in the distance, she sees Alexei look out over the battlefield, and her stomach turns at the detestable wrongness of his face. Alexei in turn looks out from deep in the trench. He catches sight of the enemy, their shrivelled rat-like heads causing the bile to rise in his throat.”

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: “It is, alas, those who are unblemished that suffer worst. So incomprehensible is it that any from outside could be clean, that there might be another source or vector, the inspectors devise another theory: an invisible infection. A hundred Typhoid Marys spreading mildew and decay. […] For no one would speak up if Gillian Smith were to mark you infected, or declare you foreign. No one would lift a finger as they dragged you to the green. […] What Mrs Kim is… is scared. Scared of her neighbours, scared of her friends, scared of the moment when someone will smell the spreading patch of darkness on her back and decide she is infected, or remember she has only been in the village since her grandfather’s day, and judge her to be an outsider. Should she accuse someone else? Send them to the village green? Perhaps she might petition to join the council, though that would invite their attention as much as anything might. Even through the masks, Mrs Kim knows the looks she gets in the pub; but what can she do? When she hears the shouts outside and sees the smoke pouring from the thatched roof, she knows it is too late.”

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: “The world in which the carousel will twirl is not the hollow hell you fear; it is the world. Just the world. A world where if you’d wish to have a name, it must be stolen, carved and pulled full-bloody from the frame of others who would wish in vain to hold their selfness close. You want a face? Take it. There are so many here; and those who cannot hold them, well, whoever chose to give them such a gift must take the blame, knowing they could never keep it in a world of so much thieving strangeness. […] You feel the last of names and “who” you might have been be torn away and borne towards new bodies. New pages, blank; determined to be people. […] then comes the briefest flash that surely now it’s done, so much, perhaps… the pain will be somewhat lessened. There’s no way it could hurt as much as you remember. But it does. And so of course, you scream, and scream; and curses, foul, obscene will tumble garbled over where there once sat other people’s lips or yours now gone, and teeth that once shone yellowed ivory a crimson in the flowing sanguine flood. And as you lie in agonies and fading dreams of personhood, of knowing who you were and what that might have meant, you hear the bitter whisper of recriminating seekers, who have found the treasure of their eager dreams, but see, it seems there’s not enough… for all. And so they fall to frantic terror and conflict, just as vicious as it was when it was bearing down on you. […] You are, of course, a faceless thing as well, and so should quickly match the pace of those who chase the self-same prey. But now, it is too late, they’ve gone. Their chase will not abate until their former friend is ripped apart in turn. And you have learned to wait. For there are many faces out upon the carousel, and many names that you might be. So bide your time a while and wait the coming of another one whose fate and face might sit upon your grinning carmine skull.

And I feel like there has been a shift compared to statements in previous seasons: it used to be monsters or eldritch things going after people, but we also got people trapped in these oppressive systems, who could have chosen their survival over others’… and still said “no”. Is that even possible in the nightmares? Are we assuming that people are constantly remade in order to keep the circles of violence going (in order to serve them) and that it’s going past a mere influence, that it’s erasing any responsibility in their actions? Or is it still an individual choice and are we heading towards the idea that anyone (or 99.99% of people) would choose to inflict direct violence against others if it means lessening their own pain? (I’m honestly super uncomfy about the latter idea, because it feels bleak and edgy to me, because it’s hard to forget that in this reasoning, marginalised people would always have it worse, and because it narratively feels like “cheating” to have Jon&Martin on the frontline, who are super fluffy and obviously wouldn’t push the other under a bus for their survival… while other people would just be eh, people. ;;) In summary: can people currently be held accountable for their actions, in the same way Daisy took responsibility for her Hunt-influenced actions, or are they deprived of any choice?

Interesting, though, is that in these nightmares, we… have never seen families or groups of friends, so far (Charlie had one, who seemed to exist just to get killed? The fungus village had neighbours who didn’t seem to know much about each other?). It feels like in rewriting reality, the Fears have also isolated people, fractured their previous social links to impose new “societies” with their own rules and mechanisms? Jon, at least, still labels them as “victims” even when aware of what is happening:

(MAG165) MARTIN: Because, uh… [LOWER] I really don’t like the look of those riders. ARCHIVIST: Would you believe me if I said they were the victims? MARTIN: … At this point, I’m not even surprised.

But I’m kind of wary and expecting an argument to be made about how Human Nature Is Fundamentally Selfish or something like this, precisely when The Web is lurking around and had such a knack for the theme of free will… ;;

- What does Jon know that he’s not sharing with Martin? He confirmed that they needed to “experience” these places to reach the Panopticon:

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: Martin… It’s going to be a hard journey. MARTIN: [RELIEVED EXHALE] ARCHIVIST: One– MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, yeah– ARCHIVIST: –in which we… MARTIN: –so, I’ve actually had a couple of bags packed for a while, now! [HEAVY ITEM DROPPED] ARCHIVIST: Oh! MARTIN: And, I found some rope in the attic, and I packed that with the maps.

(MAG163) ARCHIVIST: And if you walk towards it, eventually you’ll get there. But you have to go through everything in-between. […] Nightmares. [BANG IN THE DISTANCE] Come on – that trench is our first. […] MARTIN: Jon… I’m scared. ARCHIVIST: … Yes… That’s the idea…!

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: We’re fine. MARTIN: A–are we? I mean, that place is– … I don’t, I don’t feel fine, okay, and you were there a long time doing your… y–you–your guidebook, which, you know, I get it, but that place is… I–it’s–it’s infectious, and, I don’t– ARCHIVIST: We’re not infected, Martin, that place, it– … It isn’t for us.

(MAG165) MARTIN: But. You said we needed to go through these places. … Is that even going to work here? ARCHIVIST: Uh… [EXHALE] We need to go through them… metaphorically. MARTIN: Mm… ! ARCHIVIST: Psychologically, we need to… “experience” them. MARTIN: Hm! [SILENCE] D’you think we could get that experience just… walking along the edge?

And his explanation of what they need to do is getting a bit more precise every time.

* It’s not only about Jon experiencing the places, it’s about them experiencing the places. Makes sense since they’re on a journey to the Panopticon, but still interesting: Jon gets overwhelmed by the places to the point of needing to do his “guidebook”; Martin doesn’t, past his discomfort/casual fears, but it’s working anyway. What is happening with Jon…?

* Fear.jpg because “experiencing” them had been mentioned by Elias/Jonah as a way to prepare Jon towards his goals:

(MAG092) ELIAS: [SIGH] What are you? ARCHIVIST: I… The Archivist. ELIAS: Precisely. It is your job to chronicle these things, to experience them, whether first-hand or through the eyes of others. To simply be told, well… ARCHIVIST: It doesn’t please your master? ELIAS: Our master, Jon.

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Because the thing about the Archivist is that… well: it’s a bit of a misnomer. It might, perhaps, be better named “the Archive”. Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon – you are a record of fear. Both in mind, as you walk the shuddering dread of each statement; and in body, as the Powers each leave their mark upon you. You are a living chronicle of terror.”

So what is happening exactly…? Is it because Jon simply needs to “experience” the various layers of the new world before reaching the centre of the storm? Are these steps actually “undoing” — or furthering — something…?

- Also confirmation that Martin&Jon seem immune to what is happening, as long as they don’t push their luck:

(MAG161) MARTIN: … Are we still safe? ARCHIVIST: Y–yes, it… it doesn’t want to harm me. MARTIN: And me? ARCHIVIST: I won’t let it.

(MAG163) MARTIN: Good. Good. [SILENCE PUNCTUATED BY PANTING] … J–J–Jon, Jon, w–we’re not alone. ARCHIVIST: I–ignore them, they’re not… Just ignore them. MARTIN: … They’re not… real? [VOICES SHOUTING IN THE DISTANCE] ARCHIVIST: [MIRTHLESS CHUCKLING] No…! They’re real; they were… normal people before the– … Before me. But now they’re here, meat for the grinder. I just mean there’s no point… talking to them. MARTIN: Don’t be a prick, Jon. Hey! I’m, I’m sorry about him. He’s–he’s going through a lot – well… we all are, I suppose, but well… “Hi”, I guess. [SILENCE] Hello? ARCHIVIST: They won’t hear you, Martin, they’re all… too busy waiting to die.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. […] MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. […] MARTIN: Jon, do we– do we need to run? NOT!SASHA: Oh, yes, Martin, you very much do. I’ll even give you a head start! ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] MARTIN: … Jon? ARCHIVIST: You’re bold! [FOOTSTEPS] I’ll give you that. NOT!SASHA: [HISSING] Last chance…! ARCHIVIST: Desperate for one last morsel of terror from us? NOT!SASHA: [HISSES] ARCHIVIST: [CHUCKLE] A final sip, and then we’re gone! Somehow we manage to keep just ahead of you and get away. NOT!SASHA: [SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: God forbid you actually catch us. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: Doesn’t bear thinking about…! MARTIN: Jon, what are you talking about? NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She can’t touch us. We’re so far beyond her now. NOT!SASHA: [FURIOUS SNARLS] ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…!

Is it only because Jon is the Archivist, is it thanks to their connection to the Institute/the Eye (… after all, Basira apparently wasn’t taken)? What would happen to Martin if he were to be separated from Jon?

Also curious that both the Not!Them and The Distortion are what I would label “monsters” (as Martin&Simon did in MAG151), and yet the Not!Them was shown trapped… and Helen is roaming free. Did The Distortion lie about its own contentment in the new world? Did it get a better seat thanks to its connection to the Institute, since its Door had often appeared in the tunnels? (Helen had told Jon that this is how she knew a bit more about the tunnels, back in season 4.)

- Martin’s poetry is back as a theme! (Not included: Tim recording over one of Martin’s poems in MAG079.)

(MAG042) ARCHIVIST: I’m glad [Martin]’s moved out of the Archives, as it gives me a chance to work here without his constant presence. Also because he managed to leave some of his possessions behind. For the most part it’s just a few books of… relatively awful poetry… There are a few pieces I feel could almost have been affecting if his style wasn’t so obviously enamoured with Keats […].

(MAG124) MARTIN: Uh, yeah. Yeah, no, I’m… I’m alright, uh… Everything’s… fine. ARCHIVIST: … Right. Hum. … H–how’s… How–how’s the poetry? MARTIN: Oh, uh– Well, I haven’t… exactly had a lot of time recently, so… ARCHIVIST: Yes, uh… Of course… MARTIN: Hm. ARCHIVIST: You’ve been busy. MARTIN: Yeah. ARCHIVIST: …

(MAG165) MARTIN: So was it any good? ARCHIVIST: U–uh… What do you mean? MARTIN: Was it a good poem? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know! “No”? You’re the poetry expert, Martin, not me…! MARTIN: Well, did it stir any feeling in you? ARCHIVIST: Yes! “Nausea”. Because of the horrible things in it! MARTIN: That’s not quite what I meant. ARCHIVIST: Then I don’t know what you mean, Martin, I’m not a poetry person, I don’t… “get it”. I never have. MARTIN: That’s… That’s fine, I understand…! ARCHIVIST: Look. I’m better than I was; I used to think all poetry was bad. MARTIN: Sorry, what?! ARCHIVIST: I mean, I just thought of… [SIGH] I sort of thought it was pointless! Just… write some prose and stop… wasting everyone’s time! MARTIN: Hm! What changed? ARCHIVIST: I don’t know, I just… mellowed on it, I suppose. MARTIN: That’s… kind of weird. ARCHIVIST: In my defence, there is a lot of bad poetry out there.

* With this new information: it’s actually BIG from Jon that he had qualified Martin’s poetry as “almost affecting” given his personal feelings about poetry in general.

* Obviously, I want to tease Jon mercilessly about the idea that he began to mellow down on poetry since someone he was developing a crush on liked it so much… But also, just simply, people’s tastes change.

* … Okay, so if Jon managed to survive uni without getting poetry at all, either he did really well besides that, either it rules out that his degree might have been in literature. (History could fit him well?)

* … I find it interesting how Martin somehow managed to… not say anything about himself in this episode? We learned a few things about Jon – that he had fond memories of the London Zoo carousel, that he was in a bad mental space at a point before the Institute (break-up with Georgie? Being thrown in a new city for his academic studies, leaving Bournemouth? “Regular” student stress?), that he doesn’t get poetry but that his opinion has changed on it a bit.

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway. ARCHIVIST: No? You… gone on any recently? MARTIN: What? Uh– No, I don’t think so, not since I was a kid. ARCHIVIST: Hm! I actually, uh… There’s one at London Zoo – uh, was one at London Zoo. Big old thing. Went quite fast, actually, su–… [CHUCKLE] Surprisingly thrilling. MARTIN: [BURSTS OUT LAUGHING] ARCHIVIST: What? MARTIN: Seriously? ARCHIVIST: It was years back, before the Institute, I… I was in a weird place. Had a good time, though! MARTIN: [CHUCKLES] Well! ARCHIVIST: I mean, obviously I wouldn’t want to ride this one, we’ve got… quite enough thrills already. MARTIN: You, you sure? [CHUCKLING] I could speak to an attendant! ARCHIVIST: [CAUTIOUS] I would advise against doing that. [SILENCE]

But Martin? Asked questions for Jon to answer, but managed to avoid having to tell anything about his own past. It’s not really surprising, it’s kinda fitting – Martin has probably got into the habit of not telling much about himself because of his fake credentials and his fake age? But still, I wonder if he will talk about himself at some point… (I still feel like we’re missing his own perspective on his mother or Tim, for example, since these subjects were mostly mentioned by other people and Martin only even mentioned his mother’s death when he poured his heart out at Peter&Elias in MAG158).

- I randomly really really love Martin’s nasal “Fine by me”:

(MAG102) ARCHIVIST: What about Daisy? MARTIN: Don’t see her much. Which is fine by me. [UNCOMFORTABLE SILENCE]

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Either way, best not to actually climb onto the thing, if we could help it. MARTIN: Fine – by – me, eh! Never really liked merry-go-rounds anyway.

Martin…

- … So, hearing Not!Sasha like this confirms that she didn’t “take” Julia or Trevor! (I guess that one of them could have died from her attack or Daisy’s, but… at the very least, the Not!Them didn’t take on a new identity through them.)

- There are various ways of interpreting what the Not!Them said about Martin:

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… and my favourites are either that Martin indeed big, either she was making a tease about them (aND THEY’VE BEEN ROOMMATES).

- Jon Has Upgraded – the Not!Them used to call him “Jon” as a taunt, and now…

(MAG078) NOT!SASHA (HEAVILY DISTORTED, DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Er… I… [SOUND OF A CREAKY DOOR OPENING] MICHAEL: You – need – a door.

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooonnnn… ARCHIVIST: Oh Christ. […] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): Jooooon… Jooooon… Come out, come out, wherever you are. ARCHIVIST: [SCARED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): It’s okay Jon; it’s Sasha. Reliable old Sasha. Nothing to be afraid of. … You seem stressed, Jon. You’ve been under a lot of pressure. You should talk about it. Have a real good chat. You like talking, don’t you, Jon? … I’m going to wear you, Jon. […] I’m glad we got a chance to run, Jon. It makes it so much more satisfying.

(MAG158) NOT!SASHA: [MUFFLED, HEAVILY DISTORTED] Jooo–ooon~! [SOUND OF STONE AND BRICK SHIFTING, LOUDER, THEN GRADUALLY STOPPING] NOT!SASHA: [HEAVILY DISTORTED] [PANTS] So you finally decided to let me out, Jon! Joooo–oooon~! … Who’s there? MARTIN: [PANICKED BREATHING] NOT!SASHA: Who let me out? [SILENCE] Don’t be shy. I just want to say thank you. [SILENCE] All right, have it your way. Now, if you’ll excuse me: I have some unfinished business. [MENACING SATISFIED LAUGHTER] […] [CRASHING SOUND] NOT!SASHA: Hello, Jon. DAISY: Oh, shit! ARCHIVIST: You gotta be fucking kidding m–

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Eh! My dearest colleagues…! MARTIN: Just get back! [THUMP] NOT!SASHA: I can’t believe you’d decide to pass through my neighbourhood and not say hello, to – dear – old – Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Just ignore it, Martin. NOT!SASHA: Oh, you wound me, Archivist. And we used to be so close! […] And what if I let you choose this time, which one of you would I wear next? Martin looks very comfortable, positively roomy; oh, wouldn’t you agree, Archivist~?

… it’s “Archivist”. He’s really had a special status/power-up, uh?

- So, The Distortion is having a blast in the new world (MAG164), or so it says… but it’s not fundamentally the case for all monsters/avatars out there. It makes sense for The Stranger since it had been presented as opposed to The Eye:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA: So the monster got its friends to carry the table all around, and it still got to take faces and scare people. Then one day it was sent to the house of its enemy, which had the biggest eyes you ever did see. The monster was sent there to steal all its secrets, but it was sad because it couldn't scare anyone any more.

(MAG092) ELIAS: The Stranger is antithetical to us. ARCHIVIST: [SIGH HEAVILY] ELIAS: We thrive on ceaseless watching, on knowing too much. What we face is the hidden, the uncanny, and the unknown. If you are to stop them, you need to get better at seeing. And my explaining things is simply not enough.

(MAG119) SARAH: You… idiot! Do you really think the world will fare any better under the Watcher? You think you’re saving anyone?

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: She’s just like everything else here, ruled by The Eye. [CHUCKLING] And she hates it…! NOT!SASHA: Well, of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master! Do you know how it feels? To be… anonymous, and yet known? To have all the sweetest dread I can create tainted by the relentless gaze of that damned Eye! I’ve suffered enough!

So people from the (survivors of the) cult of the Divine Host probably won’t be extremely happy about it either – we know that some were still roaming around, Jon had mentioned seeing people with the pendant at the beginning of season 4. Martin mentioned their lack of allies in MAG164, are we heading towards them getting some “help” from unsatisfied avatars…?

- ;; I said I would put the Not!Them amongst the “monsters”, but technically… the victims in the carousel felt like proto-Not!Them themselves? And Not!Sasha had enough reasoning to try to go into denial – pretending that it could still catch and hurt Jon&Martin, while it knew that it couldn’t anyway, but ready to create the illusion that it could. That’s some very human mental structure…

- Sob, but also:

(MAG165) ARCHIVIST: Pathetic. [SHRILL SCREAMS] Martin, let’s go. NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…!

… I really like the description of what she did as “eating Sasha’s life”: it was not only that it killed her; it’s that it erased and reshaped her whole life as a memory and a possible influence on others…

- ;; I’m even happier that we got Sasha’s tapes at the beginning of season 5, because it brought her back as a presence, as an existence, and not only as the concept of “the friend we lost but can’t really remember”. The Not!Them getting killed closes a very long chapter: Sasha’s murder at the end of season 1, which was a wound that kept being reopened (Jon realising that she had died long ago, then Martin&Tim having to learn about it; Nikola teasing Jon about her during The Unknowing; the Not!Them getting freed during the season 4 climax), the fact that the Not!Them had been spotted and described as soon as in MAG003, and also… the first time we heard of Adelard Dekker was when he imprisoned it within the Web table?

I’m especially ;; that The Stranger regularly used Sasha’s murder against Jon, and that it has always been a sore spot… until he snapped:

(MAG079) NOT!SASHA (DISTANT): … I’m going to wear you, Jon. I’m going to wear everything you are. Like you never existed. Noone will even know. And it will hurt. Oh, yes, it will hurt. It hurt Sasha. ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NOT!SASHA (CLOSE AND DISTORTED): There you are. […] ARCHIVIST: [WHISPERING] I’m sorry. Martin, Tim… Sasha. I’m so sorry. I should have… I didn’t… I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.

(MAG096) ARCHIVIST: He was a–a tax inspector. He came here, and Daniel Rawlings, or his replacement, showed him something he claimed to be the oldest piece of taxidermy in the world. Gorilla skin from Carthage. SARAH: Heh, was this when you sent your “Sasha” to interrogate us? ARCHIVIST: Don’t you dare talk about– DAISY: Sims. Sims. Shut up and focus.

(MAG119) ARCHIVIST: Who are you?! NIKOLA: Who am I? Tim, of course! Who else would I be! ARCHIVIST: You’re not– you’re not… Tim. NIKOLA: Oh, you caught me~ I’m… Sasha! ARCHIVIST: Shut up! NIKOLA: No~! Really, it’s me! Sasha– whatever her name was! Back from the dead, just like you wanted~! ARCHIVIST: Get away from me, or, or I swear I’ll… I’ll…

I mean. Yes, if Jon had to lose his temper and go terrifying due to feelings, it would be about Sasha’s murder ;;

- It’s also jarring how Jon used to be terrorised and victimised by monsters, and took the upper hand this time: the dynamic between him and the Not!Them in this episode was an extreme reversal of what had happened at the end of season 2. I’m also curious about how “Jon using his powers against other monsters” has felt more and more threatening over time:

(MAG091) ARCHIVIST: What, I? I–I didn’t– [RUSTLING NOISES] Plea– Please don’t shoot me… [SOUNDS OF PANIC] [STATIC] W–why are you doing this? Tell me! [GURGLES MORE AS DAISY GRABS HIM ROUND THE THROAT] DAISY: Stop – asking – questions.

(MAG101) MICHAEL: I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now…! ARCHIVIST: I… [STATIC] Is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me? MICHAEL: [LAUGHS] If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me, but… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them. [MORE LAUGHTER]

(MAG119) NIKOLA&GERTRUDE: A terrible new world and it’s all your fault. GERTRUDE&LEITNER: Though I suppose you never really had a chance ARCHIVIST: … I see you. NIKOLA: Do you, now? ARCHIVIST: Yes… Yes, I s… I see the sad clown, b–bitter and hateful. I see him finding his way into a ci–circus where nobody knew him. I see him torn apart, becoming the mask, remade by a… a cruel ringmaster. Sometimes a doll, sometimes a mannequin, always hiding in somebody else’s skin. Somebody else’s name. NIKOLA: Not always, and it’s far too late for any of that. Nothing you see can help you.

(MAG128) BASIRA: Get. Out. [STATIC RISES] BREEKON: Make. Me. [RATTLING SOUND] ARCHIVIST: Stop. [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND OVER STATIC] BREEKON: What’re you doing? BASIRA: … Jon…? What are you doing? BREEKON: What’re you– Stop it… Stop it! ARCHIVIST: [ECHOING] No. BREEKON: [STRUGGLING, BUZZING INCREASES] Enough! Stop… looking at me! [SCREAMS] [DOOR SLAMMED OPEN, FLEEING FOOTSTEPS WHILE BREEKON IS STILL SCREAMING, DOOR SLAMMING SHUT] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS] [HIGH-PITCHED BUZZING SOUND FADES] BASIRA: Jon…? ARCHIVIST: It’s fine…!

(MAG159) ARCHIVIST: … I, I don’t understand. PETER: And you won’t. Not from me. I’m done. ARCHIVIST: Tell me. [STATIC RISES] PETER: I’m. Not saying. Another. Word. [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Tell me, or I will rip it out of you! [STATIC INCREASES] PETER: [STRUGGLING] No…! ARCHIVIST: Answer. My question! PETER: NO! Leave – me – ALONE! [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: TELL ME! PETER: [GROANING SCREAM] [RIPPING, EXPLODING SOUND] [STATIC FADES] ARCHIVIST: … Stubborn fool…

(MAG162) ARCHIVIST: “This place wishes to be our tomb. But The Eye does not wish that. No. [STATIC INCREASES] The Eye wishes instead that it be my chrysalis. [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] It is time that I emerge…” [STATIC REACHING A PEAK] […] I, I–I was listening, and I–I was filled with this… hatred. This anger; I–I wanted to leave, and hunt down Elias, a–and…! MARTIN: W–wow, okay… ARCHIVIST: But, when I thought it… the–there was… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] There was something else. Th–this place, it… it didn’t want me, it… [WOODEN CREAKING SOUND] didn’t want us to go.

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Not as pathetic as your little friend when I ate her life…! [RUMBLING SOUND] [THE CALLIOPE MUSIC DERAILS, TAKES A HIGHER PITCH] ARCHIVIST: … What did you say? [STATIC RISING: LOW AND SPIRALLING, PRESSURING] NOT!SASHA: [SHAKY BREATHES] I’m–I’m sorry… MARTIN: Jon? ARCHIVIST: You were wrong, you know. NOT!SASHA: [GASPS] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: There is more suffering than you can ever experience, so much more. The horror of your victims… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] ARCHIVIST: Their constant, senseless agony… NOT!SASHA: [CRIES OF PAIN] [STATIC INCREASES] ARCHIVIST: Feel it now. Understand it. You have drawn out so much despair, and now finally, it’s your turn. [STATIC INCREASES] [DIGITAL GLITCHING SOUNDS] Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this wretched thing! [STATIC INCREASES, WITH MORE PRESSURE] NOT!SASHA: No! No, please, no…! [DIGITAL BURSTING, RIPPING SOUNDS] NOT!SASHA: [FADING] No…! [STATIC DECREASES AND FADES] ARCHIVIST: [PANTS]

Jon used to rely on compulsion to try to struggle his way out (when it was his only weapon), in a panic. But since MAG119, it has begun to feel as if something was coming out from it, as if he were possessed? It really feels like something is trying to come out (and we precisely began the season with The Eye wanting the cabin to be his “chrysalis” and Jon announcing that “he” would emerge…). There also had been a clear escalation in his use of his powers: from giving Tim the tools to prevent Nikola from achieving The Unknowing, to stopping Breekon when he was ready to fight Basira, to compelling Peter to death while Peter was resisting, to… an execution, triggered by his anger. Jon had made a point to tell Martin that the Not!Them couldn’t harm them; it was a murder purely motivated by anger. The Not!Them had it coming, and it’s really interesting that Jon weaponised the suffering of the Not!Them’s victims to force it to feel pain (so, a case of… forcing empathy on it?), but… still a murder, still scary, still concerning that Jon did that when Martin and him weren’t threatened, and that it happened when Jon’s feelings got out of hand.

(Jon, you’re just a shounen anime protagonist gdi.)

- And Jon did nooooooot feel fine with it:

(MAG165) MARTIN: … Whoa–oh–oh! ARCHIVIST: I, uh… MARTIN: What was that?! ARCHIVIST: … I–I destroyed it. [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] Ki–killed her. MARTIN: Are you kidding me, you–you obliterated her! You… you smote her! [ECHOING CREAKING SOUNDS] ARCHIVIST: We, we should go. MARTIN: What about the merry-go-round? With her gone, is it, is it still th– ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know! MARTIN: [CHUCKLING] Yes you do! ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t… want to know, plea– We need to go. [SHUFFLING] Please. MARTIN: Oh, oh, okay. A–alright. Alright. Lead on. [CREAKING SOUNDS]

* Martin sounded… kinda very very into it (mARTIN), not surprised – Martin was already ready to use whatever he can even if it means compromising himself. Jon sounded more upset, so I’m half-expecting them to discuss this at some point?

* It had already felt a bit like it with Peter (when Jon mentioned the powers of The Eye in relation to The Lonely), but it was way worse here: … Jon really felt like an actual priest of Beholding when he obliterated the Not!Them. As if he was accepting it as a god, and himself as its agent, able to channel its powers.

* It was also SO CLOSE to what Elias did to Melanie and Martin, with the whole implanting memories/truths in someone’s head to make them suffer… oofffft ;;

* ;; I’m. Also very concerned about the fact that the end of the episode seems to imply that Jon made it worse for the victims in the carousel, since we can hear it creaking. Has he just condemned these people to an actual death, or to worse doom? If it turns out that Jon has powers allowing him to have an effect on these nightmares, the fact he chooses to remain an observer and only “uses” the place to experience them will feel iffier and iffier… ;;

- Welp, it does clear up right away why The Web hasn’t tried to contact Jon directly. On a scale from calling his partner while Jon himself is further away to directly taunting him, how much self-preservation instinct do you have?

MAG166’s title is… interesting, because?? Corruption?? But it also feels too easy?? (And would be the biggest Middle Finger at something Smirke mentioned in MAG138.) I see a way in which it could potentially be Hunt, or Flesh, or Vast, or Buried, or End, or Web (well… it’s more like there’s an existing connection for that one + RQ’s teasing about Web stuff this week), but, wow. Bold move.

#1 #2 #3 #4 #5 #mag165 #tma season 4 #the magnus archives #tma liveblog #tma spoilers/#long post/

18 notes · View notes

sparrellow · 4 years

Text

oops

Rin realised with absolute terror, that by some cursed oddity, the quite-revealing, most definitely embarrassing selfie she had just taken had been sent to Len.

rating: T genre: humour, romance pairing: rinlen words: 2,477

It was a balmy Tuesday afternoon, and Rin was bored, so she went window shopping.

Her favourite thing to do was try on cute outfits, take selfies in them, and then not buy anything at all. It wasn’t like she could afford to buy any of the things she tried, anyway—she was a broke university student, barely scraping by weekly on nutritious meals of cup ramen.

This day, she felt particularly ambitious. A little sexy, even. So she went to her favourite lingerie store and tried on a bunch of cute, expensive underwear.

Alas, it did not go exactly as planned.

When she unlocked her phone to take a selfie, it did some weird glitch thing, but she simply shrugged it off and went to snap a photo of herself in the pastel, frilly, mermaid-themed underwear she’d picked out. Hmm. Cute. She clicked the confirm button, and went to take another picture, except—

Except the screen didn’t return to the camera option.

Oh, no.

It didn’t.

It had, in fact, opened up her message with Len. Her uni friend. The cute guy from her Psychology class.

But that wasn’t it.

Because, Rin realised with absolute terror, that by some cursed oddity, the quite-revealing , most definitely embarrassing selfie she had just taken had been sent to him.

The final hit was the little: Read at 2:36 .

“Fuck!”

It was a balmy Tuesday afternoon, and Len was struggling to stay awake during his Introduction to Molecular Chemistry lecture. He kept nodding off every few minutes, the lecturer’s voice oddly soothing—both a blessing and a curse in his case.

But then his phone buzzed, and his eyes popped open to read the notification.

(1) Message from Rin Kagamine.

Huh. Wonder why Rin was texting him. They didn’t really talk much outside of their class together, but she was pretty cool. Pretty and cool, that was. He didn’t really think they were on that level for casual conversations yet, so perhaps it was uni-related, or something.

He reached over to unlock his phone to read the message.

And promptly turned off his screen again.

What… what was that .

His eyes had almost fallen out of his sockets. Had he just seen correctly? Or was his mind playing tricks on him? He wasn’t even entirely sure.

Reluctantly, he opened the message back up.

And confirmed, it was, indeed, not a mistake of his eyes.

She had, in fact, just sent him a picture of her in underwear. (Very nice underwear, might he add! But also, what the fuck was going on here .)

Before he could even form some degree of coherent message in response to the picture, Rin had begun spamming him in a flurry of panic.

FUCK

I’M SO SORRY

I’M SO FUCKING EMBARRASSED OH MY FUCKING GOD

FUCK!!!!

I SWEAR THIS WAS AN ACCIDENT I

I DON’T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED MY PHONE GLITCHED I’M SO SORRY LEN FUCK

He raised an eyebrow at the messages, amused. So it was… an accident? How does one send a sexy selfie as an accident? How does one’s phone glitch to the degree of accidentally sending someone a sexy selfie? Had she been meaning to send it to someone else?

There were so many questions.

Well, the good thing was that Len was definitely awake now.

Rin was crouching on the floor of the dressing room, half-naked and freaking out because he still hadn’t replied. But he had read all the messages. Oh god. What happens if he, like, posted the picture to some Facebook group to shame her? What if he used it for blackmail?

Was Len that sort of person? Did he like blackmail?

But before she could jump to any more conclusions, he’d responded with:

Thanks. I needed something to make this lecture a little bit more bearable.

He was at school? Had he opened the message in front of everyone? Had everyone else seen her in the cute little frilly mermaid underwear with her unshaven legs and pot-belly from eating two servings of instant yakisoba for lunch????

Rin sunk further down onto the ground, clutching her head, texting back rapid-fire.

I swear it was an accident I don’t know why it was sent to you I was literally just taking pics of myself and AHHHHH

Did she really just admit that she had been taking photos of herself, half-naked, in the dressing room of an expensive lingerie store?

Yes. Yes she did.

And Len had the audacity to send back a crying-laughing face.

Well idk if you wanted an opinion, but it looks cute. You should buy it.

Rin buried her face into her knees, utterly humiliated . This wasn’t what she was expecting her boring Tuesday afternoon to be like. Maybe she should’ve just stayed home and studied like a good student.

Well. It was too late to go back now.

I wish I could but it’s way out of my price range

Thanks, tho

She closed her phone and stood up, taking a breath to calm herself. At that moment, the dressing room assistant knocked on her door and asked, “Do you need any help?”

“I’m fine!” she croaked, scrambling to change into her next outfit. God forbid she let anyone else look at her body today.

Len couldn’t help but be a little disappointed at the fact that she’d stop replying after that last message.

Of course, it was normal , given that this was all apparently an accident , but he was hoping she’d send another picture or two.

You know.

That sounded dirty of him. But she was cute. And that first picture was—although very much a surprise—somewhat eye candy for him. Plus he was super bored. He still had another hour left of his lecture and his soul was slowly being leached from his body.

So, like the little disgusting man he was, he sent another message.

Is that all?

About a minute passed, before Rin responded with, What?

He internally winced. Was he really going to make himself sound like a major creep?

Yes. Yes he was.

(This was going to make his Psychology class super awkward and he knew it.)

You’re not trying any others on?

Rin’s reply came almost immediately after that. Of COURSE I’m trying others on

What, do you want more pictures of an underdeveloped adult woman with hairy legs and a bloated stomach in your phone?

Len snorted. The picture she’d sent was fine. It was a body. A very nice body he liked to look at.

So he said, I can give you a second opinion?

It was radio static silent from Rin. She’d read his message, but no answer. He waited about five minutes, before he put down his phone with a sigh and tried to tune into his class.

She’d probably blocked his number. With good reason.

God. How was he going to meet her eyes in Psychology class on Thursday?

Providing she didn’t like, sock him in the jaw for being a pervert.

But he couldn’t help it! He needed the thrill! The entertainment! Also the pictures of a cute girl in cute underwear on his phone!

Len was going to hell but he didn’t even care.

Rin had stared at her phone for an incredibly long time, not sure how to respond to her classmate.

Look, she got it. It was her fault for being a dumbass and not checking before taking the picture. She technically asked for this roundabout method of torture.

And yet. He had the audacity to ask for more.

She didn’t know whether to be mad or impressed. Madpressed, maybe.

So she left it to stew on, finished taking selfies of all the cute underwear in her naked glory, and went home very pensive. She thought very hard about it all on the bus, and glared hard at his little, stupid face in his icon on the message app.

Len was a good-looking guy. And , from the few conversations they had in class, he had a good sense of humour. And judging by his messages, he was also a cheeky asshole.

But she could’ve done worse. A whole lot worse. She could’ve sent that picture to her grandfather, or better yet, one of her creepy great uncles. Perhaps it was a good thing she’d sent it to some random (hot) guy from university.

Yeah.

So Rin decided to send the rest of her photos to him, and die gracefully in a puddle of shame.

He’d already seen one, so he might as well see them all.

Len almost tripped and fell flat on his face when Rin suddenly bulk-sent five more pictures of her in various, adorable lingerie.

He wasn’t even in his lecture anymore. He was walking home, feeling sorry for his little perverted self, and the fact that he accidentally slept through the remainder of his class. How on earth was he even going to pass that class.

The blood rushing to his head (and to the south pole), he managed to type out a response that read a lot more underwhelmingly compared to what was really going on in his mind.

Very nice.

Was it something a girl wanted to read after sending multiple pictures of herself in a vulnerable state? No, probably not. But his brain had turned to mush and was starting to seep out of his ears.

Rin wasn’t impressed.

You could’ve at least said thank you

Len fumbled for his dorm key, hands sweaty. Look, he was inexperienced. No one had ever sent him sexy pictures—or the equivalent of them, at least, whatever these were. He didn’t know how to handle it! Besides, she wasn’t even, like, a girl he was dating. He couldn’t just go full-mcCreep and tell her that he had a boner.

Could he?

No. He couldn’t.

Thank you , he responded, upon letting himself into his dorm room. I like the lavender one btw. It goes well with your hair colour

Was that too… much? He didn’t know if what he was doing was right. What did she expect him to say? He had no idea what on earth this entire situation was meant to be.

Oh really? That was my favourite

Cost like half a kidney tho

Len sank down onto his bed, relieved at her response. Okay. Okay. He was doing better. But now … he had a very important question he wanted to ask.

What’s the name of the store?

Rin blinked at his message, wondering why he was asking.

But she decided it was better not to ask. Maybe he had a girlfriend, or something. (Which, if he did, she would be incredibly pissed, because wouldn’t this classify as cheating? If he did, she was going to make sure he couldn’t walk straight ever again.)

She sent him back the store name. And left it there.

Thanks!

I’ll see you on Thursday ;)

Rin stared at his messages. Why did he send that winky face. What did it mean. What did it mean.

She didn’t respond, just tossed her phone aside and flopped back against her couch. She’d find out soon enough if she’d regret her actions.

Come Thursday, Rin had all but mentally prepared for her encounter with Len.

He pulled out the chair beside her in their lecture hall, and she stiffened, reluctantly dragging her eyes up to meet his gaze.

“Morning,” he said, acting way too casual given the circumstances. He plopped a familiar bag down on the desk in front of her and winked. Winked.

She felt her breakfast come up a little as it dawned on her, with absolute horror, that the bag donned the logo of the exact same store she’d been trying on underwear in the other day.

“What… is this,” she asked, gesturing at the bag like it was a severed toe.

Len looked smug, resting his chin on his hand. “I don’t know. Take a peek.”

“You don’t know,” Rin muttered to herself, unconvinced. She leaned forward, peering into the bag, catching a glimpse of something the shade of lavender. Uhhhh. She’d seen that shade of lavender somewhere. On her body. In the dressing room.

Hm.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Len said, shifting his gaze away so that he was facing forward. “No, I don’t know your size. I guessed.”

She wanted to send her face forward into the surface of the desk.

“But if it doesn’t fit,” he added, lips turning up into a smirk, “you can always take it in to swap it for your size. The receipt is in the bag.”

God. What on earth. What the even. What?

“Is this… are you going to like… blackmail me or something, or,” Rin spluttered, eyeing him with suspicion. “What are you going to have me do in return for… this? This brand isn’t… cheap.”

Len glanced back at her, shrugged his shoulders. “Well, you technically don’t have to do anything , but…” He licked his lips. What the fuck? Ew. Gross. “I wouldn’t mind some more pictures.”

She gawked at him, heat rushing to her cheeks. “ Re ally?” She didn’t trust him. She didn’t trust this pretty-faced man-boy at all. “So, you want to be my sugar daddy?”

He choked. After recovering from his coughing fit, he sat up straight, made direct eye-contact and said smoothly, “Yeah, if that’s how you want to see it.”

So, he gave her expensive lingerie. In exchange for. Pictures of her. In said lingerie.

Wow.

Rin wasn’t sure whether she was awake anymore, or just dreaming. Maybe she had passed out or something, and was having a fever dream. This was just too weird to even be real. She pinched her thigh under the desk, but nothing happened (alas).

“I mean, you could just go on a date with me instead, and maybe you’ll get to see the real thing,” her mouth said, without any mental input. It just came out.

It was real clown hours in this Psychology lecture, huh.

Len’s mouth popped open. Then closed. Then opened again. “That could work, too.”

It was silent. No one knew how to handle this situation, apparently. They were both staring awkwardly at the bag of lingerie on the desk between them, like it might eat them at any moment.

Eventually, Rin’s hand reached out and snatched it off the desk, stuffing it down into her shoulder bag on the ground. She cleared her throat, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, I’ll try it on tonight and see how it fits.”

Len tried not to look too pleased. And failed. “Cool.” He hesitated, side-glancing her. “If it does… ”

“I’ll meet you at Crypton's at seven.”

He blinked, surprised, before leaning back in his seat and grinning with satisfaction. “Sounds good.”

(Spoiler alert: Rin’s underwear didn’t fit, but they still went on the date anyway.)

#fanfiction #vocaloid #vocaloid fanfiction #rin kagamine #kagamine rin #len kagamine #kagamine len #rinlen #lenrin #rinxlen #lenxrin #uh... yeah

11 notes · View notes

violetbeachpod · 6 years

Text

TRANSCRIPT: 14 - OTHER SIDE

listen here

ANGIE: I don’t know why I agreed to end this.

It feels wrong, like—almost—I don’t know. It feels immoral to just talk about what’s happening and not—not do anything. I mean. We’ve done things, we’ve—we’ve—

[sigh]

People are dead. Not us, not—anyone I’m still close to, uh, in the present moment. But people are dead. I’ve—I went out to get coffee this morning and I saw five bodies—not what killed them, but—five bodies. Some from here, some from the other place. And we’re getting used to it, just—a few weeks into this, and I’m used to it.

One of them taught music at Corelli when I was a kid. I dunno why she’s dead, like—she—

She influenced me so much, and, uh.

Shit.

So. Anyway. I decided, uh, fuck coffee, I’m gonna try and do something. I’m gonna stop the apocalypse. And if you’re hearing me, uh, I guess that I succeeded. Or that I’m dead. But if I failed and I lived, I’ll record a different thing with, uh, something more concrete. Doing it live seemed a bit more badass. So. Cool! You decide which happened; choose your own damn adventure. Also, side-note, those books were absolutely the best, do they make them for college students? Please say yes or, if not, start making them, please.

So. Anyway. I’m in town hall right now. It’s empty, save for a conference room—my dad was on town council, when I was a kid, I know my way around here.

It was—orbs of light that allow transport. I was talking to Robin about her new obsession, all of this—well. We know. Weird occult shit—and she mentioned that light was, uh, powerful. Not evil or good or whatever, she said, uh, don’t be reductive, Angie, haven’t you ever read a book, which proves that, hey, being into the occult and having your wife go missing doesn’t mean a person’s changed completely, huh?

But. Anyway. I’m looking for orbs of light, and I’m listening for static, because those are our two big clues, right? Because, uh. Well. None of us can—

Obviously, Elaine is on the other side.

[beat]

Wait, no, that implies she’s dead. No. She’s—she’s alive, Other Teresa made sure we knew that, but, uh. She’s in that other place. You know, uh.

It’s just—we’re in this whole place of—

There’s no right thing to do, and I hate it! I hate how it went from fun-monster-of-the-week style stuff to feeling like I have to save the universe. And I—I guess that’s where Elaine went wrong, trying to save the universe, but, uh, if we can’t do that, what can we do?

My hands keep shaking. I’m not sure why. I guess—I’m nervous, that’s why, Obvi, but—I’m not normally so shaky. I’m a pretty stable person. Physically, I mean. Not—like, stable’s a tricky word, but that’s not the subject of this paragraph, even.

I just—I’m scared.

Hot take, maybe lukewarm take, but it’s cathartic to say that out loud, that whole I’m scared. I don’t think I’ve said that since sophomore year of high school. I didn’t say it when I should have said it, back when I, uh. Left That One School, but I’m saying it now, and I mean it. I’m scared.

This place is so empty. I don’t know how to deal with it. I can’t stand—I can’t stand quiet, I gotta talk or else I feel like I’m dead. Is that melodramatic? Probably. But that’s me, so. At least I’m self-aware, right? At least, at least, at least.

It’s just—

Okay, so.

I’m scared, I’m scared, I’m scared. That’ll drown out the silence in a jiff, yeah? Yeah. It will. I tried to be, like, the ultimate epitome of punk rock for years, and here I am, just saying that I’m afraid, and! It feels fine. Love it. Unironically and wholly, I love it.

Oh!

I just saw someone walk by. I couldn’t hear footsteps, couldn’t see a shadow, but it certainly was someone, so that’s noteworthy! That’s—the meeting’s adjourned, or whatever, and. Well. Neat!

No one else has come out of the meeting yet. Just this one person. Woman, forties, tall, thin, pale, uh. Pencil skirt, suit jacket, high heels, you get the gist. Overly tight bun that’s giving me a secondhand headache, like it’s stretching her hair off of her skull. You know the type.

Okay, I’ll be back soon.

[static]

[whispered]

Okay, cool, so, uh. I did get noticed, and I am in a waiting room right now, waiting to be yelled at by a villain, which, in concept, rad, in execution, terrifying and I really might die, so, hey. I’m kind of living my worst life right now. And until now, I thought I was living my middlest life, so, uh, it’s kind of a bummer to realize that I’m a few tiers below that, I guess. Should I try and be jokey, right now? It feels inappropriate—it’s like laughing at a funeral, I guess, kinda normal but weird and frowned upon nonetheless.

It’s not my worst coping mechanism. I’ve done far worse in bad situations. One time I had an anxiety attack at Hershey Park and I just, uh. Stole one of those big-ass carnival game bears, plus the rings from said carnival game, and then I darted back to the car and just left. It was probably the most I ever ran, which, uh, is kinda sad. More than kinda. Very.

Please don’t rat me out to the theme park cops. I was, like, thirteen. They, uh. I haven’t returned to any theme parks since; I skipped a Glee trip in high school because I was afraid.

[a door creaks open]

Oop! Time to die, folks. See y’all on the other side for real this time. Or—

Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do.

Oh, it’s—it’s my MP3 player. It’s—it’s in my bag, okay?

Hello, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to meet you.

[And we hear a new voice--well. Voices. One layered over the other, but with the same words. Clearly, something is Wrong, but, uh, who knows?]

WOMAN: Who are you? Why are you here?

ANGIE: Well, uh. My name is Angie, I’m—I’m a student at the university, a student activist, actually. And a musician. I have, uh two albums out, if you—no, you’re, you’re shaking your head, I get it. I just wanted to talk to whoever’s in charge, and I’m assuming that that’s you?

WOMAN: I’m sure you can guess.

ANGIE: Oh, wow, so—you’re his daughter, I’m assuming? Wow, I’m—I’m honored, ma’am, that’s very impressive. Well, uh, me and my friends, we’ve been—we’ve been concerned about the events of these last few weeks, uh. Can I call you Andrea? I heard from Mae, your, uh.

WOMAN: Of course you heard from her. She’s my niece. She’s no knowledge of the situation at hand. You know how young people are. Sure, I’m young people myself, but. Hardly.

ANGIE: She’s your—unimportant. I heard from your niece, I guess, that, uh. You don’t intend to hurt any of us, but you genuinely have been, and my friend Elaine is missing, now, and her wife’s really worried, so—

WOMAN: I don’t care about your nonsense. You—leave me. Now. You have no right to be in here, and I do not take well to special guest stars.

ANGIE: Yes, yeah, I get you, I got you, uh. Okay, so, I think I’m just gonna, uh. Hit the road, right, like—um. Can you maybe not banish people to the shadow realm, or whatever? Because, uh. Well. That’s sort of. A bit off, morally speaking. Also, uh—do you guys not have Yu-Gi-Oh over there? Or, like, 4kids? Okay, whatever, you just—

WOMAN: Are you making jokes right now, ma’am? You clearly don’t understand the gravity of the situation, do you?

ANGIE: I joke to cope, I’m sorry, I’m not trying to be—to be informal, or anything, I promise, I—I’m just afraid that you’re gonna kill me, maybe, kind of? So, uh. Please chill out.

WOMAN: Leave. Now. Or there’ll be hell to pay. I’m certain you’re aware of this much.

ANGIE: I mean—what are you?

Shit!

[click]

Okay. Okay, I’m back. I’m—I’m okay, I’m back, he, uh. Threw me out. I dunno if it caught any of that, but for lack of maybe being killed and murdered, I’m gonna assume yes, for now, so, uh. Cool. We’re all on the same page, hopefully. And if not, uh, I might not share out of fear of being killed and or murdered.

Okay, so. I think that my arm’s broken? But I’m also very much in shock. Y’know? So. Not really sure how to handle this situation. Does Uber still work? There’s only like, two drivers in town right now, but, uh. I don’t think I can bike back to campus.

So.

[beat]

No, no service.

Damn. Uh. So. I’m in the hall of town hall, trying not to panic, and there’s something in the corner of my eye that I just can’t place. How wild is that, folks? It’s pretty goddamn wild. No need for you to answer, I got you. I got my handle on that one. Can assure you, one hundred percent, that it is pretty goddamn wild right now.

Okay, so, uh. I’m gonna get up, and I’m gonna go. Gonna go back to my dorm, gonna take a nap, and, uh. Pray that this is all a dream. Like I’ve been doing for the past two weeks. You know how it is, right?

Hah. I’m—Uh.

Wow, that’s—

That’s one of the light things, isn’t it.

It’s coming towards me, it’s, uh. Like it’s beaconing me, almost, I wanna walk toward it and touch it, it—it’s doing the walking, though, it’s almost—almost human, but not quite. What a thing it is, huh?

I feel like I—

Look. Teresa survived it. Why can’t I? She’s definitely a little tougher than me, I’ll admit, but. I’m punk rock. And I can admit that I’m scared. Those two things combined mean that nothing can go wrong, right?

And, look, other than you guys—it’s not like folks’ll miss me. And you can still ask Other Teresa about how I’m doing, and—and I’m not gonna die! I’m gonna come back, I promise you, it’ll—I’ll fix everything, and then we can all be happy again, and the world will stop ending, and I won’t have to embarrass myself in front of Anderson Cooper ever again.

That’s a fun line, isn’t it? I’m just—I’m gonna keep recording. Gonna see how long this lasts. Uh.

Okay, let me text Teresa real quick, uh.

My recorder might be in city hall. Period. Not sure. Period. Please pick it up. Period. Be back soon. Period.

I love you. Period.

Heart emoji. Heart emoji. Heart emoji.

Send.

Okay. So, uh. Let’s see if this thing can survive dimensional travel! By this thing, I mean my body and my recorder, thanks. I’m all about entendres. You know me. Okay.

Once more into the breach, I guess. Is that the phrase?

[long static]

Okay. So. Here, uh. Here I am. I’m—I’m okay, I’m alive. And this thing is still on. And I didn’t lose any audi—

OW!

I just tried to dab. My arm is definitely, uh. Super, super broken. Because I’m a dumbass. Oh my God, why did I dab—

The room is empty. It’s—it’s the same room I was just in, but it’s got some different paintings on the walls, a different pattern of tile on the ground. A chandelier, instead of ceiling lights, which, admittedly, is super rad. Very daring choice, aesthetically speaking. And the room is empty. It’s just—completely and totally desolate. Acoustics aren’t so bad aloud, I dunno about recorded, but. It sounds nice to talk. Like—it’s different than it was a moment ago.

I’m sitting on a bench. It’s—cold. To the touch. Got cushions, uh—black ones. Which, again, commitment to an aesthetic. I respect it. Very high school production of the Addams Family, but, hey, it’s commitment.

Uh, shit. Shit.

I’m—the light is gone, which means that I have to find another way out, which means that I have to find a different way out, once all this is over. That should’ve been obvious, but, uh, I was looking out for some kind of good luck. I’m not lucky, usually.

I’m, uh. Here. I’m sitting on this bench, and I’m in another universe.

[laughs]

Holy shit, I’m in another universe. Oh my God, now—Okay, imagine when Teresa put it all together, when she got over here for the first time—she probably kicked her legs in the air like a little kid, so excited and—she’s so great when she’s excited, I—

Oh my God, what if I—what if I can’t see her again—

Oh my God, I made a mistake. I fucked up.

WOMAN: Hello, Miss Thompson. Imagine seeing you here. Can I see what’s in your hand?

#this has some of my favorite lines in the show PERIOD in it so. enjoy #transcripts #transcript #season 2 #angie

32 notes · View notes

procedureflow · 3 years

Text

Scenario-Based Learning: What It Is, and Why It Works

Thinking back, you can probably remember taking a course where instructors spoon-fed students a list of facts. Or, it was a handful of rules, such as dos and don’ts. These bits of information lay flat in our brains if we even manage to recall them at all.

Knowledge leaders commonly abide by the 70-20-10 rule. That is, experiential knowledge comprises 70% of what employees absorb, followed by 20% from interactions with others. That leaves formal education as the source of just 10% of what employees know or retain.

By incorporating real-life experiences into on-the-job learning, companies leverage those percentages as employees practise their newfound skills with allowances for errors and do-overs. Scenario-based learning takes employee education from one-dimensional learning to 3D, rendering the employee handbook so last century.

A brief history of scenario-based learning

In 1991, theorists Lave and Wenger created the term Situated Learning, another term for scenario-based learning. They found that it’s more effective to teach information in the context in which it’s used. For on-the-job learning, creating scenes in which employees apply learned behaviors and principals, is stickier. Employees realize higher knowledge retention. What do you remember more easily: a static list of best practises or a time when you used those tools in a real-life setting?

What is scenario-based learning?

Scenario-based learning immerses the employee in real situations they will encounter on the job. They put their newly acquired skills into practice as they face work-related challenges and receive real-time feedback while they improve, without impacting customer relationships or the company’s bottom line. The employee is actively engaged and it’s a quicker process compared to other teaching methods.

Using scenario-based training, ProcedureFlow, a cloud-based management solution, helps contact centers of all industries and sizes make experts of their employees up to 75% faster. And because it’s in the cloud, there’s no downtime to sharing updates globally, if needed.

What are the principles of scenario-based training?

It’s participatory instead of merely observational. Traditional learning methods include passively sitting through a lecture or presentation. Or clicking through a series of text-heavy slides in an E-Learning course. Or worse, paging through a paper binder that may or may not contain the latest information.

In scenario-based training, it’s up to the learner to solve a problem or troubleshoot a challenge. They’re presented with a simulated situation and offered different choices to make. The employee jumps in and gets their hands dirty by choosing the response and therefore the direction of the outcome. Learning by doing creates a familiarity with situations that an employee simply can’t get from reading a manual. If they get it wrong, they can try repeatedly, if needed.

Scenario-based learning creates a level playing field for staff, as everyone will need to reach an equal competence before completion. It’s also fast, so when things change, as they so often do, this process makes it simpler to get fresh information to employees quickly.

How is scenario-based learning used in online training?

This is where it gets creative. Scenario-based learning online can take endless forms. It can unfold in a story-telling process or integrate as part of an overall theme. It can incorporate simple images, animation, or live-action scenes on video. Adding gamification contributes to course engagement and gives the “player” a sense of achievement and ownership of the outcome.

For remote workers, scenario-based learning is essential for keeping up with new processes. An on-site manager is not available to someone working from home. Running through real-life scenarios gives the employee a type of muscle memory for when that scene replays itself on the job. It is theory put into practice. Employees grasp concepts easier when they’re executing them and recall them quickly when needed.

What are the benefits of scenario-based learning?

It’s more engaging.

With more than nine thousand lodging properties, Wyndham Hotel Group is the world’s largest hotel chain. Wyndham utilizes ProcedureFlow for scenario-based training in its contact centers, including more than seven hundred employees in St. John, New Brunswick. With about 2,000 standard operating procedures (SOPs), it’s critical that current and inexperienced staff in their contact centers get up to speed quickly and approach their work with a sense of certainty.

“It’s been a huge game-changer for us,” says Jason Peddle, Senior Director MyRequest Support, Wyndham Hotel Group. “ProcedureFlow has helped us expand our business, gain way more efficiency, and provide tools to our team members to allow them to do their job effectively with confidence. Plus, people don’t have to carry around 30 lb. binders.”

Thelma Montyr, Business Process Analyst, Wyndham Hotel Group, says scenario-based learning with ProcedureFlow simply looks better.

“You can use snips from the application, screenshots, to break up the monotony of box after box after box, to make it visually appealing,” states Montyr.

Using ProcedureFlow for training helps save clients as much as 50% onboarding time for new hires.

Amanda Menard, Director of Operations Administration for Assurant, says ProcedureFlow makes their associates experts, faster.

“ProcedureFlow helps launch processes quickly even when unanticipated changes are made on the fly during training,” adds Menard.

And scenario-based learning improves customer satisfaction by putting knowledgeable, confident staff in place. This creates a better, more consistent experience for the customer overall.

The bottom line on scenario-based learning

Whether your company wants to trade up from regular eLearning, or take a leap from paper trails and emails, scenario-based learning will expedite the onboarding process, reduce downtime, and put all employees on the same page.

Experiential learning is sticky. The employee gets over any first-time jitters in a safe environment and acquires the experience to meet the challenge with conviction when the same situation occurs on the job.

ProcedureFlow can help you incorporate scenario-based learning into your training program. Sign up for a personalized demo today.

Written by Lisa Brandt

0 notes

austennerdita2533 · 7 years

Photo

A/N: My contribution for Day 22 of A Gilmore Christmas is a Literati oneshot. Sending a big ‘ol HAPPY BIRTHDAY to the lovely Emma, @alspancakeworld. Thanks for organizing this event and for allowing me to participate! xx (Check out all the other cool stuff in the link above.)

(A03) (FFnet)

Summary: It’s late, close to Christmas, and Rory and Jess find themselves alone strolling through a decor-decked Stars Hollow to share a moment where past and present feelings collide. (Post-AYITL but no pregnancy) (Holiday Angst and Feels)

Word count: 3.1k

It’s my first attempt at Literati fic. Happy reading! :)

xx Ashlee Bree

When All Sense Breaks Loose

This one will wreck him. Oh, yeah. This one promises calamity.

Jess hears it in the cracking first. He feels it in the thawing of his bones the moment he reaches out to catch the edge of a snowflake with his thumb and swipes it off her cheek, his thoughts splitting into chaos because ‘over…long over’ is what they’re supposed to be. And they were. They are.

But then she steps close enough to shoulder-bump him, her head tilted, her eyes shining up at him with a mixture of alcohol, gaiety, and anticipation as they head back to the house so they can drink coffee and gorge on some of Sookie’s gourmet sugar cookies; and soon, all of those unspoken words he swore he’d deleted years ago when they were still a couple of twenty-something kids up to their waists in missed chances, spill out into the margins of his mind in ink too permanent to miss. The words fall out all tangled together like carefully embedded prose to expose dusty questions that had apparently never settled like he’d intended.

(Or more like he’d damn-well hoped.)

He smells it in the crispness of the air second.

Clumsy as ever, Rory folds her fingers into the crook of his elbow in a clinging effort to keep herself steady after her foot slides backward on a slippery patch of sidewalk near Miss Patty’s dance studio. Her hands curl into the lapels of his jacket. They fly around his neck within seconds next, desperate for somewhere soft and sturdy to land, and his lungs betray him with one measly hitch of breath. Backstabbing bastard lungs, they are, too. Freezing at her touch like it’s the first time. Sending fresh trembles along his shoulders, then down the columns of his spine.

“This feels like a scene straight out of While You Were Sleeping,” she laughs.

Her tone’s full of self-mockery and ridicule, but she doesn’t seem bothered by her impromptu ice skating or her near-toppling into his arms at all, which Jess finds curious.

“But as long as you don’t rip your pants up the ass,” she continues, “we should be okay the rest of the way. At least—well, would you say you’re more Blades of Glory or Wayne Gretzky?”

“Charlie Conway, probably.” When she stares at him blankly, he flicks her side with his index finger and says, “From the Mighty Ducks?”

“Oooh, lucky me! I mean, had you said Gordon Bombay, I’m afraid I’d have to contend with your weak and wobbling hockey knees,” Rory says in a way that denotes both her relief and her amusement.

“In that case, we’d both be screwed.”

“Right, so no ripped jeans or ice-kissed butts for you. Got it, mister.” Just to be safe, however, she links her arm through his anyway. She leans against him for warmth or for support (or for who the hell knows what else), as they recommence their stroll through Stars Hollow.

They somehow manage to take the long and slow route home. She doesn’t seem to mind, though, so why should he? And even though Jess knows he shouldn’t, he breathes in the lavender soap of her skin and allows himself to remember how well she’s always fit against his side. How right she’s always felt. Like the home he’d never had with Liz…or with any other woman he’s dated since Rory.

He thinks of sleigh rides, of a stolen teenage kiss or two behind Gypsy’s Auto Repair; he thinks of quiet nights in, of cuddling and movie bingeing, of Indian chicken curry which stunk up the whole of his uncle’s apartment, of talking Faulkner, Hemingway, and Bukowski with little to no regard for time. He remembers how certain of her, and of them, he’d once been.

I know you. I know you better than anyone.

The reflection hurts. It chafes him worse than frostbite to know he’ll probably always be the one who understands her best.

But what does it matter? What good does it do to reflect on those chapped patches of his past? How does it help to contemplate his screwed-up life? Why wonder and wish? Why—why in hell should he waste any more time on unfulfilling idioms like ‘if?’

(Except he does.)

Jess sees it in the pine trees third, their boughs bent and threatening to break because they carry too much weight. They hold too many frozen dreams that’ll hit the ground soon but won’t melt. They’ll try, sure, but they’ll never seem to fade away despite the passing of countless springs. They can’t—it’d be too dry without their existence afterwards, too unburdening.

Because you didn’t say goodbye.

I deserve better than this.

You, me…you know we’re supposed to be together.

I knew, I knew it the first time I saw you.

How many years has it been, huh? Ten? Fifteen? Fifteen years he’s spent trying to thaw these thoughts inside of him, acting like she hasn’t creeped through his mind when his world grew too hollow or too full; and that's either too many to count on fingers, or too much time for him to try and pretend otherwise. It’s asinine to deceive himself. A waste of good lies.

I knew, I knew, I knew…

The ringing in his mind won’t stop.

It plays in the background like static because he still discerns that dangerous load of thoughts in his periphery—all of those old moments of theirs which promised continuity and evolution and ‘I love you’s’ which didn’t need saying; that hand of hers which never felt too heavy in his and would never be anything but a pleasure to hold—to thread his fingers through for no reason—to raise to his mouth so he could learn the paths of her palms, her wrists, her knuckles, all of her sweet, soft skin, with his lips over and over again—and he doesn’t want to let the perilousness of hope to overwhelm him. He doesn’t want to blink. He doesn’t want to close his eyes. Don’t think, don’t think! He doesn’t want to find himself blinded or paralyzed by dreams he’s no longer supposed to be dreaming.

But they can’t be stopped. They unravel and unwind. They…they keep on coming regardless of the iron walls he raises and reinforces inside his own head to ward against the intrusion.

It’s draining, this looped thinking.

He can’t win. He can’t break free. So why, he wonders, why the hell does he try? It’s exhausting and pointless and awful and unbearable. His head is the cruelest place to be.

Yeah, it’s crueler than anything.

It’s a few hours past midnight now, and despite having closed out the only bar in town with scotch, candlelight, and conversation a good half hour ago, they still loiter beneath the snowcapped Christmas lights in front of Luke’s with nothing but snow and old memories for company. Rory’s resplendent in her double-breasted peacoat, her mouth clicking off new words and subjects as fast as fingers on a keyboard. There’s a bounce in her knees at the moment which he swears she reserves only for donut sightings, new book releases, Lorelai and coffee, so he’s at a loss when she drags him under the awning below where it says Williams Hardware and presses her face into the window like she’s investigating something. Or like she’s looking for someone’s dropped holiday crumbs.

The diner’s black inside, however; the sign flipped to show it’s closed. And it probably has been for some hours now. Undeterred, however, she turns around to flash him a knowing grin—a hint of intrigue dimpling the edges around her cracked lips, “Of all the java joints, in all the towns, it hangs from mine! Can you believe it?” she says with an exhilarated ‘eeee.’

“Believe what?”

“Look up.”

Jess inclines his head. He feasts his eyes on the object of interest which dangles above him like the universe’s next big test. (Or trick, depending on how this conversation ends.)

“Huh. That’s new,” he muses.

“It’s not only new, my friend, but legendary,” Rory says as her tongue slides cheekily across her lower teeth. “And I mean that in the sense that this so unbelievable, I’m convinced the Doctor plopped down in his T.A.R.D.I.S. and threw us into some kind of warped alternative reality where Luke spends his free holiday hours stringing popcorn and disappearing down chimneys.”

He acts like he’s not hanging on by her scarf strings.

“So, uh…” he clears his throat, gulping down that familiar flutter he’s been trying to subdue all night, “what now?”

“I’d say we have a conundrum, Watson.”

“We sure do, Sherlock.”

The ghost of their past love, which is not dead yet, follows close behind this remark to rustle the nerves of his heart like a skeleton because she’s all doe-eyed and lively, flirty without trying, and not to mention cute as hell. It makes Jess clench his fists as he struggles to get a fucking grip. Making him feel things he thought he’d taught himself how to forget.

How many times can this happen? How many goddamn ways to Sunday can he be kicked in the gut? It won’t do anymore, alright? Not when he’s taken the trouble to grow this thick, mature leather skin.

(Except he knows it’s too late. He already knows…)

He’s back where he started again.

He’s back at the threshold of seventeen where he first spotted that ellipsis carved into the corners of her mouth on the night they first met, standing in her bedroom doorway like a thief, coveting her literature because he knew with a glance that this girl was sentences and paragraphs. He knew she was pages and chapters and books which were yet to be understood in some overarching theme he wouldn’t be able name. He knew she was a still-developing story he’d need to read through to the conclusion.

I knew. I knew the first time I saw you.

That same ellipsis is back in Rory's features tonight, in this moment. Or maybe it’s always been there? Maybe it’s never disappeared, never gone away?

She wears it like a bookmark: pressed between every curve and contour, written between every beautiful line of her face. It’s the same one asking him to turn over to the next page right now…and follow again.

He senses it in the forgotten silence fourth.

“Luke would be furious if he knew,” Rory says with a flick of her forefinger.

“Maybe he already does? Lorelai has wife sway these days. I’m sure she works that to her advantage,” Jess replies with a snicker.

The December air has reddened her nose and there’s snow stuck to her pant leg, but she seems impervious to the cold of her beloved Stars Hollow.

“Mom would revel in how you’ve bestowed her with all the credit for this, but no,” she shakes her head, obviously amused. “No, Luke’s compliance with town tradition would make Taylor too gleeful.”

Pensive, Jess nods. He rolls up the sleeves of his brown coat.

“Let’s take it down then.”

“What!?” Her eyes widen, horrified.“No! Wait, wait!”

Part diverted, part bemused, he pauses to quirk an eyebrow at her, “What for? Petal will eat it. There’s not a garbage dropping in all of Connecticut that pig hasn’t devoured like it’s creme brulle,” he offers reassuringly.

“Yeah, but…that’s not what I—”

“He’s become the Tiny oinking Tim of this crazy town, anyway. Except with tender hooves instead of crutched feet.”

“And Kirk.”

“Yeah, and Kirk,” Jess concedes wryly.

“Hold on,” Rory interjects in a bolder tone. “Let’s stop think about this for a second. If we do this,” she exhales, her blue-knit mittens raised in supplication and her bottom lip sucked between her teeth, “if we do it, then we forfeit the chance to witness a ranting, raving Luke throwing candy canes all over the floor of the Soda Shoppe tomorrow.”

“Imagine the entertainment potential with me here, Kimmel.” She sweeps her arms out for dramatic effect, zooming in at him with her hands like a camera. “It’d be like Jingle All the Way meets Stars Wars.”

“With Taylor as what? A crowd-flung Booster? Chewbacca?”

Rory nods enthusiastically, “There’d be heavy Wookie wailing and all.”

Jess’ lips twitch as he considers this. Then he shrugs. “Nothing we haven’t seen a million times before.”

“No! But…but…this year he’s selling candy cane light sabers that glow as red as Kylo’s tantrums!” she says in ta-da; as if, somehow, this information will confuse him enough to halt his next maneuver.

“Where’s Han Solo when you need him to smuggle you some good marketing?” Jess cringes. “Geez.”

“Still stabbed through the chest somewhere, unfortunately. Besides,” Rory adds with a wave of her hand, “I doubt the Force is strong enough to fix Taylor’s strange slogans.”

“You said it, Skywalker, not me.”

He reaches up then, still shaking his head, to curl his hand around the decoration’s sparkly red bow. Finding the hook, he threatens to yank it to the ground with a good tug or two despite the punches Rory pounds into his arm in playful protest. Smirking, he lifts it further out of her reach. She narrows her eyes in warning.

“Don’t even think about it, Mariano!” she exclaims as she lunges over his shoulder amid a peal of laughter. Attempting to grab it from him, she jumps up-and-down like a pogo stick. “Oh my God, don’t you dare deprive me of the possibility of Luke going all Vader in the middle of Taylor’s SantaLand tomorrow!”

“Cool your over-caffeinated bouncin’ there, Easter bunny,” Jess laughs. He twines the slack of her scarf around her head to slow her down. “What if I said I plan to leave a festive chalkperson in its stead? Would that be an acceptable substitute, d’you think?”

Lowering his hand, he allows the ball to swing, unencumbered, above them like an ornament. Rory pulls back to unloosen her scarf, her face flushed and her mood jovial. “Only if you draw Santa Claus,” she says.

He wrinkles his nose, “Nah, I was thinking more like Dickens’ Christmas ghosts. This town needs a good haunting.”

“Whatever you say, Scrooge.”

“Excuse me, but the name’s Dodger to you.”

“As if I could forget,” she says with a wistful chuckle, averting her gaze.

Moments like these always feel so easy and natural and inevitable between them. Like laughter, or…breathing.

“Putting the whole Dennis the Menace scheme aside for a second,” Rory looks down and crunches salt and snow beneath her boots, “I was thinking…”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe we could—oh, I don’t know…”

When she stops mid-thought to click the heels of her boots together and shift her body to the side, fumbling with her mittens, he prods. “What?”

“We could…we could, um, let it stay there, couldn’t we? It’s not bothering anyone up there, and Luke’s inflammatory reaction whenever he sees it tomorrow will be nothing short of Oscar-worthy and, well,” Rory adds in a languid but rambling tone which is a little reminiscent of her timorous teenage self, “it wouldn’t be illegal if two people found themselves under it or anything.”

“You mean, like…” Jess swallows. His voice comes out husky, like it’s comprised of strangled consonants and vowels, and it makes the words quiver when they breach his lips to meet the air. He hates the sound. “Kind of, uh,” he falters a second time; scratches his chin, “kind of like we are now?”

Shrugging ‘yeah’ in a nonchalant way, but still fidgeting more than normal by bouncing on her toes, Rory angles toward him with warm but wary eyes that size him up as if they’re still trying to decide something, “I mean, don’t you think some traditions can be nice?” she asks timidly.

“No.”

“No?”

“I don’t know.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. He rocks side-to-side as if he’s trying to circulate warmth to his limbs, but really, he’s avoiding her eyes. “Maybe,” he amends.

“So, certain ones can be okay then?” Rory asks with a tilt of her head.

“Depends, I guess.”

There’s a slight edge to her expression when she looks at him here: something that’s equal parts adorable, nervous, tenacious, and bashful. It’s a look that reaches out with a hand that shivers whenever she scoots forward to huddle between his feet, her fingers trembling against his shirt, above his heart. She shivers hard.

“Would you be scandalized if I told you I liked this tradition?” she asks.

“No,” Jess breathes. “Not really.”

“After all,” Rory whispers, her blue eyes warm and eager as she wraps her arms around his neck and presses her forehead against his, leaning in with calamity curved into her smile, “what’s the harm in you and me beneath some mistletoe at least once in our lives?”

“I’ll quote the Beach Boys here and say—” Cupping her face in his hand, drawing her against him, he surrenders to that awaiting gift like he would delicious poison, “God only knows.”

Jess tastes it on her parting and pliant lips last. Her tongue slides in and tells him everything he needs to know because this part—the kissing, that zipping and tingling chemistry which adrenalizes every nerve in his body the moment their mouths collide—is the one thing that’s worked flawlessly between them since the start. And it still does.

The connection between them is still there, still flourishing.

It’s more alive in this moment than it was fifteen years ago, and it’s sharpening into something denser and deeper. It’s precarious at best; irrational to the core. It’s becoming a fact as inevitable and as irrevocable and as fucking evident as black letters on a pure white page, and Jess knows there’s not a single damn thing he can do to prevent his mind from writing it down in literal easy-to-read lines. No margins this time. He knows he can’t stop the rush of past, present, and future from merging inside his pounding chest, from rustling those old feelings he’s tried (and failed) to claw from his heart like weeds.

This is it. There’s no subduing or denying. As F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, this is ‘the beginning and ending of everything.’

Calamity hangs above his head with the mistletoe then falls like the December flakes around them as Rory kisses him long and hot and sweet. Wrecking him with the knowledge that he could—yeah, he could fall in love with her again all too easily.

#gilmore girls #agilmorechristmas #literati #literati fanfiction #rory and jess #it all comes out in babbling moron #ashlee bree's writing endeavors

42 notes · View notes

clarencenicholsonata · 4 years

Text

5 Effortless Tips to Get on the First Page of Google

If you want to learn how to get on the first page of Google, you do need to invest a lot of time. The main obstacle is that the first page is almost always crowded by giants unless you’re searching for local results. But how did they reach the first page?

Most of the giants on the first page of Google have existed for a very long time. For example, if you search “hosting” on Google, you’ll see HostGator and a few other long-existing companies. But HostGator has been online since 2002, just 4 years after Google was founded.

That means they’ve caught the start of a trend, and you can’t really compete with that. But there are other ways to reach the first page of Google. It’s very likely that you shouldn’t use one-word keywords though.

This article will tell you how to get on the first page of Google. But first, let’s get your website indexed by Google. This process is necessary to get your website to appear in Google search results.

How to get Google to index your website?

Once your website is online, Google will automatically try to index your site. The problem comes when Google doesn’t index it for a while, that’s when you know something is blocking their crawler.

Firstly, be sure to register your website with the Google Search Console. It will help you see how your website performs on Google and will notify you of any issues that prevent it from appearing in search results.

The most common thing is the robots.txt file. You need to have this file in order for GoogleBot to determine where it’s allowed to access and where it isn’t. Here’s a snippet that you can copy for basically any WordPress site.

Rule 1

User-agent: Googlebot Disallow: /wp-admin

Rule 2

User-agent: * Allow: /

This will not allow the GoogleBot to access your admin panel, because that doesn’t need to get indexed.

Also, you need a sitemap that you submit to Google. This would help the GoogleBot navigate your website until all the pages are indexed properly.

If you’re using WordPress there are plugins that will generate a sitemap for you. But if it’s a static website, there are services like XML Sitemaps that will generate one for you.

1. Have a Blazing-Fast Website

Google adores blazing-fast websites. This is because fast websites provide a better user experience for the people that use Google search.

Also, a blazing-fast website will decrease your bounce rate and by decreasing your bounce rate, your SEO scores will increase.

One of Google’s main ranking factors is website speed. This is more important for mobile devices, as they’re sometimes limited by processing power and internet speed.

But even if it isn’t, you should still have a blazing-fast website. The bounce chance increases drastically with every second the website takes to load.

The higher your bounce rate is, the worse it is for SEO.

The first thing you need to consider is your hosting. Hosting your website with an amazing hosting provider that’s fast and stable will play a huge role in your SEO scores.

Fast hosting is the first measure you need to take in order to have a blazing fast website. If you’re using a website builder, you must choose a reliable partner because it also plays an important role in your business.

But it’s not just the hosting. If you’re using a WordPress theme, I’ve found that it’s good to test the demo websites in Google’s PageSpeed test. That way, you’ll be sure you’re getting an optimized theme.

When learning how to get on the first page of Google, it’s important to know that having a slow website means you’ll never reach the first page. But having a fast website just means you have a chance of being on the first page.

Also, speed is closely related to multimedia content.

How? you may ask. Well, if you use high-resolution images (or videos) in your website it will consume a lot of bandwidth from the hosting service and the page will load slowly.

You can test your website loading speed with Google PageSpeed Insights. If you have plugins on your pages, be sure to have them up to date along with the content management system you use.

2. Create a Keyword Strategy

Learning how to get on the first page of Google starts with a keyword strategy.

A keyword strategy is basically a list of keywords you’re gonna be targeting through your blog posts, ads or something else.

Find the best keywords

By using a keyword research tool, you can pinpoint which keywords can yield the best results. There are many of these tools available: Google Trends, SemRush, WordTracker, and more.

Essentially, what you want to do is find keywords that have a nice volume of searches, but aren’t too competitive.

For example, let’s say you’re trying to get people to buy domain names from you. Here’s what would be a good volume to competition ratio.

Once you find optimal keywords for your website, start adding them everywhere on your website. That includes pages, posts, products (if you have them) and basically everything else that appears as a different page on your website.

As long as it’s natural and not overly forced, it will greatly improve your SEO ratings and help you rank higher on Google.

Target Long-Tail Keywords

Along with your keyword strategy, implement this to get on the first page faster. Long-tail keywords are made of 3-4 words and target very specific searches.

These are especially handy for ranking high locally. For example, let’s say you do digital marketing.

The most competitive keyword is most likely “digital marketing”, but if you add a city to that, it is much more specific. “Portland digital marketing” will be much less competitive.

You can add another word to it to make it even more specific “Portland digital marketing agency. Will that bring in more customers?

Yes, of course. If you only target “digital marketing”, you will most likely never reach the first page of Google. It’s a much more competitive search term.

You might think – But aren’t there much fewer people searching for long-tail keywords?

Yes, that’s true. But a more specific keyword increases the chance of a user clicking on the link. That’s because when people use long keywords, it means they’re looking for something specific.

3. Write Superb Content

Content is the most important part of a website and as much as it is SEO optimized, if it is not relevant for the users when they search, it will never appear in the top positions.

You need to write engaging content. Make use of real-life examples, comparisons and use a simple language.

Check your grammar and use tools (like Grammarly for example), to help you with that.

Write around a specific topic and don’t overuse keywords. Structure your content in a way Google will understand it too, for example, use

tags to separate the important parts, and nest with

tags for subtitles.

Avoid copy-pasting at all costs!. Google penalizes duplicate content (with, or without intent), so make sure that your content is original and unique.

You can quote small parts of other articles but be sure to refer to it with a no-follow link or mention the source.

Also, make sure to allow your visitors to share the content in their social networks, in that way it can even become viral and help you get many more visitors.

4. Optimize, Optimize, Optimize!

It’s all about optimizing your website for the best SEO possible.

You might think that this tip doesn’t help you learn how to get on the first page of Google, but it’s crucial to your success. Let’s see some tips on website optimization for SEO.

Structure Your Website

If the structure of a website is too deep Google will find it more difficult to reach and index all pages. This is because the Google crawler bot has a limited time to track the website.

So it is recommended that the structure isn’t more than 3 levels deep.

Also, John Mueller, from Google, told in a hangout that pyramid structured websites work if the content is related to each other and links are relevant.

If your content appears only in the sitemap and you cannot reach it from page to page then it is useless and Google will not index it.

Focus on Your Users

Remember that the website is not entirely about you or your business, it is also about the experience you offer to your visitors (users).

Google works hard on trying to understand the content of the website to offer intelligent responses to search queries.

So, visitors need to have access to quality content in an effective way. For example, write about what your visitors should expect using simple language and clear explanations.

Don’t fill the website with links, avoid heavily populated menus and use short paragraphs.

Google tries to think like a visitor when indexing pages, so make your website focusing on them.

5. Create backlinks to your website

Links are the backbone of the internet. Hyperlinks (that’s the full name) allows websites to bond to each other.

This way visitors can reach content from one website and keep reading in another one if the link is relevant to them.

Hyperlinks from a website (the referer) to another website (the referral) is called a backlink. When a resource (website or webpage) gets backlinked by a lot of other websites, the authority of the owner of the resource rises and it is highly possible that Google will rank this content higher on their search engine.

The most popular way to do backlinking is to do guest blogging. It’s a process where you post on another blog, usually in the same industry, and add a link to your website in that blog post.

Google counts the number of pages that link back to your page, and that’s why guest blogging has become so popular lately.

You should monitor the backlinks and make sure all of them are linked from reputable websites. Google has webmaster tools that will allow you to monitor a lot of things about the SEO on your website.

Bad inbound traffic can damage your search engine reputation, but webmaster tools will let you monitor and prevent this.

Always remember to keep your backlinks on check, Google offers ways to clean a bad backlink profile.

Ultimately, Google’s WebMaster tools will show you how to rank higher on Google.

Ranking High Requires Time and Skill

An amazing SEO strategy can get you ranked high on Google in no time. Of course, if you’re using very competitive keywords it’ll be a long time before you’re on the first page.

Industry leaders have been publishing content for dozens of years before you. That means that it’s nearly impossible to compete with them.

That’s why it’s much better to target long-tail keywords that are a bit more specific to your business.

Be sure to utilize every tool that can show you how to rank higher on Google. Google’s WebMaster tools are the first that come to mind.

Additionally, you can pay for keyword traffic to your website and it might help in increasing your SEO ranking. But in most cases, this will not result in huge traffic.

Most of the time, the organic traffic that’s coming through keywords is much bigger than PPC traffic.

About the Author

Vivian is fond of writing and has been involved in the content marketing industry since 2011. She specializes in web hosting & website builder niches.

from RSSMix.com Mix ID 8230801 https://ift.tt/34prbLE via IFTTT

#IFTTT #RSSMix.com Mix ID 8230801

0 notes

a-patheticapathetic · 4 years

Text

Nine Inch Nails/Yaggenhimen - The Downward Spiral: Review

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3bY3GGfqp7g

Alright, I think I’ve had enough time to reflect on this album. Time to do a review. And not just one review; I want to go over the original album, as well as an incredibly impressive full cover done almost entirely by one person. Linked above is the cover version. I assume that you can find the official version yourself. I recommend that you get a version with no gaps in between songs, nor risk of ads playing and breaking the flow.

Before you listen to either version of the album, you need to know a couple of things. This album is incredibly dark in both tone and sound. It is at times abrasive, angry, and totally devoid of hope. Depression and suicide are the main themes of the album. If you don’t think you can handle this, don’t risk hurting yourself. If you think the actual sound of this album will be too harsh for your tastes I would recommend listening to these songs, in this order: Closer, Heresy, Reptile, and March Of The Pigs. If the things you heard interested you and did not hurt your ears too badly, you can probably make it through the whole album.

I’ll be reviewing these albums in two parts: First, I’ll go though the NIN version like usual. After that, I’ll go through the Yaggenhimen, but instead of stream-of-consciousness writing, I’ll note down the differences and decide whether the cover is better, worse, or somewhere in between.

Alright. For those who are ready, let’s begin.

(Also, fair warning: The loudest and most abrupt this album gets is at the very beginning and the very end. I’ll put a warning before the last song and tell you exactly where it happens.)

Mr. Self Destruct - 7/10

We begin the album with a looped audio clip of a man being beaten, taken from the movie THX 1138. Fairly fitting, given the journey ahead. Immediately following this is the second-most violent noise on the album, and the start of the song proper. I still can’t tell how much of this is physical instrumentation and how much is synthetic. Things go about as you’d expect up until the end of the second chorus. At this point the volume plummets in an instant, and the strange and eerie noises buried in the background hint at the subtlety NIN is hiding underneath all the violence. Trent is also showing off some serious vocal talent here, managing to sing quietly but still maintaining that feeling of insurmountable rage. When the anger comes back, it does so with more graduality. Listen to how the response vocals (”and I control you”) are distorted; they’re barely even recognizable. As the chorus repeats, a layer of static slowly rises, eventually all but drowning out the rest of the song. This too drops in an instant into the outro, a strange and unintelligible spaghetti loop of distorted guitars. This goes on for a bit, before cutting to the next song.

Piggy - 8/10

After a pronounced sigh, hey pig. The silence of this song relative to the cacophony of the previous is almost shocking. It also gives us more time to bask in all these little samples hidden in the background. The production on this album, despite how dirty it sounds, is unbelievably meticulous. Listen to the drums now; they’re about to change. After chorus 2, a pause, then a second, much louder drum track comes in. This is a solo performed by Trent himself. While it shows mercy at first, it quickly devolves into tempos and random beatings that have little rhyme or reason. And as the mantra “nothing can stop me now” is repeated, a gentle synth line begins, way up high in the background. This is the first appearance of the Downward Spiral motif. Pay attention moving forward; it will appear several times over the course of the album. Lay back as everything but the motif fades away. The spiral has begun; now, down is the only way to continue.

Heresy - 7/10

Instantly we’re hit with a wave of 80s synth, then a punishing programmed drum beat. Trent’s recorded double vocals here; one for each ear, and neither is quite right. More noises appear and we hit the chorus; while it may seem edgy today, this was released in the mid-90s. It drove conservatives absolutely insane because back then not many people were saying things like this so unabashedly. Also, while it’s hard to hear, the rhythm guitars are playing the motif during the chorus. There’s also a sample of a cheering crowd during the solo. Still not sure if it’s a guitar solo or a synth, or something in between. As the last chorus comes around and another, more distorted Trent comes out from beneath the mix, the synths give up and make way for the distorted guitars.

March of the Pigs - 9/10

The beat here is the fastest NIN have ever written, and it fits the panicked mood of this song. This is made clear when the rest of the instruments suddenly jump in, and the screaming crowd is back in full force. Trent is basically just yelling commands through a megaphone here, and there are also stranger voices creeping in the prechorus, seemingly talking about him in the third person. This all then fades as we approach the chorus. The distortion echoes and recedes, giving way to a sinister synth bassline. Then, the chorus. All the pigs are all lined up. And then...

Yeah, it was pretty clear that wasn’t going to last. This time, there is no mercy; the song kicks back with full force, and repeats in the same way through to the chorus. This time, the piano stays for the ride. Somehow this is even more threatening than the loudness of the rest of the song.

Closer - 9/10

The one everyone knows. This iconic drumline is actually sampled from Iggy Pop. The introduction of the vocals and synthbass essentially turn this song into the dictionary definition of sex. Then the chorus, which for better or worse, everyone can sing along to. It’s after this that things begin to get really interesting. A strange, ominous, distorted string line floats just out of reach for the next verse, and Trent’s delivery gets much more desperate than sexy. The next chorus is the same as the first, but the bridge is notably more barren and atmospheric. A heavily distorted guitar line slowly wades in, then vanishes as the final vocals come in. Trent is buried deep in the mix and devoid of emotion, and is essentially delivering prose rather than singing. Afterwards things begin to build up, with more aggressive synths, guitars and drums adding in. Then, the motif appears again, calling out like a hellish chorus line before everything else drops away. The motif is now more like a single string, high up in the sky, under so much tension that the slightest touch could break it. An odd wind spins around your ears as we cleanly transition into the next song.

Ruiner - 8/10

As the last note rings out, we get one of the coolest drumlines on the album combined with some strange, ghostly samples. A quick synth accompanies Trent on the verse, and distortion joins him in the more angry pre-chorus. Then, we get a great wall of shredded synth, almost like the devil’s brass section. Trent is almost muttering here in contrast to the noise around him, but he’s crystal clear above it. The verse and prechorus after are slightly more unkempt, leading into the last chorus. Here Trent has lost his composure and is now shouting along with the world around him. Both he and the song then trail off into a calm bassline and crying synthetic wind. And then... an honest-to-god guitar solo. A pretty fucking good one too, with a very nice bluesy distortion filter. At the end it ramps up into the outro section, a marching drumline, driving bassline, and open synth. As the ending mantra begins, the wall of hell trumpets return. This repeats several times, with Trent getting cut off at the end.

The Becoming - 6/10

Sharp samples are used in this intro as percussion over a menacing piano line. These are replaced with straight synth as some very punchy drums come in. Also, the screaming. That’s gonna be happening for a while. By this point in the album the noises are getting more industrial, as noted by the percussion. We continue in this discomfort through a couple verses and choruses, until the screaming and drums are replaced with a nice little acoustic guitar and strange warped noises that may at one point have been human. This doesn’t last too long until we’re dropped back into the song proper with a nasty distorted synth solo. Then this song’s mantra begins, and it’s not the most uplifting thing either. Which gets even worse when the vocals are suddenly pitch-shifted super high up, almost making a mockery of the message. Then, of course, we end the song by going back to the nice acoustic chords, although some heavily mutated noises are still flailing around. This fades into the clicking beat of the next song.

I Do Not Want This - 6/10

The true beat replaces the clicking heard in the last song, and a somber piano line plays while Trent sings. The verse-prechorus here is much more restrained than we’ve heard for most of this album. Then, after a refrain, the NIN we know comes back. Through the next cycle the drums begin to get more intense. The drop here keeps hitting us with the drumline before we get a “solo” that’s pretty much just distortion beyond the point of instrumentation. Makes some pretty cool noises though. Then, through the remains of that, another mantra crawls out. Increasing in volume with each repetition, a guitar joins in as Trent’s voice gets more and more distorted. Then, the most controversial song.

Big Man With A Gun - 6/10

Right off the bat we’ve got the most unsettling sample over a gunshot drumline. Huge chorded waves of distorted synth come in as Trent gets louder and more violent. Everything starts going off the shit end, and

A Warm Place - 7/10

No, your album didn’t break. That’s actually the transition. Amazing. Here we have the calmest song Trent had anything to do with in the 1990s. There are no lyrics here to analyze; just close your eyes and float away. You’ve reached the eye of the storm.

Eraser - 9/10

This is the point in the album that makes it a masterpiece. This song. The build and pacing here is absolutely impeccable. I hope you enjoyed the respite of the previous song because we are now reaching for the bottom of the spiral. There is no peace to be found here. Need you. Dream you. Find you. Taste you. Fuck you. Use you. Scar you. Break you.

Reptile - 7/10

Here is where NIN puts the “industrial” in industrial metal. Half of this song is basically just machinery to music, especially the percussion. The main message the sound of this song gives off is dread. Dread in musical form. Something terrible is ahead, and behind, and around. Trent’s voice is the only human or recognizable thing left in this soundscape, and even he is becoming robotic. It’s like wandering a mid-fallout wasteland at sundown, with no knowledge of what may come out at night. The bridge here is a cruel joke. A sample of what sounds to be a girl in distress, and the hint of a calming piano, snatched away. This is essentially the sound of the last act of Spec Ops: The Line. At the last repetition of the chorus, another version of Trent can be heard screaming from behind a wall, before...

The Downward Spiral - 9/10

Here we are. This is the end of the spiral. Over a weeping machine and the buzzing of flies we hear the motif, one last time, on an old acoustic guitar. Then some oddly warbled chords come in. After that, we reach the bottom.

Okay. This is your warning. At the end of this next song, the last song, is a jumpscare that turned me away from NIN and all of their works for several years. It comes at the final verse, on the final line. The lines before it are, “If I could start again / A million miles away / I would keep myself...”. Then, exactly at the start of the next line, a sound that was engineered to be the scariest sound on the album plays at the highest volume they could reasonably push. Fortunately the rhythm is consistent and it’s relatively easy to predict when the noise will happen. Hopefully I can lessen the shock for those that continue on. I’d still recommend you turn your volume down at the line “If I could start again”, if not before even starting the song.

Hurt - 7/10

This is what lies beyond the spiral. A song you may know by a different artist. While it may seem calm on the surface, it is designed to prevent true peace. The sound echoes between each ear at the verses, almost as if it’s spinning very rapidly around you. The chords sound wrong, somehow. This is much more apparent in chorus 2, as they seem to whine like insects. Then, the ending. Brace for impact, everyone.

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

Alright. It’s quite a bit later than I expected and this has taken a lot longer than I thought it would. Still, I don’t want to stop for the night and give myself any more opportunity to procrastinate. Let’s finish this now.

Yaggenhimen (BassistBob) Cover Review:

Destruct: +,-

He actually didn’t copy that intro from NIN: He took the same sample and remade it himself, in the same way Trent did. The verse/chorus here is actually WAY different from the original and I think it sounds cool as hell. It’s much more subdued instead of in-your-face, and feels more threatening and insidious as a result. Great work there. The bridge is a very good recreation of the eeriness of the original. After this point it falls flat a bit. He just doesn’t have quite the edge Trent does in the buildup. Also, the distortion wave at the ending is missing, and the guitar loop doesn’t sound as demented. Still I’d love a version of this song that’s the Yaggenhimen version at the beginning, and switching to the NIN version at the bridge.

Pig: ~,-

Very nice work here. There’s some good spooky sampling going on in verse 2. Before that, it’s close to equal to the album version. However, the drum solo kinda loses here. It’s nowhere near as loud and overpowering as the original. Although, he adds a distortion effect to his voice near the end that I think adds a nice bit of foreshadowing. The use of a guitar for the motif at the end is cool.

Heresy: ~~

A really cool rendition of the synths here as what appear to be sampled acoustic guitars. The recreation of the percussion is also top-notch. The break is more minimalist, which really allows the bassline to shine. I do wonder how he got that sound; it sounds sick as hell and apparently came from a plastic flute, of all things.

March: -

Unfortunately, this one doesn’t go so well. Bob’s voice just can’t measure up to the edge required to match Trent’s delivery. The choice to switch the piano in the break to acoustic guitar is interesting, but it really doesn’t have the same effect. The piano in the original is essential in making that drastic shift from NIN violence to safe, contemporary pop song. Nice harmonics at the end though.

Close: =

I mean, it’s just Closer. He almost perfectly and exactly matched the NIN version in every way. It’s absolutely incredible. From the same Iggy Pop sample all the way to the blank tape noise. Every detail is remade.

You know, it’s kind of a shame how this song has come to be known. Even though the chorus is pretty infamous, it’s for the wrong reason. This isn’t meant to be a “sexy” song. When you listen to the lyrics, it’s about the use of depravity to try and fill a soul. But then again, if you didn’t want the song to be sexy Trent, you probably shouldn’t have made the sexiest fucking drum/bassline in the history of music. Anyways.

Ruin: ~

Interesting that he chose to close the transition after Closer. In any case, the synth is a very good recreation, and as are the drums. Verse vocals aren’t quite there unfortunately. Apparently, the hell-brass in the chorus here are actually fucking harmonicas. I admit, they sound a little cheesier, but I can’t knock the man for having the balls to use a goddamn distorted harmonica. The solo is just as dirty as the original, despite apparently being played on an acoustic! Very nicely done. The outro percussion also sounds very grimy.

Become: ~+~

There is some SHIT going on in this version. At the start it sounds kinda silly because the acoustic used for the intro sounds almost like MIDI, but then the screaming starts. This is WAY more fucked up than the NIN version, it sounds like someone poked a microphone into hell and grabbed some samples. There’s one “NOOOOOOOO” that’s just a bit over the top though. The samples used during the acoustic breaks are also very interesting. At the end of each measure, it sounds like a couple of people are just kinda cheering, but in an insane, cannibalistic way. Also the distortion on the ending mantra is much more drastic than the NIN version and I think it works really well.

Want: ~,-,~

The switch from piano to acoustic guitar here works a lot better than it did in March of the Pigs. It feels just as natural as the original. The vocals and distortion during the chorus aren’t nearly as abrasive as the original though, and I think that works to Yaggenhimen’s detriment here. Though I was never a huge fan of this song in the first place; while I think Heresy doesn’t deserve judgement for the aging of the message, this song’s theme just kinda feels overdone. The strange samples before the mantra are done nicely here.

Gun: -,~

The lack of the woman screaming sample here kinda loses some of the momentum the original had. It also spotlights the drums being programmed. Scott provides some good screams for the outro though. Nice work Scott.

Warm: ~

Solid recreation here. The choir-like “aaah”s are a great touch. It really only lacks some of the softness of the original’s production.

Erase: =,~,-

It’s hard to match up to the original, but I think Yaggenhimen really pulled it off here. The fact that he made the buzzing noises with a plastic cup is hilarious. I hope it was a red Solo cup. It is missing the distortion effect as “Kill me” is repeated though.

Reptile: =,-,~

Once again, he used the same sample Trent did for the intro here. The industrial sounds were apparently taken from Robocop but almost sound like the door sound effect from DOOM. Either way, it sounds excellent. Not sure about the sample used during the bridge though, it almost sounds like Elmo. At the end, instead of the muffled yelling from the original, he uses a strange time-distortion effect on another take of his own vocals. A really cool idea.

Spiral: -\+

This version overall sounds markedly scarier than the original. Whether that’s good or bad is probably subjective. For me personally, I like how the NIN version is much more sad than ominous, only really getting unsettling at the ending. Still, this version is very impressive.

Hurt: +

Oh yeah. A straight plus. Blasphemous it may be, I think this version is just better than the original. Hey, Johnny Cash already did it anyways. This one is somehow sadder and scarier than the original. The effect on the vocals during the chorus is such a good addition. Also, somehow the ending is even scarier than the NIN version, and even adds more meaning for me.

Overall this is just about the best cover album I have ever heard and am likely to hear, and it was done almost entirely by one guy. I hope he gets more credit for this because right now the video is only at 36,000 views and deserves so much more.

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

Okay, that’s it. I guess I’ll wrap up with my thoughts on the album as a whole.

The Downward Spiral is one of the most profound and important albums I have ever heard. It is so full of Trent’s blood, sweat, and tears that I can practically taste it. He suffered for this and that suffering is audible in ever second in this hour and 5 minutes. While I still cannot rate albums numerically, this album is undeniably a masterpiece. Thank you for those that made it to the end with me. For those who are now here at the bottom of the spiral and wish to go back, go listen to Lateralus for instructions on how to ride the spiral back up.

On a scale from “I lost my shit because of you”, to “I’m hard as fucking steel, I’ve got the power”, The Downward Spiral (predictably) gets a “Nothing can stop me now.”

#music #music reccs #music recommendation #album review #track review #nine inch nails #nin #the downward spiral #yaggenhimen

0 notes