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thana-topsy · 2 years ago

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WIP Wednesday 7/26/23

Wednesday again already!? I was tagged by @mareenavee and @kookaburra1701 who I'm pretty sure have already read snippets of this, but here you go again some more. (Oh and @skyrim-forever thank you!)

I'll try to tag people that I know aren't already getting bombarded with tags lol. So let's go @throughtrialbyfire @greyborn2 @what-with-you-dear @metallic-scaled-scarf @mongoose-bite @yesjejunus @nientedenada @moriche show me ya wips.

This is from the broader Enthir story I'm now working on, including 100% more backstory.

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Word count: 1260

Urag was a fixture of the College of Winterhold just as much as the statue of Shalidor himself. When Enthir had first arrived, newly freed from the rigid curriculum of the Imperial University, ripe with enthusiasm and fresh charisma, he’d quickly gotten himself into the old orc’s good graces. In his near fifty year tenure in academia thus far, Enthir had but one rule: always befriend the archivist.

Of course, Urag ran his Arcanaeum very differently than the stuffy bastards at the Imperial University. Differently from the University of Gwilym, for that matter. And the Synod’s archives weren’t even worth mentioning in comparison to the College of Winterhold’s vast collection, much of which (Enthir later found out) was locked away in some secret archive and put out on rotation. A large chunk of the collection—known colloquially as the Forbidden Archives—could only be accessed if you knew what you were asking for, presented a thesis and outline detailing the nature of your study, and clearly stated your reasons for needing said research materials, all stamped with the Arch-Mage’s seal of approval.

Or, bypassing all of that, one could attempt to make nice with the librarian.

“Please?” Enthir was on the tips of his toes as he leaned across the high desk, jutting out his lower lip. “I won’t even take them out of the Arcanaeum. You can hover behind me menacingly while I read, even.”

“Nope. I’m going to need to see your proposed outline,” Urag repeated, crossing his arms over his chest.

Enthir curled his lips against his teeth and narrowed his eyes. “Well, here’s the thing—I don’t exactly know how to propose anything without knowing whether or not my theory is even feasible.”

“I believe you just described a hypothesis,” Urag said, a shimmer of playfulness behind his gruff expression. “Which would be a great way to start your outline.”

Enthir smiled thinly before pushing away from the desk and spinning on his heel, expression dropping into a scowl as soon as his back was turned. He sat down at one of the long tables with an audible huff and pulled a scroll from his satchel, all while contemplating what he knew of Urag’s character thus far and the likelihood of the orc accepting a blowjob in exchange for reading material. Something told him it wouldn’t work quite as well as it had at the Synod.

He began to furiously scribble his ‘proposed outline’ with more ink on his quill than necessary, the first sentence’s letters bubbling and blending together in a physical manifestation of his petulance. Soon enough, he’d tricked himself into actually completing the task at hand, lost in his own theories. He blew across the page as he finished, reading it over while he waited for the ink to dry, before rolling it up and marching back over to Urag’s desk.

“Here,” he said, offering the proposal to Urag with a scowl.

Urag took it, unfurled the scroll, and proceeded to read the outline at a leisurely pace as Enthir drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Urag’s eyebrows slowly crept upwards as he read, his eyes darting to Enthir only once while wearing an expression that was hard to parse.

“Interesting theory,” Urag said at last, rolling the scroll back up and handing it to Enthir. “Bold, even. But it’s missing something.”

Enthir quirked a brow in silent question.

“The Arch-Mage’s seal.”

“Come on, Urag!” Enthir exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “I don’t have time for this bureaucratic bullshit!”

“This bureaucratic bullshit, as you call it, is how our collection has survived as long as it has,” Urag all but growled. “You’re a formidable scholar. That much is clear. But you’re not above the rules.”

Enthir hissed through his bared teeth. Final play, he thought, and marched around the desk. Urag managed to look surprised as Enthir rounded the corner and took a knee in front of his chair.

“What–?”

Before Urag could finish his question, Enthir was already pulling the necklace from the satchel on his belt with steady hands. The palm-sized opal charm shone with a brilliant light, almost too bright to look at directly. Enthir glanced up at Urag to find the orc’s expression slack with awe, the multicolor refraction glistening in his dark eyes.

“Where… did you get that?”

Enthir allowed himself a sly smile. “I have my connections,” he said, turning the necklace over in his palm, rolling the charm between his fingers like a captured star. “And I have a buyer, but it’s time-sensitive. And this little trinket is not something I’m going to be able to sell to just anyone. Hence the… expeditious nature of my request.”

Enthir saw Urag’s throat bob as he swallowed. “May I?” he asked quietly.

Enthir hesitated, his fingers tightening around the charm almost unconsciously. But then he smiled. “Sure.”

Urag took the opal from him with the reverence of a temple priest, turning it between his fingers as he continued to stare. He glanced back at Enthir with an expression he, once again, couldn’t quite interpret—it could have been respect, possibly even a hint of being impressed—but there was a nervous pull in the pit of Enthir’s stomach that told him that maybe he’d misjudged. That Urag would confiscate the necklace and report him to the Arch-Mage for possession of Daedric artifacts.

“You’re dealing in dangerous territory, my friend,” Urag said at last, handing the opal charm back to Enthir. “But I have good news, at least. You don’t need permission to access anything from the archives. One moment.”

Enthir watched Urag push out of his chair and walk away from the desk, disappearing around the bend of the bookshelves. He returned the shining necklace to his satchel and got to his feet, leaning back against the lower edge of the desk with crossed arms. Urag returned several minutes later holding a nondescript tome.

“Here,” he said, setting the book on the lower desk between them, hidden from any possible student that might pass by. The title read: The Knights of the Silver Rose. “Familiar with the order?”

Enthir just shook his head, leaning in close enough for their shoulders to brush as he flipped open the cover and began to skim the table of contents.

“Group of anti-daedra crusaders. The only thing that makes them stand out from any of the others we’ve gotten over the past few millennia is that they kept records on the artifacts they confiscated, as opposed to outright destroying them. This book is part history, part catalog.” He reached over to turn the page, his hand brushing against Enthir’s, dry and warm. “Here. Page one-seventy-five.”

Enthir let Urag flip to the appropriate page, glancing up at the orc’s face. He wore an expression of concentration—studiousness. Enthir felt a light fluttering beneath his ribs, stirrings of conspiratorial excitement. Not only had Urag recognized the artifact on sight, but he had known the exact book to pull for further information. An obscure one, at that.

“The Opal Charm of Meridia,” Urag said, tapping the page with a thick finger and looking to Enthir with an air of smug satisfaction. “There you have it.”

“Thanks,” Enthir muttered, unable to pull his gaze away from Urag’s face.

“Just say what you want more directly from now on,” Urag said with another smirk, eyes crinkling with amusement. “You’re not in Cyrodiil anymore.”

Enthir’s expression split into a wide smile, and he clapped a hand against Urag’s broad shoulder. “Urag, my friend, I believe you and I are going to have a very fruitful relationship.”

#topsy writes #enthir #urag gro shub #enthir/urag #kind of #kind of a meetcute?? but if they already knew each other for a little while #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #college of winterhold #tes lore #tesblr #wip wednesday

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sonicasura · 2 months ago

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‘Damnit, they can’t go a few hours without a new situation happening?’

“Botanic, Pacemaker—see if you can delay the virus internally. If not, then try to keep Optimus’ processor in tact as much as you can.” The cyber sleuth instructed the Palmon and Floramon spawned from Ratchet and Knockout respectively. “Actually, Liberty hop out of Arcee and join those two. Having an actual vaccine type there might improve the Prime’s chances.”

All three digimon nodded in affirmation, then went to work on what she instructed. Pen overheard the Autobots mention that Megatron was likely the only one who knew the cure. Unbeknownst to the cybertronians, the warlord had been hooked up to life support since Skyquake’s resurgence then subsequent death.

The cure was in his processor—his mind…

She was unsure whether the cybertronians even had a way to enter another’s processor let alone do it consciously. Looking down at her own hands, remembering what really laid beneath the avatar’s framework. Pen let out a frustrated huff as she dragged a hand across her face—dragged the goggles onto her eyes.

“Tsumemon, Bluff, Ion.” She called out in a resigned tone immediately getting her original three digimon’s attention. “Who’s up for rooting around an cybertronian warlord’s mind?”

Bluff shut his shell and let out a menacing laugh in a way he absolutely knew echoed.

The Hagurumon spun their gears in a way that was a pre-task warmup for them.

The still unnamed Tsumemon let out its excited chime.

——————————

Megatron felt a slight disturbance in the air while engaged in battle with Optimus Prime. The ruined streets of Kaon were the backdrop of their legendary clash! Energon thrummed in his veins as each blow was met by equal force from the one he once considered his brother. Unlike all the times before, the foolish Prime had none of his Autobots to tip the scales. A roar of almost laughter left the Decepticon leader after all combat was what he relished in.

He dealt a punishing blow to Optimus’ helm sending the former archivist tumbling down an incline. Megatron stalked forward with his fusion at the ready to catch the bot off guard—only for an invisible force to bring him to a take knee with the groaning of his frame.

The Decepticon hissed at the sudden attack.

“This is the whelp who took my name, then?” A low gravelly voice spoke from somewhere, possibly the perpetrator of this force. Megatron found himself further forced down as if the very direction of gravity fell upon his shoulders. “A gladiator who thinks himself an orator?”

Megatron hissed further at the working words spat at him. “Ssssshow yourself, coward!” He demanded despite being in a rather undefended position. Red optics blazed in outrage at the mockery of someone who would rather use tricks from a distance than face him!

In a flash of red, a mech closed a fist loosely around his throat in order to make him look up.

The frame of a thin yet tall mech met him—red optics just as menacing as his own. Strange almost sensor like flat plating spanned up the sides of the interloper’s helm. He sneered at the warlord in disgust. “You best watch your tone. Though I have led shed that worthless title, I am still a Prime.” His voice was even more disorientating right in Megatron’s audials. “One so disrespectful ought to know the one he has taken the name of. Don’t you, Megatronus?”

Confusion filled the former gladiator until he was suddenly attacked with the… Prime’s(?) spear. A simple touch sent ripples of agony across his frame, the force holding him down suddenly reversing to send him flying.

“But, I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know proper respect.” ‘Megatronus Prime’ chided the mech who bequeathed his own name onto themself. “You must be taught it.”

——————————

Bumblebee beeped in alarm at the sight of Megatron getting beat up in his own mind. The Autobots back at base looked on in confusion at the strange mech. But, Optimus? All it took was hearing the stranger’s voice to send his processor spinning in alarm and half lucid horror. Except the horror came from the Matrix.

“Not even the AllSpark will embrace you after you ripped those sparks from their rest.”

‘Oh, please hold. Please hold! I’ve only seen the movie twice and really need the hologram to hold!’ Pen’s panicked thoughts were in an whirlwind as she worked to search through Megatron’s processor while simultaneously keeping up the illusion of the “Fallen”. Ion was taking up the physical work of acting as the base to project the image onto. Since the Hagurumon had a monotone voice, Bluff took up impersonating the Fallen’s menace.

Tsumemon was helping her direct the illusion by keeping a constant eye on the conflict.

LMAO The Bayverse Fallen illusion is on Megatron's ass. Hopefully Pen has a plan B cause otherwise their cover gets blown badly.

#sonicasura #sonicasura answers #asks #hisuianhistorymaker #digimon #digimon series #digimon digital monsters #digimon cyber sleuth #digimon story #digimon story cyber sleuth #digimon story hacker's memory #maccadam #transformers #transformers series #transformers prime #tf #tf series #tfp

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foundationhq · 1 year ago

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EMPLOYEE ID 5027-0983-1; 𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇.

𝐍𝐚𝐦𝐞 Vivien Huifen Jiāng 𝐀𝐠𝐞 31 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫/𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬 cis woman, she/her 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 Stephanie Hsu 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐬 retired

PROFILE.

The prudent and perceptive [𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇] understands better than anyone that there is no secret that should be shielded from the Committee’s watchful eyes. They proved their commitment to maintaining the integrity of the Foundation when they cut ties with their very own father, a Foundation Administrator at the Decommissioning Department, by blowing the whistle on an underhanded deal he had with Andersen Robotics and Prometheus Labs for the sale of anomalous objects slated for decommissioning. Their part in that bombshell exposé earned them the credibility they needed to shed the accusations that their advancement through the ranks was due to the efforts of family and friends in high places. It certainly was enough for the Foundation to heed their call to preemptively apprehend [𝐾𝐼𝑁𝐺'𝑆 𝐺𝐴𝑀𝐵𝐼𝑇], a prior mentor, on charges of [REDACTED]. If it were anyone other than [𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇], many would have suspected personal resentments were behind their damning report. However, there is no doubt that they have been a useful, if self-appointed, asset to the Committee’s efforts. Now they will serve this purpose in an official capacity, imbued with exceptional powers despite being a rather junior member within the Broken Scales of Themis. If the agents assembled to form MTF Chi-00 disappoint their mandate, [𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇] can be counted upon to drag their indiscretions to light. — Internal Memo from the Ethics Committee.

LAST ASSIGNMENT.

JR. ARCHIVIST; Site-7, Recordkeeping and Information Security Administration (RAISA). Preservation of digital archives, amending and updating SCiPNET pages, providing ticket support, and catching cybersecurity leaks and potential infohazards.

INTERRELATIONS OF NOTE.

𝑂𝐿𝐷 𝑆𝑃𝑂𝑅𝑇. You’ve heard of the agent with the “perfect record” but this will be the first time you get to meet with them 1-on-1 — and you must admit, you’re dying to talk to them. Any tips and tricks they’d be willing to give a junior member of Chi-00 are bound to come in handy for your future career at the Foundation. Unless, of course, the good 𝑂𝐿𝐷 𝑆𝑃𝑂𝑅𝑇 turns out to be less than the absolute paragon of protocol they make themselves out to be. In which case, your sense of justice always comes first.

𝐹𝐿𝐼𝑀𝐹𝐿𝐴𝑀. You observed this star’s meteoric rise, and while some questioned their success story you could not disagree more. How could anyone doubt them when they come from such a brilliant legacy, and were mentored by the esteemed 𝑅𝐸𝑉𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸 𝐸𝑁𝐺𝐼𝑁𝐸𝐸𝑅? Yes, their ostentatious self-obsession grates a little, but you just know in your heart the two of you are birds of a feather. This certainly isn’t motivated by anything so humiliating as projection, but maybe they just need a little help to outgrow their inheritance — like you did.

𝑄𝑈𝑂𝑇𝐸 𝑈𝑁𝑄𝑈𝑂𝑇𝐸. You were the first human to notice this hacker within the Foundation’s cyberspace so the fact that you are on a team with them is… intriguing, to say the least. After the special briefing you received regarding this new acquisition, you’ve found yourself in the position of their private warden, not that the newly minted “𝑄𝑈𝑂𝑇𝐸 𝑈𝑁𝑄𝑈𝑂𝑇𝐸” is aware of this fact. In any case, you’ll take on this secret assignment with the same dedication you put into all your work — because while it was never said outright, you’re well aware that the consequences of a poor peer review will be… final.

EPILOGUE.

[𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇]'s combat assessment results did not meet the mark for field mission deployment. After a lengthy deliberation period between the Ethics Committee and Site-φ Director Buckley Osterholz, the Committee has agreed to transfer the operative out of the mission team and monitor [𝐴𝑈 𝐹𝐴𝐼𝑇]'s progress as a research and archive member of Site-φ instead. The operative is tasked still with keeping an eye on members of MTF Chi-00, looking out for any inconsistencies that may arise within their personnel files and submitted papers. — Internal Memo from the Ethics Committee.

#fhq.all #fhq.af #fhq.retired

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sandleseater · 11 days ago

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5 Ye olde tips and tricks to guarantee the procurment of fair maidens:

1: The dames roaming the streets desire strong builds, the meager archivists will falter when put next to the capable farmhand!

2: 'Tis true that many seek your fair share, those who lead prosperous lives will attract the attention they seek.

3: One must dedicate his fledgling years to amassing great sums of wealth, live frugally and work to great extents.

4: Human traffic.

5: Ye may NOT, and I repeat, may NOT watch plays of spacefarers, 'tis naught but repellent to the fairer sex!

#Don't ask why they call it ye olde in the medieval times #Parody of 1180 straight from 2022

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fairy-writes · 3 years ago

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Okay. Um. This is new to me, I never really liked character x reader fics or things of this sort but this- it intrigues me.

Um. I'd like to do that pair up game? Pretty please?

I'm 18, latina (too dark to be white, too white to be dark), bilingual and working on the next ones. I like to sing, draw, play with my pets. I have 3 cats (F Destiny, M Melquisedec, M Axel), a dog (F Maya), a hamster (M Dante). Autistic, bisexual (but pan when it comes to animated characters, with them I just go WILD) but with a prefference for males in real life but wild fantasies with females. I flirt with both sides though.

If the partner is the, for a lack of a better word, 'authoritary' of the relationship, I tend to be either the pouty partner or the stan partner. If they're sweet I tend to be either the bad influence or the blushing mess. If they're mischivious I am both the voice of reason sometimes and the partner in crime some other times. And if they're the sheepish softies or the shy/scared, I am both the "exCUSE ME THEY ORDERED WITH NO PICKLES" and the "you've been naughty".

I am 5.5 feet. I like sweets better than normal food except when said food is pizza, especially with extra cheese.

Romantic and angst lover. The short king must be very charming, otherwise I will preffer a tall prince. Girls in every shape and size interest me.

Kinda lazy, tbh. And I don't take shit, I'm leaving the second time the partner crosses my boundaries.

Did I give enough information? Was it good?

Hello lovely! I hope you like your matchups! You did great!

The Case Study of Vanitas Matchup: I pair you with… Noé Archiviste!

(Romantic Matchup)

A fellow Gryffindor, so Gryffindor power couple! Noé also loves that you are bilingual! He knows a little Japanese but mainly speaks French as he is in Paris. He asks for you to translate things to your native languages all the time because he loves watching and hearing you speak!

He also loves to listen to you sing, and the two of you bond over your pets! Your pets and Murr don't get along at first, but after working with them from the both of you, they become fast friends! Just keep Dante the hamster away from Murr. He might eat him.

Noé is definitely the sweet partner out of you two but sometimes can be a bit mischievous. He’s also 6’1”, so quite a bit taller than you! The two of you also love to explore Paris for dates and find the best sweets you can! Noé is definitely a tall prince-type character, so he matches great with you! He would also never cross your boundaries and make you uncomfortable!

Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood Matchup: I pair you with… Alphonse Elric!

(Romantic Matchup and post-FMAB, so Al has his body back)

The two of you initially met in Xing through Mei Chang as Alphonse travels the world and hits it off quickly! He’s not fluent in a bunch of languages. He really only knows Amestrian and is conversational in Xingese. He thinks it's so cool that you are bilingual! He asks for tips and tricks in learning more languages when he starts learning Aerugonian!

He’s also the sweetest Hufflepuff/Gryffindor I have ever seen, so the two of you make a lovely match! Alphonse also ADORES your pets, especially your three cats! He’s also more of the sweet, mischievous partner like Noé. He has moments when he’s a bit of a prankster, especially after getting his body back.

I don’t know how tall Alphonse is at the end of FMAB, but I can guess. I’d say he’s probably around 5’8-5’9” since he’s still taller than Edward, who is 5’6-5’7” at the end of FMAB. So he’s average height and possibly a little taller, seeing as he’s only 17-18 at the end of Brotherhood! He’s one never to cross your boundaries and make you uncomfortable either! He loves you too much to do that and constantly clarifies so he never accidentally crosses your boundaries.

Seven Deadly Sins Matchup: I pair you with…King!

(Platonic Matchup since he’s like over a thousand years old)

I see King as a Hufflepuff or a Gryffindor! So a lot like Alphonse and even Noé! Maybe you have a type, lol. King speaks a lot of languages himself. He speaks Fairy, all manner of human languages, giant language, and even the occasional demon dialect! He loves your animals and can even communicate with them to some degree. It’s a natural ability of fairies to be able to communicate somewhat with animals.

I’d say King is the anxious but more laidback type of friend. Like he cares about you a lot, so he worries about you as well. For example, if the two of you go out to eat somewhere, let's say for lunch, and they get his order wrong? You’ll most definitely have to step up for him because he won’t say anything and just eat it as it is.

I honestly was so confused when I was trying to find King’s height. I haven't watched/read Seven Deadly Sins in YEARS, so I got all kinds of things spoiled for me. But the best I could find was that he was around 5’3”-5’11”. So take that as you will haha. The two of you go out with Diane to find sweets all the time! It’s a common hangout for you three to split up and just go hunt down sweets to later bring back and share :)

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mcr-themed-brain · 4 years ago

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I wrote s5 Jon going back in time to s1 and smiting Elias, told from the perspective of s1 Jon. Also I couldn't be bothered to write the beginning or a sound ending so take this I guess

"Do you think you can beat me, Archivist?" Elias asks, a smile tugging at his thin lips. He steps forward, his eyes glowing bright green in the dim light of the Archives. "I know everything you don't."

At this, the Archivist huffs out a laugh, chuckling until it sounds more like a strained cry. "Is that supposed to scare me, Jonah?" He asks smugly. An eye opens on his forehead, then another on his cheek, then a cluster on the back of his neck, and others, surely, beneath his clothes. They all glow a bright, piercing green. Jon takes a cautious step back.

"I see you've learned some fancy tricks," Elias says, "Is that all?"

"Hardly."

"What do you think you can really do to me?"

Elias' words are heavy on Jon's ears. His voice resonates in the room, bouncing through his mind. The Archivist seems unfazed, though, and starts laughing again. It takes him a good couple of seconds to gather himself, like Elias had just told the funniest joke he'd ever heard.

"Did you just try to compel me, Jonah?" He asks, his chuckle still laced throughout his words. "You should know better than that. You don't have power over power itself."

There's a shocked look on Elias's face, but his eyebrows furrow as it's clear he tries to hide it. He takes a protective step back.

"Do you think you can actually scare me?" The Archivist asks, "I've seen horrors unknown to even the Eye itself. You simply serve fear, allow it a vessel through which to feed. I am fear. I am the monster under your bed, I am the thing that goes bump in the night, I am the thing that watches you as you sleep. I plunge fear into the very hearts of innocent people while you are simply a leech, watching--always watching."

He steps closer to Elias, and Jon can see Elias' face begin to sweat. He'd only ever seen the man as cool and professional--if not incredibly boring. To think that Jon from approximately five years down the line could do something like this is almost too much.

"You strike fear by telling people what they refuse to believe. You make them See their mistakes, their pasts, their hidden truths. All you do is suck Knowledge like a vampiric leech and throw it back at your unsuspecting victims. But it wont work on me. I know the fear I cause. I know it more than anyone else, and it is the thing I understand most of all. You cannot surprise me with something I already know.

"You think you know the fear you cause, but all you can comprehend is the tip of the iceberg. I can make you understand. I can instill so much terror into your heart that your physical form cannot take it. I did it to the thing that stole Sasha, I did it to the goddamn Distortion, and I can do it to you.

"The Ceaseless Watcher is on my side. You feed it and feed it and yet it has never liked you. Not when you were Jonah, not now that you wear the face of Elias Bouchard. The Watcher obeys my every command, it Knows I am on it's level. Every fear knows I am on it's level, and they cower before my wrath.

"So do you want to go the easy way, or the hard way?"

Elias looks actually scared now, but if he's anything it's incredibly stubborn. "And what do those options consist of?" He asks.

"Oh come on, Jonah, do I need to spell everything out for you?" The Archivist replies, rolling his eyes (all of them). "Either I smite you off the face of the Earth or I grab the knife in the bottom drawer and stab you until you've properly bled out. Both, I can assure you, are extremely painful. Or, well, I can't really speak for the smiting as I've personally never been killed that way before, but I can infer from the screaming."

"What!" Jon exclaims, unable to keep his confusion inaudible. The Archivist doesn't answer him, though, and keeps himself focused on Elias.

"If I stab you with Gertrude's old knife in the desk drawer, it's almost like she's getting her revenge, but if I smite you, you'll be killed by the one thing you ever pledged loyalty to. Oh, the choices, the choices. What do you think, Jon?"

Jon jumps in surprise. "Uh, well, I-uh, I suppose that, um... the knife might be a bit bloody?"

"Ah, you're right," the Archivist says, "It'd be a pain to get blood out of the carpet."

He turns to Elias, who's sweating bullets. "Are you ready, Jonah?" The Archivist says with a sick smile.

"Now, c'mon Jon, this is crazy," Elias says, "You wouldn't actually kill me, would you? Of course not! Spare me, spare me, please!"

The Archivist doesn't listen to him, and instead all his eyes glow brightly as he lifts slightly off the ground. "Feel the horror you cause, the feelings you plunge into the hearts of others. Feel it. Suffer it," he says, spitting venom from his words, "Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this putrid excuse for a servant and drink your fill."

The room seems to warp and bounce around Jon, and he feels like he's going through a bad high. Elias is screaming, but his voice is distorted in his ears. He might be screaming, he doesn't know. There's a loud ringing following everything, until finally, the world seems to come to a halt.

"Holy shit," Jon whispers, seeing the scorch mark burnt into the carpet where Elias once stood. He feels the Archivist's eyes on him, and whips his head around to look at him. The extra eyes are closing and fading into faint scars and stretch marks.

"I'm not smiting you, Jon, I'm not an idiot," the Archivist says, "If I kill you, I cease to exist. And I'd really rather find my Martin before that happens."

With that, he walks out of the Archives.

#fun fact: i wrote a couple paragraphs of jon monologing to elias and that turned into this #dead elias rights #tma #the magnus archives #tma spoilers #jonathan sims #elias bouchard #tma fic #long post

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poptimus-prime · 4 years ago

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Aight then ;) 1/2 Ok so. You know that in the movie Spinel had the Rejuvenator? The big scythe that causes basically a factory reset on someone? “One it from this, and you’re back to how they made you.” That thing but it gets made in tfp And OP gets hit with it and reverts back to Orion(who is babey)

2/2 I kinda feel like Ratchet is the only one of the group who knew Orion before the war so the rest is in uncharted territory and have no idea what to do (Honestly I just wanna see Orion interact with everyone while they’re trying to figure out how they are supposed to interact with their mostly stoic leader who has turned into a innocent ball of sunshine uwu) ~Puck

You’re gonna have to tolerate my headcanons about Orion and I’m gonna go with the same degree of Reset as the Orion Pax arc did. Other than that, I tried. ;; I’m sorry it took me so long to do and that I ran out of steam. If you wanted a specific interaction you can send it in. ;;

When the smoke and dust billowed out, Megatron looked down at the scythe in his hands. Now broken. Cheap one-shot trick. But it seemed to finally have done the trick--Optimus Prime was to be no more. All he had to do was wait for the dust to settle, and then--

“I can’t see!” A voice of a significantly higher pitch than the Prime called out, and Megatron’s lips twitched. A small, frail servo poked out of the dust, and then another, as a red and blue bot roughly the size of Bumblebee staggered out, squinting.

“O-Orion...?” Megatron asked in horror. Frag.

“Megatronus! I’m glad someone familiar is here!” Orion practically honked. “Please help me find my glasses, I think I dropped them!”

Megatron staggered back, dumbfounded. His processor was frozen, and every attempt to move his limbs was a failure. Bulkhead, seeing the small bot right in the line of Megatron’s fire, rushed to grab Orion. The small bot put up a fight, but couldn’t escape the Wrecker’s grip.

“Put me down!” Orion protested, hitting Bulkhead’s back, though it just felt like little taps.

“Sorry, dude, can’t do that...” Bulkhead turned to look back at Megatron, who was starting to move and roar again. “Ratchet, we’ve been ambushed, ground bridge, now!”

———

“Where is Optimus?!” Arcee asked when she saw Bulkhead and Orion enter.

“Arcee, his signal is right here in the base. Do you need your optics checked?” Ratchet was looking at the console as he turned off the bridge. He didn’t notice the bot being held by Bulkhead just yet.

“Ratchet!” Orion whined. “Tell him to put me down!”

Ratchet’s optics widened in shock before he turned, slowly, to actually look at the bot Bulkhead came back with. Bulkhead had set him down, and he proceeded to stumble with his servos out, trying to follow Ratchet’s voice.

“...Orion?!” Ratchet gently stopped the bot with a servo, opening his subspace and rummaging around until he finally found a very old pair of glasses. He quickly dusted them off before he put them on Orion.

“Thanks for holding onto my spare pair, Ratchet...” Orion blinked and looked around. “...Who are all these people?”

“Friends of mine.” Ratchet informed. Orion just squirmed a bit.

:...Ratchet, you better tell us who this bot is right now.: Bumblebee beeped flatly.

“Oh! I’m so rude.” Orion tipped his helm, a servo over his spark as he rushed through his rehearsed greeting. “I am Orion Pax. I am a data clerk apprenticing under Alpha Trion in the Iacon Hall of Records. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The guardian trio looked to the small bot in horror, and then to Ratchet, who looked just as horrified and confused as they did.

———

“...And then I swear, before the dust storm, Optimus just went poof!” Bulkhead explained what had happened with the ambush. Ratchet took the information all down, keeping one audial out for Orion. While not reckless or a known troublemaker, the archivist was naïve and had a small propensity for mischief if egged on enough.

“Mmhm.” Ratchet sighed. “That’s a start. Thank you.”

“You alright, Ratch?”

“Just concerned.” Ratchet straightened out. “Megatron will probably be looking for him.”

“So then have him stay in the base?” Bulkhead tilted his helm. Ratchet spat out a laugh.

“Puh-lease. A curious, naïve archivist like Orion? On an unfamiliar planet? I can’t even begin to imagine how hard it will be to keep him contained for more than a few hours at this point.”

Almost on cue, there was a clattering from down the hall. Ratchet sighed and got up, going to investigate. Orion was clinging to a collapsed catwalk in another room--as thought he was trying to climb up and peer out the window.

“Orion.” Ratchet sighed, grabbing the archivist and gently putting him down. “What exactly do you think you’re doing, hm?”

“Can I go outside nowwww?” Orion sighed. “I’ve already read and reorganized every data pad in here.”

“You may not go outside.” Ratchet sighed, his old age and Orion’s excitability making him feel like he was lecturing a sparkling. “How about you go sit and talk with Bumblebee? He could tell you about Earth.”

The archivist sighed and agreed to do so, albeit hesitantly. The scout was relaxing for once, reclining in the main silo. Orion slowly walked over and pointed to the spot next to him.

“May I sit here?” Orion asked, and Bee nodded. Orion sat awkwardly, patting his knees for a long while, thinking of a conversation starter. “I like your mask!”

:Thank you.: Bee was reserved, and hesitant about interacting with Orion. All he could see was Optimus.

“I wonder if I have one too...” Orion tapped his chin before he started focusing painfully hard, his optics slowly growing brighter as he strained for a mask to deploy. Nothing. “Slag.”

:Don’t you have weapons, at least?:

“Oh, Primus, no!” Orion held a servo to his chest nervously. “I’m just an archivist. I don’t need such things.”

:Oh.: Bee shifted. There goes the opportunity to do target practice. :So what DO you have?:

“Um...some blank data pads...hopefully some rust sticks...” Orion flopped back and began to dig around in his subspace, a pout on his lips. “You think you can tell me more about ‘Earth’?”

Bumblebee just nodded, too dumbfounded to speak at the time.

#tfp #asks

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nycstrega · 4 years ago

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Please follow or subscribe to to my Patreon for photography tips, tricks, and how to shoot with any camera - ignore the photography gatekeepers, create art today regardless of your budget! Patrons who subscribe at the Archivist tier have access to my full portfolio, and can download high quality digital images of all of my work. Thank you for supporting local artists!

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literatehiss · 4 years ago

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Eventuality

Read on AO3 here Oliver keeps coming into the Archives to flirt with Jon post-coma and Martin considers abandoning his whole fake-lonely thing just to take a leaf out of Elias’ book and smash Oliver’s head in with a pipe Head heavy in his hands, Jon sat in his dimmed office, debating whether to read another statement to take the edge off his headache when the door swung open. He recognised the man who entered only by the fact he had dreams of him without having ever knowingly taken his statement.

“Oliver Banks. What do you want? Unless you are here to tell me that it is my time to die? I’d rather not know if I am honest with you.” The man who entered his office just laughed and Jon was tempted to put some power into his questions to make the smugness leave the man’s voice.

“We both know that you aren’t being honest at all, you’re one of the Watchers, you want to know everything. Anyway, I came to give you a statement. That is what you do after all.” Jon’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I already have two statements from you, well you gave one to Gertrude and somehow gave one to me while I was asleep. What else could you possibly have for me?” Banks tutted at him in disapproval.

“You know full well you weren’t asleep Archivist. You were dead. You are just lucky that you made the choice to come back. And I had an interaction with someone who was being affected by a Leitner, thought that you might be interested. I brought the book as well, as a gift.” He handed over a cheap plastic bag and when Jon checked inside there was an ash covered book laying within it. The front cover was slightly open and Jon could see the edge of the bookplate that would mark it as a Leitner. He nodded his thanks but couldn’t help but let out a weak, disbelieving laugh at the man’s words.

“Ha! Lucky. Sure. I’m sure you are the only person who thinks that. Everyone else seems quite upset that I didn’t stay dead.” He carefully pulled out the book and placed it on his desk. He desperately wanted to know what it did, how it worked. Part of that was the pull of the book and the other was the pull of the Eye. Not that it mattered. Jon would respect the memory of Gerard Keay and burn the thing in the Institute’s parking lot when the rest of the employees had gone home for the night. “Not the worst gift I’ve been given. Not a statement from the original recipient of the book though?”

“No she is… well she is indisposed right now. You will have to make do with me I’m afraid.”

“O-ok,” he cleared his throat, “Statement of Oliver Banks regarding the effects of a Leitner of the Desolation. Statement taken direct from subject. Recorded by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

That was the first time that Oliver came to his office, but it certainly wasn’t the last. At first it was just Oliver coming into contact with various avatars or Lietners, such a suspicious amount of them that even Jon was starting to suspect that the other man was purposefully seeking these encounters out, but their little chats after the statement became them just meeting up for coffee or to just talk.

Basira had glared at them as Oliver had hooked his arm around Jon’s and pulled him out of his dingy office. She didn’t approve, didn’t think he should be hanging out with other avatars or leaving the Institute without good reason. Oliver thought she could get stuffed and reassured Jon when he insisted that he was a danger to the public. He could hurt someone, but the only reason that had happened before was because he was hungry and Oliver had just given him a statement so he should be fine to have fun for once. Arm in arm, they walked through the entrance hall of the Institute and out into the misty London streets, not noticing the fog-draped figure glaring from the Institute steps.

Martin hated Elias.

But every time he saw Banks with Jon we couldn’t help but think that maybe the other man had the right idea with the pipe murder. Not that Oliver could die. Probably.

Martin knew it wasn’t fair of him. Jon didn’t belong to him and these feelings wouldn’t be ok if they did mean anything more to each other than co-workers. It wasn’t like he was there for Jon right now, wrapped up with Peter’s plans as he was, but it didn’t help the twisting anger every time he saw the handsome man spending time with Jon, making him laugh and smile. It reminded Martin that Jon didn’t need him.

It made him feel lonely.

That was probably why Peter kept setting up situations for Martin to catch sight of the two of them.

The only thing stopping him from doing something very unwise was that Jon, despite his intelligence, clearly did not realise that Banks was flirting with him. Then again, he hadn’t noticed that Martin was interested in him either and he had been considerably less subtle about it, so maybe it wasn’t that much of a surprise.

He was sat on the steps that lead up to the Institute, waiting for the taxi that Peter insisted he go home in rather than risk Martin speaking to people, even if it would just be the workers at the tube stations. He saw them come down the steps and he felt grief grip his heart as Jon gave Banks a wry grin as the other man made a joke as they made their way to the little cafe bookshop around the corner. It had taken him months and a worm invasion to get Jon to look at him like that. He was surprised that Daisy was alright with the whole thing, he knew that she had become very protective of Jon since he dragged her out of the Buried but apparently she thought it was good for Jon. Had even defended the two of them to Basira and Melanie and would wait eagerly for Jon to return so that she could tease him.

Martin was giving everything for Jon, for him to be safe, and his only reward for that was Jon seemingly finding someone else. Just as he watched the two of them turn a corner and out of his vision, Banks shifted and his white eyes caught Martin’s. Banks gave him a considering glance and did nothing but give a quick grin before he vanished into the crowd.

Oliver thought this whole thing was hilarious.

He liked Jon. He liked the way his stern countenance melted into a smile when he laughed, he liked the way he would loose track of what he was saying and start a mini lecture onto whatever topic had caught his interest. He just found the man enjoyable to be around and he couldn’t deny the entertainment value of being so close to the soap opera that the Magnus Institute called an Archive. The other man didn’t seem to get that Oliver was flirting and he was so used to people finding him handsome and making assumptions that Jon was a breath of fresh air. It didn’t help the man wasn’t so bad to look at himself. So yes, he was interested in Jon.

He was also interested in the ball of repressed jealousy and rage that liked to watch them from foggy corners.

Oliver had never managed to sneak up on the other man close enough to actually speak to him before he just vanished into the mist. He knew that he was one of Jon’s old assistants before he had been snapped up by Peter Lukas. He also knew that the other man loved Jon, that his nonsense with Lukas and the Forsaken was in some way to keep Jon safe. Oliver couldn’t say that he approved, but he understood. He heard from Jon how the other man, Martin, was the one to trick Bouchard so that they could arrest the bastard, that he had survived a siege by Jane Prentiss for two weeks. He also heard that he apparently made the best tea and no cafe Oliver could find served tea that was up to Jon’s standards. The few glimpses of Martin caught his eye, the man’s ginger hair paling at the tips and his blue eyes starting to grow foggy. The picture of Martin that Jon kept in his wallet, a Polaroid with a man and woman he didn’t recognise, was well worn and showed a happy man with a shy smile that warmed Oliver’s cold dead heart.

He was fully aware that Martin wasn’t the only one pining. That Jon was just as enamoured with the other man. He resolved to do something about it and hey, if he was a little selfish and got something out of it for himself, well, who could truly complain.

He pulled out a phone that he had swiped from the desk of current acting Head of the Magnus Institute. An order for coffee sent to one of the only three numbers saved onto the phone. Oliver waited in the almost abandoned coffee shop, thumbing through a book he had pulled from one of the shelves. He gave Jon a grin and waited for the show to begin.

#NaNo 2020 #Oliver Banks #Jon Sims #Martin Blackwood #Jon/Martin/Oliver

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pittarchives · 5 years ago

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Photo Restoration Live Streams: A Pedagogical Practice

In celebration of World Digital Preservation Day 2020 on November 5, we’re sharing a series of posts by University of Pittsburgh Library System librarians and archivists that highlight their expertise and work to preserve the digital!

This post was written by Dan Kaple, Digital Creation Specialist for the University of Pittsburgh Library System

As a unit within Digital Scholarship Services, The Digital Stewardship Lab has a tradition of providing hands-on access to digitization tools for members of the University of Pittsburgh community. We provide patrons the necessary training and access to both 2D and 3D digitization tools as well as one-on-one project consultation. One of the more common projects we have assisted with is personal archiving. Patrons have used the Stewardship Lab to scan materials from their own personal family histories with the purpose of preserving these for future generations.

With the onset of COVID-19, the Stewardship Lab had to suspend its hands-on services and, as a result, find new ways of supporting and providing instruction for digital creation and digital preservation. One way we have done this is to produce a series of live stream events. These live streams present a project-oriented workspace with the intention of demystifying the digital creation tools and exposing users to the workflow and problem-solving processes.

One of our most popular segment topics is photo restoration. Given our instructional focus, we view photo restoration as a pedagogical activity and have found that it presents us with several opportunities. Working on photo restoration projects is a good way to show digital creation tools at work; to explore the thought process that goes into making specific problem-solving solutions, and from a digital preservation perspective, it provides an opportunity to explore photo restoration best practices. During live streams we discuss how to work non-destructively on our photographs in Photoshop. We demonstrate tips and tricks for fixing particularly difficult cases of image damage or staining. We also discuss more conceptual issues such as the ethical line between photo restoration and photo enhancement or manipulation.

Our goal is to get attendees excited and interested in restoration, leading to broader conversations about digital creation and digital preservation and how both are essential for academic research as well as historic and cultural conservation. We want attendees to consider how that photograph of Great Grandma can tell us a lot about broader issues concerning society, culture, and class during her lifetime; to recontextualize these family relics and imbue them with greater value. We want them to think about how digital preservation is relevant in their own lives. To start thinking about the long-term care of modern, born-digital materials, our social media feeds, and online repositories, so we can reevaluate them as the cultural relics of the future.

#wdpd2020 #digital preservation #photography #archives #restoration #family history #personal digital archives

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that-one-girl-behind-you · 5 years ago

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Illicio 6/?

Part 5

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"Yeah I just thought with the Dark people coming closer-" Gerry's voice fades gradually, until he's looking at the coffeepot in a sort of contemplative silence. He turns his head to look at Jon again after a moment. "I just like being here."

Jon feels his mouth dry up, and the space where his missing ribs should go aches as if to remind him he's betraying Gerry's trust even as they speak. He'll- he'll probably stop liking it -liking Jon- when he finds out he's been lying to him.

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters.

Basira's capability to work through bullshit is, it turns out, incredibly high.

It's basically a requirement for all sectioned officers, but Basira's been steadily pushing her threshold back since she started noticing her partner and friend with benefits could track down a suspect better than the K9 units. As it stands now, she looks at Sylphie Fairchild, and ignores the way her ears feel blocked, like every sound is dimmed and muffled before it reaches her. She knows they're standing in a shop on a busy street, the avatar's acoustic tricks are not going to fool her.

"A diving school?" Basira asks. The shop is all painted a single hue of deep blue, from the door and the floor to the counter, and if Basira loses her focus for a moment it becomes unclear if the walls are even there at all.

"Best one in Malta," Sylphie smiles. It's difficult to believe there's something inhuman about her, when she's not spewing bugs or sprouting limbs. "We specialize in nighttime excursions. Only you and the sea and the stars above yo-"

"Sounds charming," Basira interrupts. The woman leans across the counter slow and flowingly, like she's moving through water. The folds on her flannel continue moving long after she's stopped, as if pushed around by currents Basira can't see. "I thought drowning was a Buried thing."

It's why she'd come here in the first place. Surely a Vast avatar that deals in the Buried's domain will know something about the coffin, or how to crack it open.

"Hmmmmm, it depends on what you get from it." Sylphie, voice turns amused. "Should you be asking questions? I thought that's why you had an Archivist."

Basira sighs. That does explain why this feels so wrong. When Elias gave her the name, it had been easy to find Fairchild, her path illuminating in her mind like a neon trail. But that's it. She's meant to find information, not add it to the Archive, she guesses.

Whatever. This is not about Basira and what she may or may not be turning into. This is about Daisy, and that makes it worth it.

"He's busy. I want to-"

"Ah, pity. I wanted to meet him! Michael always gets all the fun- or he used to." Sylphie chuckles darkly, and it sends Basira's nerves on edge. A good reminder that this is not just a young woman playing dumb, but a predator. She wonders how many people have jumped into the sea in the middle of the night and then never found the boat again. "You Eye folks really like sticking your noses in everybody's businesses don't you?"

Basira's nape prickles. The counter is gone, and she's standing in the middle of a deep blue expanse, much colder than it ought to in the middle of the Maltese summer.

"I'm not scared," says Basira, and she means it. She rationalized her way out of the Unknowing, it takes a lot more than a Fairchild with bad taste in decoration to mess with her mind. "Do you know anything about the coffin?"

Sylphie rolls her eyes. "Tsk. You're no fun at all." She snaps her fingers, and the reassuring presence of walls and floor and ceiling start to fade in again. "It's a pocket dimension, I don't deal with those. Too constricting. Couldn't help you if I wanted to, sorry!"

"Do you know anyone that could?" Basira asks, and Sylphie gives another laugh, delighted this time.

"Sure, don't know if he would though. Go look for Matthew."

The words light up like a beacon in Basira's mind and all of a sudden she has a purpose again. This is what she's supposed to do, and the first steps of the way towards finding the next target are already forming in her head.

"Not even a thank you?" Sylphie's amused smile is audible in her voice as Basira walks towards the door. "Come back when you get whoever it is out of the coffin! We do couples outings!"

Basira slams the door so hard that the glass panes of the windows vibrate furiously, even after she walks away.

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

The depression on his ribcage is fairly noticeable, when the steam on the mirror clears. Jon is not too used to looking at his own body, especially in the past years, when every time he looks there's a new scar to hate.

He presses his hand to the skin, and the beat of his pulse is much easier to find without the protective barrier of the ribs, and much more comforting than it should. It has to mean something, that he still has a beating heart.

"You've been staying the night a lot more lately," Jon observes when he walks into the kitchen to find Gerry brewing a pot of coffee. Gerry looks at him for a second and then immediately back at the pot. Jon goes to push his wet hair away from his face, suddenly self conscious.

"Does it bother you?"

"Wh- no, not at all," Jon shakes his head. Great, just great. Just go ahead and screw it up with the only person who for whatever reason seems to like your presence anymore. "I was just wondering."

"That's- that's good. I like having you here," Jon mutters. At least he isn't lying about that. Having Gerry around makes him feel a bit more human, and the man is awfully patient in the face of Jon's awkwardness and bad habits. "I- do you need me to read something tonight?"

Gerry rolls his eyes as he pours coffee in two mugs, and Jon feels his stomach do a flip. The gesture doesn't look annoyed at all. It's the kind of eye roll Georgie used to give him before, all fond exasperation he doesn't deserve.

"I don't come here just to get my fix, Jon," Gerry smirks, passing him a mug. "Let's just watch a movie, I could use the distraction. I'll even let you sit on the sofa, come on."

He walks out into the sitting room, and Jon watches him go. The warm drink in his hands brings to mind a comparison he doesn't want to make, because it didn't end well for Martin.

Jon follows, and finds that Gerry has indeed left him a spot on the sofa, just wide enough to sit with his legs under him, which Jon miraculously manages without spilling hot coffee on himself. "How considerate."

Gerry winks. "Your own fault. Don't go adopting stray undeads if you don't have enough sofa space."

Despite himself and his earlier thoughts, Jon smiles. He often finds himself relaxing around Gerry.

"Terribly sorry, the Eye didn't mention anything about your furniture hoarding habits when it dropped you off." Jon sips at his coffee as Gerry snorts.

"I do wonder sometimes, you know?" Gerry asks after a while. The remote sits untouched on the coffee table before them. "Why exactly did the Eye choose me. I mean, we know it was putting on a show for you, so why bring back the sad book ghost instead of your actual friends?"

"I don't think it wanted to lose another Archivist so soon, and you were the only option that wouldn't try to kill me as soon as you woke up," Jon shrugs. It's a tough truth, but a truth nonetheless.

"Hm. Well yes, but it still, " Gerry's started spreading over more and more of the sofa as he speaks, and Jon gets the feeling he's going to end on the coffee table again after all. "It would've made you happy to have them again, and I think that was the point in-"

"It chose just fine then." Jon looks stubbornly at the dark coffee in his mug. He's aware enough that he's just on the verge of making things awkward- Gerry's already gone suspiciously quiet by his end of the sofa, but he needs to say it. "I'm just- I'm sorry it wouldn't let you rest. Having you around is- but you earned it. You deserved a chance to be free of all this."

Gerry clears his throat. "That means a lot, Jon." His voice is a little strained, and Jon sighs. Another interaction turned uncomfortable, great. "So- how about a comedy? I'd suggest a thriller, but we'll both probably Know the twist before it happens so what's the case?"

Jon's head whips up at the change in tone. Gerry's stopped slipping down the couch, his socked foot just shy of touching Jon's knee, and he's reaching for the remote. Usually these conversations end with the other person storming away from him, not just- moving past to the next thing.

Maybe Jon is right, and the Watcher brought him Gerry because he's the only one that could possibly sit down and watch a movie with a monster.

The gap in his ribcage aches again, and Jon has to remind himself that Daisy's life is more important than his regret.

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

She hadn't expected to find a Vast avatar in the middle of New York's downtown, where every space is crowded to its maximum capacity. Perhaps this is a more metaphorical empty space? The unbreachable distance people build around themselves, that sort of thing.

"Matt," says the man at the top of the line, handing the barista a crisp hundred dollar note. "Keep the change."

Basira rolls her eyes before approaching him. The duality of these monsters is without a doubt their most vexing aspect, tipping a barista 95% on a mocha before shoving another innocent off a bridge or however this one does his business.

"Matthew Fairchild?" she asks once she's within a few steps' range. "I have some questions."

The man -teen, really, Basira doubts he's a day over twenty, if he even reaches the number- gives her a sideways look, before his eyebrows arch in recognition.

"Oh you're the Eye fella aren't you?" He smiles. Basira blinks. Suspects aren't usually this thrilled to see her. "Sylphie told me you'd be coming, that was quick! Let me just get my coffee and we can move somewhere more comfortable."

"Thats- no. I just want to know-"

"Matt?" Another barista calls from the end of the bar, and Basira has no doubt the extra ninety something dollars helped push Fairchild's order to the top of the queue. Matthew grins and dashes away to pick up the steaming cup, leaving Basira's ears whistling a little.

"There, thanks for waiting," the young man returns to Basira's side with a whipped cream monstrosity, and she can feel her lower lid begin to twitch. "So where's your Archivist? I heard he killed Mike-"

"He didn't," Basira interrupts him immediately. "That was a hunter. The Archivist was just lucky she stepped in at the right moment." It should feel wrong, using that term to describe Daisy, or praise her kills when she's so much more than what the Hunt made of her, but Basira won't let her achievements go uncredited.

"Hm. Yeah makes more sense I guess," Matthew shrugs. "Anyways, what do you want?"

"The other- she said you knew about pocket dimensions," Basira says carefully. This one seems a bit more cooperative than the last, but she knows better than to trust avatars.

Matthew laughs. "Well, I got mine. Is that what you mean?"

Basira looks around. The Starbucks is gone, and they're standing at the edge of a sickly yellow grass field ending on a cliff, a mirror copy of it a thousand miles below them. That one too ends in a cliff, and Basira can just about see the same field and the same cliff repeating over and over again as far as her eyes can perceive.

She rips her gaze away from the unending space and focuses on Matthew, who's watching her with an amused smile edged in milk foam and chocolate syrup.

"Yes, this is what I mean." Basira hopes her words and tone can convey just how not impressed she is, but the avatar seems far from offended. "How would one break out of it?"

"Now, it wouldn't be too smart of me to tell people that, don't you think?"

Down by the third cliff -or the fourth? Sixth?- Basira catches the movement of a lonely figure as they fall to their knees and begin tearing at their hair, calling out to the empty expanse of white sky above them.

"I don't care about them," Basira says. She should feel guilty, and in some way she does. But they aren't Daisy, and she can't save them. "I'm talking about the coffin."

"Ew, don't talk about that thing!" Matthew cringes, and the sounds of the busy coffeeshop around them start again like someone just pressed play on a recording.

"I need something that will work on the Buried," Basira says. Matthew rolls his eyes.

"Don't know, don't care. You really should've brought someone who could get answers, if you really wanted them," he takes another sip of his coffee, "I'm gonna go no-"

Basira's hand shoots forward to clamp down on his wrist. "I will find you again," she warns, "I am not the Archivist, but I am good at finding people. And I will keep finding you and yours again and again, until you. Tell. Me."

Matthew arches an eyebrow at Basira's white-knuckled grip on his forearm, and Basira feels wind whipping up around her again, smells the sickly grass and hears the faint, distant screams. She doesn't look away from him. If this is a pissing contest, she will win it.

It feels like an eternity goes by before Matthew sighs, and Basira's once more assaulted by the scent of overpriced coffee and the sounds of people purchasing it.

"Like a dog with a bone. Are you sure you're not with the Hunt?" he asks. Basira doesn't move an inch, and Matthew rolls his eyes. "Fine. The ones your sort gets statements from are the ones we let out, usually. They have anchors. Don't know if it'll work in the coffin. My thing is a gateway into the Falling Titan, the coffin is the Buried. Can I go now?"

Basira narrows her eyes. "If you lied, I will find you, and I will bring him with me. You won't like how he asks questions."

"Bring him, I have nothing to hide." The man snatches his wrist free, and as he walks towards the crystal doors they slide open with a burst of air and he's gone, Basira suspects back to his own little reality.

There's... A lot to think about.

She takes a seat on an armchair by a corner. An anchor. This should make things easier, but it really doesn't. Basira lets out a low, slightly hysterical cackle. Now she just needs to find an anchor to go save her anchor from the damned box.

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

He needs to stop coming here, Martin thinks.

The scent of brewing tea, the warmth from the mugs and the steam from the kettle -so different from the white fog that's started following him, even outside his flat- serve only to bring him back. To the time when the break room meant life and company; or even worse, to the time when the break room was already either empty or full of tired, wary looks, but it meant a preamble to a small lopsided smile and a single muted thanks after handing out a warm mug, and that brought Martin all the strength he needed.

The hope's still there, however faint, but Martin doesn't want it anymore. Doesn't want to want it, if it makes sense. Peter isn't lying when he insists life alone is much easier, but something in Martin keeps clinging stubbornly to the feeling of belonging. There's a click behind him, and Martin sighs and turns to give the tape recorder another reminder that he needs to be left alone.

Jon's startled eyes meet his from where he's frozen by the door, and Martin wants to scream.

"I- sorry," Jon apologizes immediately, "I thought Melanie-"

"She's out. She left with Gerard this morning." Martin saw them leave through the cameras, but he also felt them leave. He can often tell how many people are still in the Institute lately.

"Uh- yes I- they've been going out, I forgot," Jon mumbles and Martin feels that ugly, useless, misguided hope rear its head up again. "They've been hunting. A Leitner, I think Gerry said." Oh, there it goes. Dead again.

"Back on his old business, then."

"Yes, he's- I don't think he knows how to give up on helping people," Jon says. There's an undeniable warmth in Jon's dark eyes when he says that, and Martin has the thought that maybe he came here today because the Lonely wanted him here for this very encounter. "You'd know about that, I guess."

Wait, what?

Jon's eyes are still soft, fixed on some point behind Martin, and he realizes with a start that he still hasn't poured the extra mug of tea down the drain.

"I-" Martin starts, but he has no idea how to follow it. 'I love you, please forget about me' is maybe too on the nose.

"You need to go, that's-" Jon's resolve, whatever it was, seems to deflate. Martin winces. "I understand, I need to go out anyways, I- sorry. "

He turns to leave, and Martin is left alone with the bitter thought that the only thing worse than Jon not respecting his wishes is apparently Jon doing just that.

He needs to stop coming here.

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

"You look distracted," Melanie says when they stop for lunch at midday. She's got some fish and chips, and Gerry is -as usual- picking unenthusiastically at the smallest item in the menu. She often wonders if he doesn't really need to eat and does it only to appease her- in which case his solution does a lot more to feed her suspicions than to ease them. "What is it?"

"Hm? I mean, we're hunting a book that makes you grow organs until they start coming out of your body cavities, isn't that enough?" He flicks a chip around the plate, glaring down at it like it personally wrote the offending book.

"Yeah, and we know exactly where it is. We just need to wait until tomorrow when the shop's open. That's not what's worrying you." Melanie's not sure where the certainty comes from. She's either been spending too much time with Gerry, or the Eye's mark is starting to affect her more now that the bullet is gone and she spends most of her day out looking for leads on avatars and Leitners. "Gerry?" she asks again, because he clearly stopped listening to her about a word in.

"I don't know. I'm just on edge, for some reason." And his eyes drift away in the direction of the Institute again. Melanie groans, because she thought she was done listening to relationship trouble involving that freak forever, but her life is a joke and she's two Jon-related comments away from inviting the Slaughter back in. "What?"

"Did you two get in a fight? Is that it? You're trying to save who knows how many people from vomiting their organs until they're empty meatsacks, and you're worried about Jon?" she snarls, stabbing at the piece of fish on her plate so hard she hears the fork clink against the plate underneath. Therapy, Georgie, Gerry and bullet removal have done a little to fix her animosity towards Jon, but she seriously doubts she'll ever like him. She never did in the first place, so she figures it's ok.

"I- no? We're alright," Gerry frowns at her like she's the crazy one. "...but maybe? It does feel like there's something back at the Institute. But I don't know what. Maybe the Eye wants me there for some reason."

"Got it. Then we should keep you away, right?" Melanie looks at Gerry. Gerry looks back. The silence stretches. Melanie narrows her eyes. "Right?"

"Melanie..." Gerry's look turns pained, and Melanie groans again.

"I thought we weren't doing what the entities wanted!"

"We're not, it's just- last time it felt sort of like this, you know?" Gerry shrugs. He looks apologetic, biting at his stupid lip piercing with a thoughtful frown. "When the deliveryman went in. They might be in trouble."

Melanie rolls her eyes. Since Basira's away on whatever lead she's chasing there's only three people at the Institute that would theoretically be in danger, two of them are technically unkillable, and she really only cares about the one that could escape most easily.

"Helen will let him into her door if it's anything too bad," she tries. It's probably true, but Gerry's frown doesn't fade.

"I'm not too sure about that," Gerry says, and Melanie remembers in that moment that they lied to him to cover the ribs thing and he thinks Helen and Jon got into some sort of monster brawl. Funny how lies come back to bite you in the ass. "We can't do anything else about the book today. Let's go back early."

Melanie pinches the bridge of her nose. Gerry probably won't leave her alone and go back by himself. Outside the Institute the only safety they have is their numbers, and he wouldn't just let her get taken, she's sure. She's also very sure he'll be insufferable until they go back. She was enjoying the break, goddammit.

"I hate you." She lifts a hand to call the server over, and pulls her phone out to send a text.

"Your ex continues to ruin literally everything in my life" she texts Georgie while they wait for the food to be packed up. Gerry's not even trying to peek at her phone, so he must be genuinely worried. Georgie sends back some kissy emojis, and Melanie feels a little less murder-prone. "Some insight on this? You hid him in your house during a murder investigation. Is it mind control?"

"I'm very weak to cute short people who make bad decisions. Lucky you." Georgie responds. Melanie smiles. She'll take the compliment and the implication, even if it's lumping her in with Jon.

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

"I thought you were going to wait for Basira," Helen opens her door on the ceiling this time. It's fun to inconvenience the Archivist, she thinks, as he twists his neck to look up at her. The chains are undone, and the coffin hums a delighted purr, having been promised a willing meal.

"I can't anymore," Jon mutters. There's no animosity in his tone when he looks at Helen, which is both new and pleasing. "We don't know what Daisy's going through in there. Waiting however long until Basira comes back when I've been ready for days... it feels unnecessarily cruel."

"Hmmm... had some snacks for the way, didn't you?" Helen asks. The Archivist's eyes are not usually green, but they're glowing like neon since he walked back into the Institute.

"Don't- don't mention it, please." Jon closes his eyes, but the lovely green glow is visible even through his eyelids. "I'm- if I don't-" he starts again, before cutting himself short with a huff.

Helen arches an eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I... I know you're not her. Helen, I mean," the Archivist starts again. "But- they're all human." He says it as though he expects her to understand, and Helen nods. They're all so easy to break, thin boned and fragile minded, so fascinating to watch in this world of nightmares they've stumbled into. Helen likes them an awful lot.

"And you trust me to keep them safe?" Helen asks. Truth is, the Archivist is not wrong. She's not Helen Richardson in the way a hand is not a body. She's not even really an avatar either, because the Distortion spawned from the Spiral itself, but sometimes she wonders if there is too much human in her now, polluting the purity of her concept. The Distortion likes humans, but not in the way that Helen does, and the clash is... disconcerting.

Jon gives a soft, humorless laugh. "I don't know that I trust me to keep them safe. But I'm all there is... and if I'm gone, then-"

"I'm not exactly a fighter, Jon."

"You found a way to help Melanie- a way to help me." Jon looks up at her, and Helen averts her gaze. His eyes are too much, this up close. A recently fed Archivist is not something to be taken lightly.

"I thought you said I wasn't Helen," she says. Jon bends down to lay his rib on the ground next to the coffin.

He shrugs. "I still feel like Jon, sometimes." He straightens up, and takes a deep breath, before stepping into the coffin. "Goodbye, Helen."

"Good luck, Jon." Helen waves him goodbye, the tips of her fingers grazing strands of his hair before he descends too far for her to reach.

The coffin closes.

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

Gerry likes to think he's both fairly smart and intuitive. The Beholding wouldn't have marked him otherwise, tattoos or not. The uncontrollable curiosity was always a part of him, and his mother loved it. As Gerry grew older he realized it was because she thought his Beholding mark would make it easier for her to get information for her ritual; very on brand for Mary Keay, to encourage her six years old into becoming bait for an entity of eldritch horror.

He's no Pupil, no Archivist and no Detective, but Gerry knows things others don't. And as they get closer to the Institute, what he knows is that something is deeply, impossibly wrong.

The Eye is calling him back at full force, the tether born where his heart used to be pulled taut like a harp string, and Gerry realizes with a start that this has something to do with Jon. But it makes no sense, Jon was just fine this morning, and judging on what he did to the Stranger's errand boy a few weeks ago, he's powerful enough to handle whatever comes his way. Jon will be fine, he has to be fi-

"Slow down!" Melanie snaps, and Gerry realizes she's almost running to keep up with his longer, hurried strides.

"Sorry. It just- it's bad," Gerry grunts out as they bend around the corner, and the Institute comes into view. His worry seems to have caught on with Melanie, and she keeps up with him without another complaint. "I don't know what it is, just-"

"I still feel like Jon, sometimes." Jon's voice is as clear as if he was talking by Gerry's ear, even though he's nowhere in sight. This is definitely the furthest he's been able to hear Jon, provided he's all the way down at the Archives, but Gerry doesn't give the realization much thought, focused as he is on the serious, resigned cadence of Jon's voice. He certainly doesn't sound like he's in danger, but Gerry still doesn't like- "Goodbye, Helen."

And it all clicks in Gerry's mind.

"Fuck-" Gerry takes off running towards the building, not knowing or caring if Melanie keeps up. Jon promised he wouldn't do this, Jon knows this is crazy, it-

He hears a sound like a slamming door, and Gerry falls like a puppet whose strings have been snipped in a single cut. It's only his remaining inertia that takes him a few last inches towards the Institute, before he's collapsing on the pavement. He feels his lip and forehead split against the entry steps with awful clarity, but he couldn't care less, because whatever pain his body's experiencing pales in comparison to the agony inside him right now.

It feels as though they have taken all the air from his lungs and replaced it with red hot nails, like someone is digging at his brain with an awl, like his very soul is being ripped out of his chest, and he knows this is a punishment. The Eye tried to warn him, and Gerry ignored it, and now Jon is gone.

"-rry? What's going on?!" Melanie's voice is frantic, like she's looking for something she can kill to fix this, and it's the last thing he hears.

When he comes back to, Melanie's half dragging, half pushing him -he thinks, detachedly, that it must've looked funny as she dragged his semi conscious bulk around the Institute, Gerry's not a small man and Melanie hides a surprising amount of power in her tiny frame- onto the break room sofa. Gerry tries to support some of his own weight, and she drops him with a start. Whatever injuries the pavement gave him ache at the sudden movement, but he's got bigger things to worry about.

"-ffin. Coffin," Gerry mumbles. Melanie gasps, and when he parts his eyelids he finds her looking at him in concern. It's not a look he's ever seen on Melanie, and he has enough presence of mind to feel flattered. "He's gone. He-"

"Gerry, it's alright," Melanie tries, as clumsy as Jon in her attempts at softness. "He- he said he'd be, he has his rib-"

"His what?"

Melanie's expression quickly turns to guilt, and she squeezes and pulls at her fingers in what must be nerves. "He wanted- I took him to the Bone Turner. He was trapped in Helen, and Jon got him to take out a rib. He said it would work as an anchor, and he'd be able to come back with Daisy."

"Oh god-" Gerry groans. Of course, of course Jon would- "That won't work. That's not- Melanie it has to be something he loves!"

He'd thought Jon understood that much at least, but apparently he misunderstood just how oblivious Jon is. Gerry knows with devastating certainty that a rib -or any other part of his body- just won't cut it, because he's never met anyone who hates himself so stubbornly and undeservingly as Jonathan Sims.

Melanie arches her eyebrows at his outburst. "Well, then you could-"

"Where's Martin?" Gerry cuts her short, pushing heavily off the sofa. His energy's coming back, and he thinks bitterly of how Jon practically insisted on reading to him for hours these past days. The Flesh mark, the sad looks… a lot of things make a lot more sense in retrospect. He hears Melanie call out after him, but he's already off the door.

This is a terribly Jon thing to do, he thinks as he stumbles down empty corridors, using a bit of juice to Know the way towards Elias' office. Gerry's fuming. For all her oversights as a person, Gertrude was at least aware of her importance. To the world, and the people around her, regardless of whether she considered the latter nothing but a handy tool. Jon thinks his only value lays on the people he saves, and Gerry's going to kill him if he gets back.

When he gets back, Gerry corrects himself fiercely as he bangs on the luxurious oak door. The only signs of life behind it are the thin wisps of fog curling out from below it, and the gold plate with Elias' name reflects his face mockingly.

"Open the door!" Gerry bangs harder. "I know you're there, I'm not leaving!"

Once again there's no answer, and Gerry starts backing up to the opposite wall. He's going to get Jon back even if he has to break the door down and hoist Martin over his shoulder to drag him to the Archives.

The door swings open. "What do you want?" Martin asks, still mostly translucent other than his white-knuckled hand around the doorknob. "You're bleeding. Or something."

"Jon went into the Buried." Gerry wipes his hand against the cut on his forehead. It comes back stained in a pitch black fluid with a tangy metallic smell he recognizes quickly enough, and he wipes it clean on his jeans. He'll worry about that later.

"He what?" Gray seeps out of Martin's eyes, leaving behind a nice forest green, and Gerry feels a crashing wave of relief wash over him. His suspicions were right; whatever the hell Martin thinks he's doing with Lukas, he loves Jon, and Gerry's not alone. "Why would he do that?"

"Apparently there's a Daisy in there? Come on, the coffin's at the Archives," Gerry shrugs, and he gestures back the way he came.

"... Daisy the cop? The one who tried to slit his throat?" Martin arches an eyebrow as they walk, and Gerry has to stop and take a grounding breath. Of fucking course.

"I'm guessing that's the one." Gerry pinches at the bridge of his nose. Maybe this is actually how Archivists hunt- maybe they don't need any statements, they just drive you crazy. When he opens his eyes Martin is looking at him with a decidedly amused glint in his eyes.

"It's not an easy job, eh?" Martin asks with a soft smile, and he starts walking again. "What do you want me to do?"

"You're his anchor. Call him. If he's not too far already, he should be able to hear you." It has to be enough, Gerry thinks. It has to, because otherwise he'll have to accept that Jon slipped through his fingers when he should've seen this coming from a mile away. That Jon is gone because he couldn't stop him.

"Oh." Martin stops on his tracks, the determination on his face giving way to something more guarded. "I'm- I don't think I can help, then-"

"Oh my God! Are you kidding me?" Gerry groans. These two are pathetic. Gerry's lost count of how many times he's had to bite back on how he doesn't think Martin deserves the sheer longing and pain that radiates from Jon's face every time he even mentions the man. "This is ridiculous, and I don't have time to discuss with you. For whatever reason, he-"

"You're still bleeding. Why is it black?" Martin interrupts him, and Gerry holds back the urge to scream. Is this why they like each other? Because they're both stubborn and mulish and refuse to accept they might have value for someone else?

"Fuck it. We don't have time for this." He's going in himself, he's tied to Jon, that has to count for something. He goes to sidestep Martin, when a hand clamps down on his wrist. Gerry looks back at him, and Martin's bright green eyes are filled to the brim with intense suspicion. "Martin, Jon doesn't have time for th-"

"How do you know he can still come back?" Martin asks, his voice heavy with mistrust and hope in equal measures.

Gerry wants to say something scathing, or at least something that will get Martin moving, because Jon needs them. And if the truth is what it takes, then so be it.

"I don't know. Nobody knows. But I'm still alive, and that means he still exists," Gerry says. The acrid smell of ink fills the space between them as it drips from the cuts on his face. Martin's eyes are sharp as he starts connecting the dots, and Gerry has no trouble whatsoever believing that this is the man that outsmarted the Eye's Pupil.

"So- so what does that mean? You know how to find him?" Martin asks, and Gerry shakes his head.

"I can't hear him anymore," Gerry sighs. A fat drop of ink runs down the side of his face. "He's no longer here."

"That's- don't say that." Martin says firmly, and there's something steely under his soft, gentle features. "He'll find a way back, Jon always does. We just have to trust him. Now is there anything we can do so you stop bleeding all over the place? Inking? Whatever it is, let's- let's stop it."

Gerry blinks as Martin pulls out a package of paper tissues from his pocket and offers it to him, a man he neither likes nor has ever been even remotely kind to him. Knowing Jon like he does now, this explains a lot.

"I doubt it's going to stop anytime soon," he says, grabbing the offered tissues. "Not without Jon here to talk to me. His voice is what keeps my body working."

Martin seems to mull this over for a bit, as Gerry soaks up tissue after tissue. Is he made up entirely of ink? Should they be like... keeping this in a bucket, if only to use it later? Gerry gives his hands a quick once over, and sighs in relief when he finds his tattoos are still there.

"...Oh" Martin lets out a little surprised exhale. Gerry whips his head up to look at him.

"What? What is it?" Gerry asks. A slow smile is spreading over Martin's lips, and Gerry can't help but to feel hopeful. Martin might be a naive idiot who thinks he can play the Lonely to his favor, but if anyone has the slightest chance at saving Jon-

"Come with me."

#jongerrymartin #jonathan sims #gerry keay #martin blackwood #j/g/m #i feel a bit guilty swamping the tag #but i dont know where else to put this #vit writes

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