#esp ollie

[k-wame]

Felix Catton for dir. Emerald Fennell · 'Saltburn' (2023)

[strawberrytalia]

Oliver Queen thoughts below

Yk I’ve always felt weirdly attached to Ollie on an introspective level but I couldn’t put it into words until I re-read Longbow Hunters recently and GOD. It’s such a brilliant depiction of Ollie, his values, how his mind works, and what spiritual enlightenment means to him. I love the way his hunter method is so different and unique compared to the detective style more commonly found in comics. The way he uses his intuition and comes to conclusions by watching and analyzing, and understanding the person. It’s a storyline in which Ollie temporarily leaves the flashy hero lifestyle he’d gotten used to, and goes back to his roots - traditional archery and becoming more in tune with the most primitive version of himself. It challenges the question of what is the human nature - is it progression or is it natural roots? I found Ollie’s inner conflict the most riveting part of the story; especially with how beautifully conveyed it was through Grell’s writing. Ollie overall is a character who challenges not only institutions and people, but the very elements of life itself. The whole story is him trying to be more true to himself, and it’s only in the end does he achieve that through killing Dinah’s tortures and with Shado’s guidance. Oh, Shado herself was so enjoyable for me as well. I forgot the charm to her initial appearance because well…it got changed over the years 💀 But the clarity she provided to both Ollie and the situation at hand, her need for vengeance tied with honor, and yet the compassion she gave that she absolutely did not need to give. Shado’s style of archery was better than his because she had already answered that question about the human nature. She’d already long come to terms with the lack of moral integrity, and I know it sounds cliche how I’m wording it, but Shado just overall is a refreshing mix of self-awareness and immoral actions. Anyways this is inspired because I was thinking about Nietzsche and Ollie, then I read Longbow Hunters again, and the theme of primal natures equaling truth was in my mind the whole time I read. Especially with the added political discourse in the storyline, and the background plot of Ollie and Dinah thinking about a family (with totally diff opinions). And I think it’s so interesting that the story fully acknowledges that Ollie’s most natural part of himself awakened because he was forced to survive on the island, that was his rebirth and what he deems to be his truest self. And it still wasn’t enough for him to face until the end of the story, when all is resolved but he’d committed murder.

Something about the truest version of yourself awakening once you embrace depravity, and allow yourself to be as human as possible, taking life and death into both your palms.

[httpiastri]

I keep think about the Ollie Paul fic if the reader was related to someone in the motorsports world, where in the song Taylor sings "talks business with my father" and Ollie is talking to them about racing (trying to bond) and they are nice and all BUT later privately they are like does this kid talk about anything else? And they tell you how they miss Paul

wahhhhhhh i love this 🥺 it makes so much sense... esp maybe paired with the other ask i got about her dad being like maybe involved in the fda, so ollie kinda wants to impress him but also keeps talking about ferrari stuff and her dad is very like "😶😶 okay yes sure but don't you have anything else in your life?"... but ollie is just doing it to be kind and he doesn't understand what he's doing wrong, he just wants to be a good son-in-law :( and yes her parents subtly trying to tell her about how they liked paul better........

[paulkariyas]

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev || AO3 || My Website

Chapter 77: July 2001

Gerry moves as carefully and quietly as he can, boots in hand, paying special attention to the floorboards. It’s not that it’s early, or at least not so early that his mother is sleeping…which is part of the problem, really, that she’s awake and likely to hear him if he’s not cautious. So he concentrates on each step, putting his weight just right, moving as slowly and smoothly as possible so nothing rattles or jingles, trying to summon his inner Martin—he’s always been extremely light on his feet, it’s almost uncanny at times. If he can just make it to the steps without—

“Gerard? Come in here.”

Ah. Shit.

For a split second, Gerry considers pretending he didn’t hear her and making a break for it, but she will come after him, or send someone after him, and he doesn’t know who—or what—she’s in league with this week. He quickly sets his boots down and steps into them before opening the door and coming through, trying to swagger like he’s walking around with his shoes untied on purpose. “Yes, Mum?”

His mother peers at him over the top of her pince-nez glasses, her habitual scowl in place. She never wears those glasses where anyone but him or Aunt Lily—or sometimes Melanie and Martin—can see; she’s incredibly vain about a lot of things. Even Uncle Roger doesn’t know she wears them. “Were you going somewhere?”

Gerry considers his options for a split second, then shrugs. “Out.”

His mother waits, but he doesn’t elaborate. For once, she chooses not to push him. “Pick up a bottle of aspirin while you’re at it. And be back in an hour. We have a train to catch.”

“Where are we going?” Gerry tries to remember if there’s something planned he’s forgotten about. He doesn’t think so. He would have said something to Melanie and Martin if they did. They’ve been making plans, or at least firm intentions, for their summer break for weeks now, and today’s the first real day of it. He can probably put them off for a day, though, as long as his mother wants to go somewhere local.

“Brussels,” his mother replies, dashing that hope instantly, and then further crushes it by adding, “To start with, anyway. My contact wants to meet us there and will take us where we need to go after.”

Gerry definitely doesn’t like the sound of that. It could mean they’re going somewhere within walking distance. It could mean they’re meeting someone with a personal car or a private plane. It could also mean they’re going to point him at the mouth of a pitch-black cave and tell him to go retrieve whatever’s inside it. It definitely does not mean he wants to go.

“Do I have to go with you?” The words pop out of his mouth before he can stop them, or even think about them.

As soon as his brain catches up to his tongue, everything inside him goes cold. He has never, not once, not in his entire life, argued with his mother about one of these expeditions. She says come along and he comes—sometimes dragging his feet, sometimes shaking in his boots, but always, always doing what she asks, demands really, without question or pause. He’s never refused to go, or asked if there was another option. Because he knows there isn’t. There is only his mother, and what his mother wants.

The resentment over that has been building for a while, at least since November, when the trip took just a little longer, Gerard and he missed Melanie’s birthday. It’s been fueled by listening to Melanie and Martin talk about school and activities and the like. Gerry’s never been particularly interested in attending a traditional school, he learns plenty, but it’s been slowly dawning on him (more slowly than it should have) that what he’s learning is what his mother wants him to learn, not always what he needs to know. Or even wants to know. He might not have a lot of use for some of the things in Martin’s maths book, but it looks fascinating. He’s even been considering making an argument for him to attend the local school starting in the fall, just to get an official diploma.

He knows what she’ll probably say to that—common schools are for common children, and you have the blood of the Von Closens in your veins—but he has no idea what she’ll say to him whining about getting dragged off on one of her work trips again.

Mary Keay removes her glasses to hit him with the full force of her glare. His instinct is to apologize, to back down immediately, but he holds his tongue. She’s going to be furious with him either way. He might as well be honest.

After several long moments of silence, she says coldly, “What else would you do, Gerard?”

“Stay in London?” Gerry gestures around them. “I’m fifteen. I’m not a little kid anymore.”

“You’re still a child,” his mother says. “For a night or two, perhaps, but you are far from old enough to spend potential weeks on your own.”

“You’ve taught me how to defend myself,” Gerry protests. Against magical threats more than mundane ones, but still, that should be good enough, right? “Besides, I wouldn’t even be on my own all that much. I’ve got plans.”

A look of disgust crosses his mother’s face. “Plans.”

Gerry stands his ground, with difficulty. “With Melanie and Martin. They’re on vacation, Mum. I just want to spend time with them. I never get to do that, and when we’re home during the school terms, they’re busy except on weekends. This is the one chance we get to have together. Besides, if they get time off from learning, why don’t I?”

The look on his mother’s face is a terrible thing. Gerry suddenly knows she’s about to skin him and bind him into her Book, where he’ll forever be her servant. He tenses, ready to spring the instant she goes for him. He’s not as nimble as Melanie or quick as Martin, but he might be able to dodge her and make it to the shop. Maybe if he trips over his still-untied boot laces, he’ll gain enough momentum from tumbling down the steps to give him a decent head start, and surely she won’t kill him if he makes it outside and into public.

And then, suddenly and inexplicably, her anger clears away. “You want to spend time with Martin and Melanie? Well, why didn’t you say so?” She gets to her feet. “Come along.”

Gerry blinks, taken completely off-guard. “What?”

“Don’t waste time, Gerard. Come with me.” His mother pushes in her chair and closes the book she was studying—which is, in fact, the Book. Before he can think up an escape plan, she grabs his arm and drags him out of the flat.

His mother’s car is a Vauxhall Viva that’s at least ten years older than Gerry and about as stubborn. Because she drives it so rarely, she hasn’t bothered to fix a lot of minor things that aren’t technically affecting its ability to run but definitely make it less than optimal, like the fact that the passenger side door has a broken lock that won’t disengage no matter what they do or the fact that turning the dial on the radio past a very narrow set of stations causes the indicator lights to turn on and refuse to stop until the dial is fixed and the car is restarted. (Gerry doesn’t even know how that’s possible, but he’s not a mechanic or an electrician and has simply concluded that the car is probably possessed.) His mother’s solution is to open the driver’s side and physically shove Gerry into it. She barely gives him time to get over the center console, let alone properly oriented into his seat, before she starts the car and pulls away from the shop. Her driving is less terrifying than the people and things she usually interacts with, but not by much.

Gerry briefly contemplates rolling down his window and screaming for help, or possibly bailing out the window, but the crank is rattling around in the backseat somewhere.

After not nearly as long as the journey reasonably should take and several near misses—including one with one of the red double-decker buses that Gerry is prepared to swear takes at least a decade off his lifespan—they pull up in front of the Blackwood-King residence. His mother pulls the car in behind Uncle Roger’s still old but much better maintained sedan, switches off the engine, and gets out. “Come,” she orders Gerry again, and he scrambles to comply. His boot laces briefly tangle in the gear shaft, and he momentarily debates leaving the boots behind, but manages to free himself and scramble after her as she marches up to the door and knocks.

Uncle Roger opens the door, looking very surprised. He’s clearly getting ready for work, but he’s completely polite. “Good morning, Mary, Gerard. Is everything all right?”

“Do you have a few minutes, Roger?” Gerry’s mother says, in the same tone of voice she usually speaks to Uncle Roger in—a coldly, painfully polite voice with a brittle edge to it that indicates he is testing the limits of her patience. “I have a proposition for you and Liliana.”

Surprise and hope rise up and mingle in Gerry’s chest. She’s actually…considering his request. Even come over to talk to Uncle Roger and Aunt Lily about the idea. It must be his lucky day.

“Of course, of course, come on in.” Uncle Roger steps back to allow them in, then addresses Gerry. “I think Melanie and Martin are awake if you’d like to head upstairs. Melanie definitely is, anyway, and I can’t imagine her letting Martin sleep in, even if it is the holidays.”

“Thanks, Uncle Roger.” Gerry offers him a warm smile, steps out of his boots and tucks them by the door, and takes the stairs two at a time before his mother can stop him or call him back.

Technically, the master suite is up here, but Lily can’t manage the stairs, so she and Roger have the smaller room on the ground floor. Gerry remembers the fight Melanie and Martin had over which of them would take the master suite—both of them wanted the other to have it—but eventually Martin prevailed with the very compelling argument that Melanie sleeps more heavily than he does, so if she has the master suite he can slip past her to use the bathroom or take a shower without waking her, while she’s less likely to do the same. Her door is ajar, and Gerry can hear voices coming from behind it, so he taps on the door and then pushes it open further, enough to poke his head in. “Can I come in?”

“Gerry! Get in here.” Melanie waves him in impatiently but doesn’t get up. “And shut the door, would you?”

Gerry complies. Martin and Melanie are both dressed for the day—Melanie in dark denim dungaree shorts over a bright yellow t-shirt, Martin in a simple blue and white striped shirt and khaki cargo shorts—and sitting on Melanie’s bed, Melanie’s legs dangling over the edge and Martin cross-legged behind her as he brushes out her glossy dark brown hair. It’s the first time Gerry’s seen it loose in a while and he hasn’t realized it’s been getting so long.

“Morning,” Martin says, peering over Melanie’s head with a cheery but slightly confused smile. “I thought we were meeting in the usual spot.”

“We were, but Mum brought me over instead.” Gerry comes closer. “Can I join you?”

“Yeah, of course.” Melanie pats the bed next to her. “How’d you convince your mum to give you a ride?”

“I didn’t know the alleged car was even running,” Martin murmurs. “Neens, you want a braid or a bun?”

“Braid. Donna told me the way you did it last week was really pretty.”

Martin nods and begins separating Melanie’s hair into three equal bunches. Gerry picks up Melanie’s brush and begins getting the knots out of his own hair. “It’s running. Just not well. And I didn’t…exactly ask her for a ride. She’s planning to go out of town.”

Martin freezes for just a moment. Melanie’s shoulders slump. “Oh. You’re going away again?”

“Well, that’s the thing.” Gerry recounts the conversation he and his mother had before leaving the shop. “I was really just sort of hoping she’d say I was fine as long as I checked in with Aunt Lily or something, but she told Uncle Roger she had a ‘proposition’ for him, so I’m wondering if maybe she’s going to ask if I can stay with you all while she’s gone.”

Martin brightens. “That’d be wicked awesome!”

“It’d save loads of time with hanging out,” Melanie agrees. “And if your mum’s gone for a while…”

“I won’t miss Martin’s birthday,” Gerry completes. “Maybe I can even enroll at your school.”

“You wouldn’t be in our classes, though.”

“No, but I could get a proper education, you know? At least some legitimate learning. Maybe even take—what do you call them? My O levels?”

“They don’t call them that anymore. It’d be your GSCE exams.” Martin taps Melanie’s shoulder. “Hand me a hair tie, would you?”

Melanie complies, handing over one of the twisty, loopy ties with the bright plastic balls on either end that she still favors even though they’re all stretching out of shape. “I don’t know if they’d let you do that, but it would be pretty neat to have you at our school, I won’t lie.”

“It all depends on if Aunt Lily says yes, I guess,” Gerry says. He knows Uncle Roger will agree in a heartbeat, so in the end it really does hinge on Aunt Lily. He wonders if he should have stayed downstairs after all to plead his case—like the fact that he’s happy to “watch” Melanie and Martin so Aunt Lily won’t be bothered, or that he doesn’t eat much really. Which isn’t exactly true, but it’s closer to true than not, so it counts, right?

Martin smooths a hand down Melanie’s braid. “There, is that good?”

Melanie touches her hair, then jumps up to run into the bathroom and look in the mirror. Gerry nudges Martin. “Hey, would you do my hair like that too?”

Martin’s cheeks turn faintly pink. “You don’t have to tease me.”

“No, I’m serious. That is really nice. And it’s hot out there.”

“Maybe if you didn’t wear twice your body weight in black leather all the time…” Martin takes the brush from Gerry’s hand. “Turn around, then.”

Melanie comes back, beaming, and beams even wider when she sees what Martin is doing. “Hold on, I’ll get you a hair tie.”

“Oh, yeah, I didn’t think about that.” Gerry just hopes Melanie doesn’t come back with a pink one. “So once Mum gives in and lets me stay, what are we doing today?”

Melanie, of course, has a list of things she wants to do, and it takes Gerry a few minutes to convince her they don’t have to do all of them today. He’s just about to suggest a first stop when there’s a knock on the door.

“Come in!” Melanie calls.

Uncle Roger opens the door and smiles to see them. “Melanie, you look lovely as always, sweetheart.”

Melanie smiles up at Martin. “Martin did my hair for me.”

“And mine,” Gerry adds.

Uncle Roger laughs, not in a mean way. “I can see that. Well, when you’re finished braiding Gerard’s hair, Martin, you can get your things together.”

Martin freezes. “Wh-what?” he stammers.

“Dad?” Melanie gets to her feet, her whole body tense. Gerry suspects she’s about to start a fight and just barely keeping herself controlled. “What do you mean, Martin can get his things together?”

Uncle Roger blinks and turns to Gerry. “You didn’t tell them?”

“We were a little busy,” Gerry hedges, because he’s not sure what he’s supposed to be telling them.

“Huh.” Uncle Roger turns back to Melanie and Martin. “Well. Exciting news! Your Aunt Mary is getting ready to go on one of her buying trips, and since it’s your summer holidays, she and Gerard thought you might like to go along and help. It’s a good opportunity to start learning more about the business, and you’ll get to travel. Won’t that be fun?”

Melanie does not visibly relax at this. In fact, she turns towards Gerry and Martin, and her expression is mingled anger and panic. Gerry is, admittedly, not sure how to respond either. There’s a sense of things spiraling out of control, to say nothing of the fact that he definitely did not want Melanie and Martin any more involved in this than they already are. His mother is going to exploit Martin’s talent for picking Leitners, and heaven help them if she realizes he can see the marks of the Fourteen on people too.

Martin, however, smooths his hand down Gerry’s braid in the same gesture he did for Melanie and speaks in a bright, excited tone. “Oh, that does sound like fun, Dad! Thanks for letting us go. How long should we pack for?”

“Just a week,” Uncle Roger says, and Gerry breathes a silent sigh of relief until he adds, “I’m sure there will be places to wash your clothes if you’re gone longer than that. And I’ll make sure you each have a bit of money to buy things if you need them.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Melanie echoes. She doesn’t sound quite as excited as Martin does, but she darts over and hugs her father anyway. “Can you tell Aunt Mary we’ll be down in just a few minutes?”

“Of course, little moth.” Uncle Roger bends down and kisses the top of Melanie’s head, then extracts himself and heads out of the room.

The second the door closes behind him, Martin sighs heavily. This time, his voice is more resigned than excited. “So where are we going?”

“Brussels, to start with.” Gerry echoes his mother’s words. He twists around to see Martin, so pale his freckles stand out like lint on black velvet, wringing his hands hard. Gerry reaches over and gently takes them to keep him from digging his fingernails into his wrists. “You’re not really excited?”

Martin shakes his head. “I like the idea of spending time with you two, but not your mum. And…what is she going to want us to do?”

“I dunno.” Gerry looks over at Melanie. “You know that isn’t what I wanted, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” Melanie crosses back to the bed and hugs Martin tightly. “How come you sounded so happy before, then?”

“What good would it have done to tell Dad that actually, we want to stay here in London? At best he’d tell Aunt Mary and Gerry would have to go off without us, which none of us want, and at worse Mum would drag herself up here and scream at us for being lazy, ungrateful brats and then we’d get in trouble for making her overexert herself on top of that and we’d probably still end up having to go.” Martin shrugs. “And he wouldn’t understand why we’re scared anyway. At least if he tells Mum and Aunt Mary we’re looking forward to it, they’ll either think we don’t know what’s really going on or that we’re brave enough to face it, so Aunt Mary will think twice about trying to feed us to something.”

Martin’s only twelve. Gerry hates that he already knows how to maneuver the adults in their lives to keep them safe. “I guess you’re right. I still don’t have to like it.”

“That’s fair. I don’t like it either.” Martin slides to the edge of the bed. “Let me go put a bag together. We’re taking the train, right?”

“Yeah, out of Waterloo, I think.”

Martin nods. “Meet you at the top of the stairs in five minutes?”

“Sure thing.” Melanie is already going for her bag.

It’s probably closer to ten minutes before they’re downstairs in the living room, Melanie and Martin with bags over their shoulders and smiles on their faces, Gerry with his hair neatly braided back and his hands in his pockets; his mother gives him the hairy eyeball, but says nothing. Aunt Lily lectures them about behaving and listening to their aunt; Uncle Roger hugs them both and gives them a couple of folded bills, and then they’re out and attempting to maneuver their way into the backseat of the Vauxhall.

“Gerard and I have to gather our things,” his mother tells Melanie and Martin as they pull away from the house. “Then we’ll be on our way. Martin, I’m sending you to the shop to pick up a bottle of aspirin while we do that.”

“Yes, Aunt Mary,” Martin says obediently.

“We’ll go over what I expect of you once we’re on the train. Mind you’re back quickly. This has already set us back.”

“Yes, Aunt Mary.”

“Good.” Gerry’s mother goes back to driving. Gerry doesn’t dare twist around to look at his brother and sister, but unease and nerves churn in his stomach and make him want to roll down the window, lean out of it, and throw up.

What awful things do they have in store for them on this trip?

[ollie-draws-things]

what if you put oliver in a duck onesie

What if indeed.........

He deserves to be comfy fr

[aliferous-ly]

I love commenting on still updating fics. I love being a part of this little community within the fic. I love when an author recognizes and is excited to see me comment on a new chapter. I love commenting

[malphantasias]

Relistening to episode 1 of jrwi: Riptide and I can't help but notice how often, when grizzly was describing marshall john chasing the crew, he also was describing an navy elven man that also chased them.

*looks at ollie

*looks at the elven man

Now hear me out-

[cordyce]

i’m finally caught up on school spirits. i love wally & charley so much they r so very dear to me

[tunglrsillyman]

:3

Sure I'll share this (OC posting below)

how it started (Circa 2018)

how its going (drew it last night using the same technique this time using Samsung's notes drawing program. But also for the funnies, this is also taking place in 2018.)

[sundial-bee-scribbles]

Fuck yeah more Piko angst

- This one is based on your audio thing because he sounds very panicked and startled but he wasn't actually informed that he was going to be discontinued until it happened.

- Adding to that, he's a teeny bit paranoid when people talk about him because of that, so he listens into conversations that mention him so he can run away if they seem to have ulterior motives.

- ... except he's. Really bad at telling that. so he's in a weird grey area where he's simultaneously kinda naïve and also scared that he's going to be murdered at any time

- he's very shy around people he doesn't know, going as far as to run or hide from them.

- He also doesn't like being stared at. He is very unusual so he gets stared at, even though nobody means any harm. Do you see the problem.

i'm very glad he sounds so hehehe, that was the objective ☆⌒(≧▽​° ) but also fair i mean... i was gonna say "i dont think most softwares get warned they're gona get shut down" but now that i think abt it thats a lie cause [usually] there's like press releases or pop up messages sent out in advance like "servers shutting down on xx/xx/xxxx please back up data" so... ig that's particularly cruel of piko's managers hakjhskjdgnk 😭 tho i can't imagine being warned in advance would help either like... thats being told you only have a certain number of days to live wyd then

also ow the rest of those you're just describing me... ow ; w ; /hj /silly

please give my boy salvation and comfort please... let him find people that will take care of him good w/o any ulterior motives so his fear doesnt get affirmed... comfort him pLEASE 😭🙏

[madebysimblr]

Cordy: I’m sorry. I can’t believe she pulled all that out of the blue.

Ollie: Me either… Maybe back in high school before she was hanging with us…. But still… Whatever. It’s done.

Cordy: What did you do to keep it from wrecking you completely?

Ollie: Threw myself into soccer practice. Talked to Gigi and Zane… And Mom. She told me about a long time ago when someone she dated just abruptly left her. Said it was a good thing.

Cordy: Of course she would have seen it that way…

Ollie: Yeah…

[httpiastri]

Did you watch F2 qualifying yet? 😢

i did… but at what cost……

[dykes4timrand]

i think if chip listened to landslide he would disintegrate immediately

[brbremaking]

sending myself down ollie au rabbit hole

[ollieofthebeholder]

to find promise of peace (and the solace of rest): a TMA fanfic

<< Beginning < Prev. || AO3 || My website

Chapter 53: March 2017

Ever since having the conversation with Tim, Martin really had been trying to have a better work-life balance. Or, well, any kind of work-life balance. He, Tim and Sasha had reached an agreement to rotate out the recording so that one of them wasn’t doing all the work, with each of them taking no more than one day a week or recording more than one real statement per day, and he’d also promised not to work more than an hour outside their regular working hours or spend more than an hour a day in the tunnels. He’d taken to doing one or the other on any given day, and it was working more or less well enough. He also knew that Tim was right—he needed to do something that didn’t involve the Institute—and being alone wasn’t the smartest idea, for more reasons than just the fact that he’d be more likely to lapse back into bad habits if he was.

The discovery that the shop he frequented for knitting supplies had a circle that met on Tuesday nights hadn’t surprised him nearly as much as learning that the little old ladies who made up most of it referred to it quite casually as a “stitch and bitch”.

The leader of the group had challenged Martin to try a particularly tricky sock pattern that involved colorwork and cables, and he’d been so focused on it that he’d almost missed his stop that morning, but he had managed to make it in time, barely. He’d exchanged a few kind words with Manal, the young woman who’d been hired to replace Rosie, and then headed down to the Archives. For just a moment, he’d hesitated on the threshold, hoping against hope that he’d walk in to find Jon waiting for him with a smile, but of course that hadn’t happened.

So…here he was. Wednesdays were his day to record, and Tim had presented him with a stack of statements they���d finished the research on. Most of them were going straight on the Discredited shelves when they were done, but Martin, with unerring instinct, had already located the one real statement in the bunch and set it to one side. It was a bit distracting, really, and by rights he probably ought to do it first or he wouldn’t be able to focus on the others.

He didn’t want to, though. Something about it made him want to record literally anything else. It seemed to be taunting him, which he knew was bullshit—he couldn’t See anything on the statements for a reason, they didn’t have anything of the Fourteen in them specifically—but still, he had a feeling he wouldn’t like whatever was in it. The name was no help, either, so he obviously hadn’t been helping with the research for it.

The tape recorder turned itself on at his elbow, and he glanced at it suspiciously. He shouldn’t, he knew he shouldn’t, but…well, no one was around. And if they were something harmful, they needed to know. Maybe he couldn’t use the candles, but they could surely figure out some way of warding against whatever was behind them.

He was just reaching for his glasses when the office door opened. Trying to suppress the sudden flare of guilt, Martin looked up and saw the last person he would have expected—Basira, looking puzzled or angry or worried or some combination of the three. She nodded at the stack of files in front of him. “Still recording, then?”

“I mean, it’s what we do,” Martin pointed out. He put his hand on top of the real one, but didn’t pull it towards himself or flip it open. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m looking for Daisy.”

Irritation flared in Martin’s chest. He’d told Basira, told her to stay away for her own good, and here she was in the middle of the Institute and looking for Daisy. The urge to say I wouldn’t tell you if I did know bubbled up in his throat, and he swallowed it down and tried to be rational. The stress of the last few weeks was getting to him. His anxiety about Jon, his anxiety about Melanie—who Gerry had said would be a couple weeks later than initially planned getting back but hadn’t reached out to him—the worry about the Unknowing, and the general atmosphere of the Institute was combining to make him less patient with people than usual. It wasn’t the first time it had happened. The fact that Basira was asking about Daisy wasn’t helping that, because despite everything, she still scared the hell out of him.

“I don’t know where she is,” he said, aware that his voice was tight. “Why would you think I would know where she was?”

“Okay, okay,” Basira said, holding out her hands. “It’s just that they said at the station this was the last place she checked in.”

“When she interviewed us,” Martin said. “Which was more than five weeks ago.”

“Yeah, I haven’t heard anything, so I went to check in with her at the station.” Basira avoided Martin’s eyes when she said that. “They said she hadn’t been in since February.”

Martin lifted an eyebrow. “And no one thought to check in on that?”

“I mean, they don’t keep a close eye on…well, she goes off the grid sometimes when she’s investigating a case. Never this long, though. I thought it might have something to do with…y’know.”

Martin felt a probably unwarranted surge of pride at that. He knew that the reason Daisy usually went off the grid was to track down a suspect, and the fact that Jon had managed to elude her for a whole month was a pretty big deal. He wasn’t going to let that last part slide, though. “You can’t seriously believe Jon killed anyone.”

“I mean, if you were going to cover for anyone, figured it’d be him.” Basira shrugged uncomfortably at the unimpressed look Martin gave her. “I just hope he didn’t. Don’t want to think I was wrong about you. I really like you, you know?”

“I’m gay,” Martin said automatically, then winced as he heard the words come out of his mouth.

Basira recoiled, which didn’t exactly do wonders for his self-esteem. “No, not like—ugh, why does everybody think that?”

Martin made a mental note to strangle Tim later. “Sorry, no, I didn’t—that just—”

“I just, I mean you’re good company,” Basira said, gesturing to him vaguely. “You know, when you’re not being all morbid and paranoid.”

“Working here will do that to you,” Martin said dryly. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

“Sure.” Basira took a deep breath. “So, you have no idea where Daisy is?”

“Considering Elias seems to think she’s still looking at Jon for the murder? Probably using her ‘operational discretion’ to bully some poor sucker who hasn’t seen Jon in a million years,” Martin grumbled.

Basira froze. “What did you just say?”

Martin paused and ran over what he’d just said. “Elias thinks she still suspects Jon?”

“No, no. Did she use the phrase ‘operational discretion’?” Basira pinned Martin with a look more intense than she’d given him since the first official interrogation.

“Yeah,” Martin said slowly. Dread, never very far away these days, began creeping up his spine. “She said she had ‘full operational discretion to make everything go away’. Is everything all right?”

Basira didn’t answer—or if she did, it was definitely not an answer Martin wanted to hear. “I need to find him.”

“He’s safe,” Martin said quickly. “If she hasn’t found him by—”

“No, I need to find him now.” Basira looked Martin over intently, then evidently decided he was telling the truth. She handed him a business card. “Look, here’s my number. You call me immediately if you find anything out, okay?”

“I—fine. Wait, hold on.” Martin grabbed one of the business cards for the Institute Jon kept on his desk to avoid having to give them to people, flipped it over, and scribbled out his own number. “Here’s mine. Do the same, okay? And—and if—” He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Sure.” Basira took the card and left, a lot faster than she’d come in.

Martin watched her go, feeling even more unsettled and off-balance than he had when she first arrived. He turned to glare at the tape recorder, which was still running, so at least he had a record of the last…however long it had been.

Suddenly furious—with himself, with Basira, with the Fourteen, with everything and everyone that stopped him from being an ordinary office drone or, better yet, a chorus boy—he swept up the folder, snapped it open, and yanked out the statement. He didn’t even bother skimming the statement or the supplementary research, just began dictating.

“Martin Blackwood, Archival Assistant at the Magnus Institute, recording statement number 0030411, statement of Enrique MacMillan, given 4th November 2003,” he said crisply. “Statement begins.”

He wasn’t past the first sentence before he felt it—the itch that settled on his shoulders, the tightness around his chest, the ache in his hands, the dry cold and the stale air, and the sharp, burning pain a mere hand’s breadth from his heart where the tiny sliver of metal that had broken off the end of the alleged seal still remained, in too precarious a spot to remove safely but not in such a position that it would work to a more dangerous place. Unfortunately, he also felt the pressure in the back of his eyes and the static on his tongue. It was really a matter of which would hurt him more—continuing or stopping.

Since the Fear in question wasn’t actually on the statement, and all the sensations were mild enough that it was probably just probing at him to see what it could get, Martin plunged ahead and hoped the Eye would be protective, or at least possessive, enough of him to stop anything else from getting at him while he was actually working for it.

“Statement ends,” he said finally. He took a deep, shaky breath and pushed the statement aside, reaching for the supplemental notes. There weren’t many. “Um, the, uh, the statement ends rather abruptly there. According to the few notes in this file, it looks like Mr. MacMillan got in a bit of a fight, which led to his arrest, and…the replacement of quite a bit of floor in the Archivist’s office. There are still a couple of boards on them with scratches I’ve always hoped weren’t fingernail marks. That’s my luck, I guess.”

He turned over the paper and saw a few lines in Sasha’s handwriting, which he skimmed quickly. “Anyway, Mr. MacMillan passed away while awaiting trial. The official cause of death is listed as ‘asphyxiation,’ but neither Sasha nor Tim can find any details about exactly what happened. And…given the nature of this statement, I can’t look into it myself, for…reasons. The book itself is currently held by Artifact Storage in a welded iron box, and it’s at the top of the ‘Do Not Access’ list, but since then it doesn’t look like it’s caused anything unpleasant to happen.” He exhaled heavily. “Thank Christ.”

There was a tapping on the door—a very familiar pattern—and Martin’s head shot up, his spine straightening. Gerry wouldn’t come to the Institute, not under the circumstances, so that must mean—“Hello?”

The door opened, and sure enough, Melanie peered around it, doing her best “Kilroy Was Here” impression before pushing the door open enough that she could come in, smiling and throwing out her arms. “Well, aren’t you going to say hello?”

“I already did,” Martin pointed out, but he was around the desk faster than he’d thought possible and hugged Melanie hard. “God, it’s good to see you. I’ve been worried sick.”

“I’m fine,” Melanie claimed, but Martin didn’t even need to look at her to know she was lying. “I’m better than I was, anyway.”

Martin let her go and gestured for her to sit down. She dropped rather gracelessly into the chair in front of the desk; rather than sit behind it, he sat on the edge of the desk and smiled down at her. “When did you get back?”

“Last night. I decided to indulge myself a bit and took the train.” Melanie stretched, her spine popping. “I still fucking hate flying.”

“I don’t blame you. Did you find what you were looking for?”

“Yeah, and then some.” Melanie hesitated, then admitted, “I…kind of got shot by a ghost.”

“Melanie!” Martin was on his feet and kneeling in front of her before he thought twice about it.

Melanie shoved his face back, not exactly gently but not exactly violently. “I’m fine. Jeez. Got a doctor to check me out, they said there was nothing in there.” She hesitated, then added, “And…I talked with a specialist, too. He also said it looked okay.”

Martin frowned slightly as he heaved himself to his feet. “You, uh, you went by the bookstore last night?”

“Different specialist.”

Martin froze as the implications of that sank in. He stared at Melanie, who was watching him intently, like she was waiting for him to say something. Hope and fear mingled in his chest, and all he could think of was that he was glad she hadn’t come in before Basira.

“You’ve…run into one of your music friends, then,” he said carefully.

Melanie nodded once. “Probably the last one I’ve got, to be honest. I burned through a lot on this trip. Savings. Goodwill. Friends. Luck. He’s pretty much the only one I’ve got left besides…well, you. And you’re the reason I’ve got him, so, uh, thanks for that.”

“Hey, you might’ve met if it hadn’t been for me.”

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t have tried to like him if it hadn’t been for you. He genuinely likes you, not like all those fake people who liked the fake you when we were kids.” Melanie studied Martin’s face. Evidently she didn’t find what she was looking for, because she sagged slightly, then dropped her voice. “He misses you.”

For just a moment, Martin let his guard down and let himself feel hope and longing. He knew who Melanie was talking about, of course he did, but as long as he pretended he didn’t…until Basira found Daisy, it was just safer Martin not know for sure. Still, he said softly, “I miss him.”

Melanie nodded and swallowed and looked away. “Anyway, I just…I dunno. I promised I’d let you know when I got back, so…hi, I’m back.” She looked back up at him and tried for a grin. “Hope you weren’t too bored while I was gone.”

“I’ve managed,” Martin said, as dryly as he could. He almost added that a full debriefing could wait until later, when they were at the bookstore, but if she wasn’t planning to head back there, he didn’t want to bring it up. “Just been a lot, you know? Not half a day after you left and Jon got accused of murder.”

“Who?”

“They don’t know. They found the body of an old man beaten to death in his office and decided Jon must’ve done it.” Martin brushed the surface of the desk lightly. It had taken him the better part of a day to scrub all the bloodstains out, but fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it—he had a lot of experience with that sort of thing. “He didn’t, though. He wouldn’t.”

“I know,” Melanie said softly. “You wouldn’t care about him if he were a bad person.” She cleared her throat and added, “But the work’s been okay? Nothing particularly…unusual?”

“It is what it is,” Martin said with a shrug. “We’ve been…some projects have stalled, others are still going forward. I was working a lot of extra hours until Tim made me stop, said it wasn’t good to spend all my time in this place.”

“He’s right, you need rest,” Melanie scolded lightly. “The work will still be here during regular hours, you know?”

“Yeah, but some days I don’t think it’ll ever be done.”

The door opened abruptly behind Melanie. Martin looked up with the intention of telling Tim he’d be along in a minute and almost swallowed his tongue when Elias stepped in, genial and affable. “A friend of yours, Martin?”

At this point, lying didn’t seem like that viable of an option—especially, he realized, since Elias had probably gone over the personnel files with Manal and doubtless knew, if he hadn’t already, that Martin had changed his emergency contact information. He tried not to blink. “Uh, yes, she’s my sister. Melanie, this is Elias Bouchard, he runs the Institute.”

“Hi,” Melanie said unenthusiastically. “We’ve met. Briefly.”

“Ah, yes, when you came to give your statement last year.” Elias smiled blandly. “My apologies, I didn’t recognize you then. Ms. King, correct? Surely you’re not the one who runs Ghost Hunt UK?”

Melanie stiffened, just for a second. “Not anymore.”

“Ah, of course. My apologies.”

Melanie gave Martin the briefest of incredulous glances. “What, you used to watch it?”

“I’m sorry to hear it’s no longer running,” Elias said, which wasn’t exactly an answer. “Your techniques were rudimentary, but you showed surprising promise.” He inclined his head in Martin’s direction. “Had I known you were Martin’s sister, that would have explained a good deal. You share quite a few traits. Your instinct for the truth in the tales of the credulous, for example, and your penchant for knowledge. Your tendency to…rush in where angels fear to tread, shall we say.”

“Thanks. I think,” Melanie said dryly. She set both feet on the floor and turned to Martin. “I should get going, I guess. Let you get back to work. You’ve got a lot on, you said.”

Elias scanned Melanie with his one good eye. “One moment, Ms. King. Martin has filled you in on recent events, I believe?”

“A bit,” Melanie said slowly.

“Then you are aware that the Archives are…well. Three is the usual number for assistants, but there is certainly enough work to support a fourth. Especially under the present circumstances.”

Melanie stilled. “Wait, are you offering me a job?”

Martin’s blood ran cold. Elias’ pleasant expression never changed. “You have some experience in the field, I believe. And some familiarity with the Institute. I believe you’ve made some use of our library in recent months?”

“Well, yes, but…” Melanie began.

“She’s my sister,” Martin interjected. He didn’t think Elias was serious, and he knew Melanie wasn’t going to accept, but still, he might as well give her a good excuse. “Wouldn’t that be, er, a conflict of interest?”

“You wouldn’t be supervising her, Martin,” Elias said pointedly. “At any rate, favoritism among the assistants is less of a concern down here than you think.” He turned slightly to face Melanie more directly. “Do you want the job, Melanie?”

That he had shifted from using her surname to using her first name was a bad sign, but Martin was fully prepared for her to still tell Elias to take a long walk off a short pier and hug an octopus. After all, she knew what he’d done, some of what he was capable of, and she knew enough about the Institute in general and the Archives in particular to know accepting would be a bad idea. Besides, she technically already had a job.

“Well, it’s a bit sudden, but—yeah, okay.”

“W-what?” Martin blurted, shocked into indiscretion. “Melanie, are you out of your mind?”

“Problem, Martin?” Elias asked. His voice was mild, but carried a faint warning tone.

And in that instant, Martin knew he was beaten. He knew Elias had no clue how much Melanie actually knew, how much they’d discussed, and for whatever reason he wanted her in the Institute. And if Martin objected too hard, neither of them would walk out of this office alive.

“I guess not,” he said.

“Good.” Elias turned back to Melanie. “Well, come on up to my office. We’ll finish up this interview. Hopefully we can fill out some of that paperwork.”

“All right. Lead the way.” Melanie got to her feet and whistled as she followed Elias out of Jon’s office.

Martin sputtered for a moment, then finally forced out, “Oh, great.”

At that point, he realized the tape recorder was still running and shut it off with an excessively forceful stab of the button, then propped his elbows on the desk and dropped his face into his hands.

He wanted to scream. There had probably been a scream building inside him in years, one he’d swallowed and suppressed and fought down and fought against, and if ever there was a time to let it out, it was now. He also wanted to chase after them and beat Elias to death with the pipe that had been used to murder the old man in Jon’s office. It wasn’t like Daisy didn’t have him as a back-up suspect, so even if he got caught and for some reason the other members of the staff cared, it wouldn’t be that much of a stretch, and at least Jon and Melanie would be safe. He also found himself wanting to call Gerry. Elias was distracted, he wouldn’t know if Martin called his brother, so they could keep Gerry hidden a bit longer even if Martin called him to tattle, or enlist help, or something.

He did none of those things. Instead, he forced himself to try and calm down, to be rational. He didn’t have to be quiet, he told himself, he just had to be sensible, and that actually suppressed a lot of his desire to be loud. He took a few deep, slow breaths and tried to think.

It wasn’t that much of a stretch of the imagination to guess why Elias was trying to recruit Melanie—had recruited Melanie. It was one more thread of control around Martin, one more safeguard against him doing something like setting the entire Archives on fire and walking away. He didn’t know about the bookstore, so he thought this was Melanie’s only option—and surely Martin wouldn’t make his sister jobless, homeless, desperate. What it was hard to figure out was why Melanie had accepted.

“Martin? Martin, are you okay?” Sasha’s voice startled him so bad he almost tipped the chair over. He looked up to see her hovering over him a little anxiously. “Are you sick? Is it—oh, shit. Tim! You weren’t supposed to give him that one!”

“I’m fine,” Martin insisted, or tried to, but Tim had already burst through the office door when Sasha yelled his name, and at the last part of her yell, he’d dropped his gaze to the folders and turned white.

“Fuck—fuck! That wasn’t the one I meant to give you.” Tim snatched the statement up and reached for the recorder. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll—”

“I’m fine,” Martin repeated, despite that being objectively false. “It’s not—it isn’t the statement.” Although that probably hadn’t helped, he had to admit. He rubbed at his chest, where he could still feel a little tingle of pain, and tried to explain to his friends, who were both hovering anxiously. “Basira was here—she was looking for Daisy—and some of the things she was saying…I just, I got worked up. Then, yeah, okay, I read the statement, and maybe it got to me a little, and I was just coming down from that, but…Melanie was here. And Elias was here, and he fucking hired her. And she accepted.”

“She what?” Tim and Sasha said together.

“She’s up in his office right now. I’m surprised you didn’t see any of them.”

“I’ve been back in the stacks for the last hour,” Tim said, sounding a bit guilty. “One of the files we’ve got cross-referenced another and I was trying to see if I could find it.”

“And I honestly had my head so far up my own research you probably could’ve dropped an elephant next to me and I wouldn’t have noticed,” Sasha added. She sat on the corner of Jon’s desk. “Christ, I can’t believe…okay, you are not all right.”

Tim nodded. “She’s right. Look, go home for the day, okay? You don’t—”

“No, I—I need to be here when she comes down.” Martin clenched his hands tightly. “I need—I have to be sure she’s okay, and I, I need to know why she did it, why…”

“Okay, okay. But you at least need a break,” Tim said firmly. “Go outside. Take a walk, or just sit in the courtyard for a bit or something. Take your knitting with you if you want. Just…get some air. After…after a statement like this, you need some open space. And you need to breathe. Okay? You can’t help her if you’re compromised.”

Martin didn’t want to admit it, but Tim was right. He could feel every nerve straining to the breaking point, and at this point, one more stress and he might explode. “I can go down to the tunnels—”

“Absofuckinglutely not. Outside. Now. Don’t come back for an hour at least.” Tim pointed sternly. “I mean it, Martin.”

Martin took a deep breath. “Okay. Okay.”

He somehow wasn’t surprised that both of him shadowed him the whole way across the Archives, presumably to make sure he didn’t slip down into the tunnels or upstairs to commit homicide. Clutching his knitting bag in one hand, he opened the secondary door and stepped out into the crisp March morning.

The fog that had descended that morning was still hanging about. Martin wasn’t the world’s biggest fan of fog, for a few reasons, but he had to admit Tim was right, it beat the feeling the Buried gave him. He crossed the courtyard, letting the heavy door swing shut behind him, and tucked himself away in a corner, pressing his back against the stonework. Bag on his lap, he tried to let his head clear, fog be damned.

What had Melanie been whistling when she followed Elias out of the office? Martin ran through the tune for a moment. “The Maid on the Shore”, that was it. It wasn’t one they used all that often for burning Leitners, but somehow, he didn’t think she’d chosen it at random.

Almost without conscious thought, Martin began singing the song, trying to follow the plot of the lyrics. It was the kind of song Melanie had always liked, the ones where the fair young maid turned out to be as devious as the men or worse, about a girl who tricked the sailors into thinking she was their prisoner only to rob them blind and row herself back to shore unaccompanied. By the time he reached the last verse, he got it, or at least he thought he did.

Trust me, she was saying. I know what I’m doing. I’m not as trapped and helpless as you think I am.

Well…okay. Martin wouldn’t say he was exactly happy about it, but he was going to trust her. He had to. He always had before, and…okay, sometimes she gave him reason to doubt her, but for the most part, she knew what she was doing as much as he did. Which wasn’t always a recommendation, if he was being honest. Still, she had to have her reasons, so he would take Tim’s advice, sit out here for a bit to calm down, and then go back in and find out what those reasons were.

He thought about pulling out the sock he was working on, but a sudden impulse came over him. He didn’t normally sing outdoors around the Institute, not during daylight; he didn’t like disturbing people, and he’d always worried about causing a scene. But the fog meant not a lot of people were out, and…well, it wasn’t like they could pinpoint where he was anyway. He stood up, planted his feet the way he’d been taught in school, took a deep breath, and launched into his favorite of the two songs he’d used as his audition pieces for college.

He hadn’t sung it terribly often since then, but not because of the memories. Mostly, it was because it was an operatic aria, and those were never meant to be sung quietly.

The last of the fog burned away as the final note rang off the building nearby, which Martin took as his cue to sit back down and pretend he was concentrating on his knitting for a while. As he did so, he realized that a lot of his tension—not all of it, but a lot of it—had lifted as surely as the fog had. Clearly, he needed to do that more often. Maybe he’d look into joining an amateur choral group or something.

For now, though, he was going to at least work this sock up to the heel, and then he was going to head back inside, get back to work, and wait for Melanie to finish her interview so he could either assure her he trusted her or wring her fool neck. He genuinely wasn’t sure which way it was going to go, so he supposed he’d have to wait and see.

That seemed to be his lot in life these days.