#jon’s is ‘statement of [name] regarding [content]’

[jordankennedy]

i love how everyone who records statements has their own little way of doing the intro/case number/notation it’s such a fascinating little detail

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten, MAG 4 Page Turner

Analysis of MAG 4, Page Turner. Spooky book time! Spoilers ahead.

Jurgen Leitner? Stupid idiot motherfucking Jurgen-

Sorry about that got possessed for a second. Anyway, first Leitner statement! Let's get into it while I try to control my rage.

Facts: Statement of Dominic Swain, regarding a book briefly in his possession in the winter of 2012.

Statement Notes: So much in this episode! First Gerry and Mary citing, first Leitner and Mike Crew mention. Crazy how relevant this episode was and we all had no way of knowing.

Starting simple, I would just like to say that as a theatre tech, Swain is so accurate and so real. "Doing a little bit of everything?" Real. Trying to see friends work but you also work at the same time? Real. Work place romance? Real. Not being able to relax when you see a play because you know all the tech stuff that can go wrong? Really real.

What I really loved about Dominic's statement though is the highlight of the ozone smell. He walks all around London with that book, shows it to Mary and Gerard, shows it to friends, and no one else mentions the smell. Yet, when he shows it to his ex Katherine Mendes, she said it "triggered her vertigo." This happens with a lot of the cursed items in the show: they don't have one general effect, but target the specific sources of fear and anxiety in the owner. Katherine apparently gets vertigo often, so The Vast would naturally trigger than height-based stressor. But Swain has a specific fear of lightning and the ozone smell because of what happened to Mike, so torturing him with that smell is the most effective way to cause fear in him.

There's also some really classic cursed object horror going on here that I love. Swain tries to sell the book the whole episode, but calls it "his book" fleeing Mary. Additionally, he says that he thought about giving it away, but felt that "wouldn't count." Very similar to Do Not Open here and a lot of cursed object horror in that there needs to be some kind of debt or reciprocity established rid one of the object.

I also just love the line "walking felt as natural as falling." It really conjures the idea that he can't control himself, that he's stumbling to Mary's shop uncontrollable just as he would fall through the sky: completely unable to stop.

Entity Alignment: Dominic translates "Ex Altiora" as "From Higher" or "Out of the Heights." That's just such insane Vast energy, the idea that whatever the book does to you will spawn from the open empty sky and you won't be able to stop it, just as you'd never be able to stop falling.

Obviously this episode is generally Vast aligned, but that painting of the Eye really freaked me out. "Grant us the sight that we may not know. Grant us the scent that we may not catch. Grant us the sound that we may not call.” This engraving very much encapsulates the point of the Eye and the Archive, and weirdly foreshadows what Jon goes through later. It is essentially saying, "Let me witness the fear and pain of others so that I don't have to experience it myself." Why would Gerry paint this? Especially given that a giant eye gives Elias direct view into his home. What is the goal?

Character Notes: Jurgen Leitner? Stupid idiot motherfucking Jurgen Leitner god damn fool book collecting dust eating-

Sorry what happened I blacked out.

Seriously though, my biggest takeaway about Leitner in this ep is that he doesn't spell his name with an umlaut like others. Why did Jonny include that detail. What does that do for me.

I do love that the only information Swain could find on him was that he lost a bidding war over a book to "GRbookworm1818" who is so obviously Gertrude it's hilarious.

I think it's so weird that Swain couldn't find anything online about him, though. Leitners are clearly around, so wouldn't there be some kind of chat room or reddit post about one? Builds my theory that the Entities or at least the Web has some influence over internet content in this universe that it doesn't have in The Magnus Protocol universe. In TMAGP, the OIAR sorts through things found in databases and the internet, but in TMA the Archive seems to be the only source of real supernatural info, proving that Elias or someone else was controlling the stream of information in a way that the entities aren't able to (yet) in TMAGP.

Let's turn away from the most hated character on the internet to talk about the most loved: Gerard Keay.

Our first intro to Gerry is death metal music blasting from his bedroom at two am which is just, so on brand.

(Also want to point out that Dominic Swain didn't realize it was 2 am until he heard the music. Missing time is another motif that keeps coming up in this show.)

I also forgot that Gerry painted in this universe, so it's nice to see they kept that connection in Protocol.

The thing that's truly key (no pun intended) about this episode though is the ritual Mary performs, blaming Gerry for her fake murder. I believe this is the episode she binds herself to the Skin Book, but I can't figure out when/how she would attach Gerry. Also, the case against him was thrown out because a "key piece of evidence was deemed inadmissible." Was this Gertrude pulling strings, Mary using magic influence, or some other powerful eldritch bureaucrat pulling for our boy? Who's to say.

Mike Crew is really only mentioned in this episode, but it did get me thinking about the relevance of scars in the show. His Lichtenberg scar influences who he is and what he becomes as an Avatar. Very similar to Daisy naming herself after her scar and pursuing law--which would lead to her becoming an Avatar--because of the event and injury. Also, Jon's "markings" are what allow him to start the Eyepocalypse. Physical manifestations and reminders of trauma shaping who we become really is a theme in this show.

And of course, Jon. He is such a terrible liar yet him believing in the supernatural was still somehow a plot twist. Proves how good a writer Jonny is, honestly. He doesn't believe in the supernatural, but is absolutely terrified of Leitners and is working on an "institute project" to eradicate them? I would love to know how this project worked. Was it just research? Was there a team dedicated to finding and collecting Leitners? He also mentions "the incident in 1994," is that when the library was destroyed? Or is just another terrible Leitner incident.

Crazy ep, one of my favorites. Let me know what you think!

[go-to-the-mirror]

March, 2023

I MEANT TO DRAW SOMETHING HHHH

Istg, if the only art I make for this whole relisten is for fatigue I'm gonna cry.

Anyway, 152 time!! I love 152, I love Jon and Helen, I love the parallels, I'm excited, ohhh this is so cool we're heading to like fantastic episode WAY TOO MANY NOTES ones really quickly (too quickly, i want to draw something for 160) and yeah! Yeah! Oh god it's almost season 5.

Below is a mixture of amazing words - mostly Jonny's /j (i have some as well) - and rambling. I love this statement so. much. now.

@a-mag-a-day!!!

I'm putting a content warning for I think it's unreality, cause I talk a bit about... not being able to trust yourself, and that could be... not grand for some people.

Statement of Hezekiah Wakely, regarding his career as a gravedigger. Compiled from a series of letters to Nathaniel Beale between 1837 and 1839. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Who's Nathaniel Beale? I feel like I've seen his name before. Unless, of course, it's another Michael situation. There's... Nathaniel Thorp and Nathaniel Lukas. Hmm.

I’ve been installed here some weeks now, and I’m finding myself well-contented, my sexton duties keeping my time employed such as I scarce have a chance to allow myself those dark thoughts that so concerned you when last we visited.

What thoughts, I wonder. It probably mentions it further along, but I haven't really paid attention to this statement enough to be sure. For a while I thought it was "A Gravedigger's Entry".

The Lord gave him that voice for a purpose, no doubt – but sometimes that purpose does feel like it might be providing me a few minutes of unearned slumber

Hehe

My troubled sleep, on the other hand, has not, of yet, resolved itself in any way to my satisfaction. I work myself to exhaustion, cleaning, polishing and looking after the church proper, and I tell you, when I lie abed I can scarce rise again for the weakness I leave myself in. And yet, sleep still eludes me.

Heh, real. I too cannot sleep.

I’ve never quite known a rest like it. Perhaps it is the harder, more physical aspect of the task, or perhaps the quiet rhythm of it. There’s no echo as there is in the church, just the sound of pick and shovel hitting dirt. And when it’s deep enough, when you stand at the bottom, the noise of the world just… fades away to nothing. It is the sort of quiet that makes you feel as though the commotion and hubbub of life were but a terrible dream, and in sleeping you were waking up to peace.

BLANKETS ARE NOT ENOUGH I NEED TO BE BURIED ALIVE

That just sounds so?? Nice??? HHhnhnmhn

There is such peace in the churchyard, you see: to walk atop the soil knowing that, deep below my feet, those blessed souls wait happy and silent in the cool, damp earth, counting the days until the Resurrection. It gives me such warmth to think of that I have taken to spending much of my unoccupied time wandering the graves, and, where the mood allows me, taking my sleep there.

That is creepy, but like... I mean... I can understand it? It's nice to be outside in nights that aren't too cold, it's nice to sleep under the stars, the creepy part is the fact that it's a graveyard, but that can be brushed aside.

But I do long for that rest. I tell myself I wake each day renewed, but I am never as truly satisfied as when I’m in my slumber, and insensible to the world.

This statement is making me want to go to sleep and/or be buried in the dirt.

I do find, however, that when I dig my graves, I have been going deeper. And at times, I worry I might dig so far as I can no longer get out with my meager ladder. Now, those moments – you must not cast judgment on me for this, Nathaniel, for it is simply a passing fancy – but I will often lie myself down on that soft earth, and I will sleep. And I swear to you that the sleep I find there is more blissful than any I have ever found.

A Gravedigger's Envy? He's getting the nice grave sleep, I want the nice grave sleep, how is Jonny making grave sleep sound so appealing?

At least until a few feet down. But by the end of it… oh, I tell you there was warmth in that grave. Whether by my own body or the heat of the soil, I couldn’t say, but it was as comfortable as the fireplace of a public house, and the wind could not reach me in the hole that I had made.

I want that, I really want the grave sleep, that sounds so nice.

I had a dream, then. I dreamt a rain had come. A terrible bitter rain that chilled my bones and turned the soil around me dark and sodden. The walls grew damp and slippery, their firm shape lost as they began to slip and crumble. And then all at once they collapsed, the grave filling in a moment with a wave of mud and wet dirt. In a single terrible moment of utter terror, it was atop and around me, covering my face and filling my lungs with its awful choking sod. And the strangest thing was that it was wonderful. I had never felt such safety as within the crushing weight of earth all around me, the pressing embrace of the buried. In that instant I knew what it was to be dead, and I ached with envy for them.

Ok, hi, I saw a post, and I was thinking about the post, and I'm going to make a vague rebuttal (friendly-like, because they had good points). Hezekiah was afraid before the walls crashed around him. He was not afraid of some other terror, he was afraid of being buried - in the dead way or the forever deep below creation way... I don't know. Seems to be both, fear soup, remember.

The dreamers that have no idea what Smirke's fourteen is, or the supernatural, still affect the dream. Hezekiah associates being buried with being dead, and therefore the fears affect him as if being buried and being dead were similar things. I'm guessing quite a lot of people fear destruction and associate that with their fear of fire. Spiders and control for the aesthetic and also little bug guys fear being trapped when they're in a spider's web. People fear judgement when they're being looked at. (Speaking of, I swear at the shops today everyone was looking at me, like I saw them look at me, I felt their eyes on me, I associated this with the fear of judgement, and was appropriately spooked. What is this, episode 188 of The Magnus Archives?)

Anyway, back to this, Hezekiah's fear transformed into what Hezekiah became. Similarly, Martin - he was afraid of being alone, abandoned, and afraid of being found out. He became an "avatar" of The Lonely and The Eye. Also, would Martin's fear of being alone and being judged overlap, or feel similar? Is this why he gets both?

Mike was afraid of the part of The Twisting Deceit (The Spiral) that chased him, but he also had encounters with The Vast before Ex Altiora, he was afraid of the unfathomable power of that which chased him, he said that the form it took belonged to The Vast, the way he describes the pain of being struck by lightning - how it is so painful that to try to measure it is impossible. That's all pretty Vast-y to me.

Jane... Jane was afraid of the Hive. She didn't want it, she was afraid, she went to it... sure, she was lonely, but looking at her statement, how much of it is the Hive - if we're separating the two - and how much is Lonely? She talks of picking at her skin, of worms that emerged from the ground after rain, of an itch that called her to the attic, to the wasp's nest.

Sure, something chased them to becoming an Avatar, but I wouldn't go so far as to say it's "another fear" both because fear soup and because... a lot of their stories are about being repulsed and terrified by something, but getting so caught up in it that you forget that person who was scared, and you hurt others just how you've been hurt. Cycle of violence, babyyyy!

For an example, let's grab Peter and Martin. Peter's from the family of... basically a cult? Sure, he doesn't seem too bothered by it, but humans are social animals, and he was neglected for his whole childhood, that fucks people up @ the person who said yea Peter's childhood was actually fine. Then he becomes an avatar of the Forsaken and manipulates Martin into becoming an avatar of The Lonely in turn, who then - in the Eyepocolypse - hurts people in his domain. It's not one to one, but no analogies are.

I’ve been thinking, Nathaniel, of funerals and bodies. Souls that escape leaving this common clay to become one again with a truer clay. Were we not created from mud? And it seems more fitting to me that we should return forever to that mud, not pulled from it by some would-be Redeemer, or lifted to sing hosannas in his holy court. I’ve worked so long, so hard. Do I not deserve a rest in the mud from which I came? Commit my body to the earth and let it stay there. I’d do the same for you. For worship of the Most High - though it may be earned, perhaps, by He that made the heavens and the earth - well, to my mind, all that prayer still sounds a lot like work.

The difference between this and the beginning. Speedrunning his decent, as it were. The difference between envying the dead, and their rest before they go to Heaven, to wishing that when he leaves the world he stays in the ground. Hmmmm!!

But He is the son of God and we are merely sons of the dirt. We are not as strong as He is, and we deserve rest. We deserve to sleep.

The Buried oft represents being metaphorically under pressure, as Hezekiah is. He wishes to be Buried to finally rest from his work. That's interesting to me.

Also, feels sort of Flesh-y, but in a way where it's like... yes, soup, is not the fear of being one and the same as animals, as already being dead, as being from the earth and knowing one day you shall return all part of the same thing? Is that not a similar fear? Feels like one to me. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, that's about death, that's about the earth, are they not one and the same? We all come from the same earthen roots, people, animals, plants, everything, we are the same, and we will die the same.

I’ve been trying to sleep, but that bell kept ringing, the one over Jacob the baker’s grave. That nonsense safety valve the Reverend insisted on putting there, ringing and ringing, and disturbing the sleep of everyone in the churchyard. I’ve no doubt it disturbed Jacob as well, who worked so hard all his life and never thought to complain of his lot. He deserved to rest. So I cut the cord. And now he is quiet.

Oh, lord, he buried Jacob alive.

But I can see why he did it. He fears being away from the earth, he fears not being able to die, and so he sees it as saving Jacob and I understand that, I can understand that in his position, robbed of restful sleep, the grave being the only place where he can find his rest that he would do this.

I think this statement has just achieved the rank of "one of my favourites," because... that line. "He deserved to rest. So I cut the cord. And now he is quiet."

But worry not, Nathaniel. The love I bear you will not let me leave you ignorant. As I did with the Reverend, I will come and I will show you, once and forever, the true and glorious peace of the Buried.

Wow. Just... wow.

Nathaniel Beale is buried on the grounds of St. Peter’s Church in his hometown of Dunstable. And I am only the third person to know that in almost 200 years, after Nathaniel Beale himself, and Mr. Wakeley, the person who buried him.

Hey, we're still getting post-statement spookiness, but because everyone's just stopped doing work it's with Jon's eye spookiness.

I... wow.

I cannot tell how much of the change that comes over someone when they are taken by one of the Fears is a direct product of their influence, and how much is their own mind, desperately contorting itself to accept and justify the awful things they find themselves drawn to doing.

I have a really good quote that ties in with this, but it's only in the deluxe transcript of Hive (patreon exclusive transcripts that have Jon's notes and are canon, the Hive one is the most emotionally ruining of the ones out (1 - 33 as of 22/03/2023) so far), but I will say that his attitude towards them has changed significantly as he's... become one.

He called Jane Prentiss "the entity formerly known as Jane Prentiss" and now... hm...

It's interesting how his understanding or conception of avatars and the like changing over the seasons, and although season 4 doesn't have a lot of other avatar interactions... Jon's whole humanity thing, it's enough to make it my favourite season when it comes to this stuff.

I have read many statements now by those who are changing, who are becoming – something else, and few if any of them seem… entirely rational. Entirely the people that they were before.

GIDDY LEG WIGGLE LIKE HHJNNHNHEHN!!! Humanity and identity and monsterhood and trauma!!! The THEMES of this podded cast, I'm love, I'm love!

But how can I tell, I suppose. My job is to view people at their lowest, their most fearful and unstable moments. Perhaps there is less change there than I imagine. Certainly, I don’t feel different. I have no desire for pseudo-religious philosophizing, or delighting in the suffering of those I harm. Then again, I suppose I’m hardly in the best position to judge. Perhaps to anyone listening to these tapes I sound remarkably similar to Hezekiah. Or to Manuela. Or to Jane.

So, I talked about this to my (middlest) sister because sometimes when you're this excited about things you just have to talk to people, like actually talk, and I had some pretty good thoughts about rationality, about if you can know if you're a monster. If you're slipping and you can't trust your mind anymore, how can you trust your mind enough to know that you can't trust your mind? It's just, how can you know you're so far gone, if you can't trust you, then you can't trust trusting you, therefore you can never truly trust yourself, can you? Everything is your perception, and you will never know if you can trust that. You will only know that you can't.

I just think that it's very neat, the whole... everything, all of this, it's just really cool, like how would Hezekiah know he's wrong to be responsible for the death of Jacob, for the Reverend, for Nathaniel? Does he? How does Jon know if he's just like Hezekiah, how can you truly know yourself - or understand yourself? Oh boy, this is such a cool statement and post statement.

HELEN Hello, John. Been a while since you’ve been down here. ARCHIVIST (Impatient noise) I didn’t come here to see you. HELEN Oh, come now! I’m sure I’m more interesting company than the late Jane Prentiss. ARCHIVIST It’s all that’s left of her now – apart from a jar of ashes in my desk. Just a circle of rotten stone on an otherwise-unremarkable wall.

Is the circle of stone a mirror? Is the jar of ashes as much a part of you as your rib? What was she trying to achieve, you wondered so long ago and now you have the answer and you still don't know why... why she listened to the song in her dreams, why she scratched the itch, but then again, why did you?

HELEN (Cont.) Ah… But that’s not why you’re here, is it? ARCHIVIST Yeah. I’ve been thinking a lot about Jane. She was the first, you know. The first I actually encountered like… like us. She seemed so… inhuman. Like everything she used to be was stripped away. HELEN And now…? ARCHIVIST I wonder how much of her was still in there. How much did she choose to be what she was? I read her statement, she was… (inhale, exhale) she was scared. I assumed she’d been possessed completely against her will, but now I’m not even sure that’s possible. HELEN It is astounding the sort of thing you’re willing to choose – given an unpleasant enough alternative – isn’t it? ARCHIVIST How much of willpower is just – safety? “Comfort” by another name. The option to choose and be fine.

THEMES OF CHOICE AND HOW MUCH YOU'RE AFFORDED!!! God, I love this so much! I love how Jane Prentiss, our and Jon's conception of Jane Prentiss changes from season 1 to season 4. How it starts with her as an inhuman enemy, no longer the person she was, and changes to be... what was she, why did she chose this, who was she, she's humanised as Jon becomes a monster, knows her. Understands her.

She was scared.

Good lord.

And then Jon's line, "How much of willpower is just - safety. Comfort by another name. The option to choose and be fine." and that choice isn't really afforded to them, it's always these hard choices with one option that's like "at least you don't die", or live in fear, or whatever. The option to choose and be fine.

Themes. So many themes, I love this bloody podcast.

HELEN Hungry, are we? ARCHIVIST (Angrily) That’s not – – I haven’t done anything – HELEN – yet. ARCHIVIST (Roughly) I feel like if I don’t… I might die. Fade away into nothing. HELEN … Do you… Know that? ARCHIVIST No. But I… (frustrated noise) I can’t die. They need me. HELEN Come on, Jon, no excuses. (The Archivist sighs.) HELEN (Cont.) They don’t need your protection.

I DONT KNOW WHAT TO SAY, JUST PODDED CAST!!

ARCHIVIST When does it stop? HELEN (Impatient) What? ARCHIVIST The guilt. The misery. All the others I’ve met, they’ve been – cold, cruel. They’ve enjoyed what they do. When does the Eye (inhale) make me monstrous? (Helen laughs.) HELEN What – why would it ever do that? ARCHIVIST I don’t… HELEN When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your handwringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants? ARCHIVIST (Stammering) I-I – I have not been taking statements – HELEN You’ve sworn of other people’s trauma for now because you’re caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding? ARCHIVIST I… I don’t know… HELEN Even if it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? Helen was like you, at first. She felt such guilt over taking people. Until one day she realized she wasn’t going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.

OK FIRST OF ALL SOMETHING I CAN DEAL WITH, SIMILARITIES AND DIFFERENCES BETWEEN JON AND HELEN! Helen went to Jon for help with the guilt, and Jon turned her away because he was scared of what he was becoming. Jon asks Helen when the Eye makes him monstrous and she says no, it's not the Eye that'll do that, it's you. You have to decide to stop feelings guilty about the monstrous things you're doing.

Secondly, *gestures* yeah fr fr! I don't even... I just need to listen to this over and over and have it burned into my mind please :3.

Yeah, well, wow! Yeah! For real for real, this is just like 111, I'm discovering a new love for this statement, I need to make a new "holy shit tma" playlist because. Wow. Wow! Mhm hm! WOw!!! Uhh, well, uhm.

Your most humble servant,

landscaping-your-mind

[tma-fanfic-archivist]

Statement of The Fanfiction Archivist, regarding @some0neelse's ask on Discord for tape transcript fics about jonmartin.

Statement Begins. Someone asked for a specific fic format, and I delivered! Here are 3 that I highly enjoy!

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Martin Blackwood Also Martin Blackwood (kind of) - Character Original Statement Giver(s) (The Magnus Archives)

Additional Tags: Location: Somewhere Else (The Magnus Archives) Canon-Typical The Lonely Content (The Magnus Archives) Lonely Avatar Martin Blackwood Canon-Typical The Beholding Content (The Magnus Archives) Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Statement Hunger (The Magnus Archives) Statement Addiction (The Magnus Archives) Jonmartin Week 2023 (The Magnus Archives) Screenplay/Script Format

My summary: Somewhere Else!Jmart get the supernatural munchies and try to figure out how to feed as ethically as possible. Eat the rich i guess?

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

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Martin Blackwood

Additional Tags: Post-Canon Location: Somewhere Else (The Magnus Archives) Screenplay/Script Format Statement Fic (The Magnus Archives) Hopeful Ending

My summary: Bitches in a Void. They're not dead apparently???

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

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply

Category: M/M

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Relationship: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Martin Blackwood Alice "Daisy" Tonner (mentioned)

Additional Tags: Relationship Negotiation Pre-Relationship Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives) Location: Alice "Daisy" Tonner's Scottish Safehouse Martin Blackwood is Not Okay but he is gay! AND! Polish Martin Blackwood (he mangles polish pronounciation to make a joke i swear it's bad on purpose) Fluff and Angst Fabric rustles Screenplay/Script Format Jonmartin Week 2023 (The Magnus Archives)

My Summary: Jmart playing analog games and putting a name to what they are. oh, and Jon is tryin not to resort to Spooky Eyeball Magic.

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

Enjoy the transcripts!

Statement Ends.

[agenaroace-a-fucking-disgrace]

Just listened to the new episode of tmagp and holy shit did it make me want to speculate. Spoilers below

So firstly is the content of the statement itself, multiple nameless forgettable people bringing many, presumably, artifacts to a branch of the Oxford peoples trust, a branch which is referred to as the “Hilltop” centre. This instantly makes me wonder if this centre could be on hilltop road or atleast in this universes equivalent. The statement ends with something, that while is definitely too small to be a ritual, atleast in my opinion, feels distinctly ritual adjacent to me.

Given the date that this statement is set in, which is possibly the time the Jon became the Head Archivist give or take a few months and thus when The Web’s plan began to fully set into motion, this, in addition to the location, makes me believe that the event at the end of the statement have something to do with the crack in the universe.

Secondly is Celia, In this episode she recognises Jons voice and asks Alice specific questions which heavily imply she knows about the fears, and, as I’ve just found out on attempting to look her up on the wikia, she also shares a name and voice actress with one of the survivors who were with Georgie and Melanie.

This ties in to a theory that I came up with while listening which ties in information that we learnt in the first episode regarding the institute.

Theory that is almost definitely wrong and relies on several things I made up

The institute burnt down in the 1980s, I believe that this universes Jonah equivalent (who I will now just refer to as Jonah) preformed The Watchers Crown a second time, the fires probably being an attempt to stop it by Desolation related individuals/monsters.

I think that in this universe there was the beginnings of a crack that split open slightly due to the ritual, not enough to let anything through, but just enough for Jonah see and thus know.

I think that while gazing through into the multiverse he saw the crack at hilltop road and saw through it and begin to know The Webs plan.

I think that Jonah organised the events at the hilltop centre to start preparations for The Webs plan and to drag something through once it succeeds, ending up with Jon, Martin and TMA Jonah being dragged through and becoming part of The Eye, possibly in addition to Celia and others who are yet unnamed.

[ashes-in-a-jar]

The Purrfect Alternative

Premise: Why would there be a cat in the archives? An archive cat fixit.

2.7K words

Rated G

(Tw: A bit of violence but it's against Jurgen Leitner)

This is a fic dedicated to the @jonsimsandcats event! Hope you enjoy it :)

"Sorry, you haven't seen a cat, have you?"

Jon gaped at the larger man who suddenly barged into the office. 

"I-I'm sorry, a what?"

"Uh, a cat, tabby I think." The man hurriedly explained.

"No. No I haven't. Is it.. Supposed to be here?" Jon knew book shops sometimes kept cats. Perhaps archives did as well. Maybe Gertrude had a soft spot in her after all.

"N-no actually. I, uh, I was feeding it on the way in but when I got up with my things, well, my hands were full you see, so when I managed to open the door it sort of slipped in with me? I'm so sorry, I have to find it before-"

"Okay okay calm down, stop." Jon held up his hand and let out a sigh. First day of the promotion and he's already stressed. But it's fine. He's fine. He can handle a cat. He's good with cats.

"Where do you work? Upstairs? Are you sure it came down here?"

"Yes, I saw it. And I just started working down here today? I'm Martin. Blackwood." He offered a hand. Jon automatically took it. Big and soft. He let go a bit too quickly and coughed. 

"Work here? Are you certain?"

"Yes, I'm supposed to let Jonathan Sims know about becoming an archival assistant. He's the head archivist Elias told me to talk to."

"Well that's one thing to cross off your list." Jon smirked. "I'm Jonathan Sims. Jon, if you please. And Elias did not mention you. Tim and Sasha were supposed to be the only new recruits." Jon frowned to himself. He'll have to have a word with Elias about this. It's fine now that it happened but keeping Jon updated could really help in preventing these kinds of awkward introductions with people he's supposed to work closely with.

"O-oh! Well, here I am now too." Martin chuckled nervously, fidgeting with the hem of his jumper.

Jon hummed "So you are I suppose. Well, let's not waste time on trivial matters, there is a cat that needs to be found." Jon got up from his chair.

"O-oh god, you're right. I'm so sorry for this." The other man apologized, remembering why he was there in the first place. It was clear that he now realized that the fact that the person he's asking to help him clear up his mess is his new boss could be very problematic for him. Jon easily sympathized with that kind of familiar pressure.

"It's alright, let's just, get this sorted." Jon was not willing to admit that a part of him was also just looking forward to seeing the cat. It would help distract him from his own stress, as it were.

Ten minutes later the two of them sitting on the floor in the stacks with a chubby tabby cat sprawled on Jon's lap. Jon was petting it affectionately while amicably getting acquainted with his new assistant. The man turned out to be a library veteran with useful cataloging skills that could help with the mess that was left down here. Having calmed down considerably, Martin had stopped fidgeting and was cooing at the cat who was head butting his large palm. Their presence soothed Jon in a way that surprised him. In the tranquil, quiet atmosphere of the stacks, sounds of cat purrs and Martin's low murmurs, he felt almost optimistic that despite his lack of experience and the large task ahead of them, he would be alright. 

-------

Paper meowed loudly behind him as Martin hurried down the tunnel with Jon and Tim at his tail. Martin glanced back as he reached an intersection and noticed they were too far behind, Jon limping on his injured foot. He hesitated, stopping and waiting for them to catch up. Paper came up and rubbed his leg before trotting down the tunnel on the right, tail held high and confident. Martin inhaled deeply to catch his breath, starting to walk again, this time more slowly. They managed to leave most of the fast worms behind and the ones down here were few and sparse enough to easily stomp down individually. Paper was making a game out of it.  He kept leaping onto some that crawled ahead of them, squishing them loudly with his paw. 

Jon and Tim caught up and the three followed Paper down the dark passage. 

"Yeah, get the damn crawlers." Slurred Tim. The CO2 he inhaled was not helping his coherency. 

"You know," gasped Jon, "I actually think they're larvae, given Jane's statement and-" 

"Jon, I'm going to have to ask you to stop now." Martin said, as calmly as he could, his voice a tad too high and loud. 

"... Sorry." Jon said sheepishly. 

They followed Paper down the forking paths, hoping the cat knew where in the seven circles of hell they were. 

Eventually they stopped seeing any worms as the path sloped up, ending in a sudden door. There was daylight filtering in from beneath it. Paper was eagerly pawing at it. 

"Uh, I think we found a secret way out of the institute." Martin could hardly believe their luck. 

"Excellent, now I can ditch work and no one will know I even left." Tim mumbled. 

"Tim, if you wanted to succeed in that endeavor, you should have not said that next to your boss." Jon commented dryly. 

The worm threat no longer being imminent, Martin allowed himself a nervous chuckle. 

They pushed at the door and with a bit of group effort, eventually managed to pry it open into fresh air. They came out into a narrow alleyway which turned out to be not far from the institute. As they walked (limped) down the street to find access to a working phone they heard someone cry out. 

"Jon? Tim? Martin!" They spotted Sasha hurrying towards them, carrying heavy bags of cat food. 

"Sasha! You're okay!" Martin exclaimed. "We were worried you'd get back and be caught in it like Tim had."

"Where have you been?" Jon inquired, straining to stand upright on his own. Martin came closer, gently supporting him by the hip on the opposite side of Tim. 

"We ran out of food for Paper, I figured I'd pop by the store for a moment to get some." Sasha said. "I came back when the building was being evacuated."

"Oh good, at least the alarm worked." Tim said tiredly. 

"What in god's name happened to you three?" She inquired worriedly. 

"Prentiss, we'll fill you in later. We need to make sure the ECDC is informed regarding the CO2 in the fire suppression system that needs to be activated."

"And get you to a hospital." Martin chastised, squeezing Jon's side. 

"Yes yes." Jon waved dismissively but all the while leaning further into Martin's side. He really wasn't discreet, Martin thought smugly. 

Sasha was about to say something else when a loud meow interrupted her. Paper was nosing into the bag, fully aware of its contents and who they were meant for. 

Jon dislodged from Martin and Tim and hobbled towards the cat. 

The cat turned and moved back into Jon's welcoming arms, as the archivist picked him up and stroked him fondly. 

"We are lucky on all accounts that Paper is such a smart cat." He murmured into the soft fur, injury forgotten for the moment. 

Tim chuckled, "cats always ruin evil people's plans, it's a well known fact. Anyway, Sasha, please call an ambulance for us?" He said, and promptly sat on the floor. 

Martin sighed with relief. For now, they are all safe and together. And that's all that matters. 

-------

It was all almost too much to take in. Luckily Paper was held tight in his arms as he listened to Jurgen Leitner ramble on about powers and fears and monsters and Jonah Magnus. He had been chased by a distorted form of his boss, who was apparently replaced by a monster Jon and the crew tried and failed to destroy, thus separating in the ensuing pursuit. In light of these events Jon now needed something soft to ground him in the face of so much new information. 

The discovery of Elias' death was a shock, especially given the fact that apparently it happened when he was trapped in artifact storage during the Prentiss siege a half a year back. 

He (that is, his doppelganger) told them back then that he was trying to reach the suppression system switch when he tripped down the stairs over one of Paper's many scattered toys, alerting Jane in the process and was driven back into the storage area. His account seemed to check out given he was rescued from there by the ECDC after Jane was dealt with. And given the few toys strewn about the stairs leading to artifact storage. Why Paper kept scattering his toys all over the building was beyond Jon but that wasn't the main issue at hand. After trapping the creature in the walls of the tunnels, Jurgen Leitner proceeded to reveal himself. Once Jon dragged him back to his office, and picked the protesting Paper up to calm himself down, he unveiled the truth of Elias', or Jonah's, whole operation. 

Turns out Jonah Magnus decided life was too short to enjoy once and did exactly what eventually happened to him. Talk about karma. Leitner explained that Gertrude's plan was to stop Jonah from... Something he was planning. Perhaps a ritual to end the world in a way the others would fail to do. That bit of information was on a tape of Gertrude which Leitner played for Jon. By the time they reached the part where Leitner said, “they needed to kill Jonah's main body then burn down the archives.” Martin, Tim and Sasha had arrived back at the office as well. 

"Jon? Jon! Are you okay?" Martin rushed forward, hugging Jon tightly, ignoring Paper's loud yowling at being squished in between them. Jon sighed, "Martin, thank god. I-I'm fine." He hugged him back, relieved his boyfriend was safe, as well as his other assistants of course. "It chased after me but he stopped it."

Tim raised his axe, "Jon are you sure he's not... Another one?"

"Yes I'm sure. That" Jon took a deep breath, "is Jurgen Leitner."

After the team's loud exclamations of disbelief he and Leitner updated them on everything they had discussed. As he was being hugged by Martin and holding the fluffy cat he slowly began calming down.

After Leitner was done a long moment of silence ensued.

"So," Sasha said slowly, "Gertrude's dead?"

"Yes, she was shot and then hidden by Jonah in the tunnels. Unfortunately I couldn't get out to allow for a proper burial, so I had to leave her there." He seemed sad admitting it. Jon did not feel sympathy for him. This man deserved none for his past and cowardice.

"And now, we need to, what, somehow find the center of the maze of tunnels to kill Jonah completely and burn the archives?" Sasha asked skeptically. 

"Yes, the whole institute in fact. I have a gas main in the tunnels ready to be ignited once we find the center." Leitner said.

"How do we do that?" Martin frowned.

"Maybe Michael knows?" Tim quipped. "He just helped us out of that situation with his own… corridor labyrinth. Maybe he'll be able to help."

"Okay, okay let's first take a breather and calm down. We'll figure out how to solve this." Jon said, raising his hand to slow them down.

"Yeah, I'll make us some tea." Martin added, "At least now that... Thing won't bother us for a long while."

"Let it burn along with this hell of an institute." Tim said harshly. Knowing how his brother was killed almost the same way, Jon felt strong sympathy for Tim rush over him.

Which was replaced with a different emotion the moment he turned to the man who saved him.

"Thank you for your help, now Martin, I need you to hold Paper for a moment."

Martin, looking baffled, took Paper out of Jon's arms. "Jon wh-"

Jon swiftly approached the older man and proceeded to sock him in the nose with the full force of his fist. The crew gasped in unison. 

"That's for everyone you hurt with your idiocy, you stupid old coward." Jon seethed and punched him again. He heard Martin chuckle and Tim whoop as the man whimpered and attempted to protect his face.

Jon was glad they were spared the horrible plans of a 200 year old evil man and that they had some semblance of a strategy moving forward. He was, however, equally elated for this opportunity to do what he fantasized about since learning of Leitner's existence.

And, he supposes, all of this can be indirectly attributed to Paper, the archive cat.

-------

Jon woke up to the warm snuggle of his lovely fiance and a mouthful of cat fur. 

"Pffff, Paper geerroff," he mumbled, uselessly trying to push the stubborn cat away. The chirping of birds mingled with the sound of highland cows grazing in the field near their cabin. 

After the success of their plan to end Jonah, after the fire had already burned down the horrors of that evil place, it took a while longer for their troubles to be resolved. They had to endure endless questioning and investigations of the police. Jon, who was weakened by the ordeal to the point of needing hospitalization, took a long time to recover and regain his strength. Leitner claimed it was lucky he was cut off from the Eye this early, or the consequences would have been much more serious. The others seemed to have been less affected, but once the archives were completely reduced to ashes they recovered, their jobs burned down along with everything else. 

Sasha found a new job as a researcher in a prestigious institute, nothing supernatural involved. Tim moved on to journalism, utilizing his curiosity and charm to their full potential. Jon and Martin opened a tea & book shop, if only to make Paper a real bookshop cat. They have been slowly setting it up and settling down until... Well, Jon proposed and they took a break. Traveled to Scotland with Paper on an early honeymoon to see the cows and enjoy the quiet. 

And quiet it was. Until Paper shamelessly began purring as loud as a train right in Jon's ear. Jon huffed in fond annoyance and got up, leaning down to give Martin a kiss on the head and then shooing the crime of a cat off to the kitchen. 

"You can't give me a moment of reprieve, can you?" He stretched and followed the cat out the bedroom. 

He filled Paper's bowl and sat on the floor leaning his back on the cabinet, closing his eyes as Paper chewed his food noisily. 

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he knew, he was awakened by a soft tap on his head. He looked up blearily and smiled. The cat had long since finished eating and found a home in Jon's lap. 

"Morning love." Martin murmured softly, matching his tone to the serene atmosphere. After hesitating a moment, he bent down and sat next to Jon. Jon looked at him adoringly as he absent-mindedly stroked Paper, humming along to his purrs. Martin joined him, petting Paper, their hands occasionally (and very purposefully) brushing against each other. 

After a few minutes of calm silence, Martin spoke up. 

"You know, this reminds me of that first day we met. In the stacks."

Jon smiled at the memory. "Ahh yes, all three of us had a very fateful meeting there, didn't we? God, I was so stressed back then." 

"You handled it pretty well I have to say. Handled my nervousness pretty well too." Martin chuckled. 

"I was lucky you were there. You really helped me calm down." Jon admitted. "Well, you and Paper." Jon added fondly. 

"Paper was a really good archive cat wasn't he?" Martin said, leaning into Jon, pressing a warm, still sleepy kiss on his cheek. Jon closed his eyes, grateful for the events that led up to this moment of pure happiness, with his fiance and his cat. 

"Yes, the best cat in the world."

[clonerightsagenda]

Disclaimer: I have a MLIS that included a few archives-specific classes, and I’ve interned at multiple archival and archival-adjacent institutions. However, I’ve never been formally employed as an archivist.

@geejaysmith​ if there’s any chance we might actually present things to each other you might want to skip this, otherwise it’ll be boring.

The beefcakes thing is an in-joke, don’t worry about it.

You will see more men in archives than in libraries – some come in via history majors rather than library school. Despite their underrepresentation in library and info science, they are overrepresented in administration/leadership, so Jon getting promoted over Sasha is characteristic in that regard.

It’s not ideal to poke holes in your records. If you have to use fasteners, it’s best to use archival quality paper clips. (I’ve pried quite a few rusty paper clips off documents in my day.) Rubber bands are the worst because they get sticky and then hard and adhere themselves to whatever they touch.

Obviously you also don’t want to get records wet, or get food on them (which can rot and attract pests.) I once had to remind a volunteer at a presidential library to not eat mini Snickers bars while scanning materials.

Context is really important in archives, so you want to keep materials together to preserve meaning. Authority files give you standardized names and subjects you can assign to records (or, more often, series or collection-level descriptions). If Jon had assigned metadata like that to statements, he wouldn’t be like ‘hm this name seems familiar’ and fail to realize that this IRS guy’s statement references him encountering someone who allegedly disappeared a year ago according to statement 1.

I have a post on whether or not the Magnus Archives are actually archives here. I’m sure Jonny Sims (the author) chose archives because they have a reputation for being spooky and mysterious… but that’s the exact reason their continued distortion in popular culture is annoying. I’d mind it less if everyone wasn’t doing it. 

Acetate tape will eventually break down and become unusable – this is known as vinegar syndrome. I don’t know what kind of tape Jon’s tape recorder uses, but I believe it’s supposed to be old, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s acetate.

Archivists work toward access and preservation. What will keep this information around long term? What will help researchers find what they’re looking for? Reading stuff into a tape recorder does neither of these things. I get it makes sense for the podcast format, but still. 

Also iirc there are canonically researchers using this collection. Do you think anyone’s written a thesis about the worm sex statement?

Archives can be tools for oppression or liberation, depending on their contents, who controls them, and who is allowed to help shape them. Honestly that’s its own powerpoint, but suffice to say, deciding whose story gets told and how is an inherently political act, and archives have tended to uphold those in power. I’ve worked with or come close to some pretty chilling things. The item pictured on this slide is the safety plug from one of the atomic bombs dropped on Japan. Interning in the same building as it for 3 weeks was.... a lot.

Pests cause damage to the records, but worms aren’t usually the main culprits. Also, most archive employee crime is theft, not everything the TMA gang gets up to.

Finally, the divorce cult thing is me calling out the rest of the group chat. Don’t worry about it.

[somecherpuser]

I've been thinking a lot about the "jonny sims can't write women" discourse. One, ever since season one there's been a lot of statement givers that are women who only really clue in they're women by the name at the beginning so I guess they don't count to some of you; who arent treated any different than male statement givers. And two, with the avatars there is a pretty even split between male and female avatars. Regardless of that, I'm pretty sure if any of the main three (Jon, Martin, or Elias) had been female from the start, y'all still would be pissbabies about it.

If Jon was female, then the discussion would be that its sexist to torture the protagonist and I bet y'all would speculate jonny sims had sick fantasies about harming women or something.

If Martin was female, then Jonmartin would have been considered heteronormative and boring, a bad trope, and most of you would ignore that Jon is still queer even if he is in a relationship with a woman.

If Elias was female, then it would be considered sexist to have a female antagonist who's just evil for funsies. Don't even try to tell me this wouldn't happen because it's already happened with Jude Perry.

"But why do the protagonist and deuteragonist HAVE to be male??" I hear some of you cry. I really do wonder why Jon sims, played by the writer of TMA, and Martin Blackwood, played by the director of TMA, are the most important characters. It couldn't be that they are the most committed to the project, no, it's because they hate wamen.

I'm not even trying to put Jonny Sims on a grand pedestal. He's written some bad things in the show! He's had some shortcomings in the writing! I am a huge proponent of the whole "he really dropped the ball with Georgie's arc"! He's not some God on high. But at this point literally what more do you want for this man, this one man, to do besides post a video of him whipping himself for forgiveness to twitter?? Y'all tried to force him to open up about his own journey regarding addiction, even though its literally none of your business, and do you realize how entitled, whiny, and downright despicable that makes the entire fandom seem?? I get everybody is bored because of quarentine but harassing a content creator at every turn because, I don't know, it's fun, is a bad look.

[thevoidcannotbefilled]

Hey, if we're talking about Jon's asexuality, can we not make it about a black and white "explicit fic involving Jon bad"

While this isn't true to all of them, a lot of the explicit fic, especially when it involves Martin, have a discussion about Jon's asexuality. As a result, a lot of the emotional moments and the sex itself is shaped around and is changed because of it.

And oh, a lot of explicit fics are in fact written by ace authors exploring their own sexuality and kinks because asexuality is a spectrum!

(This is not to say that just because an author is ace, doesn't mean they can't be critical of their own writing. Fics that glorify rape/incest in particular can still be written by an ace author and shouldnt be shielded just because they are).

For those unaware, there are many types of aces. Sex-repulsed, those are not favorable to sex at all and outright dislike it. Sex-indifferent, which are indifferent to sex in a relationship. Sex-neutral where they’re neutral to the idea of sex itself. Sex-favorable where the idea of sex in a relationship is good even if it's not to their own person. Sex-positive where they’re actively seeking sex and sexual situations in a relationship. There are other variations that fall under the ace umbrella like demisexuality and gray-ace to name a few, but this is the main gist. 

(Note, this has been edited. To include sex-indifferent and sex-favorable aces). 

I've read fics for many types for Jon. I adore reading fics of Jon talking with Martin about his boundaries. I really like a Jon that helps Martin through sex but feels more than satisfied with the intimacy of being close to Martin in his afterglow. And the sex-positive fics are rarer but they're usually really good at exploring and talking about his aceness and how it affects his sexuality.

But Lunes, you may say, isn't the line "Jon just.... doesnt." Doesnt that imply that he's sex-repulsed or at the very least, definitely never sex-positive?

There's been many posts arguing the semantics of this statement. That for many sex-indifferent and sex-neutral aces also identify with this statement or that in the specific context, they were talking about casual hook-ups. I could go on.

But tbh? I don't personally care.

Listen. There are very few ace characters. Further, there is very few ace protags. There are 703 AO3 works for the "Canon Asexual Character" tag and 482 of them are for TMA. The second highest is at 34 for Rusty Quill Gaming.

There are so few ace characters. Everyone is looking for representation and a lot of ace folks are writing different fics that have their own version of aceness. And yes, this sometimes means explicit fics because sometimes exploring aceness means exploring sexual situations since asexuality inherently changes how sex is viewed and performed. Let people explore their asexuality through a popular character!!! Do I personally think Jon is sex-positive, probably not! But hey, I'm sex-neutral and I don't know what being an sex-positive ace means.

But guess what? All aces also have almost equal amount of rep. And by that, next to none. We're all scrambling for the same rep and seeing ourselves in the same character. In the far future, there may be more ace characters we can all project our particular flavor of ace onto, but atm there isn't.

There is nuance here that I'd like there to be in the conversation in regards to writing Jon in explicit fics. And I keep seeing posts that imply that just the act of writing Jon in sexual settings or having sex is bad (I remember someone pointing out the number of explicit fics with Martin was a lot.... which tbh isn't even true. There are 3366 works for Jonmartin, 1363 for T, 1131 G, and in third place with only 345, E with 310 are M and 217 not rated. Also in general of the 5562 fics involving Jon, only 667 are E rated. In comparison to most fandoms, where the E tag would be the first or second highest tag, that isn't that much).

(This is not to say some ships don't have more sexual content than others. In particular, I find explicit fics with Elias and Tim rarely if ever explore Jon's aceness. And if they do, there tends to be... let's say manipulative elements at best from Elias. And explicit fics with Tim tend to have a lot of "office slut" factors from both of them. Which really shows the biphobia from the fandom).

I make this post not because the fandom's portrayal Jon's asexuality has been perfect or that all explicit fics have treated his aceness with respect. Far from it. But not all explicit fics are the same, and I dislike that many wonderful explicit fics that explore Jon's asexuality in an ace way have been meshed in with fics that just treat him as straight up gay (erasing both his bisexuality and his asexuality in the process).

I make an edit here as well. Jon is ace and you can’t forget that. It changes things and if you don’t keep that in mind when writing relationships with him, then you’re erasing his asexuality. This isn’t just in explicit fics. I’ve seen many T-rated fics that mention previous casual hook-ups like they’re a regular thing he used to do, unsaid sexual situations, and Jon finding characters attractive in a way that felt distinctly offputting as an ace person. It’s complicated, and difficult, and even as I write this post in defense of explicit fics, I want to keep this in mind. I don’t make this post to excuse lazy writing of an ace character rather to keep in mind that asexuality is complicated. And in that complication means we all have to work harder to be more understanding of one another but also to work harder to make better fic that is inclusive. 

TLDR: Please be careful when writing Jon's asexuality. He is ace and you should write him as such, BUT do not make an umbrella notion that writing an explicit fic with an ace character is inherently bad. There is nuance that can and should be discussed, especially since many of these explicit fics are being written by ace people. Sexuality is far too complicated for such a blanket statement. I'd rather the discussion lean towards how asexuality is portrayed rather than throwing out explicit fics all together.

-A Tired Ace Looking Through the Tags

[yellowocaballero]

Continuation of Human Relations (Oh My God, They Were Roommates)

This is a 16k story that’s a bit too short for AO3 but a bit too long for Tumblr that acts as a continuation of my Archivist!Sasha and Immortal!Jon fic Human Relations. I recommend that you read that before this. This story takes place between S2 and S3, and is about Sasha and Georgie’s roommate adventures. I’m uncertain if I’ll continue this and post it on AO3, post it on AO3 as it is, or what, but for the time being I’ll at least post it here. 

Serious content warnings for discussion of abusive friendships, gaslighting, discussion of 19th century racism, implied transphobia, and discussion of police brutality. Nothing more serious than what we saw in Human Relations, but it does have a much more explicit investigation of Jon and Elias’ relationship. Rest under the cut. Happy Birthday, @magickko. 

EDIT: HAHA READMORE DIDN’T WORK, YIKES. 

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time. 

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap. 

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again. 

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom. 

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time. 

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap. 

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again. 

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom. 

Georgie Barker wasn’t a mystery, and she’d be the first to tell you.

Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, honey! I always love having Jonah owe me a favor. Don’t worry about the cops and the law, nobody will ever find you here. Seriously, the entire department’s in my pocket. It’s no hassle having you here, it’s a big flat! It’s been years since I’ve had a roommate, this’ll be fun!

The one thing she hadn’t understood was Sasha begging her not to let Jon in to see her. He knows exactly where you are, Georgie pointed out. He knows you’re not actually a murderer, Georgie said. He might be able to help explain some of what’s going on, Georgie hinted. Jon would respect my wishes, but if Jonah really wants him to talk to you, he’ll definitely do it...

“Please,” Sasha had croaked, the uncomfortable morning after she had stumbled into Georgie’s flat. The Admiral wove around her legs, purring up a storm, and Georgie was munching on avocado toast and sipping pomegranate juice. “I just - I just need some space.”

“Why?” Georgie asked obliviously. That was something that Sasha was rapidly learning about Georgie - she didn’t hold back with impolite questions, or her opinion. She seemed to be regarding Sasha’s life as her own personal Youtuber Drama, which Sasha really didn’t know how she felt about. Her life wasn’t a spectacle, but she guessed even the warfare and tragedy of ants were of obscure and strange interest to humanity. “He’s feeling, like, totally bad about framing you for murder. I can tell he super wants to apologize to you about everything.”

Martin’s words echoed through her mind, from what felt like a decade ago: Jon had ruined Martin’s life, but to him it was as simple as a momentary inconvenience. “I don’t want his apology,” Sasha croaked. “I want not to be on the run from the police. I want to go back to my flat. Unless he’s going to make me human again I don’t want any stupid apologies. They’re useless.”

“Hm. Well, you’re free to stay here as long as you need to, of course.” Georgie sipped at her tea. They were sitting around the breakfast table, Sasha desolately shoving eggs into her mouth as Georgie drank her tea that Sasha was reasonably sure was spiked with brandy. Rich people were literally never sober. “It’ll be so much fun, like a sleepover. We can do each other’s nails and talk about boys!”

“My boyfriend thought I was a monster for the past month and now thinks I’m a murderer,” Sasha said flatly. 

“Oh, I see.” Georgie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “We have to get you laid, huh?”

“I am literally on the run from the cops.”

“That’s very sexy to some people,” Georgie assured her. 

After that, Georgie waved goodbye and swanned out of the house, either going to her studio to work on her podcast or doing some work for her real estate empire or writing a best-selling book or schmoozing with celebrities or attending parties at exclusive nightclubs or working part-time as a bartender just for gossip or devouring souls. Just from Sasha’s one day at Georgie’s flat, she knew that she did all of these things and then some. It was a stunning contrast to Jon’s laziness, or Elias (Jonah’s) single-mindedness. 

Maybe you lost the energy to be so productive after your two hundredth year. Sasha didn’t fucking know. Hopefully she would never know. Or maybe Jon just appeared to be lazy, and every moment that he was complaining about being bored he was secretly manipulating world leaders. Maybe Jonah’s dedication to spreadsheets and dress code was a front, and he was secretly pulling the puppet strings of her entire life…

In the empty spaces of Georgie’s spacious flat, it was easy to be paranoid. Sasha lay on her luxurious couch, hands folded across her chest like a corpse, trying not to think of anything, thinking of everything. Thinking of Tim: of his smile, of his scowl, of his cold looks given to someone he had thought was a stranger. Thinking of Martin: his warm smile, his sharp looks. 

She struggled to think of other friends, other family members who gave her comfort, but drew up a blank. Her parent’s faces were blurred after ten years of no contact, not so much forgotten as repressed, and her baby siblings were likely unrecognizable to her now. Almost as unrecognizable as she was to them, probably. Tim, her boyfriend who hated her, and Martin, her subordinate who she had almost never had a conversation with that wasn’t about work or Jon...that was it. All the friends she had in the world. She was sleeping in the guest room of a podcast host/Grim Reaper whom she had met once, and that was all she had.

Loneliness was Sasha’s constant companion. In a crowd, in her family, in the world - no matter how many people she had been surrounded by, she had always been alone. She had never had anybody in the world to rely on besides herself, and for the first time in a long time she was achingly aware of it. Nobody who loved her was going to help her. She was alone now.

After an hour of lying on the couch and crying, Sasha desolately watched Netflix cooking shows on Georgie’s gigantic flat-screen TV, trying very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. She only moved to pet Georgie’s silky long-haired cat whose name she had already forgotten, and even he left quickly once she lost the energy to give him attention.

That was how Georgie found Sasha when she came home: lying on the couch, still dressed in borrowed silk pyjamas, watching idiots on television fuck up cakes. Georgie’s arms were laden with shopping bags, with names of exclusive London boutiques sprawled along the side, her deep black pits of eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. She burst through the door happily, her cat running up to her and winding through her laps as he purred, and easily kicked off her red pumps. She stopped in the doorway of the living room, looking strangely excited. 

“Sorry I’m back to late! Utterly bogged up at work, there was a plane crash and I was processing corpses for hours. I had to do some serious retail therapy just to deal with the tedium - darling, have you moved?”

Sasha grunted. 

“You look like Mikey Crew threw you off the Shard,” Georgie said sympathetically. “Utterly disastrous. Don’t worry, Aunt Georgie’s here to make you feel better.” She lifted her bag triumphantly. “I bought you new outfits!”

Sasha eyed her warily. 

“You get no say in this,” Georgie said kindly. “Chop chop, we’re doing face masks too.”

That’s how, somehow, Sasha found herself playing an unwilling dress-up doll for the Grim Reaper. Georgie had taken Sasha’s casual mention that she had no clothing besides her work pantsuit to heart, and had hit up her favorite boutiques for ‘cute outfits that accentuated her figure and made her eyes pop!’. Or something. Sasha wasn’t much one for fashion. 

As it turned out, Georgie Barker had a walk-in closet. Because of course she did. 

The looks ranged from Sasha’s usual, as Georgie put it, ‘sexy librarian’ look, to ballgowns, to tennis outfits, to moddish, to vintage, to wintery. It was February, the seasons lingering in British chill, and according to Georgie the perfect solution to this was a mink coat that was probably worth a month’s rent on her flat. 

Strangely, all of the outfits fit perfectly - and Sasha knew that her measurements were difficult to find. Georgie took it in stride, clapping enthusiastically each time and suggesting accessories and how to mix and match the outfits. 

She would have thought that she was too dead inside to actually enjoy it, but so far as distractions went it actually worked pretty well. Georgie chatted about everything but their actual problems, and Sasha had absolutely no input or choice in what Georgie decided to dress her in, and by the time they had transitioned from nail painting to watching Legally Blonde and eating ice cream from the carton Sasha was actually feeling a little relaxed. 

“The musical’s better,” Georgie informed Sasha imperiously as Sasha dug around in her carton for chunks of cookie dough. Georgie was clutching a glass of wine in one hand, while Sasha was contenting herself with ice cream. Best not to drink when she was this sad. “Reese is such a doll, though. Allergic to shellfish, poor dear, but I told her not to let Leo pick the restaurant.”

“What I’m wondering,” Sasha said carefully, teeth cracking into the frozen chunk of cookie dough, “is that half the time when I see you, you’re dressed like a 2008 goth in jeans and t-shirts.”

“Oh, honey,” Georgie said pityingly, patting her hand. “I used to spend two hours getting dressed each morning. I’m never doing that to myself again. You, however, clearly have never had nice clothing in your life. It’s written all over your face. People’ll walk all over you if you always look like you’re straight from a charity shop. We gotta buy you some self-confidence.”

“Thanks. I think.” On screen, Elle flourished and achieved her dreams. Sasha tried not to feel jealous. “It’s not really as if I had a lot of girly sleepovers as a kid…”

“Word,” Georgie said sympathetically. She patted Sasha’s hand again. “Jon was the same way, you know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to renovate that boy’s wardrobe. He has no idea how to dress to impress.”

“Do we have to talk about Jon right now,” Sasha groused. “He’s the last person I want to think about.”

“He means well,” Georgie soothed, as Elle Woods proudly proclaimed on television how she, yes, she, was a strong independent woman - who didn’t need a man! “It’s not his fault he’s stupid. He’s just so helpless on his own, you know, he needs girls like you and me to make sure he’s not wasting a decade fixating on obscure Bolivian religious practices or whatever.”

“Helpless? He’s a two hundred year old man.” Sasha spitefully grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table, pouring it into a spare glass and drinking it quickly. It probably cost thousands of pounds, but it just tasted like wine to her. “It’s not my job to make sure his little feelings aren’t hurt.”

“Of course not,” Georgie said, but Sasha had the sense she was being calmed instead of listened to. “But Jon’s...you know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Georgie made an interpretive hand gesture. Sasha stared at her blankly. 

“...I still don’t.”

Georgie sighed. “He’s delicate. Jonah babies him, honestly.” She patted Sasha’s hand for the third time, making her skin crawl. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you until you’re ready to forgive him. Every woman has the right to some time to herself after a guy fucks her over. You two’ll patch things up, right as rain.”

There was nothing Sasha wanted to say to that, nothing she wanted to think about, and she kept drinking her wine and watching the movie, out of lack of any other options.

That night, she drunkenly tipped into bed, so blasted that she slid immediately into sleep and did not dream. It was the first relief she’d had in what felt like a very long time. 

It wasn’t Sasha’s job to fix Jonathan Sims. 

It really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better, or forgive him, or save him from himself. If Martin wanted to waste his time and energy doing that, then god fucking speed, but Sasha had other priorities. She had been profoundly fucked over and had her trust abused by three different men lately, and she wasn’t going to be the one to patch things up.

Two of them she had no desire to patch things up with at all. Two of them she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw again. The last one...Sasha didn’t know what she felt. But that was nothing new. 

That being said, as Sasha chewed her way through hangover medication and an acai bowl the next morning, Georgie’s inane chattering about tricking some celebrity or another into taking her to Hungary for authentic Hungarian food didn’t register nearly as loudly in Sasha’s mind as her words about Jonah and Jon. 

Jonah babies Jon. That was what she had said. It...it was accurate, right? It had to be. Georgie had known Jonah and Jon for a hundred years, and Sasha had barely heard one authentic conversation between them. She’d known them for a year, and known Jonah’s true nature for maybe a few days. There was no way Sasha understood their relationship better than Georgie did. It just didn’t make sense. 

Finally, she put her spoon down, cutting Georgie off in the middle of her ramble about the majesty of Hungarian food made by genuine Hungarian grandma hands. “What did you mean, ‘Jonah babies Jon’?”

Georgie blinked at her, clearly barely remembering the conversation, before recognition dawned. Then she shrugged, sipping her protein smoothie. Which may or may not be spiked. It seemed as if her solution to hangovers was to just not stop being drunk. “Oh, you know how those two are. Jon swans around the world doing whatever he wants, Jonah holds the fort down at home. That’s why Jon’s fun, you know.” She sighed nostalgically. “Romantic cruises to the Bahamas for two months, we tear up the Bahaman government and start a minor military coup, then we take a tour of the beaches. You haven’t lived until you’ve dug your toes into Bahaman sand.” 

That was something Georgie said frequently: you haven’t lived until you’ve done X, Y, or Z. It seemed as if Georgie was very intent on living, and very intent on defining it in discretionary ways. To Sasha, living was simply the act of not being dead, but Georgie was almost fanatical about experiencing life. 

“If he’s so much fun, then why did you break up?” Sasha asked, before she realized what she said. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, feel free not to answer that -”

But Georgie just laughed lightly. “That’s just how Jon and I work. We spend a few weeks together in bliss, and then we go our separate ways for six months or a year or whatever. Work’s always taking us different places, and seeing each other all day would make us hate each other. Some people work best when they’re not in each other’s pocket.” She took a long drag of the smoothie before speaking again. “Besides, he’ll always be second in my life to having fun. And I’ll always be second in his life to Jonah. It’s just how we work. It works for us!”

It seemed to. Last Sasha checked, Georgie and Jon seemed to be very amicable despite being exes. Lackadaisical, on-and-off, passionate yet going years without seeing each other - it was a relationship uniquely in the providence of workaholic immortals. 

It wasn’t until Georgie had already waved goodbye, making Sasha promise not to spend all day on the couch again, that she realized that Georgie hadn’t quite answered her question. 

An image flashed through Sasha’s mind - Jon’s face, as he dared to disagree with Jonah, and was utterly ground into the dust for it. 

There was something more to this. Something that wasn’t obvious on the surface, something that was so well hidden maybe nobody even knew it was going on. Or maybe it was deeper than that, more insidious: maybe whatever was going on was so well-known and pervasive that it simply wasn’t spoken about. Not polite, not the kind of thing you say about your friends, not normal. Not in polite company. Not vocalized. Utterly taken for granted. 

Sasha walked into the guest room, pulling out her phone from her bag and staring at its blank screen. Holding her breath, she hesitantly turned it on, staring at it blankly as it slowly booted up. 

She shouldn’t be turning it on. She was perfectly aware of how, given a warrant, the police could track cell phone location, texts sent and received, everything. She could do it herself. The crushing weight of surveillance, the fear of being found and seen and rooted out, settled over her shoulders like an old, familiar friend. A comforting blanket to wrap herself up in at night: where, even if the fear was terrible and awful, at least it was familiar. 

You could get used to anything, Sasha thought. Any behavior, any fears, any horrors or tragedies - anything could become normal, given enough time. A year. A hundred years. After two hundred years, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize it as happening at all.

Like a flood, the text messages poured in. Notifications chimed in a cacophony, as text after text after text popped up on her phone. Missed calls. Emails popped up, notifications from the doorbell camera, reminders from her fucking Duolingo...

Dizzily, Sasha scrolled through the texts. Lots from Tim, as expected, and a few from Martin, as expected. Some texts from her mother, which - which wasn’t expected. At all. Sasha hadn’t even known that she knew her number. 

Sasha’s brain stuttered over the Spanish, having been years since she spoke it. Her brain also stuttered over the gratuitous misgendering, which was also blissfully novel yet just as uncomfortable and upsetting as ever. Translated, it was a slightly accusatory question about why the police had been calling them about her whereabouts. What had she done? Had she gotten in trouble?

No matter what you did, the text read, God will forgive you. Just call them back. 

Sasha stared at the texts, brain buzzing. She felt sick. Forgive her? They’d forgive her? They thought she’d done it? They thought she was capable of -

Horribly, awfully, tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you never really grew accustomed to pain, even if it was felt a thousand times. Maybe some pain you never acclimated to, never scarred over or calloused. Maybe sometimes the more you were hurt, the worse it hurt. The pain her parents gave her - how they cut off contact, the misgendering, the coldness - hurt just as badly at thirty six as it had at twenty six, at twenty, at fifteen, at nine. It had always hurt. 

So stupid. Sasha deleted the text messages. She didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t a child. She was thirty six goddamn years old, that was way too old to still care about your parents. To still need them.

She clicked on Martin’s texts next. The first one had a timestamp before the murder, the rest afterwards.

Martin: where are you?? I found Tim (he tried to kill me w/an axe but we’re ok now) and were trying to get out of here. I explained everything to him. We’ll meet you in the archives. 

Martin: Police are looking for you. I know you didn’t do it so call me back. Tim’s worried. Jon doesn’t seem that worried...

Martin: Shouldn’t text you anymore. Please be safe & careful. 

Jesus. Jesus, she had been terrible to Martin. She was a rotten friend. Sasha hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to get him a gift basket. Five. He was a freak, but he was her freak. Maybe. 

Finally, almost holding her breath, she pressed on Tim’s messages. There were a lot of them - more than was safe, Sasha distantly registered. The first five were from the same time Martin had sent the second text. She guessed it was right after the police finished talking to them. He had called her slightly before - likely when they found the body - but there were also two texts from two am last night. 

Tim: pick up your phone

Tim: pick up your phone are you okay im so sorry

Tim: baby please please pick up

Tim: we need to talk & im sorry & i hope ur safe

Tim: dont text me back 

Then two texts from two am:

Tim: to warn you im drunk but im sorry (AND DRUNK) but in my defense im a shitty boyfriend. If you want to break up its fine but id like to make it work but i get if you cant because cops i guess. Bitch tonner wont stop bothering me make her stoppp

Tim: I love you and I wish that was enough. 

Sasha rubbed at her eyes, exhausted. She wished it was enough too. She knew it wasn’t. Strongly, like burning, Sasha wished so desperately that she had never met Jonathan Sims. Maybe, in that world, things were okay. She and Tim were happy. 

She scrolled through the rest of the notifications. Strangely, she even had two texts from Melanie. 

Melanie: Hey, I heard what’s going on. I know you couldn’t have done it. A LOT of cops are bothering me - Hussein and Tonner have called like five times. I think you know them? For legal purposes I’ll say that you should turn yourself in or whatever. 

Melanie: oh and Martin said to tell you that Mr. Bouchard’s been asking me a lot of questions about what im doing and my job situation - dunno y tho

That….probably wasn’t good. 

No texts from Jon. She wouldn’t know what to do if he had. She doubted he knew her number, or how to work a phone. The last thing she could deal with emotionally right now was an apology. She didn’t know what to do about Tonner or Hussein or Melanie. Those were all problems she couldn’t fix right now. 

Really, there was only one problem she could fix right now. She walked over to the door to the balcony, carefully stepping out onto the 20th story balcony. She carefully ejected her SIM card, snapped it in half, looked underneath her to make sure there were no passerby in the exclusive London neighborhood, and forced her fingers to release from the phone so she could watch it fall twenty stories onto the concrete. 

She imagined a smash, a crack, but it didn’t make any sound at all. Sasha forced herself to step back inside, leaving the past behind her. 

There was a lot Sasha had to force herself to do that day. Georgie owned a few laptops, but she hadn’t given Sasha permission to use any of them yet, and she didn’t want to intrude. Despite Sasha’s own...reservations about her personality, she really was being incredibly kind by letting her stay and trying to cheer her up. She did, however, have a great deal of antique books, and Sasha eagerly cracked open the first edition copies of fiction novels from the 19th century. Was that a first edition Pride & Prejudice? Oh, score!

She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Food tasted like ash in her mouth, but that always happened whenever she was upset. She forced herself to take a shower, impossibly intimidated by Georgie’s small army of hair care and hygiene products, and even cautiously let herself take a bubble bath with a bath bomb. It was...weirdly luxurious, but maybe not surprisingly. Georgie’s bathroom was like the Queen’s, and you could practically swim in the bathtub. It was intimidating and weird and uncomfortable, but Sasha forced herself to appreciate it. How many people got to take a shower in a stall with five different showerheads?

Halfway through the day the housekeeper came in, terrifying Sasha deeply, and she retreated to her guest bedroom to let the woman work. She inspected her newly painted toenails glumly, halfway through Pride & Prejudice, forcing herself not to think about how Jon could have been a background character in the novel. Wasn’t he in his twenties in this time period? Wasn’t that when he and Jonah Magnus had -

Sasha drank more wine, and put on another cooking program. She hadn’t watched telly all day, so technically she could tell Georgie that. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything productive to do. No work, which sucked when she was a workaholic. No computer to waste time on. No friends she could talk to without the police investigating her. She couldn’t go outside, again due to the aforementioned cop situation. Her life was her work, and her bosses had just framed her for murder. 

Somewhat buzzed, Sasha stole several pieces of intricate stationary and wrote down everything Leitner had told her before he was murdered. It wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted, yet far more than she knew what to do with. Halfway through her notes deteriorated into a bizarre sort of mind map, lists of cases connected together and obscure monsters and figures pointing to each other. Salasea and his endless array of dangerous trinkets, mysterious yet lonely ship captains, Michael and his gently twisting deceit, Gerry Keay and his bizarre heroism, Leitner and his ruinous imprints, Agnes and her desolate fate, and the oft-mentioned yet barely understood man, whose name was whispered by shadowy figures entrenched in  the supernatural world, Jonathan Sims…

Did he know? How often his shadow stained her statements? Did he care? Did he know how thoroughly he had ruined her life? 

She scoured her memory for hints, writing down everything she could remember of his cameos in random statements. Of Leitner’s testimony, the immortal figure who so easily attained what Leitner and Mary Keay had spent their entire lives grasping for. Was there a hint to his true nature, his true allegiance? 

In the corners of the cute stationary, Sasha doodled a small eye. She stared at it, and couldn’t help but fight the notion that it was staring back. 

She scratched it out, feeling paranoid, not feeling paranoid enough. 

A few hours later, Georgie came home, and Sasha fought the pathetically hopeful trepidation. When she heard the front door rattle she left her room, intending on welcoming Georgie back and proving that she hadn’t been watching telly all day, but she stopped short in the hallway when she heard the loud sound of voices. Specifically, the loud sound of Georgie’s still slightly unfamiliar voice, and the quieter tones of a voice that was far too familiar to her.  

“ - if you’ll just let me talk to her, she’ll understand.”

“And she said that she’s not seeing you,” Georgie said firmly. Sasha held her breath, pressing herself up against the hallway wall. Next to her was a doorway that led to the living room, that led to a foyer. If she craned her head she could just barely see Georgie standing in the foyer, arguing with a figure holding a leather briefcase that made Sasha’s heart leap into her throat. “You really did screw her over, you know.”

“I know,” Jonathan Sims whined. “I want to apologize. It’s not my fault. Jonah got pushy again, you know how he is.”

“Ugh, tell me about it.” Georgie scoffed. “Did something happen between you two? Sasha was asking all sorts of weird questions.”

“Just Jonah being his usual insufferable self,” Jon said, so carelessly and casually that if Sasha hadn’t known better she would have believed him. “It probably alarmed her, seeing how that man really is. I’m sure she’s feeling very overwhelmed right now.”

“She really is, the poor dear,” Georgie said sympathetically. Sasha’s hands clenched into fists. “But you aren’t getting past this foyer, honey. I’m sure she’ll want to be friends again once Jonah gets the cops off her case.”

“Martin’s giving me a hard time,” Jon sulked. “Says this is all my fault that the dreadful little wolf girl is sniffing around. It’s not my fault. If my Archivist just let me explain, she’d see that it’s not my fault.”

“That Blackwood boy’s always giving you a hard time,” Georgie sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s overly moralistic and doesn’t know how to have fun. You spend too much time with him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Georgina Barker,” Jon teased. He stepped forward a little closer, and although Sasah couldn’t see his face she had the feeling he was smiling. “It’s a bad look on you.”

“Idiot,” Georgie said fondly, “everything’s a good look on me.” She stretched up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Ditch him and come party with me, darling, I’ll show you a wonderful time. Maybe after all of this nonsense blows over.”

“Judging from what I can make out of Jonah’s monologuing, we ought to get our parties in while we still can,” Jon said glumly. He opened his briefcase, passing a manila folder to Georgie. “Give her these. She’ll be getting hungry. Tell her that the top one is from work, and the second is from me.” He hesitated for a second. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”

“If it’s not your fault, then why do you need to be forgiven?”

Jon was silent for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Georgie. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie said easily, casually, as if she had said it a thousand times, a million times. “Take care of yourself.”

She stood in the foyer after he left, arms folded, one delicately manicured finger tapping against her arm. She eventually turned around, poking her head into the living room. 

“You can come out, darling, I don’t bite.”

Sasha guiltily stepped into the living room, crossing her arms defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

But Georgie just rolled her eyes. “Please. My best friends are Jonathan Sims and Jonah Magnus.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Well. My oldest friends. Anyway, if you’re in the same house as one of those Beholding types you aren’t getting a private conversation. I’m super used to it.” She held out the manila folder, and Sasha cautiously stepped forward and took it from her. 

“Beholding types?” 

“Oh, you know, you and your lot,” Georgie said dismissively. “Can’t do anything about that annoying little megalomania the Eye gives you. Have fun with lunch, I have to freshen up. It takes ages to get the scent of Jon’s musty old books off me.”

But Sasha was already tuning her out, because in the manilla envelope there were two Statements. They thrummed under her fingers, charged with energy and power and fear, and Sasha could feel herself gripping them. The first one was a classic Magnus Institute Statement, just like she would have read at work, but the second was what looked like a photocopy of a piece of paper. Judging from the ornate script, it was old, and when Sasha’s eyes wandered to the date her eyes widened. July 21st, 1823. 

She looked up, already frantically searching for a tape recorder, and immediately saw one sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t think twice about it, already sitting on the plush white couch and setting the papers out. Which one first - oh man, they were both so exciting - her fingers drifted to the one Jon gave her, and she picked it up. That one, then. 

Sasha James pressed play on the tape deck, feeling a familiar thrill go through her at the gentle whirring. She cleared her throat. 

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a letter sent by Barnabas Bennet to Jonah Magnus. Statement begins.”

And, as Sasha’s blood ran cold, she began to read. 

My dearest Jonah,

I hope you are well. It was an absolute pleasure to vacation at your estate this summer. I’ve never had such interesting conversations with a like-minded individual, and since returning to my own estate I have been sorely missing your company. You have introduced a great deal of brightness and acute interest to my life, and without you the luminescence of Heaven does not thrill me. How I wish you were around to thrill me again!

Do not concern yourself - I have maintained my studies. The library you loaned me is of great interest, and I have been spending many a quiet night bent over one of your occult tomes. I have never felt so enlightened. A world is opening up before us, Jonah, one of richness and wonder, and for the first time in many years I find myself excited to rise each morning. I thank our Heavenly Father each day that I was so fortunate as to cross your path. You must remind me to discuss with you the report by Smirke in detail - fascinating! Theoretical, of course, all theoretical - but the concept of classifying the devils that so bewitch man into fourteen unique taxonomies fascinates me. We must discuss it. 

Jonah, I trust that this letter reaches you in private, and that you shall not betray my confidence by discussing it with anyone. I have a private grievance I wish to address with you. It is regarding your boy, the one kept so close in your confidence and trust. 

I would never hasten to question any of your decisions, for I trust they are made with great deliberation and forethought. But I must question why you keep that boy so close to you. His air is strange and fey. While summering at your estate, I would frequently see him awake at late hours, pouring over some tome or report or another (I would swear that he reads better than I!). I know he’s somewhat of a project of yours, bringing him into Christianity and your charity, which will surely be rewarded etc etc, but I cannot shake my strange trepidation. 

If I were to be quite honest, my fear of him. 

He always asks questions. Disturbing and distressing questions. And when I deign to answer them, he acts as if he truly understands. Moreover, that he understands more than me - that he possesses some secret knowledge that only he has obtained. I catch him listening at doorways and around corners frequently, and no matter how many times I box him about the ears for it he will not cease. You encourage it, allowing this behavior. Even after I reported to you the pagan rituals which I am confident he is performing, you brush me off. You two are strangely close. I’m simply concerned for you, Jonah. Please heed my advice: that boy is trouble. I fear that he will bring you into trouble also. Do not allow this paganism to steer you away from the light of our heavenly Father. I understand that the occult is of great interest to all of us, discovering the secrets of the world and its many mysteries, but it is only an academic interest. I would never go so far as to partake of these devilish rituals myself, and you ought to dissuade yourself of such a notion also. Do not allow that John to lead you astray. 

I wish you most well. I am encountering some trouble of my own - debts and such - but do not concern yourself with them. The situation is well-handled. I hope to write to you again soon.

Yours, faithfully,

Barnabas

...supplemental.

Jon. Why did you show me this?

Is this your definition of vulnerability? Of honesty? What, are you trying to justify your decisions to me? I get it, it’s disgusting. These people were disgusting to you. I can’t know how you feel, but I think I - my parents -

What I mean is, I can’t understand. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been. I understand how Jonah was the only one to… ‘get’ you or whatever. How he was the only person to see how brilliant you are, how much you have to give. 

But, Jon - I don’t think Jonah thought any better of you than Barnabas did. He was just better at hiding it. I don’t know, I didn’t know him and I still don’t know him - but you get that the way he talked to you back then wasn’t right, right? You get that it was fucked up, right?

I don’t know. I don’t think you get that. I don’t think anybody does. Georgie’s too close to it, too used to you and Jonah’s ‘quirks’ or whatever. I...don’t know anything Martin thinks, but I feel as if you’d be pretty invested in keeping this from him. But I’m close enough to you to see it, and I’m far enough away from this that I understand. Something’s really fucked up about this situation. I’m worried I’m the only person who sees it. I hate being that person, the person who Sees it all, who knows it all, but is powerless to do anything about it. You understand, right? You understand how much this is hurting me?

I’m not sure you do. If you’re showing me this, trying to show me how hard you had it, how misunderstood you were, just so I forgive you...I don’t. And it’s manipulative, so cut it out. I’m not sure if you’re consciously doing that, I really don’t think you’re emotionally intelligent enough.

But you aren’t dumb, Jon. I know it’s a defence mechanism or whatever to pretend that you are, to act childish, but you aren’t. 

Ugh, listen to me. I sound like Martin. Disgusting. I don’t give a shit about this, I’m not your therapist. But you keep on making your problems my problems, and I’m not tolerating that. We’ll talk when I’m not fucking wanted for murder for something you were complicit in. 

Get your act together. I don’t forgive you. Statement fucking ends. 

As if Sasha’s life wasn’t hard enough, Georgie wanted to go dancing. 

“I am literally wanted by the police.”

“The nightclub’s so dark, nobody’ll even see your face,” Georgie promised. 

“Shouldn’t I be spending my time working on my conspiracy theory board?”

“Honey, no offence, that thing is so tacky.”

“I hate clubbing.”

“You’ll like the way I do it!”

“I really don’t want to -”

“Tough nuts.”

So, of course, that’s how Sasha ended up shoved into a tight dress, heels, and makeup, pushed into a taxi, and quickly deposited in front of a warehouse looking building. There was a long line out the door, of women with straightened hair dressed somehow identically, yet way worse, than Sasha, all looking very cold. Georgie looped her arm through Sasha’s, white teeth flashing as she grinned widely, and escorted them both straight through the doors and past security. 

She, it seemed, was a known quantity. Sasha, who had spent the last year working in a mill to feed evil psychic vampires and the ten years before that locked in academia, which was basically the same thing, was not a known quantity to any nightclub. She had not been clubbing since uni, which was approximately five lifetimes ago.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Sasha said into Georgie’s ear as they transitioned from the furiously cold February air into the swelteringly hot club. It was dim and smoky, the noise overwhelmingly grating at her ears. After so long in a quiet office, in a silent flat, she could barely handle it. 

Georgie said something to her. 

“What?” Sasha yelled. “Georgie, I don’t want to be here!”

Georgie frowned at her, and unlinked their arms so she could reach up on her tiptoes and clasp Sasha on the shoulders. “You have been accused of murder! You just split with your boyfriend because of clown trauma! You haven’t had fun in years! You deserve this, queen!”

You know...maybe she did. 

Georgie pressed a drink into her hands, mysteriously procured from somewhere, and without thinking too hard about it Sasha downed it in one gulp. Georgie whooped, clapping her on the back, and directed her towards the bar. She flashed her platinum credit card at the bartender, and suddenly Sasha was MVP of the night. 

You know, Sasha thought dizzily as she was given a toxic blue drink and pushed onto the dance floor, maybe she did deserve this. Didn’t she deserve to have fun? After the way things ended with Tim, couldn’t she just act like a normal girl and go clubbing with her friends to dance away the pain? She was almost forty, way too old for this, but maybe she could forget for a little bit. She had never had the opportunity as a teenager, not even as a young adult. Couldn’t she do this, before she died?

Maybe women closer to forty than thirty dealt with this with - with book clubs, with sisterhood, whatever. Maybe women closer to forty than thirty were married, had kids of their own. But Sasha was just Sasha, stuck in a literal dead-end job, going nowhere good, and this was all she would ever have. 

Maybe Georgie was right. Why not live, before she died? Everybody on earth died - everybody, that is, except for a small group of people who were willing to sell their soul for the privilege.  At least maybe this way she could have whatever joy she could fit into her life before all opportunity was lost, and she was lost. 

A man sidled up to her, asking for a dance, and she evaded him. But then there was another one, and another one, and Sasha found herself fleeing back to the bar and ordering another drink. Too soon. Way too soon. She found herself digging in her borrowed purse, searching for her phone, wanting to call Tim or talk to him or ask him if they really were broken up so she could have rebound sex with random dudes in bars, but the purse was empty of both a phone and a wallet. That’s right - she had destroyed it. Because the cops were after her. 

Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, a man sat down at a barstool. He said something to the bartender and leaned towards her, mouth spilling something obscured by the crush and heat and sound of the club. He seemed to be asking if he could buy her a drink. Sasha shook her head dizzily, confused and lost. Then he leaned in closer, and Sasha could smell the alcohol on his breath. 

“Are you sure? I’d like to dance with you!”

Sasha shook her head no again, frantically. 

“Aw, come on -”

Then, as if by magic, Georgie was at her elbow. Unintimidating, not more than one hundred and seventy centimeters, with teased hair and sharp black lipstick and eyeliner, she raised an eyebrow at the guy. But there must have been something in her eyes, or a lack of something, because the guy rapidly slipped off the barstool and melted into the crowd, leaving the drink the bartender slid onto the counter behind. 

As if she had planned it, Georgie easily stole the drink and knocked it back. She tugged Sasha down, yelling into her ear. “Come with me, darling, let’s check out where the real party is.”

Without taking no for an answer, Georgie grabbed Sasha’s hand and tugged her through the outskirts of the crowd, ducking and weaving between small clusters of people and women dancing the night away. Sasha’s vision swam, details and faces lost in the endless ripple of flashing lights and sound, until all she felt was Georgie’s cool hand in hers, and it wasn’t until they emerged from the choppy sea of people into a small hallway off the main room that she felt like she could breathe. Sasha’s head swam with movement and smoke, and she was barely cognizant that they were in a hallway for a bathroom or something. 

But Georgie walked confidently past the bathrooms, into what appeared to be a storage closet. She confidently opened it, halting at the door frame to glance backwards at Sasha. A smile quirked at her bow lips. 

“You coming?”

Sasha, slightly intoxicated though she was, couldn’t fight the skepticism. “This is where the real party is? A supply closet?”

“Oh, my dear Archivist,” Georgie said, smirking slightly. “The world is full of far more delights than you could understand. Follow me, and stay close.”

Then Georgie stepped forward, disappearing into the closet, and as little as Sasha wanted to step inside more dubiously supernatural hallways she wanted to be left alone in this club even less, and she ducked after Georgie into the unknown. 

The unknown, as it turned out, was another club. 

Or, more accurately, a pub. It was a nice pub too, all smoky yellow lights and burnished wood booths. The booths were upholstered in soft and cushy looking brown leather, and the sound where nowhere above a quiet murmur. It didn’t seem to be abandoned, the shadows at some booths deeper than others, but for the life of her Sasha couldn’t puzzle out the faces or figures of anybody at these shadowy corners. There was a single bartender, wiping a grimy glass over and over. He nodded at Georgie when he walked in, and Sasha was forced to wonder how many dubiously physical supernatural bars and hang-outs existed in random back rooms of mundane stores. Were these things just everywhere? Or were there only a few, and so long as you had the right key any door could be an entrance? It was just Sasha’s intuition, but she felt as if it was the latter. 

What would, could Georgie open up for her? What power, what majesty? What world of power and control could Jon give her, that Jon was trying to hard to give her that she kept refusing? Nobody was telling her the cost. Nobody was letting her make a decision. She was being swept up in the wake of giants, and Sasha was just trying to keep her head above water. 

Georgie was still walking confidently down the aisles, and Sasha stumbled trying to keep up. Finally, she came to a stop in a back corner, utterly secluded with a booth that stretched the entire corner, large enough for seven or more people. Georgie turned to Sasha, smiling broadly, and Sasha tried not to feel intimidated. 

“Honey, these are my friends. Girls, this is my new roommate, Sasha James!”

With a flourish, she made a little tah-dah motion, and the smoky yellow lamp above the table flickered on. 

The table was crowded with women, or women appearing people. Absolutely none of them were familiar. No - in the corner, there was one person who was familiar. Michael, blonde hair hurting her eyes in curly ringlets, hands in his coat pockets. He smiled crookedly at her, jarring her adrift. 

“Uh,” Sasha said, confused. Who were these people? “Hello?”

A short East Asian woman in a white tank top and black jeans scowled from where she was slouching in her seat. “One of those Beholding patsies? Please, Georgie, they’re so insufferable.”

“I like this one,” Georgie said cheerfully. She slid into an empty seat, and Sasha cautiously sat next to her. “Play nice, everyone.”

“You’re such a grouch, Jude,” a woman said, leaning forward and looking interestedly at Sasha. Her eyes were dark and big, her head cocked, giving her an almost insectoid air. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Archivist. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re really making waves in our little community.”

“Patsy Archivist,” a tall and burly white woman with cascading brown hair said shortly, taking long gulps of a pint. “What’s impressive about that?”

“I’m impressed with anyone who puts up with Sims and Magnus long enough,” the insectish woman said. “No offence, Georgie.”

“Oh, they’re insufferable,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Have you heard how those two like to socialize? They go to galas. With those awful little Fairchilds and Lukases and whatever. It’s just tragic.”

“Word,” the insect woman said, raising her glass. The rim seemed to be coated in cobwebs, making Sasha feel vaguely ill. “Much rather have a pint at a nice little pub with friends. But we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Annabelle Cane. I’m sure you’ve heard of me in all those little stories you like.”

Anabelle Cane. Sasha swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“A proxy Archivist she may be,” Michael said serenely, “but perhaps our most successful yet. She’s already coming along so much further than Gertrude ever did.” He winked bizarrely at Sasha. “Michael, but you already know that. They and them, if you please.”

Oh. Sasha blinked at them. “Thanks for...saving my life back there. And Tim’s and Martin’s.”

“My pleasure,” Michael said affably. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Always nice to have the Eye owe me a favor.”

“They’re just mad they didn’t get to kill Gertrude,” the brunette said evenly. “Julia Montauk. You should know me too, I think. Is it true you killed someone?”

“I definitely didn’t,” Sasha said heatedly. “It was a set-up.”

“Relax, we’re all killers here,” the woman in a tank top said. She scowled at Sasha. “Jude Perry. What the fuck do those old money ponces think they’re doing, installing another patsy Archivist this late in the game? I would have thought that they learned their lesson after that bitch Gertrude.”

“Archivists are quite slow learners,” a woman piped up. She sat in the corner, strangely oddly. Her skin was shiny and strange in the dim light, almost plasticish, and her dark eyes hadn’t moved from Sasha’s face since she walked in. “Nikola. A pleasure, Archivist.”

“Are you guys all…” Sasha trailed off uncomfortably. “You know?”

“Serial killers?” Julia Mauntauk asked flatly. 

“Inhuman monstrosities of plastic and flesh?” Nikola inquired. 

“Daughters of fear entities that control our every action?” Annabelle said. 

“Embodiments of unknown concepts made sentient, forced into a shape that cannot suit them, locked in flesh and fractal prisons, always screaming in endless turmoil, unable to understand the horrors of the concepts of ourselves, always searching for the sweet release of death that can never quite be obtained, because that which does not live can never die?” Michael said serenely. 

“Assholes?” Jude Perry said flatly. 

“The sexiest Avatars around?” Georgie asked. 

How did Sasha’s life devolve to this point. 

“...yeah,” Sasha said. “Hey, where can I get more drinks?”

Unsurprisingly enough, the drinks came very fast. Service was excellent when you hung out with eldritch women, Sasha supposed. 

The conversion flew thick and fast after that. In Sasha’s experience, joining a new group of established friends meant being ignored for favor of pre-existing dynamics. It was always uncomfortable, and no small part of why she just didn’t join new groups. Tim had never had that problem - he had a loud and persistent personality, the kind that made you pay attention to him. He dominated any room he entered, by force if necessary. It always seemed exhausting to Sasha, but Tim didn’t really seem to have anymore real friends than she did lately. His personality was like an ocean, overwhelming and everywhere, but when his mood turned sour it was just as intense. Gulfs of pleasure, intense pain - it seemed exhausting, to feel so deeply. God knows Sasha didn’t. 

But today, in this group, she seemed to be novel. Maybe new fear avatars were a rare enough thing, or at least ones with Georgie’s seal of approval. They aimed a barrage of questions at her, and Sasha did her best to keep up with each one.

How did Sasha know Georgie? Mostly through a mutual enemy. Oh, fuckin’ Sims, right - you guys friends? No, I hate him. You guys fucking? Ew. Right, right, Sims is a giant prude - actually I heard that he doesn’t really - no, Jon decided a while back he doesn’t do that, and we all respect his decision - ew, though, nobody wants to imagine that. So why are you two friends? We’re roommates, mostly, I’m kinda on the run from the cops. Who’d you kill? Nobody. Who’d that old fucker Bouchard kill? Jurgen Leitner, mostly. 

“Cheers to that!” Julia said abruptly, raising her glass. “Hate that fucker.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annabelle said, downing her own drink and what seemed like an improbable quantity of spiders. She leaned over the table to where Sasha had hastily been stuffed in, beetle-black eyes gleaming. “But really. What are you doing here?”

“As I said,” Sasha said uncomfortably, “I got framed for murder -”

But Annabelle just waved her hand. “No, no, we know that. I’m asking what are you doing here? With people like us, in a place like us? You’re just a sexy librarian. Your highest goal in life was owning your own cottage house one day. How’d you get wrapped up in the tangled web of our world?”

Sasha’s mouth ran dry, her head spinning in a way that didn’t really seem to have anything to do with the alcohol. How had she ended up like this? Who was to blame?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha said dizzily. “He -”

“Didn’t know you Beholding types were in the process of lying to yourselves,” Annabelle said, casually yet brutally. “No, really.”

Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I guess I just asked all the wrong questions.”

It was a pretty way of dressing up the real answer: that Sasha didn’t know. 

Maybe her thoughts were obvious, because Georgie cooed sympathetically and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Cheer up, honey, it’s not so bad. Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s just your own rotten luck.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude called, lifting her glass. “I love my fucking life. It’s hookers, coke, and blow from here to Scotland. The life of a woman with power’s a thousand times better than the life of a woman without, James.”

“What is with you people and hedonism,” Sasha muttered. 

“Why not?” Nikola asked, tilting her head strangely. “Life’s so short when it’s this long. It’s just bread and circuses, Archivist. We all need...entertainment.”

“Humans are always trying to make sense of it all,” Michael said arily. They were digging their fingers into the table, scoring long grooves in it. “When you know there’s no meaning, no purpose, then everything else just...falls away.”

Sasha didn’t know if she believed that, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “What about those Avatars like Magnus or Raynor? They seem really...driven.”

Georgie giggled, light and airy, and leaned in. “That’s because they don’t know.”

She shouldn’t even ask. She shouldn’t - “Know what?”

Georgie smiled, sharp and wicked. “That there’s no point.”

And that was all she would say on that for the night: conversation after that devolved into parties, restaurants, drugs, and conquests. Maybe the women were right, in their own clearly demented way: that without death there was no meaning, when when there was no meaning only pleasure held any significance. If there was no afterlife, no reward or punishment - which Sasha didn’t believe, but they seemed to - then there was no reason not to do what you wanted. To have fun. To take revenge. 

If all Georgie wanted was to have fun, and if all Jon wanted was revenge, then what did Jonah Magnus want? Sasha didn’t know. She had the feeling that if she didn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to live much longer. 

Why had Jonah Magnus done this to her? What was the point of framing her for murder? She couldn’t do her job like this. What’s the point? 

Half-drunk, head spinning, she found herself vocalizing this. Somehow, Annabelle Cane had ended up sitting next to her, letting spiders run along her slightly too long and too jointed fingers. Annabelle Cane just smiled at her, jaw slightly slacking open to expose teeth. 

“Maybe it’s just to fuck with you,” Annabelle posited. “Why not? Do you think he has another reason?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha groaned. “I don’t know anything. Everything’s confusing and terrible. I could never understand those psychopaths.”

“You won’t make it very far in this line of work if you never ask why,” Annabelle scolded. She paused a second, spider running thoughtfully across her eyeball. “But too many questions damns you just as effectively, I suppose. Hm. Jonah’s quite good, isn’t he.”

“Why me,” Sasha groaned. “Everyone’s trying to keep shit from me, it fuckin’ - it fuckin’ sucks, man. It sucks. Nobody would tell me what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on. Not even Jonah, or Jon, or - or anyone. Nobody but me.”

Annabelle blinked at her, somewhat curiously, before leaning in. Her perfume lingered in the air, a heavy rosy scent. “Do you know something that Jonah doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Sasha slurred, world fading in and out. “Jonah doesn’t know that Jon -”

Then the world faded into black, and Sasha fell asleep. 

If she had felt too old for this at the nightclub, she definitely felt too old for this hangover. Sasha spent twenty minutes crouched over a toilet bowl, reluctantly shoved the Eggs Benedict in her mouth that Georgie insisted was a hangover cure, somehow, and refused the Bloody Mary that Georgie also insisted was a hangover cure that her Mum used to feed her. The thought of Georgie’s Mum filled Sasha with a deep fear, incapable of imagining somebody who was both likely born in the 1800s and who had raised a hellion like Georgie. 

When Sasha mumbled this to Georgie, she didn’t look offended. She just smiled, strangely fond. “Oh, none of this is my Mum’s fault. She was a darling, her and my Da. My childhood was positively idyllic. All things considered, you know.”

Yes, Sasha thought, struggling to imagine 1910s London in her mind, idyllic. She took another look at Georgie, squinting slightly as her head throbbed. She definitely seemed younger physically than Jon, but Jon had a particular way of carrying age about him that had nothing to do with his appearance. “When did you stop aging?”

“I forget, honestly,” Georgie said airly, sipping her own bloody mary. For some reason, Sasha didn’t believe her. “It always takes a while to notice, you know. I suppose, logically, it would be about when I died the first time.”

That, more than anything, alarmed Sasha. “I thought you couldn’t die.”

“Not permanently,” Georgie said, as if this was somehow obvious. “Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.” Sasha frantically shoved eggs in her mouth, desperate for the story. But Georgie just sighed and propped her chin on her hand, eyes distant. “You know how it is. Small town girl, grew up in North Birmingham, Alabama - back when it was just a tiny little thing, you know. I wanted to be a star. I always did. Scared of dyin’ in the dirt. If I was gonna die young, I wanted to do it where everybody knew my name. So long as they remember you, it’s no kind of death at all, really.” She sighed, lost in memory. “I could sing so good...so I went to Harlem, ‘cause all my friends and I always had dreams of going to Harlem and making it big singing in the jazz clubs. They didn’t get so far, staying at home with their babies, but I did. Wasn’t really made for babies and such, I think.” Something strange emerged in her words, the last vestiges of a Southern accent. “I was pretty, and I could sing, and I took to the spotlight like a duck to water. It was tough, but man - if it ain’t tough, it ain’t worth it. I worked so hard. Like I was working myself to death, almost.”

She trailed off, birds softly trilling outside, and Sasha was silent. 

Quietly, Georgie began speaking again. “Got into some trouble. You know how it is. I spent dozens of years wondering if it was my fault, if there was something I coulda done differently, zig instead of zag...but now, I don’t think so. Just my own rotten luck, you know. Put my trust in the wrong people. Had the wrong sentence whispered into my ear.” She shrugged listlessly. “Couldn’t handle the truth. Just another girl who couldn’t handle the limelight, that was what they said. But I was set up to fail. All those jazz clubs were ganger run, you couldn’t avoid it. Every girl in that golden age fell prey to those men, same as I did. I just wanted to feel again. Tried everything once, just to feel something.” She sighed, taking another drink. “Got shot. Got back up. I remember it, clear as day. Must have been 1923. I scrubbed the blood out of my show dress and went back on stage that night, cuz you can’t get a rep as a flake. They said, that day...that day was my best performance.”

She trailed off, Sasha finally alert. She wanted more details, almost desperately, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to risk putting the whammy on her host, even if she wasn’t sure that she could. If Georgie was being purposefully vague...well, Sasha wasn’t entitled to her pain. 

Instead, she said, “I bet you were good.”

Georgie smiled at her wanly, eyes far away. “I was the best.”

They sat in silence for a little while, eating their food, Sasha’s head ringing and mind buzzing. What about this picture was she not understanding? What was so important that she was missing?

Finally, Sasha carefully floated, “I bet you must have met Jon soon after.”

Georgie looked up from her bloody mary, surprised. “Oh, yes. Just a few months after. He must have caught the word on the wind, you know, of that singing girl who got back up after getting shot in the lungs.” She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again. “Saw him in the front row of my club. He was so handsome, and so finely dressed. But there had been something strange in his eyes, you know? Like little marbles, reflecting the lamps. He caught up to me afterwards, and I figured he was just another fan to squeeze dry, but he told me in his funny little accent I’d never heard before that he could help me.” She swallowed, looking away. “That he could help me understand what was happening to me. Why I was having those strange dreams, seeing those strange tendrils. I guess he was right. After I met him, I understood it all. Things moved fast after that.” She smiled weakly at Sasha. “I suppose you know the rest.”

She really didn’t, but Sasha understood the dismissal for what it was. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me all of that.”

“It’s no secret,” Georgie said dismissively. She smiled cunningly. “A hundred years later almost exactly, and what I did to those gangsters was still my finest work. They say that if you pass by an old building on St. Nicholas Avenue, you can still hear the screams. Anyway, I have a meeting with my land development company in an hour, must run, ta!”

On that distressing note Georgie swanned out the door, and Sasha was left alone with nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories, an opulent flat, and bad memories. 

Time seemed to move quickly, yet sluggishly, after that. After another day of writing down literally every Statement she could remember off the top of her head and trying to fit them into the weird and seemingly kind of arbitrary categories that Leitner had given her, she had hit a roadblock. She couldn’t remember any more Statements, she didn’t have access to them, and the ones she did remember she either already sorted or couldn’t dredge up enough memory of them to sort them in a satisfactory way. Either that, or the Statement itself was just incomprehensible - Sasha still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Tessa’s problem. She tended to have a better memory of the ones that seemingly mentioned the Avatars in the background, just because it had been so startling to actually meet them - and a few even mentioned Jon, usually in context of Salasea or any Eye Statement. 

When Georgie came home that night, they watched another movie and they both studiously avoided mentioning anything supernatural. Best not to take work home with you, even if Sasha had never quite been good at that. 

The next day Sasha did what she should have done in the first place, and hacked into the Magnus Institute server. 

It was seriously, comically easy. Sasha had installed a backdoor connection to the desktop of her work computer from her laptop ages ago, and all she had to do was borrow one of Georgie’s laptops and redownload the program. With an easy virtual desktop she was already in. It was somehow satisfying to see all of her work programs pop up on the borrowed laptop, and it was almost a relief to access the Archive drive that connected all of their computers. More importantly, where they all put their research follow-ups and the spreadsheet that documented the debunked, uncertain, and verified statements. It had gotten to the point where if the statement refused to record on the computer they automatically put it on verified, but what Sasha really wanted from that spreadsheet was the one sentence description they had all put for each Statement. 

From there, it was much easier. Sasha, sick of the disorganized conspiracy theorist aesthetic, made her own spreadsheet and began categorizing the verified Statements that way. Much more reliable than working from memory. 

If only she could actually access the Statements...Sasha’s life would be so much easier if everything could be digitized. The debunked ones were typed up, filed, and recorded, but the verified ones only existed on paper. Couldn’t be typed up, couldn’t be recorded. It was so stupid. 

Sasha checked the clock. Eleven am on a Wednesday. They were definitely all still working. Maybe…

It was an invasion of privacy. Did she actually care about that? No. Was she worried about apparently being locked into an employment contract with an...entity of some sort that preyed on invasions of privacy? No, although she felt like she should. Was she concerned that Jon and Jonah were trying to turn into her a conduit of this entity’s power into the world, probably gradually turning her, if not evil, at least into a giant dick? Somewhat. 

Words echoed through her mind, and Sasha’s fingers halted over the keyboard. Her powers manifesting differently than Jon’s...her unique skill with hacking…

Well, that was just kind of offensive. Sasha had worked hard for her skills. They weren’t given to her by Jon’s weird god. Also - seriously, a god? It was just a malevolent eldritch entity living in a separate dimension that encroached tendrils into Sasha’s life. There was nothing divine about it. That was just offensive. Sasha was a good feminist, transgender Catholic on the run from the law and didn’t worship false idols. 

It was only then that Sasha noticed a folder on the drive that she hadn’t created. It was labelled ‘For the Archivist’. Despite herself, she clicked on it. 

It held a few pdfs. Sasha clicked on one curiously, and saw that they were photocopies of statements. No - of Statements. She was already recognizing this one as one of those spider ones. She quickly printed them all out, conscientious of how easily supernatural files corrupted, and quickly exited the drive and the virtual desktop.

It wasn’t until Sasha was already in the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack that she realized what she was doing. She sighed, replaced it, and fetched herself some sparkling water instead. She drank it slowly as she returned to her laptop and logged remotely into the police database, which she already had a backdoor into. 

It occurred to Sasha, perhaps belatedly, that if the police found her laptop and the incredible variety of highly illegal programs meant explicitly for accessing secure servers she was probably triple going to jail. This time, for something she had actually did. 

All of the hacking had never felt illegal. It had just felt...well, fun and necessary. It had never been about whether or not she should, it had been about if she could. 

Was that how it had started for Jon? Collecting household secrets because he had to, so secure the money and influence he desperately needed, because he could, because it was fun? 

Whatever. Sasha shook herself. She could have her moral crisis after she was no longer on the run from the cops for murder. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish about something that wasn’t hurting anybody. She knew, as Jon probably did, that just because something was illegal didn’t make it wrong. 

It was easy to log onto the police database and check out her own open case. She frequently checked out open homicide cases for fun, but it somehow hit a little different when it was her they were talking about. Incident, Senior Citizen, Offence: First Degree Murder, Location of Arrest: N/A, yeah, yeah, yeah…

One victim, a John Doe. Foul play was suspected...yes that’d be the gunshot wound. No witnesses. Reporting officer’s narrative...Elias Bouchard and Jonathan Sims the Fifth had walked into Head Archivist Sasha James’ office to discuss work with her when they found the body. Both were shocked and called the police...gun found at the scene had her fingerprints and the ballistics matched...suspect still at large. Friends and family had been contacted, everyone denied knowledge of where she was. Suspect had a noted history of mental illness...great…

The officers dispatched had been Alice Tonner and Basira Hussein. Sasha found that strange: Basira had history with one of the witnesses and the suspect, wouldn’t it be unprofessional to send her out? 

There couldn’t be that many sectioned officers, Sasha reasoned. Even if the incident hadn’t officially been sectioned, because the police report still existed, as a general rule if something happened at the Magnus Institute it was sectioned until proven otherwise. Even if the murder itself was seemingly mundane. 

Out of curiosity, she searched up Detective Tonner’s records. Been on the force for a long time, worked her way up the ranks. Very, very few cases and incident reports for a detective who had been on the force as long as she had. Sectioned, obviously, but even Basira had more official cases than she did. When Sasha clicked on the incident reports, they were extremely spotty and strange. Obvious details were omitted or censored. 

Something cold began to creep down Sasha’s spine. She found the arrest records of the latest four people with official records of Detective Tonner arresting them. 

Almost all of them had entered custody with bruises, cuts, and in one case a broken limb. They all had records down as ‘resisting arrest’. Sasha felt sick. 

There was one case that stopped strangely short. A clear perp, a rapist but one with little evidence, who Tonner had quickly caught. That was where the case ended: the report that Tonner had found his hiding spot, but no arrest, no trial, no prison sentence. When Sasha investigated the perp, she found that he had unceremoniously vanished shortly after Tonner had reported that she had found his hiding spot. A month later, a death certificate had been filed. 

Sasha stared at the death certificate, nauseated. This was who she was dealing with. A vigilante, some batshit pig who had obviously decided that the law was best taken into her own hands. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but...if anybody looked at Sasha’s case on paper, they’d say the same thing. 

And that was just the cases on record. It was the only obvious instance Sasha could see of Tonner having offed someone just because she felt like it, but cops were good at covering shit like that up. How many other arrest records had fallen in the cracks? How many other dead perps that nobody gave a shit about? How many sectioned cases? 

God, Sasha was fucked. 

She begged off hanging out with Georgie that night, instead staying in bed with the covers pulled tight over her head as if that could ever protect her. Why was Jonah doing this to her? What did he have to gain? If he wanted her to die a mysterious death in the bottom of a ditch, why wasn’t he man enough to do it himself?

Tonner was going to murder her, Sasha thought hysterically, and she was going to pat herself on the back for keeping another monster off the streets. 

And Jon knew. The fucking hypocrite. He wasn’t going to help her. Nobody was. But, god, she was so alone…

The next morning, as if she knew, Georgie slipped Sasha a burner phone over the breakfast table as they both robotically ate quiches. 

“It should be untraceable, but just know that anybody you call you’re putting at serious risk,” Georgie warned, before her expression softened. “This’ll all be over soon, honey. I promise.”

“Did Jonah tell you that?” Sasha asked bitterly. 

“Nah. I just know those two.” Georgie delicately ate a forkful of quiche. “They get bored of terrorizing humans pretty quickly. Now, Michael’s a different story. They’ll terrorize someone for decades. I’ve seen them do it!”

“Great,” Sasha said. 

It seemed to be at this point that Georgie realized she was actually making Sasha feel much worse, because a slightly panicked expression crossed her face and she quickly reached out to pat Sasha on the hand. “But I’m sure they won’t do that to you,” Georgie said quickly. “They love you! Jon especially. Jonah’s just on another of his little power trips right now, he’ll get over it. And Jon, like, feels really bad about this whole thing. He’s been super annoying about it, actually -”

“See,” Sasha said, standing up to clear away her dishes, “I would rather handle an enemy who obviously wants to kill me than a friend whose good side I always have to be careful to stay on, who I can’t afford to ever make mad. I guess that’s the only difference left between me and you people.”

She angrily put her dishes in the sink, where the housekeeper would do them, and stalked to what was rapidly becoming her room, slamming the door. 

Flopping down on the bed, she stared at the burner phone. Tim wouldn’t be at work yet. They could talk. They could - 

Do what? Get back together? Split up? Could he explain, beg for her forgiveness? Did she have to apologize too? Sasha didn’t understand. 

That was rare for her. She understood a lot of things, or at least she thought she did. Maybe she had been lying to herself, about everything: that her and Tim were a good idea, that Martin was sketchy,  that Jon was evil, that Jon was kind, that Georgie just wanted to help her, that there was nothing that Jonah Magnus would do to her, that she was safe and human and a good person. 

God, her capacity for self-delusion was ridiculous. But maybe people needed a little bit of self-delusion to survive. Nobody could live in complete honesty, in full sight of their flaws and shortcomings. You could burn away, living like that. 

No. No time or space for fear. Sasha wasn’t afraid of anything. If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would be true. She desperately punched in a number that she didn’t remember memorizing, holding the phone desperately to her ear, her one connection to humanity. 

It rung, and rung, and one, and Sasha’s heart thumped in her chest. 

Finally, the ringing stopped, and a slightly sleepy voice punctuated the dead air. “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s me,” Sasha burst out, everything she wanted to say to him rushing through her throat and choking her, and she burst into tears. 

Distantly, through the sound of her crying, she could hear Tim on the other side losing his shit, and eventually wrangling himself to calmness. 

It was almost funny, how they could work each other up like that. Eventually, by the time Sasha had managed to wrangle her own crying, Tim had calmed himself down enough that he was able to clumsily try to cheer her up. 

“We’re all fine. Everyone’s perfectly safe. Martin’s gotten, uh, even more annoying since you left, and we’ve technically hired Melanie, which is - not good but it’s funny? Are you still crying? Please don’t still be crying.”

“I’m fine,” Sasha hiccuped. She rubbed at her red eyes. God, she’d missed him. “Tim, what happened?”

The line was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Is this line secure?”

“Uh - probably? I mean -” Sasha quickly checked herself. She didn’t want to mention Georgie. The less he knew the better. “ - it’s a burner, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not the one who bought it.”

“Where are you living?” Tim asked harshly. “Are you homeless? You have to come stay with me, I can -”

“You mean the first place Tonner will look?” Sasha shot back. “No. I’m safe, I’m dry, things are fine. That’s all you need to know.” She softened her voice. “I promise, if it was safe I’d tell you more. I want to see you again. Tim, I - I’m really sorry.”

Tim laughed hoarsely, without humor. “Shouldn’t it be me saying that? I’m the one who thought you were a monster.”

“...yeah, that one’s on you.” Sasha sighed miserably, lying down on her bed, wishing Tim was next to her. “I am, though. A monster, I mean. Tim, I - I’m definitely not entirely human anymore.”

“God, Sash, that’s the least of our problems right now,” Tim said, laughing slightly again. “Can you just tell me what happened? I know you didn’t fucking do it. That dick Bouchard keeps playing dumb and his shitlead lackey keeps on avoiding the Archives. I bet Sims killed that old man, right? He totally did. Martin keeps on saying that his precious Jon wouldn’t let you take the fall for something he did, but I’m not so sure.”

“I...it’s more complicated than that.”

Sasha explained in short order. For once, Tim was totally silent the entire time, letting Sasha dispassionately recite the entire sad story. She finished it at Michael helping her escape, not detailing where she had been dropped off. 

Finally, after a long silence, Tim said, “So this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Sasha said harshly. “You were manipulated, same as I was.”

“I’m the idiot who -”

“Yes, you were being an idiot. You should have talked to me, talked to anyone. You should have done anything other than your homicidal partner in crime. You definitely shouldn’t have been buying a fucking black market gun when I know for a fact you have no idea how to shoot. But you tried playing hero and you played straight into Magnus’ hands. You fucked up. Okay? Now let’s try to do better.”

More silence, until Tim sighed. “Can’t believe the Douche’s Jonah Magnus. Explains why Sims is always playing lackey for him. Can’t wait to spill to Martin how his boyfriend framed his boss for murder.”

Sasha chewed her lip, uncertain. She hadn’t shared the details of Jonah and Jon’s conversation too closely - it had seemed private. “See, I’m not sure this is...entirely Jon’s fault.”

Tim groaned. “Not you too! Why is everyone but me and Melanie a fucking Sims apologist?”

“Jon and Jonah are...they’re weird, okay?” Sasha moved to chewing her hair, uncertain of how to describe it. If it should even be described. It seemed so private, so unsuitable to name...but maybe everybody thinking that was how these things stayed perpetuated for so long. “I think Jonah’s kind of, you know, abusive?”

The line went silent again. 

“Wow,” Tim said finally, “Martin’s going to be so disappointed his boyfriend’s taken.”

“They’re just friends! I think. I’m like, ninety percent sure. But you didn’t hear them, Tim. They’re really...it’s messed up. Trust me.”

“Jesus, Sash, why are you defending someone who fucked all of us over like this? Sims is a big boy, he’s responsible for his own shitty decisions and the shitty company he keeps.” Tim snorted. “I’ve heard them talk, anyway. If anything, Magnus is the one always giving into Sims and his little tantrums. Jesus, I just want to throttle the both of them.”

“Maybe you need to get over your anger issues and focus on actually solving the problem for once,” Sasha snapped. “Nobody has time for your revenge fantasy, Tim! We need to fix all of this.”

“Which one is it, Sash?” Tim asked coldly. “Was I manipulated, or was it my anger issues and hero complex? Are you going to decide if this is my fault or not?”

Sasha’s heart stuttered in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain to him what she knew - that it was everything, that it was all of the above, that he was manipulated through his anger issues and hero complex, that Tim had been pushed in a direction but he had taken the steps all by himself. But she couldn’t blame him entirely, because Sasha had been manipulated the same way, and so had Jon and Martin and Georgie, and if she started thinking like that then she would have to start hating the whole damn world. 

“Tim, are we going to stay together?” Sasha whispered, broken-hearted. “Can we even still be together? I love you. I want you here with me. But there’s so much ugliness that’s growing between us. I don’t know if this can be fixed.”

A long silence again. Sasha wanted to be there with him, to read his face, to see what he was thinking. She had always understood him so well, or at least she thought that he did. 

“I love you too,” Tim said finally. “I want to fix this too. I - I don’t know, Sasha. I love you. The thought of you alone, in danger, and not even knowing where you are, is fucking me up. It’s like Danny all over again, Sasha, I can’t handle this. Can we have this conversation again when I know you’re safe?”

“Okay,” Sasha said, and she knew that this was probably the best both of them could do right now. “Are we staying together?”

“...I don’t know.”

“...are we breaking up?”

“...still don’t know.”

“Okay,” Sasha repeated again, and sighed. “I won’t call you from this phone twice. I’m doing the best I can here. I’m safe, I think. Things will be okay, Tim.”

“Sash,” Tim said, “I don’t remember the last time things were okay.”

And neither did she, and they both knew it, and she hung up on him without saying anything further. She lay on the bed, listening faintly to the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming, staring up at the fan as it beat in a steady rhythm on the ceiling. 

Was Tim right? Was she reading too much into Jon and Jonah? It wasn’t her job to fix Jon, to puzzle out his weird psychology. Maybe he was just an asshole without a spine,and there wasn’t anything more to that.

No. Sasha didn’t believe that. This was a puzzle that she hadn’t solved yet, and she had the feeling that at the heart of this puzzle was the key to finally keeping herself and Tim safe. She couldn’t abide a mystery, couldn’t trick herself into thinking that the truth wasn’t important. The truth was all Sasha had. She couldn’t close her eyes to it, that awful and ugly reality. 

Tim...he had been such a bad idea. But he had always been her favorite one: the way he could always cheer her up, his bright and bold smile, his courage and heart and sensitivity and vulnerability. He had loved her, truly and wholly, for who she was. He knew the ugly corners of her and loved them as much as he loved her best attributes. 

Was that still true? Was Sasha turning into a person that Tim just couldn’t love? Was Tim turning into someone that Sasha couldn’t love? 

People changed. Sometimes they changed apart. And for some strange reason, Sasha just couldn’t bear the thought of that. 

Lying on the bed of a grim reaper, crying like a broken-hearted teenager, Sasha didn’t notice that the housekeeper’s vacuum had stopped running. She didn’t notice the knock on the door, or the creak of the door opening, or the gentle rise and fall of voices. She only heard it when there was a soft knock at her own door, and she was forced to roll off the bed to open her bedroom door. 

Standing in front of her, looking nervous, was the housekeeper. Standing behind her was Jonathan Sims. 

He looked pretty bad, Sasha noted clinically. Eye bags, even more pronounced than usual, stood starkly under his eyes, and his hair wasn’t as cropped short and styled as it usually was. It had grown out a little, making Jon look more like a tired modern guy walking the streets of London than a centuries old immortal psychic vampire. He was still dressed in a suit, as he always was, but the suit jacket was off and his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow.

He stared at Sasha, probably registering every minute change in her appearance as she did his, before glancing down at the housekeeper. “You’re excused for the day. Thank you for your time.”

He passed her something - probably neatly folded bills - and nodded at her as she shakily nodded back and escaped the flat as quickly as possible. Jon stepped backwards in the hallway, gesturing for her to come out, and walked back into the living room. Because Sasha was just slightly too prideful to barricade herself in the bedroom, and partly because she wasn’t sure that Jon wouldn’t break into a woman’s bedroom, she stepped out into the grandiose yet cluttered living room with him. He stood in the center, hands in his pockets, looking over the flat with a clinical eye. 

“Georgie’s sense of interior decoration is as immaculate as ever,” Jon noted clinically. “She used to spend months getting every house we ever lived in just right. Said it was her job as lady of the household. She had never been a lady of any household, of course, not in the way that Jonah and I had once known - but her fun’s important to her, and it doesn’t hurt anybody important.” He sniffed slightly. “You coming to stay here was for the best after all. She’s been lonely, I think.” 

“I’m staying here because I’m homeless,” Sasha said flatly. For the first time, she noticed a small manila envelope under his arm, tucked slightly into his back pocket. “Because of you.”

“I’ve kept your flat for you,” Jon said eagerly, stepping forward, and letting his cold mask fall. In him now was something eager, something almost pleading. Sasha forced herself not to step away. “All of your possessions are intact, and I can get your bank accounts unfrozen easily enough. Once all of this blows over, your life can be right back to normal.”

“Wow,” Sasha drawled, crossing her arms, “how kind. Were you so busy being this nice to me that you forgot that Georgie barred you from this flat because I don’t want to fucking look at you?”

“She’ll get over it,” Jon said dismissively. “She’s been wanting us to make up, anyhow.” He stepped closer again, fluorescent green eyes fixed on her large and warm brown ones, and Sasha fought the tingle crawling up her spine. “Sasha, I really am sorry. Jonah was out of line in what he did. But - but you know, he really does know best. Even if it doesn’t seem so. What we’re doing now, it’s for the best for your development. I promise this will all blow over soon, and things will be better. For all of us.”

“For a subject of a truth god,” Sasha said, voice dripping sarcasm, “you have a unique ability to lie to yourself.”

Jon puffed up, scowling down at her. “That’s ridiculous. I -”

“Does Jonah Magnus respect you?” Sasha pressed. 

Jon...hesitated, and they both saw it. Jon frantically tried to cover, quickly saying, “Of course he does. I’m his partner, and we’ve been partners for two hundred years. There’s nobody on earth he respects more than me. There’s nobody he respects but me.”

“Then why does he talk to you like you’re an idiot?”

“He talks to everyone like that.”

“Because he doesn’t respect anyone but you. You just said that. But if he respects you, then wouldn’t he talk to you differently?”

There it is - Jon’s shoulders hunched slightly, unconsciously on the defensive. “Does he give you equal input on decisions?”

“I always give my -”

“Does he listen to them?”

Jon was silent. Finally, slowly, he said, “Jonah was right. He said you’d get like this.”

Fuck. Sasha’s heart sank, even as her jaw dropped in incredulity. She had lost him. “You must be kidding.”

“He said you’d get jealous.” Jon crossed his arms, turning slightly away from her, but what he clearly meant to be a closed-off stance just seemed defensive. “He said that you’d get upset that I’m more loyal to him than to you. What we’re doing now is for your own good, Miss James. You’ll see one day that this - this unpleasantness is helping you grow.”

Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness?! Putting her life at risk was an inconvenience? “I’ll see, huh?” Sasha said bitterly. “Just like you saw? Just like how you changed your mind from this being cruel and traumatic to it being a momentary unpleasantness?” She barked a short laugh, not very humorous at all. “I was there. He called you stupid, he said that you couldn’t trust anybody but him, and he called you an idiot. Are those the words of someone who respects you? Of someone who even likes you?”

Jon stiffened, mouth tightening, and he broke eye contact and looked away. “Don’t concern yourself with the private business between Jonah and I.”

“When you’re having the conversation over a cooling corpse that you framed me for then you’re making it my business, you absolute shitheel!” Sasha yelled, finally losing her temper. “Your bullshit is ruining my life! Your complete inability to stand up to that sack of shit is ruining my life!”

“Shut up!” Jon yelled, seemingly having taken her losing her temper as permission to lose his. Distantly, Sasha was aware of his stupid this must have looked: two fully grown adults, yelling in a living room like children. “You’re a spoiled child who doesn’t know anything! All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and you spit in my face! You’re no better than Martin!”

Abruptly, strangely, Jon stopped short. He seemed almost embarrassed, almost in pain. 

And just like that, Sasha knew. “He’s not letting you see Martin, is he.”

For just a split second, Jon’s expression crumpled, but he forced it back into his haughty mask. “I decided that it was best I didn’t waste my time with manipulative traitors.”

“Was that your idea?” Sasha asked flatly, abruptly extremely tired. “Or was it Jonah’s?”

Jon was silent. They both knew the answer. 

“If you walked up to Jonah now and told him that you wanted to start dating Martin, do you think that you’d leave that conversation still wanting to do it? Or would you somehow decide, all by yourself, that you’ll end up doing what Jonah wants anyway?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

A strange mix of emotions swirled in Sasha’s stomach. Anger and disgust mixed with pity and sadness. What had Jon been like, before he met Jonah Magnus? Had he been a good person?

But maybe that wasn’t so important. Maybe the question that had to be asked was - what kind of person would Jonathan Sims be without Jonah Magnus in his life?

All at once, the fight seemed to go out of Jon. His shoulders sagged, and he abruptly deflated. He looked down at the ground, ashamed and aware of it. He had always been aware of it. He had just been lying to himself. Maybe it was impossible to live without it. 

“I don’t know what to do without him,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve never - I need him.”

“You don’t,” Sasha said, abruptly exhausted. “You want to help me, Jon? You want to protect me and Martin? You can’t do that while staying friends with Jonah Magnus. You have to choose. So long as you stay close to him, you are going to stay within his complete control. That’s what he does. He controls everybody and everything. And you’re letting him. You’re justifying it. You’re doing his work for him. Everybody around him is - even Georgie. There are two people in your life who are trying to get you away from him, and he’s trying to convince you to cut them out of your life. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “You’re wrong.”

“I need your help, Jon,” Sasha whispered, and to her shame found her voice cracking. “I need someone on my side. I can do it alone, but - but I’m scared. And I don’t want to. I need help. I’m scared.”

But she knew, even as she said it, that Jon was scared too. He couldn’t reach out a hand to her - not now, not here. Jon had carried around his fear for hundreds of years, pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t there, and it informed everything he’d ever done. Scrambling for power, exerting that power, desperately dominating even as he was dominated - it stemmed from that fear, all of it. And Jonah Magnus kept those flames fanned, because a Jon who was afraid was a Jon who could be controlled. 

A Sasha who was afraid, who was isolated, who was trapped, was one who could be controlled. 

The realization was dizzying. Somehow, the thought that kept running through her mind was - who’d do that? Who was such a terrible person that they’d go through all that trouble, all of that plotting, just to make someone suffer? Not because they disliked them, not in revenge, not because of any human emotion - but just because it was convenient? Useful?

Because you could?

So this was what power did to a person, Sasha realized. So this was what power and immortality and money and supernatural gifts did to you. It made you someone who Sasha could never hope to understand, whose depths of depravity she could never truly rationalize. To Sasha, who prided herself on knowing people and being able to understand them and their motives - it was almost a relief, almost a blessing, that she couldn’t possibly understand the motives of Jonah Magnus at all. 

Jon stared at her, fluorescent green eyes wide, and for just a minute she could see the fear that she knew was there written all over his face. For just a minute, Sasha and Jon were scared together, both trapped in tumultuous waters that they couldn’t control. For the first time Sasha empathized with Jon. 

Jonah Magnus was somebody that Sasha could never understand. But Jon was, and for the first time Sasha knew what Martin meant when he said that he felt as if Jon had been a good person, a long time ago. 

You can’t understand someone and hate them. Not really. You could be angry, upset, betrayed...but if you really understood someone, backwards and forwards, true hate was difficult to find. 

“I have to go,” Jon said, almost dizzily. He shoved the manila folder at her, both of them having forgotten that it was even there in the first place. He glanced at it, frightened and guilty. “Be - be careful when meeting Jude Perry. Don’t take her at her word. I have to go.”

He fled, as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at his heels, and Sasha was left standing in an opulent hallway, clutching a manila folder as if it was a time bomb, completely certain that it was meant to hurt her and cause her pain and damage her, completely certain that she was going to read it anyway. 

Like Jon - what choice did she have? 

But as she stumbled back to her room, as she sat down on the comfortable chair and thumbed on the tape recorder that sat at the desk, the words of Jonathan Sims ran through her mind. His warning. A clumsy attempt at protection. At the very least, a signifier of desire. 

Sasha knew, as she sometimes knew things, that Jon had started out somebody who deeply desired to protect others like him. To take revenge, to grab power, yes, but also to spread that precious knowledge and resources around. He had never stopped thinking of himself as one of those vulnerable people, people who society had stepped on and ground into the dirt. Deep down he had just wanted things to be fair, wanted some justice in the world. Jon, at one point, had only wanted to help. 

Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all. 

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist…”

[bangtanlalaland]

around the way girl | knj (m.)

synopsis ↳namjoon kim was the man you’d fallen in love with in college, while existing in a society where ambw relationships are rare.

→part of the bring it back collection!

— 1990’s!au; strangers to lovers!au

→pairing: underground rapper!kim namjoon x beauty supply store worker!black female reader

→genre: fluff, smut

→word count: 4.7k+

→contents ⨯ warnings: that beautiful, interracial love (AMBW) [if you’re racist, fuck off my page!] some major fluff action here, joon is so soft, (I stg he’s a dom but also a hopeless romantic. the DUALITY. agsgsjlldlejd), rapper joon makes an appearance, sweet love making, name calling (cute shit, I promise), also the use of DADDY, lots of kissing and caressing, body worshiping, oral (f receiving), protected sex (no glove, no love baby), fingering, over-stimulation, namjoon is so inspired by hip hop culture, y’all I tried really hard to sprinkle some 90′s vibes in there so bare with me ok,

a/n: heyyyy loves! I wanted to do something different, considering that I hardly come across any fics (specifically BTS) with a woc or simply a black reader. so here’s one to all of my beautiful, black queens out there! much love to you all & I want you to know I am here & stand with you.  

song rec: “around the way girl” by ll cool j

☞ disclaimer: If any of the warnings listed above offends you in any way, please do not read. It is not my intention to start any sort of debate/argument in regards to racism, culture appropriation, etc. Therefore if any characters, settings, and/or facts/statements are incorrect, please disregard. However, this body of text is for entertainment purposes only. All characters, settings, scenarios, and dialogue are fictitious. Any similarity to events or persons, whether living or dead, is coincidental.

It was like a movie, from start to finish. Growing up, times were hard and challenges never ceased to fade. But, you pushed through — the good, the bad, and the ugly. Lost ones along the way, realized you couldn’t trust everyone, but you grew. As an independent, young, black woman living in America. And then something happened, that changed everything.

The year of 1998, when fall semester classes at your college just ended, which called for finding a seasonal job for the time being. And that’s how you ended up working at Queen Beauty Supply about two blocks from your place. You grew up knowing Mr. Park (who is the owner and now your boss) all your life. As you were a child, your mother supported his business, always stocking up on flexi rods, Just for Me relaxers, Goody brushes, and all. Even the endless amounts of barrette balls of every color you could think of, she made sure you had. And seeing that you blossomed, Mr. Park was more than honored to hire you for a seasonal gig. You loved him as if he was your family, just as well as he loved you.

It all started that one evening when you worked the register, fancy-ing some Poetic Justice-style braids, showcasing your figure with a halter top and mom jeans. A small stereo behind you blared the latest hits on the radio, Jon B currently on play. You flipped through the latest issue of Word Up! Magazine, admiring the new spread that featured Mya, Monica, and Brandy — your two in. acrylic, nails dragging across the pages. The sound of the bell jingles over the door, indicating the arrival of a customer. Your gaze turns up to greet said customer, and your eyes meet with the fellow that entered.

And damn were you blown away for a hot sec. He was cute, really cute. You hadn’t even realized he asked you something, while standing in front of you on the opposite side of the counter. He’s Asian, obviously. His eyes having told it all. They were different, not shaped like yours, but beautiful. Which was intriguing. But him simple being here in a beauty supply store was interesting, Yes, it’s ironic. The owner himself being Asian, but the intended audience is your fellow black folks. You could tell he’s obviously inspired by your culture since he sported a bucket hat and a loose, white tee that may have been just two sizes too big for him — which is rare nowadays to find on an Asian man. But, you don’t question it. Of course, you’re well aware people of all races are influenced by hip hop culture so in a way, it doesn’t surprise you as much. Okay, maybe a little. But still.

“Can I help you?” His eyes did a weird thing, but it was cute. He was cute.

“Do you have du-rags here?” Your eyebrows raise and head cocks to the side, having abandoned the magazine you were just reading.

“What do you want with a du-rag?” You question, knowing well the texture of his hair can’t form into waves, so you suppose it’s for a fashion statement. He starts blushing, his eyes shut and beautiful pearly whites on display. Damn, did he have you hooked on the spot and you didn’t even know his name yet. You had to hurry up and get him out of here for your own sake, so you took the lead. A few beats passed before he realized you were leading the way to what he needed. He stumbled a little.

“It’s uh- For my performance,” He slips, trailing behind you while passing by the rows of hair-care products, leading towards the back of the store.

“Performance? You dance?” You question, while strutting down the row of where the brushes, combs, barrettes and the jewelry wall was displayed — purposely swaying your hips back and forth just a tad too much for dramatic effect. He definitely noticed, his eyes glued to your form and wondering how your jeans could mold those curves so perfectly.

He blushes at the thought but replies, “I’m a rapper,” And that’s when you stop in your tracks, flipping your braids behind your back and placing your hand on your hip, giving him the same expression that you gave at the counter.

“A rapper?” You ask, while taking him in from head to toe. You notice his white Air Force Ones.

Damn, he is so fine.

He has style, you’ll admit that. But an Asian rapper? That’s unheard of, at least in your neighborhood.

“Do you, boo.” You shrug, while gesturing toward the wall on your left, that displayed various colors of du-rags. You step away to return to the register and then he speaks again.

“What about Blue Magic?” As if he hadn’t surprised you enough, you cross your arms, facing him.

“Well…. it depends on what you want.” You pause, and roll on your heels to walk again, he follows behind you.

“We have coconut oil, but the hair food is out of stock right now. The hair and scalp treatment is limited quantity, but we do have Castor Oil and Super Sure Gro.” You arrive at the row of hair care products, with numerous brands of oils, treatments, and more that cover the shelves. After leaving him there, you admired the way his eyes were shot wide, and you knew damn well he was not 100% sure of what he was looking at — as he searched for the product that piqued his interest.

And so it became a regular occurrence. He’d come in at least once every two weeks, buying the same thing. A du-rag and Super Sure Gro. Some days you’d even be a little extra to “up” your appearance, in hopes he’d notice or in some fantasy world, he’d compliment you. Maybe even ask about you or your day. Or if you’d like to go watch a movie with him or even hit up a spot for some good food. You ponder if he’d be into trying soul food someday. Your mom always did say that a way into a man’s heart is through his stomach. Well, more-so implying that you should know how to get down and dirty in the kitchen.

—

The bell jingles again, while you’re out on the floor stocking up the shelves with bottles of Luster’s Pink Oil Formula. Reaching below into the box to grab a few more bottles, you hadn’t noticed he was towering above you. You jumped slightly when you meet eyes with him, nearly dropping the contents you held onto.

“Don’t you know not to run up on a black woman like that? I may be little, but I can kick your ass!” You both break out into a contagious laugh. He stuffs his hands into his baggy jeans of his, that gorgeous smile spreads across his face. He clears his throat,

“I- Uh- I’m- I’m sorry, I-”

You shake it off, “You’re fine, boo.” Your hand finds its way into his shoulder, a light rub as you brush past him to head for the register. He hesitates, trailing behind you as he fights for the right words to say.

“I-I just, I-” You reach the front of the counter and turn to make eye contact with him. Your eyebrows raise slightly, taking in how he’s struggling to piece his words together. You place your hand on his shoulder again and note how he gazes at you with those same wide eyes you’d grown familiar with over the past few weeks. His lips parted slightly as if he was going to say something but didn’t.

“It’s okay-” You trail off, in hopes he’d catch on.

“Oh, right. N-namjoon. My name is Namjoon.”

You smile in response, lightly rubbing his arm with your palm.

“Is there…. Something you want to say? I promise, I don’t bite,” You state with a soft smile. You notice his shoulders easing themselves down. Part of you wonders what he was so tense for.

“You should come to my performance-” He says rapidly then pauses, looking down and then back up to you, “I would like it- I mean I think that you- You would like my performance.” He internally hates himself for being shy around you, his cheeks so tight and raised from smiling hard, and you could have literally melt in that moment. You thought it was cute to see him that way. To know you made him feel all flustered.

There was a grand amount of effort he’d built to approach you. The very, first day he arrived at the store, he wanted to say something then. He went home that night rehearsing how he’d spark up a conversation with you. He even recalls one time he’d seen you at a bus stop sucking on a lollipop, and how tempted he was to say something then. But he couldn’t. He was afraid of rejection, and he wasn’t sure how to approach you. So when he’d visit the beaut store and see your face, he’d grow warm on the inside. And when you would make eye contact with him, his heart would stop. When you would speak to him with that sweet voice of yours, he’d freeze.

So when you said yes you would be there, he cried afterwards. Not in front of you of course, but on the bus back to his place. He couldn’t believe that you didn’t reject him. Throughout the weeks, he’d contemplated because he didn’t know how you felt about people of his race. He didn’t know how your race felt about people like him in general. Although, it never mattered to him. Because he believed that love is love. As long as you’re happy with that person, that is all what truly matters. He believed everyone deserves to have that kind of love. Little did he know, you felt the same way.

And then things advanced between the two of you.

It was the night he invited you to an underground party, and it was live. Music thumped with never-ending bass, people danced and smoked, and the space felt warm and cluttered, courtesy of body heat. You gradually ease your way through the space, attempting to find some kind of “safe haven” amongst the grinding, moving bodies within the cramped atmosphere. The music settles down, which causes you to look ahead, realizing you’re in front of the stage where the DJ is posted up on the left.

“Alright, y’all! You already know what time it is.” The DJ blatantly announces through his microphone. The crowd somewhat reacts, but not to his liking you assume.

“I said… Y’all already know what time it is!” Everyone goes wild, screaming, chanting and whistling.

“Tonight, I wanna welcome y’all my boy. From the East side, he’s an up and coming rapper- Y’all check this,” He pauses for a moment, “He is a Korean rapper! Y’all feel me? What y’all know about a Korean rapper, aight?” He shakes his head throwing his hands up.

“Imma let y’all have this one, but I’m tellin’ y’all! You don’t know nothing bout this!” You smile uncontrollably, aware of who he’s talking about. Also somewhat anxious to see what the hype is about, your nerves making your stomach churn just a little too much while you’re out in public.

“Give it up for my boy, RM!” The DJ, swivels the record on his turntable back and forth. And there Namjoon was, appearing from the side of the stage, with his du-rag and bucket hat, loose tee, baggy jeans, and those familiar Air Force Ones you’d grown to recognize. You also peep the Cuban chain that adorns his neck.

And then the beat kicks in. Which was also familiar, you note that it’s the beat for “I Need Love.” Everyone starts bobbing their heads, including him. Including you.

He throws his hand up, shoving gestures to go along with the rhythm of the music, while using his other hand to firmly hold onto his mic.

“I’d like to introduce myself, The name is RM, Let’s rewind and take you back to when it first started, Very first time that I walked in the shop, I was startled and I swear I had felt my heart drop, You made me wanna get down on my knees, Begging, please, Coulda told you I was sprung the moment I seen ya,”

He makes eye contact with you and points directly in your direction. He’s talking about you, right? He’s got to be. There’s no way he isn’t. You continue bobbing your head to the beat, and you can’t fight the smile in return.

“Dang baby, how’d you fit in those jeans? Hips got a brother feeling like he’s in a dream, Couldn’t even keep my head straight, Yeah I’m Asian but damn, Somethin’ must have went left and messed up my fam, Sittin’, thinkin’, contemplatin’, and wonderin’, How could I get this fine lil shawty to blushin’? Hopin’ that you’ll say yes and lemme steal you from the scene, Treat you like a queen and show you what a real man can be,”

He stares at you for a moment too long, yet you’ve already grown too hot for the jean jacket you’re wearing over your tube top.

“I need love,” he adds before dropping the mic; everyone suddenly is hype, continuously cheering him on and giving him props for his performance.

“I told y’all! Give it up for my boy, RM!” The DJ adds, patting him on the back while smiling from ear to ear. But, his eyes are focused on you, and only you — who just can’t seem to shake off the bright smile plastered on your face, you attentively graze your bottom lip with your teeth to attempt stopping yourself from smiling so much. But, you fail. And he takes note of that, returning a smile to you. You could tell he’s blushing, his dimples appearing before he dips his head low.

So shy, yet so damn fine. How is that even possible?

—

That same week, he surprised you at work, stumbling in to rap a few verses about how beautiful you are to him, and he pulled a bouquet of roses he hid from behind his back. You remembered that day so clearly. You remembered kissing him, hugging him, holding his hand, smelling the flowers. You also remembered Mr. Park interrupting your little PDA session to scold you about: “No kissing and no sex on the clock!”

But, Namjoon loved you more than you could think. And he didn’t care who in the world thought it was wrong for you two to fall in love. Because the night you two had arrived at his apartment, lips intertwined with one another, and hands roaming each others bodies, was when everything became so clear.

You both stumble inside, too wrapped up in locking lips with one another. Namjoon guides you toward his bedroom; and being the klutz he is, he stubs his shoe on the baseboard leading to his bedroom. You both break the kiss, and you can’t help but chuckle at his clumsy ways.

“Why you laughing at me, huh?” He lifts you up and you can’t help the half gasp/half giggle that escapes your lips, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to his bed. He gently lies you down on your back and hovers above you. You unexpectedly snatch his bucket hat off, tossing it somewhere on the floor — his faded, white-blonde and dark brown strands on display.

“Did you have to do my Kangol like that?” He whines with furrowed brows. You tap his bottom lip, dragging your finger across the plump flesh.

“Shut up and kiss me.” His gold Cuban link chain hangs from his neck, prompting your fingers to tug it down, and you do so, his lips smashing with yours yet again. Your fingers lace themselves within his hair, admiring the feel of his oiled scalp. His lips massage yours in a way that’s beyond comforting, and you make sure to inform him how nostalgic kissing feels. Drawn-out moans spew from you, and you can’t help but wonder how in the hell could you be in this time and moment with him. Piece by piece all of your garments end up lost on the ground, along with his clothing. He had you caged in to his bed and kept himself hovered over you, planting kisses along your neck trailing down to your collarbone.

“Mmm, Joon.” You follow his lead, kissing his blush-colored lips, snaking through his silky strands. His hands travel behind your back to remove your lace bra, revealing your breasts that illuminate from the moonlight peeking through the blinds of his window, your chocolate nipples hardened and desperate for attention. His eyes are blown wide, cherishing every dip and curve of your body.

“Wow,” He admits, his erection growing behind his undergarment. He holds a few moments to etch this view of you within his memory, appreciating every trait of your being in this form. His hands find placement on your hips, pulling you to his body completely — the soft, plushness of your breasts pushed against his chest. He rubs the outline of your face, slowly dragging his index finger along your jawline.

“You are the most beautiful woman in the world. You know that?” You let out a small giggle, feeling vulnerable in this state. He kisses you, being sure to suck your bottom lip, pulling and tugging softly with his teeth. His hands roam down your back and land on your ass cheeks, gripping with force. Your breath hitches, and you find yourself wrapping your arms around his neck, in hopes to ease him in just a little more. Even though physically it isn’t possible. He teases your bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue, asking for entrance.

And you let him in, sucking and licking him back in response, both of yours saliva mixing with each others, and not a care in the world — too consumed in each other. He gropes your ass, causing a moan to slip from you. His large palms kneading the cushion-y flesh, and damn is he grateful for this moment in time with you. He pulls from your lips with an audible smack, and you relish in the sight of his thick lips all swollen and damp.

“I love you, ____” He admits with those delightful irises.

“I love you too, Namjoon.” He guides you to lie down on your back, hovering above you as he places kisses along your jawline, leading down your neck, taking his time to cherish every part of you. His hands roam along your sides, caressing the curves of your body. He kisses the area between your breasts and stops suddenly, eyeing you for approval. As if understanding, you nod. His tongue peeks out and circles your right nipple, he wraps his lips around the bud and sucks with tenderness, making sure to release with a pop each time while his other hand massages your left breast.

Your core aches as a result, needing to feel him so the void inside your walls can be filled. He repeats this with your other tit, sucking your nipple while massaging the other, pinching and rolling the bud between his fingers. Your core throbs with an intense pleasure, soaking your now soiled panties. He eases down further, planting kisses down your tummy and moving along the inner thighs of your mocha skin, praising the smooth, supple, flesh. His fingers tug the band of your lace panties, and he eyes you again for approval.

“Please,” You plead, and it was all he needed to hear to remove the garment and reveal yourself to him, treasuring the sight of your lips dripping from arousal. He wastes no time, as you feel his warm, wet muscle gliding along your folds, his nose nuzzling your clit in the process. Your fingers snake into his hair and hips buck upwards to move along the rhythmic motions of his tongue, while he devours you whole as if he’d become a man starved.

“Joon!” You praise, panting for air, Your gaze follows between your legs, cherishing the man that continues to eat you out. He watches your expressions, glaring deeply into your eyes as he does so. His fingers ease toward your folds, rubbing his digits along your drenched pussy, coating them with your wet. He watches you still, not wanting to leave your gaze as he enters a finger inside you. You moan his name in response. His finger delves deep within you, your walls sucking him in perfectly.

“So good for me,” He lashes his tongue out to lick your clit in a circular motion. The sight of him between your thighs makes your heart quiver. He deliberately adds a second finger, his lengthy digits curling themselves upwards and dragging along the walls of your womanhood. His nails dig along the flesh of your thighs, keeping you settled and under his grip, his lips suck on your clit til no end. His obscene noises send a shockwave of pleasure through you, and your toes curl at the sensation. He pulls his fingers from out of you and tastes your arousal that clings to him.

“Tastes so good,” He moans, and you can’t help your thighs from rubbing together to ease the tension that has built. Then, he blushes at the view of you, all horny and ready for him. Only him. How can he be so cute and so fine at the same time? You ask yourself this everyday. Your legs move on their own accord, struggling to draw him back in. He chuckles at your actions.

“You want more, baby?” He questions in that deep, sexy voice of his.

You nod in reply, “Yes, Joon. Please, daddy?” His famous dimples reappear, and those mesmerizing, pearly whites appear. He dives back down, trailing kisses along your tummy, leading to your mound. He worships your body as he had wanted to do since the day he met you, gripping and rubbing along your skin. He moans against you, admiring the feel of you under his fingertips. His lips encase around your clit again, and your body jerks from the sudden feeling. His tongue slides along your folds, sucking and slurping, making the most lewd noises.

His fingernails drag along your thighs, adding an odd tingle within you. You follow his motions and graze your nails on top of his hand, when an unexpected bliss washes over you — causing you to writhe underneath him. He continues sucking your clitoris until you can’t take anymore, your legs gliding up an down along his back, back arching off the mattress, eyebrows furrowing and you simply drowning in euphoria with trembling thighs as your nails drag along his scalp and your cries echo within his eardrums.

“Joon, daddy!” Your nails dig further into his hand, and fingers tug harshly onto his strands. Your core now sensitive to the touch, something you’d never experienced before. He moves his head back and forth, delving deeper and not wanting to let go. You scratch his back, now in hopes he’d give up. You’re nearly convinced he’s going to kill you with that tongue of his, and then out of nowhere, he pushes two fingers inside you. Your toes curl for what feels like the millionth time, and you whimper his name repeatedly.

He thrusts his digits into you, a loud squelching noise filling up the space. And you feel those plush lips wrap around your clit again. He ruts against the bed, wanting to feed the tension within his groin. Your feet now having fought the sheets you lay upon, twisting and turning due to the over-sensitivity. But in some strange sentiment, there’s another wave. And here you are having your second orgasm of the night.

“Fuck, Ungh- I’m cumming again!” Your body shakes violently, not having control over the orgasm that’s overtaken you. An uncontrollable scream slips out and you shove Namjoon away from you with a strained push, his chin now glistening with you. He wipes the residue from his face with the back of his hand, grinning at you fucked out and waiting on his bed. He pulls a condom from somewhere in his drawer and wraps himself up.

He was so thick, thicker than you thought. You lay flat on your tummy and Namjoon sets himself on top of you, caging you in again. He notes the glow upon your ebony skin as he coats his protected member with your drenched self, adding a line of his own saliva and finally diving into you with every inch he has, at a slow, steady pace. But the places he reaches leave you wondering what you’d done to deserve this kind of dick.

Magnificent.

“Beautiful, black queen,” he slips in between breaths, rocking his hips against yours. The position granting him a much deeper access. You gasp at his remark, clenching your walls tighter around him, he hisses in response. His warm breath fans the right side of your face, and he presses a kiss along your earlobe while adding,

“All mine. You’re my black queen, understand? Can’t nobody take that away from me.”

“Yes Namjoon,” You reply. “I’m all yours.”

His cock twitches at the sound of his name slipping from your lips within this state — having you underneath him like this, needy, desperate, and only craving him. He inches to meet your lips with his. His kisses are filled with want and desire, full of love. That sweet, sweet love.

“Give it to me daddy,” You say under your breath but audible enough for him to hear, and he takes heed to continue thrusting himself into you, his delicate, golden skin glimmering with perspiration. The sound of your bodies clapping against each other resonate throughout his apartment, as soft whimpers and moans fall from you, and he utilizes every millisecond of this moment to drown himself in your presence.

“So tight, so wet. So beautiful.” His hips buck in a gentle, yet stern manner, causing your body to jerk upward and eyes to shut close in response — his balls slapping your ass with each thrust of his hips, he continuously hits that sweet spot over and over again, your eyes rolling back due to the nostalgia. He eases his fingers in between your legs to rub circles into your clit simultaneously, and it doesn’t take long for your walls to contract for the third time that night.

“Fuck baby,” He coos with followed moans and groans, spilling himself while still buried in you. You shudder underneath him with nails dragging along the sheets, and muffled moans from burying your face, as you call out his name like it was the only function your brain could process.

He eases himself out of you, and you can’t help the low gasp that emits from you — having been so full of him and sensitive at the same time. A few moments later, and the slight shift of the bed indicates he vanished to discard the condom. You simply lay there, slowly processing that he’d given you the best sex you’ve ever had, being that his main focus was pleasuring you.

But it was in those final moments when Namjoon cuddled you afterwards, bodies attached together by sweat, gasping for air and basking himself in the warm, vanilla, sugar aroma of your essence — that he knew he was in love with you. And there was nothing anyone could ever say to change his feelings.

You break the silence having thought of Namjoon’s words you recall from his performance.

“Think you’ve found it?” He watches your form with raised eyebrows.

“Found what?” You trace circles along his chest, gazing upon his abdomen.

“Love,” You state, and a silence falls that makes your body warm up in a flash.

He shakes his head in a “no” gesture, “I don’t think I have.” The sudden pause of his sentence makes your heart drop.

“I know I have.” He kisses your forehead and draws you closer to him, holding onto you for dear life — like he’s afraid he’d lose you. You beam at his gesture, curling up into his figure. His heart thumps from the immense affection between the two of you. Your now closed eyes like an irreplaceable gift to him.

“My around the way girl,” He whispers to himself, while petting your hair and drifting off into slumber.

[sonnet57]

Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding his dreams. Statement... pulled direct from subject. Sorry, love. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims… the Archive.

It starts as it always does. He’s standing over his mother, when she had first gotten sick. There hadn’t been any blood on his hands yet. He looks down at them, gripping the side of the hospital bed, his knuckles turning stark white. He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know to look. He continues looking down, at his knuckles, his mother’s face, back to his knuckles. And then the fear hits, because I know just as he knows what happens next. His mother opens her eyes. She tells him to get out, that she doesn’t need a man like him doting on her. And I know as he knows what that really means.

It shifts. He’s standing over his mother again. There’s so much hatred in her eyes. She calls him by his father’s name. I want to reach out to him, but he still doesn’t know I’m there. I wish he did. I wish you did…

Another shift. He’s sitting over me. We’re both still, me from everything-but-brain-death, him wound tight with hope. My burnt hand is in his, wrapped around the scar Jude Perry bestowed upon me. He’s gripping it tight, and begins speaking. He tells me he loves me, that he needs me back in the institute, he doesn’t even try to prevaricate and say that they all do. There are tears in his eyes. They drip down onto the pale grey sheet of my hospital bed. He pulls my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. I have to look away as he begs me to wake up. To wake up for him.

Shift. He has an arm full of tape recorders. He piles them on top of the coffin that leads to the Buried. As they hit the wood, they start playing statements, a cacophony of my own voice flowing through their tinny speakers. He places his hand on the wood and pulls another recorder from his breast pocket. He stares at it for a moment, his thumb poised to press record. He thinks better of it and instead decides to press his words into the scratched lid of the coffin. He tells the empty room with the hope that it would reach me that he loves me. That I have to come back. It’s then that I realize how many times and in how many ways Martin Blackwood has been telling me he loves me.

Shift. The Lonely. He’s standing still. He barely reacts as he hears my calls. I can feel the loneliness within him, radiating off of him, surrounding him. I can feel his contentment, as well. I reach him finally, but he doesn’t look at me, even when I implore him to. In his dreams, he’s determined to stay in the Lonely. I expect this dream me to become furious, to storm away, to try and compel him to tell me why he wants to stay here, but I don’t. I circle around him, I drop to my knees, get myself into his field of vision. I continue to beg him to leave this place with me, that I know the way home, that Peter Lukas is gone and we don’t have to worry about him anymore. But he closes his eyes. He doesn’t look back at me and my voice begins to fade away. In his dreams, he never leaves the Lonely.

Statement ends.

There’s a shifting on tape and the creaking of a bed frame.

“Martin…” the Archive whispers. There’s a small noise, a kiss to a forehead, “Martin, wake up.” Another pause, another shift, a sing-song, “Love.”

The ancient sheets shiff as the body entwined in them awakens, “Oh, hello,” the Archive whispers, voice fond, “how was your nap?”

There’s a drawn out yawn and a hum, “It was good. Are you alright? Do you need something?”

“No, I just missed you. And… you were dreaming. You looked… distressed. Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

Another hum, “Can’t remember it.” A slight pause, “Are you sure you’re alright, Jon? The recorder is on. Did something happen?”

“It’s just reacting to your dreams, I think. Wanted me to… make a statement about them.”

“And did you?”

The Archive doesn’t speak for a long moment. There’s a sigh, “Play it for me.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. Though this is the first and only time. Agreed?”

The Archives speaks, a fond smile in his voice, “Agreed. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

[the-holy-ghosted]

Fate Worse Than Death

Regarding some unfinished business jon must attend to.

WARNINGS: major character death, assisted suicide (technically, in the supernatural sense), whole lotta angst

wrote this for tma villains week but they rbed my ao3 link post, i just put these here as text posts anyway, have some Lonely!Breekon content

"Er... Jon?" Martin asked, coming to a halt as the ground changed from dirt to pavement. "What are we doing here?" "What do you mean?" Jon stopped as well, turning around to face his companion. "This is The Lonely, right?" Martin stared out at the cold fog rolling over what seemed to be a vast parking lot. "We did this already, didn't we?" "Oh." Jon nodded. "We did, yes." "Then what are we doing here again?" "Hmm..." Jon thought carefully of how to phrase his words. “I suppose... This is just the way we’re going.” Martin saw through Jon’s thin excuse. “Jon. Tell the truth.” Jon made a resigned noise, "There's something here I need to take care of. Unfinished business." "... Unfinished business." Martin sounded unamused, raising one eyebrow. "With a... Person?" "You could call it that." "Uh-huh..." Martin shifted his feet. "Will it hurt us?" "I don't think it can," Jon pondered. "It has the strength, but not the will." "Great," Martin said, not sounding thrilled. "What- what is this anyway, a parking lot? Are we going shopping in a haunted Westfield London?" "A warehouse," Jon replied, grabbing Martin's hand and walking forward. This clarified nothing, but there was no use in prying for more questions. If there was nothing out for their blood, Martin supposed he could go along with Jon's vague descriptions. At some point, cars started to pop up in the distance. Not quite cars, more like U-haul vans and mail trucks. They were spotty, far enough in the distance to where he couldn't make out the company name. The logo looked familiar, though, the shape recognizable enough to ring a bell in the back of his mind. The farther they walked, the closer they were parked together, rows of idle vans on either side of them into the far and foggy distance. They were untouched and dirty, the company name still illegible. They almost warped somehow, preventing Martin from reading them no matter how hard he focused. He tried to walk towards one, just to look inside. Jon pulled him back along. They didn't need to investigate, he supposed.

Jon was right, Martin thought, as the silhouette of a large warehouse seeped into view through the mist. Its presence grew larger the closer they got, looming dark and dull over them. They approached large garage doors, but Jon took a hard left to a small side door near the corner. The door was up a few steps, two piles of mail sitting untouched beside it. Martin didn't get a good enough look to read the names on the envelopes. "Hey, Jon..." Martin whispered, stepping into what looked like someone's office. "Do we know this place?" "It’s a... It was a relatively well-established delivery service. It's a bit more niche, now." Martin understood where they were, then, and could guess the vague 'unfinished business' Jon eluded to. He caught a look at a broken picture frame on the cluttered desk, the smiling face of a man he didn't recognize staring at him. Jon seemed to not know where to go next, stopping at the office door. "You nervous?" Martin asked. "It's... It's hard to see." Jon replied. "You could try opening the door, usually that helps to see outside of it." Martin joked, and Jon chuckled. "Martin..." He sounded very serious suddenly. "This domain… it plays tricks on you. Just stay close to me and be wary.” Martin gave him a half-smile, unnerved by the ominous statement. Jon opened the door, the creak echoing into the giant warehouse. The lights were high above their heads, doing a poor job of illuminating their surroundings. Fog rolled over the ground, wafting out of their way as they stepped in and closed the door behind them. There was a hum of an air conditioner from somewhere far off. Around them were stacked boxes and crates; containing what, Martin could not guess. The other side of the building was nearly too far to see, blending in with the mist. The far wall seemed to have a door, maybe two at either end. He wondered where they led. "Now, Martin..." Jon whispered, not wanting his voice to echo. "Please don't stray too far. This place will trick you, you'll hear things that aren’t- Martin?" Martin was gone, enticed by a shadow that passed behind one of the box towers. He thought it looked at him, a glance telling him to follow. He couldn't stop himself, already turning the corner to find nothing there. Heavy footsteps echoed in front of him, Jon's voice no longer able to be heard. He waited for the footsteps to be followed by a person, but they stopped suddenly, nobody appearing with them. After a moment of waiting, he kept walking. He felt like he knew where he was going, but to where he wasn't sure. It was dim, but the fog before him showed a path of disturbed mist, curling its way around another corner. Martin turned around, Jon nowhere to be found. Perhaps he didn't need Jon, though, he felt confident enough to make his way alone. He followed the subtle trail, pulled around corners and through dark areas by shadows and faint footsteps. The path it led him down made no sense, but he felt close to something. At some point he looked inside one of the boxes, only to reveal nothing. Tapping his fingers in them as he passed revealed the same thing, they were all empty. The sound of his own footsteps flattened to the left of him, and around a pile of boxes was a door. It was left ajar. Whisps of fog rolled against the wall, suggesting someone had just opened it. The signs were clear, and Martin approached.

The door pushed open to reveal a nearly identical warehouse space. Boxes were still everywhere, but the fog on the ground was untouched. The motion of the door blew it out of his way, almost like a welcome. The air was thicker, somehow, and the hair on the back of Martin's neck stood up. Something was in here. It was dimmer and more difficult to see, every other ceiling light turned off. Martin approached another stack of boxes, tapping the sides of each. All empty. He looked around for any sign of the direction of where to go next. His mystery guide was nowhere, leaving him to wander by himself. He walked slowly, not so sure where he was going anymore. There was a presence somewhere beyond the cardboard maze, a presence Martin assumed he was supposed to find. Which one, though, was a mystery.

He heard shifting from beyond the cardboard, and carefully looked around a corner to find exactly who he assumed he was looking for. In an open circle, sat atop a crate, was a delivery man. He sat forward with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. As martin stared he watched his shoulders shake, sniffling softly. Which one of them he was, though, was difficult to discern. He couldn't tell, the only noticeable feature being his sheer size. Even from Martin’s distance he was giant, his hands large and covering his whole face. Martin noticed a ring on one of his fingers. He couldn't recall seeing that there any time before. He stepped out from behind the wall of boxes and carefully stalked towards him. The shake in his shoulders stopped abruptly as Martin called out. "He-hello?" He called gently. "Are you alright?" He was roughly 8 feet away now, the delivery man's size more apparent this close. Slowly he pulled one hand down, glaring with one dark, empty eye. He looked at Martin for a good few seconds, sizing him up. His hands slid off his face and hovered in the air, his head turning slowly to stare directly at Martin His movement was unnatural and unnerving. The way he stopped seemed almost mechanical. His eyes bore holes into Martin. "I asked if you were alright." He repeated himself. A moment of silence followed his inquiry. "... Do I look alright?" Said the man in a tone surprisingly deep, Martin took a step back. "You don't... Seem to be having a good time... No." Martin said slowly. "Which- which one are you? If I may ask?" The thing in front of him said nothing, simply staring with an inanimate stiffness. "Like are you Hope? Is that you're name? Or is that the other-" "Breekon." It replied, his voice stopping just as mechanically as his movements. "Hope's dead." "That's.. hm." Martin shifted, crossing his arms. " S' a bit on the nose, innit?" "Are you real?" Breekon asked, sounding genuine. "Am I- yeah? Yeah, I'm real?" Breekon stared disbelievingly, squinting at him. He sneered slightly, bearing inhumanely sharp teeth. "What do you want?" He asked, lowering his hands to hold his legs. Martin noticed an identical ring hanging on a string around his neck. "To find you, I think," Martin replied. "Some, uh... Unfinished business?" "What business do we go- do I got... Do I got with you?" "Oh, uh, not me personally." Martin glanced around, wondering where Jon was. "Jon does, though. Apparently." "... Who?" "You know Jon, the guy you kidnapped and almost got skinned once." Martins tone was sour. "Did that a couple times." Breekon huffed. "Gotta be more specific than that." "Jon sims?" Martin tapped his foot impatiently. How did he not know Jon? Everybody knew Jon. "The archivist? The all-seeing-" "He's here?" Breekon's face suddenly changed, looking the slightest bit hopeful. "Well, yeah, He's looking for you." Breekon looked surprised, with the minimal expressions his face made. He seemed to be considering the unfinished business in question. "Wait..." He started, speaking slowly. "I know you. You're one of Magnus' lot, right?" "I guess... Not really anymore. I don't think." Breekon huffed, sounding like an attempt at a chuckle. "He want revenge?" "I dunno," Martin pondered, trying not to wince at his embarrassingly exaggerated accent. "He'd be valid to." "Whatever." Breekon hung his head and rubbed his face, his gold ring the brightest object Martin had seen in the domain so far. Marting stood awkwardly, looking around for Jon to come and wrap up whatever he was there to do. Martin knew he wasn't in danger, technically, but Breekon's presence still unnerved him. He looked out of place in the warehouse but simultaneously blended in with the atmosphere. Martin thought out loud, "you know, I thought you'd be in a different domain. Aren't you a Stranger or something like that?" "Sure." "But you're... Not in a stranger domain?" "Does it look like it?" "O-kay..." Martin put his hands on his hips, a little displeased with the attitude Breekon had the nerve to have. "You know, one would also think this whole nightmare world is a dream come true for you things. You don't look very happy." "Do you think this is our- this is my dream come true? Do you know what it's like in here?” “I don’t-” “The shadows, the voices… they led you back here didn’t they?” Breekon paused, staring at Martin who timidly nodded his head, “that’s what it’s like in here. Ye’see all these boxes, do you? They’re empty. There’s nothing in there. No signs of life, nothing to deliver. We- I’m… I’m a delivery man. Do you think being led around in nonsensical directions is my idea of paradise? Wandering aimlessly and wishing for something to snap us-- snap me out of it? It always feels like there’s something I could be doing, and I always think the shadow and the footsteps will lead me to it. They never do.” Martin stared at Breekon, alarmed by his eloquence. He didn’t want to feel bad, knowing the horrible things they’d done to people. But looking into his sad eyes and the glimmering ring that looked too empty, he couldn’t help but understand. It lost its purpose. It lost hope. “If I were in another domain, maybe I could be put to use. If we were complete, maybe we could have done something together. But as is? No. Can’t say I want this to be my forever.” Martin furrowed his brow, in contempt but almost in empathy. Breekon hung its head as it quietly continued, “Can’t even remember what he looks like. S’not like his shadow lets me get close enough to, either.” The air felt stale and Martin looked around, desperate for something to end the conversation. It didn’t feel right to feel pity for the thing in front of him. He snapped his head towards footsteps coming from behind him, Breekon raising his head as well. Jon speed-walked towards them both, a nervous look on his face. He recognized Breekon, and the nervousness gave way to distaste. Breekon’s hopeful expression hardened into the understanding of his inevitable end before him. Jon’s pace slowed to a halt at Martin’s side. “Hello again, Breekon.” He said flatly. "Yeah.” Breekon replied just as stale. He hunched over and slowly rose to his feet; he was much taller than he looked sitting down. Martin followed his piercing gaze as it ascended to stare down at the both of them with hatred, and an exhaustion one could only imagine weighing on their soul. “Been told you got unfinished business to settle. Deliver the wrong package?” “Funny,” Jon sounded unamused, “but no. It’s a bit more personal than that. You want something from me.” “So kind of you to come to my aid.” Breekon attempted a chuckle, but it fell flat. “... Maybe.” “Say it.” there was no compulsion in Jon’s eyes, no new thickness in the air. A beat passed like a century as Breekon stared dull knives into Jon’s. “Kill me.” “What?” Martin gasped, not expecting this to be the business Jon had left unfinished. “I should have killed you when you gave me the coffin,” Jon said, his tone almost smug, “would have saved us both some trouble.” “You didn’t, though.” “I didn’t.” They stood in tense silence for another moment; Martin stared at Breekon and tried to comfort himself with strength, not the will. “I know what you’re feeling. This is a lonely place to be… a lonely way to live.” “You don’t know anything.” Breekon spat, “you can’t understand. Knowing is different from experiencing, we’re both aware of that… Maybe I could rip him away from you, see how you like it.” “You can try.” Martin scoffed, Breekon’s harsh gaze turning to him. “I…” Jon cut in, turning its attention back. “I can do it for you. I warn you, though, it will hurt.” “Only until it doesn’t though,” Breekon spoke low, its eyes glistening like the gold ring around its neck, “right?” Jon seemed to choke at the statement, thinking momentarily. “... right.” “Good luck.” Martin offered, stepping back as Jon closed his eyes and relaxed his shoulders in preparation. “Whatever.” Breekon replied, not moving.

The air felt heavy as Jon took deep breaths. He spread his arms slightly, palms facing towards Breekon. He looked quizzically at Jon’s strange ritual, but the hair on the back of his neck rose with the static, and he squinted at the shrill ringing in his ear. “Ceaseless Watcher,” Jon began, the muscles in his hands tensing. His eyes shimmered an unnatural green like a cat in a camera flash. “Turn your gaze upon this thing, this lost and broken splinter of fear.” The fog that pooled around their ankles quickly retreated and the lights above their heads began to flicker and squeal. Breekon’s hands shook, his face twisting into fright and pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and emitted strained protests, his voice scratchy. “Take what is left of it as your own and leave no trace of it behind.” Jon chanted, the sputtering bulbs above their heads further illuminating his wide eyes in the unnatural green shimmer. Breekon groaned and shrunk into itself as Jon’s ritual reached its climax. “It. Is Yours.”

Breekon howled in agony, his cry echoing into glitchy static. The ceiling lights flashed a bright green, and Breekon dissipated into the air. Jon lowered his arms and took a deep, shaking breath. Martin put a hand out to grab his shoulder, Jon leaning into the touch. "You alright?" "Yes, yes..." Jon stammered. "You alright?" "I... I will be." Martin cradled Jon momentarily, giving him something to lean on above his shaky legs. Jon wasn't usually this wiped out after a kill. “Was that one… different?” Martin asked carefully. “Was what different?” “Y'know, the speech thing.” Martin glanced back to the dark spot in which Breekon was evaporated. “Your Ceaseless Watcher thing. It sounded different from the other ones.” “Oh.” “I mean, it almost sounded like you felt bad.” “I did.” Martin looked back at Jon, surprised that he would feel pity for something that had harmed him. “Martin, I…” Jon stared somberly at his shoes, “It’s not like the other times. That thing couldn’t have been killed with all the horrors it’s brought upon the world. It enjoys it. It loved the fear too much to be brought down by it. “Okay, but so did Jude Perry, didn’t she? You killed her with her fear imprint, didn’t you?” “I did.” “Why not this one? I mean, god, they’ve been around longer than anybody can guess, why-” “Three hundred years.” “Th- three hundred years, sure. How are three hundred years of horror and misery not enough to kill just half of it?” “Because it's just half of it.” Martin pondered over that for a moment. If it were half, wouldn’t that make it weaker? Breekon sure looked miserable. “You don’t know what that thing felt.” Jon’s voice became sorrowful, almost sharing Breekon’s mournful tone. “There is nothing in this world or any of that thing’s lifetimes more painful than losing its other half. They relished in the fear, it wouldn’t have made a dent. But its loss? Its loss is something greater.” “... huh,” Martin hummed, thinking over it. “I mean, yeah I guess.” “There is something very powerful about having the one thing you love to be torn away from you. Being reduced like that. Killing it was a mercy.” “I’m not entirely sure it deserves mercy, though.” “It doesn’t.” His voice sharpened with his eyes, but after a beat, softened again. “... but I know I wouldn't want to suffer the same fate.” Martin hummed in response as they both glanced back to Breekon’s resting place. The fog slowly rolled back over it. “Has business been taken care of?” Martin tried to liven the mood just slightly. “... Yes.” Jon took a deep breath and recentered himself. “Yes, it has. Come on, let's get a move on.” Jon grasped Martin’s hand and let them quietly away. Jon pondered to himself if he should feel so bad about killing his previous kidnapper. He shouldn't, and he didn't entirely, but the thought of losing what he loved was a fate worse than death that he could empathize with at the very least.

[soveryanon]

Reviewing time for MAG168!

- Yay for Oliver! From the announced title I had suspected The End and/or him because of his veins/roots/tendrils/not-tentacles, so that one wasn’t misleading!

Most of the episode was an audio pun on “Roots”/“Routes”: both the veins, and the reference to a Corpse Road. I’m… not sure about the double-meaning, though (since usually, titles refer both the core of the “statement” and something happening in the metaplot) – obviously, the “roots” were The End’s, they were almost a character by themselves (we could hear them creaking in the background alongside the whispers, a reminder that… they could grow. They could invade other domains when they would need); and the system presented by Oliver could (as he explained) come out of his domain to invade others’ in the search for more victims, which is how this universe could potentially end… but is there an additional meaning that could apply in Jon&Martin’s discussion, or in Jon’s decision to not go after Oliver?

(Regarding Martin: jealousy associated to “roots” makes me think of Corruption, though I don’t subscribe to the idea that Martin is being supernaturally OOC right now (I see how he could potentially be led towards bad choices, but I don’t feel like he’s under an influence right now outside of his own feelings). But I wonder if one of the meanings of “roots” will make sense in retrospect…)

- I was a bit sad to not hear Oliver himself but:

* Jonny, once again, did an amazing job at nailing the intonations and inflections of Oliver’s VA for the character; so, yes, it wasn’t directly Oliver, but we could hear when it was him directly addressing Jon, when it was the “statement” form, and when it was back to Jon.

(* Though I have a tiny sliver of doubt regarding the final “Report ends” afterwards: was it Oliver’s, making fun of Jon’s “statement ends” in the same way that Simon did after he got compelled to blurt out his life story after Martin prompted him? Interestingly, Oliver hadn’t joked about the “statement ends” in MAG121, though he already knew a lot about Jon and his dreams back then, and made it obvious in MAG168 that he knew more than us about Jon’s current state and how he functions (calling him The Eye’s “archive”, and pointing out that Jon can “only take”, which… yeah, feel like that will be relevant later). Or was it Jon saying the “Report ends.” to gain back a semblance of normalcy and making light fun of Oliver’s way of organising his “report” and/or trying to distance himself from what Oliver was saying, reminding himself that it was a subjective statement and that whatever Oliver says is to take with caution since he’s above all an agent of his own patron, however convinced and convincing he may sound? I feel like it was Jon saying that “Report ends.”, given how his voice sobered up, but both could make sense in their own ways…)

* Funnily, it makes sense for Oliver to give his “statement” in this fashion! Because, so far, he had never directly communicated with an Archivist in a situation that would allow reciprocity: he gave his statement to the Institute, while watching Gertrude in the next room (MAG011); he gave his statement to Jon while Jon was in a coma, so unable to answer him (MAG121); and now, he gave his “report” about his domain through Jon, addressing it both to The Eye and to Jon (… but is there a difference at this point?). In all cases, he was unreachable. So now, it feels even more significant that the only person he has ever interacted with on tape was End-touched Georgie, and that she managed to exchange words with him…

- Given how Oliver gave this “report” to Jon, that the “I” was clearly Oliver… What does it say about the narrator of previous statements? Were the “I”s in those the domains or the Fears themselves, talking through Jon?

… If that’s the case, what is exactly happening with the tape recorders, who are gorging themselves with these new forms of statements and apparently freeing Jon from the weight of them…?

(And who was the narrator in MAG167 then? The Eye itself?)

- Laughing so hard because Oliver’s background (MAG011: “I’ve lived in London for almost a decade now. I came here to do my undergraduate degree at the London School of Economics. I ended up taking a position with Barclays shortly after graduating and did well enough there.”) showed so much in the way he organised his ~report~ (not a “statement”, not a “terror”, but a “report”, Oliver wanted to be SPECIAL, uh…):

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Report to prevent future deaths. This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself. 1 – Coroner I am Oliver Banks, sometimes known as Antonio Blake, or doctor Thomas Pridchard. I serve The Coming End That Waits For All And Will Not Be Ignored. 2 – Coroner’s legal powers […] 3 – Investigation and inquest […] 4 – Circumstances of the death […] 5 – Coroner’s concerns […] The matters of concern are as follows. a) […] b) […] c) […] d) […] 6 – Actions that should be taken […] 7 – Your response”

Organised, classified, taking an example to illustrate… and even: doing something else than the subject of his report. It wasn’t a report “to prevent future deaths”. It was a report “about” future deaths and how they couldn’t be prevented. Oliver, please.

- Handsome Man Of Many Aliases:

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “First off, I should admit that I lied to get in here.” […] ARCHIVIST: I had Tim look into it, as I don’t entirely trust the others not to have written it as a practical joke and slipped it into the archives. Unsurprisingly, he came up with nothing. Antonio Blake is a fake name and all of the contact details he provided were similarly fraudulent. It’s almost certainly a joke, a bit of hazing for the new boss, maybe? Best not to engage with it, I think.

(MAG121) OLIVER: So… My name is Oliver Banks. In my other statements, I used the name “Antonio Blake”, but I don’t really think either name has much meaning for me anymore. […] I’m Antonio. GEORGIE: Sure.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “1 – Coroner. I am Oliver Banks, sometimes known as Antonio Blake, or doctor Thomas Pridchard. I serve The Coming End That Waits For All And Will Not Be Ignored.”

… jumped on the Apocalypse occasion to get himself a fancy title, “Coroner”. With the interesting point that a coroner goes back through time to investigate someone’s death, backwards, while Oliver reads the death forwards, as in how it will happen.

- I find the way Oliver referred to Jon really interesting:

(MAG121) OLIVER: Hum… Hello, Jon. Do you… m–mind if I call you Jon? I… I mean. You don’t actually know me, it’s just… well. “Archivist”, it’s so… formal, isn’t it? And I do kind of know you…?

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself. […] Please, Jon, do not interpret this report as a ‘plea for mercy’ or a ‘call to action’.”

He used to go with “Archivist” (as a title) and Jon. The “Jon” was clearly a callback to the time he had visited Jon in the hospital (pushing towards casual sympathy? At the very least, reminding him of the last time Oliver had chosen to call him “Jon”, and why he had visited him in the first place), but calling him The Eye’s “Archive” is new on all levels: first time that Oliver calls him that way, and first time that anyone except Jonah called him that way.

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

So, as much as I had a few reservations about the content of what Oliver was seeing/predicting… it’s true that he knows a lot, about Jon and about how he functions, what he is right now in the grand scheme of things.

* Also: once again, The Eye’s Archive. Not Jonah’s. Jonah is irrelevant. “The Magnus(’) Archive” is not applying to this season so far.

* … Interesting that, although Oliver had directly mentioned that the “Spider” had pushed him to come visit Jon in MAG121, there was no mention at all of any Web activity in this one, as if it was also irrelevant/wouldn’t be able to do anything noteworthy to change the planned course?

- I really love how Oliver tried to sound professional and respectable and kind of… objective about everything?, and at the same time, absolutely went into “My Patron Is Better Than Yours” territory:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Report to prevent future deaths. This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! […] I am Oliver Banks, sometimes known as Antonio Blake, or doctor Thomas Pridchard. I serve The Coming End That Waits For All And Will Not Be Ignored. […] I make this report under no “authority”, no “regulation” or act of law, save the hollow power and grim responsibility given me by the Termination Of All Life. […] a) When Danika Gelsthorpe reaches the end of her Corpse Root, she will die. This new world of Fear reviles death as a release, but the Coming End cannot exist without its reality. It is not a being of dangled promises and shifting torments; the certainty of death waits for all who travel the Corpse Roots, and that certainty… will be delivered on, without hesitation or consideration of any other factors. b) This place has a limit, on the fear that can be generated from them, as their pool is necessarily finite and ultimately, however slowly, it will be exhausted. To be offset, this consideration will require the acquisition of victims from other domains as replacements, potentially inciting… “bad feeling” between those domains. […] However slowly, the domains of Death will be removing sufferers from a closed system. However many thousands of years may be experienced in the meantime… eventually, this world will be left barren and empty. […] Even if such a fate could be avoided, as it comes closer and the other Entities grow in their awareness of their own end, the grotesque ripples of their own impossible panic shall glut and feed my master, gorging it to the point where, perhaps, it will even surpass The Watcher in prominence. […] The End does not fear its own cessation, for it is the certainty and promise of all life, however strange, that it will one day finish, and that includes its own stark existence. It shall be the last and, when the universe is silent and still forever, it shall perhaps, in that impossible moment before it vanishes, finally be satisfied.”

* That condescending tone towards the other Fears, and the fact that they do not truly deliver death (as it would mean losing their victims), but My-Patron-Is-Better-And-A-True-One so The End has to deliver what it promises. (Does that confirm that, for example, Richard-the-human-worm respawned or was still “living” in a way after Sam went through him?)

* … My-Patron-Is-Better-Than-Other-Fears so it will go after the others to get access to their pools of victims, to find new ones.

* My-Patron-Is-Better-Than-Other-Fears so it will feed from them since The End will come after their victims and dry them out of victims, and they can do nothing about it.

* My-Patron-Is-Better-Than-Beholding so it could grow even stronger than it even though Beholding is the current ruler and had reality reshaped to have it on top of everything.

* My-Patron-Is-Better-Than-Everything so it will celebrate its own death, since Ending Itself after having ended everything means that it will have accomplished its true purpose.

(* Bonus “I-Am-My-Patron”, so Jon killing him would just be fine in the order of things, too.)

Like. WOW, Oliver, wow. Really fond of your patron, aren’t you, down to making it like a “challenge” to The Eye.

- Confirmation that The End’s domain lies both in the fear of death (since Danika had served it her entire life), but Oliver insisted pretty much that it also requires actual death to function/to work with its nature.

… So, I’m torn about what degree of credence to give Oliver. On the one side: it goes very well with the message Jonny keeps repeating (including in his gaming streams or in The Mechanisms universe) that “all things end”, that nothing can last forever – it’s what Oliver directly told Jon, it works. It could be the programmed annihilation of this world, whether we (the audience) get to witness it or not: I’m still thinking that The Extinction could come into play and wipe out everything, but if no other Change/cataclysm happens, it could go this way, with this world gradually, slowly dying, because at the core of it, it contained its own doom (the Fears have free reign and can never be truly satiated, so they’ll dry out the whole world without caring about creating a long-lasting “ecosystem”. They don’t know how to preserve, only to consume).

On the other hand, Oliver was extremely adamant about the fact that it would happen, but… has no proof that it will?

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “In exactly thirteen stretches of the root on which Danika travels – a stretch being measured in the waves of nauseating terror that flow out of her with such rhythmic regularity – she will finally arrive at her destination. […] I watch, as with each motion, each laboured, reluctant movement along her path, Danika Gelsthorpe is painfully, and inescapably aware of what it is that lies at the end of it. She tries to move backwards, off to the side, any direction other than that unstoppable, inescapable forwards. But her limbs seize up with the attempt. She tries to stay still, but can do so only with the most incredible of efforts. To eke out another few seconds of stasis sets every nerve in her body aflame with agony and effort, begging her to scream, despite her jaw being set in a frozen rictus of sombre mourning. I see her relive the coming moment of her inevitable demise. […] When Danika Gelsthorpe reaches the end of her Corpse Root, she will die. This new world of Fear reviles death as a release, but the Coming End cannot exist without its reality. It is not a being of dangled promises and shifting torments; the certainty of death waits for all who travel the Corpse Roots, and that certainty… will be delivered on, without hesitation or consideration of any other factors.”

The “thirteen stretches” sound like a clear references to the 13 Fears used in Jonah’s incantation (the fourteenth, The Eye, being supposed to rule over the others) and/or the fact that it requires 14 “points” to work (thirteen stretches meaning that there are fourteen points between the beginning and The End), but what I’m more interested is that… there are still thirteen stretches for Danika to travel. What if there is actually no way to travel a whole stretch, because it keeps stretching and getting longer, just because death has to be a horizon that is, by nature, forever elusive, even though Oliver is convinced that it must be a reachable goal since he believes in his patron? (Plus: how come The End will be able to touch other domains when necessary? Wouldn’t it just collapse on itself and disappear on its own, without first putting a dent into others?)

I’m not sure! On the one hand, it works well as a programmed ending, makes sense, and Oliver and The End have displayed time and time again that The End deals in certainty (and Oliver kept repeating that word); on the other hand… as he said, he’s absolutely loyal to his patron, now. Of course he would feel like The End makes the most sense in this world, that the cycle it functions in will keep going, that the same rules apply, that The End will even surpass The Eye. It all feels very subjective. So… we’ll see.

(But given that uncertainty: it feels to me like precisely, we won’t get that scenario, we won’t know for sure that it would have worked this way, because something else will happen. Something that won’t prevent all things from “ending”, but in different circumstances than the current ones…)

- What about Georgie, in the order described by Oliver, though? Given that the rules have changed, and if people are only able to die in The End’s domain by fearing their death, what would happen if the last human standing doesn’t “fear”?

- That puts to mind Peter’s explanation to Martin about why, according to him, The End had not attempted to carry its ritual, and how it was distinct from The Extinction:

(MAG134) PETER: There are two Powers that, to my knowledge, have never attempted to fully manifest, never had followers set them up for a ritual: Mother-of-Puppets, and Terminus. The Web, and The End. The Web, I’ve never really been sure about: if I were to guess, I would say it actually prefers the world as is, playing everyone against each other, and so on. The End, on the other hand… The End doesn’t really need one: it knows that it gets everything eventually, so why bother. The End manifesting would not be a new world of terror; it would be a lifeless world. Devoid of everything. MARTIN: … Including fear. PETER: Exactly. It has no reason to truly attempt to enter our world, it’s… passive. But The Extinction… The Extinction is… different. It’s active. It will seek to create a lifeless world, in a way that none of the other Powers ever would. Some interpretations suggest it might replace us with something new, that can then fear annihilation in turn. But I and those like me would rather that did not happen.

Not that passive given that Oliver mentioned that his domain would go after others’ to get a new supply of victims, when necessary (and that it would the one to upset the current equilibrium), and that Oliver was actually participating in spreading in patron’s fear by warning about the end to come, but!

- Interesting bit is that The End and Oliver have a relationship with time that seems to tie present and future close together (“The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.”), with The End being the only and absolute future possible, while Beholding… doesn’t. It has access to past information, to events currently happening, but Jon pointed out that his powers couldn’t access the future:

(MAG164) ARCHIVIST: She… thinks she’s going to kill Daisy. Like she promised. [STATIC DECREASES] But she’s conflicted. MARTIN: And will she? ARCHIVIST: I–I don’t know, th–the future, th–that’s… that’s not something I can see.

Nice contrast, which makes sense, but also: Jon is special, even for an agent of Beholding, something that Oliver seemed to imply (“But know that, even you, will all your power, cannot keep the world alive forever.”). What can Jon do, in this new reality, besides turning predators into preys and being untouchable for the monsters…?

(I’m also squinting at Oliver’s words, because it could imply… that Jon is currently the only thing keeping the world “alive”, right now?)

- … If Oliver is right, though, laughing forever that Jonah, who feared death the most, would have BROUGHT IT ON HIMSELF:

(MAG138, Robert Smirke) “I beg you, do not pursue this goal; if only a single lesson may be gleaned from my life of long study, and longer hardship, it is that the fear of Death is natural, and to flee from it will only bring greater misery. Repent of your sins, Jonah. Seek forgiveness. I am certain the Dread Powers cannot take a soul that keeps faith in the Resurrection.”

(MAG160, Jonah Magnus) “Why does a man seek to destroy the world? It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality, and power […]; to place yourself beyond pain, and death, and fear. It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all…! I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers, all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction, in that choice. I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die. I believe there are far more people in this world who’d take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.”

… since his invocation also invited “[all that] dies”. He could have gone with “all that fears to die” or something like that, allowing for a loophole, but he specifically called for all that “dies”.

Jonah.

Jonah, you’re so effing stupid.

(- Re: Jonah, it’s delightful that… he has not been mentioned at all by other monsters/avatars (Annabelle, Helen, the Not!Them) so far. Oliver didn’t either. When it comes to establishing who caused the apocalypse, they’re fully crediting Jon and/or pointing out his relation to The Eye:

(MAG164) HELEN: What would I have to gloat about? Much as I am delighted by this brave new world in which we find ourselves, I can take no credit for it. This was all… you!

(MAG165) NOT!SASHA: Well, of course you want to wallow in my shame like your voyeur master!

(MAG166) HELEN: And Jon, well… he is part of The Eye; a very important part. And he’s able to, shall we say… shift its focus.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “This report is being sent to: [STATIC FADES] The Great Eye, that watches all who linger in terror, and gorges itself on the sufferings of those under its unrelenting, stuporous gaze! And its Archive, which draws knowledge of this suffering unto itself. […] Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned.”

And yes, obviously, Jon was manipulated into doing it, didn’t willingly and knowingly cause it! But it’s hilarious that they’re all “Who?” about Jonah’s whole existence; he… seems absolutely irrelevant to the whole apocalypse deal although he tried to take credit for it. I wonder in which state we’ll meet him and/or if he will be able to express himself in any way – so far, I’m banking on him either being the Panopticon (having merged with the building) or being wrapped in cobwebs.)

- Interestingly, Oliver seemed to credit some level of sentience to the Fears themselves?

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “To be offset, this consideration will require the acquisition of victims from other domains as replacements, potentially inciting… ‘bad feeling’ between those domains. […] Even if such a fate could be avoided, as it comes closer and the other Entities grow in their awareness of their own end, the grotesque ripples of their own impossible panic shall glut and feed my master, gorging it to the point where, perhaps, it will even surpass The Watcher in prominence. The others may take what actions they wish; they may plot and plan and tear themselves apart in an attempt to separate from the fate that they know they cannot escape; but they will fail.”

I could expect the avatars/monsters to panic and try to sustain themselves, but the Fears/domains themselves…? (And once again: that phenomenon is very reminiscent of the way Peter described his own fear of The Extinction, as something that could eradicate him and other Fears/avatars…)

- AHAHHA about the image that when Danika would have travelled through the “thirteen stretches”, she would reach the end/The End and die… because that suuuuuure seemed reminiscent of Jon&Martin’s current travels, having to travel through (13) domains in order to reach The Panopticon, without knowing what would happen then.

Not ominous at all.

- I am… really interested in Oliver’s mention that Jon now “may only take”, combined with the fact that Oliver directly called him The Eye’s “Archive”. Specifically since, in MAG121, Oliver had highlighted Jon’s ability to extract statement:

(MAG121) OLIVER: Sorry to go on…! I’m… I don’t talk to many people these days. Putting my thoughts outside myself, it gets a bit… mm… clumsy. Be easier if you could talk back, right? Ask me questions and just have it tumble all out. But no. It’s… it’s just me. Wish there was a better way, but… Touching someone’s mind, it’s not… as simple as that, is it? Doesn’t always make things clearer, y’know? Still. I gave the old woman a statement so, maybe I owe you one as well. That’s… how it works, right? Give you a terror, give you a dream. ’s not like I don’t have them to spare.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “I make this report under no ‘authority’, no ‘regulation’ or act of law, save the hollow power and grim responsibility given me by the Termination Of All Life. With it, I may see and spread the hidden veins of destiny that wrap us close and draw us through the empty, yearning parody of meaning that we call life, knowing at all stages that the last and final point of this journey is a blank and futile end. […] Please, Jon, do not interpret this report as a ‘plea for mercy’ or a ‘call to action’. I would have offered it willingly, of course, but to do so is no longer an option. You cannot ask; you may only take.”

The circumstances in season 5 have changed, we’ve seen that in the way Jon is managing the new “statements”: he has to let them out, he gets liberated from their weight once they have “poured out of [him] down into the tape”. He can only delay the moment he does it for a very short while, he has to do it when they reach a domain. The only exception has been in MAG167, when he gave a statement about Gertrude and her assistants, which was (at least partially) prompted by Martin’s questions.

So we see a difference between “Archive” and “Archivist” as of now with the statements. We’ve also seen Jon using his powers to “know”, prompted (Martin asking him questions in MAG164) and not (Jon knowing about Annabelle’s phone call in MAG167).Witht the exception of channelling The Eye’s powers to turn a predator into a prey, his abilities now seem mostly passive, but I wonder if it will mean something more, regarding his status as an “Archive” (and if Annabelle is planning to use that)…

(… Concrete question too: is Jon still able to compel, nowadays?)

- There are some bits of Martin’s words that made me go “!” because it implies that he had discussed with Jon about these matters beforehand:

(MAG168) MARTIN: Okay… [FOOTSTEPS] I mean… Well, I don’t like this place. ARCHIVIST: Once again, Martin, that’s… [CHUCKLING] sort of the point…! MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, I know, alright, I get it, it’s just… it’s more than that. This place, what did you call it, the… th– … the “Rotten Core”? ARCHIVIST: The Corpse Roots. MARTIN: Yeah, yeah, that. Well, it… It feels… [SIGH] I don’t know, it feels like it’s– ARCHIVIST: Waiting. MARTIN: Yeah! [CREAKING SOUND] Waiting. [SILENCE PUNCTUATED BY THE WHISPERS] This is the one with the, em… the Death guy, isn’t it? ARCHIVIST: This is Oliver Banks’s domain, yes. MARTIN: … So it’s him who’s waiting. […] Alright, fine, yes, yes, I am jealous, alright? Yes, if you absolutely must know! ARCHIVIST: Because he woke me up. MARTIN: [SPLUTTERING] I was there weeks, and nothing. He talks to you for five minutes, and suddenly you’re back on your feet, and bouncing around like a, like a spring chicken! ARCHIVIST: [NERVOUS CHUCKLING] I mean, that’s really not– MARTIN: I mean, what’s so special about him, that you wake up for him and not me, hm? [CREAKING SOUND] Enlighten me.

* “Rotten Core” is MAG157’s title; it’s Adelard’s last message to Gertrude, that was put on Jon’s desk together with the tape of Martin&Peter’s conversation about going down in the tunnels, the association of the two prompting Jon to panic by realising that Martin was probably manipulated into something that didn’t actually have much to do with The Extinction. “Rotten Core” in itself never appeared in Adelard’s email (could have been the subject of it, though?) and, officially, we still don’t know who sent that statement to Jon (Jonah didn’t take credit for that one, neither did Martin or Peter, so… probably Annabelle). But Martin using the phrase seems to imply that he has been filled in about it – did Jon&Martin talk about The Extinction, since the end of MAG159?

* Martin already knew that the “Death Guy” had woken Jon up, so… Jon has explained what happened, too. Unless Martin heard the other tapes during season 4? (And Jon remembered about it and about the fact that it was specifically Oliver who woke him up: this is the first time he has acknowledged that.)

So! They have been exchanging information offscreen!

- I’m HOWLING at petty/jealous Martin.

I didn’t feel like it was toxic or dangerous or OOC at all – Martin [INORDINATELY PLEASED] Blackwood has… quite often been portrayed as incredibly petty and jealous when it came to Jon:

(MAG088) BASIRA: I just, I mean he was good company. Y’know, when he wasn’t being a paranoia machine. He was funny, you know? MARTIN: What, Jon? BASIRA: Yeah. MARTIN: I don’t think I’ve ever heard him tell a joke. BASIRA: Maybe you weren’t listening. MARTIN: Right. Well, I’m sure it’ll get sorted out when DAISY brings him in and you can probably talk to him then. Oh! Sorry, I forgot you’re not actually with the police any more, are you.

(MAG106) MELANIE: [CHUCKLE] Right, well… The jury’s still out on Elias. And anyway, Martin’s always been lovely to you. BASIRA: Hm. I dunno, I mean, you should have seen him when I turned up last year. I think he thought I was trying to steal his precious Archivist. MELANIE: Aaah…! I got the exact same, when Jon was hiding out and came to me with his “source on the inside” stuff. Martin was not impressed. BASIRA: Huff. That boy needs to relax. MELANIE: Or at least find someone else to fuss over.

When MAG121’s case number had been revealed (not in Early-Access, but on the public release), there had been many laughs about the fact that Jon had woken up on February 15th, and how much would it suck for Martin to think that his tearful begging from the trailer migt have happened the day before, on Valentine’s Day, only for handsome mlm Death Prophet Oliver Banks to waltz in and get Jon to wake up instantly? So I’m laughing very hard that yes, Martin is INCREDIBLY and irrationally jealous about it, about not having been able to be the one to wake Jon up like in cheesy romance movies.

… the part that does worry me, however, is how lightly Martin seems to be taking the whole “Kill Bill” thing, and how much of it was being jealous over someone Jon had “needed” help from (not so long after Annabelle made a dig at Martin for the fact that he wasn’t feeling useful to Jon right now). I feel like most of the exchange had Martin caricaturing himself a bit, or at least being aware of how silly he sounded, though? And it felt to me like his insistence towards Jon explaining his reluctance to murder was for Jon to, well, explain what is bothering him about it (outside of an ethical question, there is also the fact that Jon… might feel like if he were to do that to avatars, then other avatars/people would be entitled to do the same to him. Which, honestly? Fair. Jon attacked and wrecked innocent people for his own benefit in season 4. If they decided that, even though he has stopped now, he still has hurt people, still is a monster and still needs to die, the same logic could apply.)

There is indeed an absolute disconnect between Martin’s solution (“smiting”) and the tone/enthusiasm/casualness with which he offers it, and it could be rooted in his own feeling of uselessness, the fact he wants to take revenge over those who hurt him and Jon… So I don’t feel like he’s being supernaturally manipulated, but I’m definitely worried that he could take risks and/or make a veryyyy bad decision while trying to prove that no, he can be “useful”…

- ! Jon sounded SO FOND and so amused at Martin’s jealousy! His insidious “Martin~?” and audible smiles! “My husband is a bitch and I love him” feeling, overall.

I like that the exchange seemed well-handled for both of them: Jon naturally standing his ground and pointing out that Martin’s logic was absolutely childish (“Look, Martin: I am sorry you feel that way, but I’m not going to kill a man just because you’re jealous.”), without sounding accusing either; and Martin ultimately relenting (“Fine. I suppose that’s… reasonable.”). They were two idiots in love, Martin being a bigger idiot this time around, but! Idiots.

- Really curious about how Martin will react if they cross paths with Simon or Daisy. Would he encourage Jon to “smite” them too? Or would he be more ambivalent, a bit torn about it? Why has he reacted differently towards Helen – is it strategical, and he just wants to try to use her as long as he can? Is it because he identifies her as the woman he had seen in the corridors, and still feels guilty about not trying to help her then?

… I’m terrified of how he will react if they cross paths with Jared or Jude, however. Jared terrorised him and caused him to accept Peter’s offer, and Jude hurt Jon deeply, something Jon has a very obvious mark to show for. (Same with Jonah: I think that for Martin, it’s clear in his mind that they’ll “smite” Jonah once they reach the Panopticon. I’m not convinced that, after what happened with the Not!Them, Jon would want to do that anymore: if some monsters and avatars didn’t really have a “choice”, then what about Jonah? At which point did he go rotten, irredeemable? What’s the difference between him and Oliver, who’s currently diversifying the way he’s torturing his victims in his domain “for variety”? Is it only Jon’s personal feelings about whether someone helped him a little bit or ensured his personal misery?)

(- ;; Now that Martin has a connection to Oliver through his jealousy… What if Martin’s ending is to lose Jon and then join Oliver’s domain to at least get an exit and cease to be…?)

- I’m a bit more concerned about what is happening in Jon’s head. First off, the way he presented Oliver, as someone who had “helped” him… versus the way he used to describe his “choice” to wake up:

(MAG121) OLIVER: The thing is, Jon, right now, you have a choice. You’ve put it off a long time; but it’s trapping you here. You are not quite human enough to die, but – still too human to survive. You’re… balanced on an edge, where The End can’t touch you, but you can’t escape Him. I made a choice. We all made choices. Now, you have to– […] Make your choice, Jon.

(MAG136) ARCHIVIST: My– [PAUSE] [INHALE] [SIGH] My memories of the coma are not clear. But I know I made a choice; I made a choice to become… something else. Because I was afraid to die. But ever since then, I… I don’t know if I made the right decision; I–I’m stronger now, tougher, I can… … If I do die, now, or get sealed away somewhere forever… I don’t know if that’s a bad thing.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: [SIGH] I don’t know, Martin. [FOOTSTEPS] I just, I don’t think he’s… [SIGH] I don’t know, I don’t think he’s evil. [CREAKING SOUND] MARTIN: Oh, yeah, sure, he’s probably a really kind, benevolent ruler of a hellish fear prison…! ARCHIVIST: It’s just… He helped me. Wh–when I was… He woke me up. MARTIN: Wow. What a hero.

Back in MAG136, Jon wasn’t sure he had made a good decision; it was put into perspective when we learned a few episodes later that, at this point, Jon had already attacked three people to feed, without letting the others know. Trolley problem: was it right, for Jon not to die, if it meant sacrificing three people (soon-to-be five) to sustain himself? Was it a “good” choice?

This episode, Jon unnaturally presented it as Oliver having “helped” him by waking him up, which, mMMM. Seems like he has made his peace with that choice – which, on the one hand, good because less self-deprecating (it’s normal to want to survive), but on the other hand, there would be reasons to still feel guilty for making it, given the consequences?

I’m not really surprised about Jon expressing a degree of sympathy towards Oliver, or at least pointing out that their degree of “choice” in their transformations bears similarities, given that Oliver’s story, his first dreams, the power inflicted on him, came with a gradual desensitisation and acceptance. Chronologically, Oliver’s story is that of someone who gradually stopped fighting fate and came to embrace his Fear-patron (a turning point being when he lost someone precious to him).

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “It was there, sleeping on my friend Anahita’s sofa, in the depths of my misery, that I first started to have the dreams. […] These dreams have been a regular part of my sleeping for about eight years now. Even as life improved and I found a new job and place to live – believe it or not I now work selling crystals and tarot cards in a “magic” shop – they continued to crop up a few times each month.

(MAG032, Jane Prentiss) “How many months has it been like this? Was there a time before? There must have been. I remember a life that was not itching, not fear, not nectar-sweet song. I had a job. I sold crystals. They were clean, and sharp and bright and they did not sing to me, though I sometimes said they did. We would sell the stones to smiling young couples with colour in their hair. I remember, before I found the nest, someone new came. His name was Oliver, and he would look at me so strangely. Not with lust or affection or contempt, but with sadness. Such a deep sadness. And once with fear.”

(MAG121) OLIVER: And about two years before I came to your Institute, something happened – something I didn’t want to talk about. Didn’t even want to think about. I… [SIGH] I started to see them when I was awake.

(MAG042, Jennifer Ling) “The sign above didn’t have an obvious name, simply reading ‘Crystals. Books. Tarot’. He was tall, black and careworn, deep lines of worry etched into an otherwise handsome face. When he saw me looking at him, he began to walk up to me, still with that intense look. I took a couple of steps back, and asked if I could help him. He shook his head as if unsure what to say, then asked me what I was listening to. A chill ran over me as I realised he was staring at my ears. I said I wasn’t listening to anything, as I wasn’t wearing headphones, and asked him what he wanted. He shook his head again, and mumbled something about protecting my hearing. He turned away then, and started walking back into the shop.”

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “This worked fine until I saw my father in the dream, walking down Oxford Street, the pulsing veins climbing up his leg and into his chest. I tried to warn him of course – asked leading questions on his health and how he was feeling, whether he’d been tired recently. I even went so far as to book him a doctor’s appointment, much to his annoyance. It did no good, though – ten days later the heart attack came for him and, despite the rapid response of the paramedics and how much of his medical history I had immediately to hand, there was nothing I could do to save him. He died on New Year’s Eve, and as 2014 ended, so did any hope I had of my dreams doing good in the world.”

(MAG121) OLIVER: Wish I… knew why I came here. I s’pose there’s only so long you can dream about someone, and not at least try to find them. That was it with the old woman too. That was different, though. Way I figure it? She stuck her nose in just about everywhere it wasn’t wanted and stirred up hornets. ‘Till all the precautions in the world couldn’t stop Death from finally catching her. If I’d’ve known more back then, I’m… not sure I would’ve bothered trying to warn her. Still. You live and learn, don’t you?

(MAG011, “Antonio Blake”) “I’m well aware that I don’t even know your name, and I have no responsibility to try and prevent whatever fate is coming for you. Based on my previous experience, such a thing is likely impossible anyway, but after what I saw I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least try. I did as much research into your Institute as possible, and arranged an appointment to provide a statement about some spurious supernatural encounter. Even then I was told that the Archivist only reviews the written statements once they have been taken, so here I am, pouring out my lunatic story on paper in the hopes that you might eventually read it. If you do see this in time and read this far, then to be honest I don’t know what else to tell you. Be careful. There is something coming for you and I don’t know what it is, but it is so much worse than anything I can imagine. At the very least you should look into appointing a successor. Good luck.”

(MAG121) OLIVER: Mmm… Let me tell you about how I tried to escape. […] It’s been almost ten years since I first started dreaming about the deaths of others, seeing those… awful veins crawling into them. Into… wounds not yet open, or… skulls not yet split. People who were about to die. Every night, I’d watch as they’d… sneak up and into folks about to choke on blood, or urging into hearts about to convulse. I’ve… come to terms with it. [DRY LAUGHTER] I’ve learned to live with it! […] And the worst part was that somewhere in me, I… I liked it! Underneath all that awful fear, it felt… like… home. […] I wanted to escape. I… needed to. […] At that moment, a sudden calm came over me. I understood it all. I could follow the line of the huge veins that encased the ship down into the water, leading off to a point almost a mile from the South-East. There. That was it. That was our fate. Where we would always be. Because I was going to take us there. Running was pointless. To try and to escape from my task would only serve to fulfil another. I finally understood what I needed to do.

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “With it, I may see and spread the hidden veins of destiny that wrap us close and draw us through the empty, yearning parody of meaning that we call life, knowing at all stages that the last and final point of this journey is a blank and futile end. I have no power to stop it, and even if I did… I would not do so; for to rob a soul of death is as torturous as its inevitable coming. […] And I shall help, ushering on this final, blank emptiness. Perhaps once it might have horrified me, or given me some sense of pursuing the ultimate release of the world that you have damned. But I am too much of my patron now and my feelings cannot help but reflect the shadows of… anticipation that lurk within the grave. […] And so the scope of my domain is yours…! Enter it and destroy me if you wish. I fear the annihilation you would gift me as little as I desire it. I am now, as the thing I feed, a fixed point, that has neither the longing nor the ability to change its state of existence. […] All – things – end, and every step you take, whatever direction you may choose… only brings you closer to it.”

[Dates-wise: Jennifer Ling left her statement in November 2013 and events were about the previous month; given Oliver’s reaction, he was already seeing the veins when awake back then. Jane Prentiss left her statement in February 2014, so she had met Oliver before he lost his father. “Antonio” left his statement in March 2015; Oliver visited Jon on February 15th 2018.]

It has been around eleven years, by the date of the apocalypse, for Oliver to reach this current state in which he describes himself as “The End that laces through every fibre of my soul” and “too much of my patron”. It only took Jon three years.

Though, overall, I was back at the feeling of the MAG140s episodes with the words/thoughts Jon has for victims and avatars:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: A lot to think about. I… I feel… [FOOTSTEPS] No. I don’t want to destroy Oliver Banks. It wouldn’t do any good. I know that, and he never asked for this any more than I did. I feel badly for those that exist in his domain, o–of course, I do, but… At least, their suffering will be over, eventually. I can’t destroy everyone I cross paths with, it… [SIGH] No. If Oliver will not seek me out, then… I will leave him be. [TINY CHUCKLES] The avatar of Death… shall live. Martin’s going to be thrilled…! [SIGH]

* Stfu about deciding what is “better” for victims, Jon. (As a personal choice, yes, I would probably prefer the prospect of dying over eternal torment; HOWEVER, it’s not Jon’s place to establish what’s better for others, so Jon trying to rationalise his decision to go after Oliver? Nop, I don’t care, own up to your feelings, don’t scramble for excuses by saying you think it might be more ~charitable~ :<)

* Oliver who “never asked for this any more than I did” also explained very casually that:

(MAG168) ARCHIVIST: “Sometimes, for some small variety, I will allow Danika to brush against another root: the final fate of someone she loves. […] And with each one, she knows her steps forward bring closer not only her own end, but all of theirs. Time walks forward with her, but she has not the strength to stop it. Her fate draws ever-nearer, filling me with the joy of watchful fear, but also my own concerns.”

He’s not a passive jailor. Oliver is actively enjoying tormenting his victims in different ways “for some small variety”.

I thiiiiink more and more that Jon might now be targeting the whole Fear-system, and not (anymore) the individual avatars/monsters who were pushed and twisted by the Fears to become their servants, as he had begun to think about in the second half of season 4 (“I was so sure I’d find something up there. But instead, it was just another broken person trying to come to terms with the wreckage of their life.” about Manuela, lamenting over Jane, etc.) But that brings us back to that awkward stage where it feels to me like Jon is almost more humanising avatars/monsters currently hurting their victims, than the victims themselves who are just… there, and not extremely relevant.

(I’m reaaaally really really curious about how Jon will behave towards Jonah.)

- … I’m also a bit concerned that Jon deciding that Oliver’s victims at least get to die implies something bigger: that Jon is… giving up on the idea to reverse/undo this apocalypse. If these people die, they die, it’s over. Which means that, right now, Jon doesn’t think he has a better alternative to offer them. He had hopes at the end of MAG162, he got a few hints in MAG164 about how to banish the Fears; he… might already be giving hope of fixing things, without officially voicing it?

  MAG169’s title screams Desolation to me (+ bonus Agnes, with the way she got anchored to Gertrude and/or her death), and that could mean Jude (… which would be extremely interesting right now, given Martin “Kill Bill” Blackwood’s willingness to harm monsters/avatars; what could go possibly wrong with making him meet someone who physically hurt Jon, leaving a mark to show for it on one of his hands? So much). There is also a potential connection to the Distortion, and in way that could mean bad stuff (and Jon and/or Martin having to go through the door). Potentially Jon’s lighter being put to use, or Jon&Martin getting a clue about why Jon was gifted it?

Alternatively, if the meaning is more oblique and meant to subvert expectations: Vast stuff?

[yikes-strikes-again]

what if i wrote tma fic 😳

ao3 link title: late nights and gay rights rating: gen word count: 1855 summary:  Jon just can't seem to stay awake. Martin's always there to help out.

~~~

Jon was working late again.

It was far from the first time - in fact, in recent weeks he’d been spending more evenings in the Archive than ever before. Knowing that Prentiss was out there, roaming the streets of London, made the Institute feel like a place of relative safety. Whether Jon admitted to it or not, gathering the strength to leave work each day was becoming… difficult.

The downside of this, of course, was that he was sacrificing much-needed rest by staying after-hours so frequently. The lack of sleep was beginning to weigh on him even more than the stress, which, all things considered, was saying something.

Jon glanced up from the sea of papers on his desk to a clock on the opposite wall. It appeared to be stopped, as it displayed the same time since he’d last checked it that afternoon. He scoffed. His phone had long died, so he couldn’t use it for the time, and there were no windows down here, either. Although, Jon did remember that when he’d been on the ground level hours ago, the sky through the blinds had been black.

He sighed, and his posture sagged in the uncomfortable wooden chair. Jon was exhausted, to put it lightly. But, since that was nothing new, he returned to his work.

He stared uncomprehendingly at the mass of documents piled around him, having momentarily forgotten what he was in the middle of doing. His eye caught the page lying on top of the closest stack. It was statement number… #0130111. Ah, of course - one of the statements that he had failed to record to his laptop. The tape recorder sat expectantly.

This should be a simple task, thought Jon. He straightened and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. All he had to do was put in a new tape, turn on the recorder, and lose himself in the grisly ramblings of some lunatic with a pen.

Jon took the statement in one hand, and pressed the ‘eject’ button on the tape recorder with the other. But as he removed the previous tape, he noticed something odd about its label - namely, that there was none. He paused. Had he forgotten to label it before he last began? Or had he put in a fresh tape just after completing the last recording? Jon quite honestly could not remember.

He set it down gingerly, perplexed, and rummaged around for another blank tape. He’d figure it out later, he decided. Jon was eager to get started. He knew that if he didn’t soon, he’d lose his momentum entirely and be claimed by fatigue.

His eyes tried to refocus on the paper in his hand, but the words blurred together. He blinked, removed his glasses, and wiped the lenses with the corner of his shirt. To his dismay, the action did nothing to make the handwriting any clearer. Jon leaned forward, straining his eyes, knowing he had to make an effort anyway.

He absently pressed a button on the recorder and began to read. “Statement-” He cleared his throat. “Statement of… David Laylow, regarding…” He flipped through several pages, and skimmed over his own notes. “...his time working at an… industrial abattoir near Dalston. Original statement given September the first, 2016 - thirteen,” he corrected himself. “Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the… of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

Jon took a deep breath, hoping that the extra oxygen would rejuvenate him somehow. He felt a yawn in the back of his jaw, but refused to give in to it.

As he read the statement aloud, lips forming the shapes of words, he became distantly aware that he was not losing himself in its contents as he usually did. His voice took on not the color of the story unfolding, but rather, the tone of his own exhaustion. Jon read each word as mechanically as the last, forgetting them as soon as they passed under his gaze, rendering their order meaningless.

He was holding the statement directly under the light, but the glare of the lightbulb on the white paper made his eyes water. He had to squint. Leaning over cast a blessed shadow over half of the page, but darkness presented its own difficulties. Still, Jon found a more comfortable position in having both elbows propped up on the desk, unaware of how he appeared to be almost lying on it.

He held his head valiantly upward, even as his left forearm formed an appealing cushion to rest it on. Jon ignored his own stumbling errors, grasping the current page with a hand that stretched away until the right arm lay flat on the desk.

After repeating the same sentence a third time over, Jon considered that he may have reached his limit. Unfortunately, even he was not immune to the borders of human physical capacity. There was, however, a simple solution that floated to the top of his consciousness - he would take a power nap. It was scientifically proven that short naps could boost alertness in subjects suffering from sleep deprivation, a group to which he no doubt belonged. Feeling proud of his ever-impeccable judgement, Jon let himself wilt where he sat, burying his nose into the crook of his arm and shielding his eyes with the paper he still clutched.

Twenty minutes, maximum, he thought, drifting. Just long enough to rest his eyes. Barely a wink. But when ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed without his heavy lids reopening, it became evident that his foolproof plan was doomed. This would have resulted in a tremendous waste of tape were it not for the fact that Jon had never pressed the record button in the first place.

At some point, the sound of a door opening called to him in the depths of sleep. Not loud enough to wake him, mind you, but loud enough to make him subconsciously aware of what was going on.

There were footsteps, and a fond sigh. If hearing this, through however many levels of lethargy, motivated Jon to take any action, it didn’t matter because his body was far too heavy to move.

For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, as naturally as if he’d been expecting it, one arm slipped under the crook of his knees, and another pressed against the small of his back. Jon felt the stress of gravity grow and then ebb away as he was lifted, slowly, carefully, and all the world save for this other body fell away. His weight shifted into the middle of him as he was made to lie back, arms curled into himself. A wavelike motion began, accompanied by more footsteps.

Jon felt the warmth and pressure of human touch encircle him. The left half of his body received the brunt of it, an unbroken line of contact snaking from his thigh up to his shoulder. Beyond it, the arm supporting his back enveloped his shoulders, pressing him deeper into a wall of warmth and softness. There was a smell like shampoo, old books, and something distinct yet unnamed. It calmed him almost as much as the feeling of touch.

Lights of varying source and intensity passed behind his eyelids as they walked. Under a particularly bright one, Jon hid from it by burying his face into the shoulder of this person, inert mind unconcerned with shame or boundaries. Slowly, a mysterious tension drained from his body as blood from a wound. At its release, he relaxed more entirely than he had in years.

Jon came into a room dimmer than all the others. That distinct smell was strong in here, impressing upon him even without his knowledge. Here, the person slowed their footsteps, and then, with great care and deliberateness, deposited Jon on a very soft, flat surface. The strongest emotion he could feel in this senseless state surged when, to his alarm, their contact receded, his limbs too feeble to protest it, and his left half was rendered cold and prickling.

This feeling was diminished, though, when a warm and heavy something was drawn over him at once. It was not a suitable replacement for the touch, but, he supposed, falling from a doze into sleep, it would have to do. Jon slept dreamlessly in Martin’s bed, utterly dead to the world.

He woke with a start from a nightmare involving thousands of silver, squirming things. Jon’s heart thundered, but the panic was quickly replaced with a different kind of fear. He realized, staring at the white ceiling, that he couldn’t remember how he came to be where he was.

He jolted into a sitting position and scanned the room for anything familiar. To his utter relief, he recognized everything. The bed he found himself in was one he had slept in before, the bare shelf with nothing save a few articles of clutter, and in the chair on the other side of the room - Martin.

He was asleep, contorted into a position that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Jon realized with a start that he must have carried him in here. The thought made his face feel warm, most likely with irritation, and he cursed Martin’s inability to leave well enough alone. Sleeping in here had cost him hours of time he could have used to work.

He kicked the blanket away and pulled himself to his feet, hands grasping at the back of his head to readjust his hair tie. Jon needed to get back to work, and… He paused, his hand reaching for the doorknob. Martin should probably get up, too. It might be morning, but if it wasn’t, he should at least take the bed.

Jon stepped over to the chair, minding the fire extinguisher guarding its front legs. He placed a firm hand on Martin’s shoulder and prepared to shake him awake. But before he could do so, the electrifying feeling under his hand brought back a memory he didn’t know he had.

A hard plane cutting into his abdomen. Cramped and stiff. The door. Touch, a light head. Warmth, breathing, electricity, a sharp scent. Soft lights and rocking motion. Cold, a weight, and then nothing.

It was all quite vague. Still, the tingling in his hand reminded him of the same sensation that had, then, been all over. It came back, a flash of feeling, for only a second.

His body remembered how it felt to be held. Jon wished it would forget.

He looked at Martin through a film of grogginess, through the vestiges of memory. He looked at the arms which had, apparently, been strong enough to carry him all the way here from his office. He looked at his sleeping face, as vulnerable as his had probably been when Martin found him. His skin began to prickle with sweat.

Jon realized that he had been very still for the past few seconds. He blinked, gave Martin’s arm a quick shake, and pulled his hand away, struck by a shyness that kept him from touching him any more. The feeling remained.

When Martin’s eyes fluttered open, Jon was already halfway out the door.

the end

[panspy]

Case #0181501

ARCHIVIST

Statement of Eide Burrows, regarding a man who may not have been her neighbor, and her hometown of Millport, Scotland. Original statement delivered through some folded sheets of notebook paper shoved under the office door while I was on a lunch break. Statement recorded January 15, 2018, audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.

Statement begins.

ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)

In the end, we’re all just shapes. Figures, either soft, angled, flat, or dimensional, all floating through space with only the hint of a purpose. I’ve always thought this made us pitiable. Shapes don’t have a purpose, their only use is to simply be. What is the meaning of a triangle? Any color, it doesn’t matter. How about a square? A dodecahedron? Exactly. It has no right to have that many sides all to itself, but it exists simply because we willed it into being. Shapes thinking of shapes.

Lines connect shapes and connect people. We have no reason to be, other than to just… exist. We think of shapes. Who thought of us? God, you could argue and many do. Argue about God, argue with God, argue in defense of God, argue against God. Argue, argue, argue. Just shapes arguing with shapes.

For the longest time, as far as I was concerned, Millport was nothing but shapes. Old buildings with new paint, old billboards with flashy new signs, old families run by new blood. Old ways and new people. They tried to cover up the old, and bury it like bones in a landfill. Cover it up along with the potholes with new asphalt and cement. Make it shiny and new. They still crack, anyway.

Hundreds of years, that town stood sturdy on soft ground. Founded by confident men with high hopes, big dreams, bigger egos, and empty pockets. Dreams make you blind, but people like to invest in them. Dreams give shapes a purpose, don’t they? Confidence fools others, and eventually fools yourself. Have you ever gone unnoticed in a place you’re not meant to be? If you walk with your head held high and false arrogance, people will believe you belong with them. For either to believe this façade makes them a fool. Not that anyone really belongs anywhere, and we’re all just foolish enough to believe it. Foolish shapes believing other foolish shapes.

I’ve always reckoned that it’s easier to be confident on uncertain legs than to fear falling on steady ground. Watching a frightened child stepping along a wide, even plank at the park is more likely to fall than a tightrope walker on a flimsy wire. Tightrope walkers are triangles, balanced and perfect. Children are parallelograms. Misshapen. Lopsided.

All the children in Millport are parallelograms. Some are flat and one dimensional, others forever rotating on an axis to show off their sides. Never the same for more than a day- I kept track. The adults were a variety of evolved and ever-changing polygons. But for some reason when I was little, looking at all these shapes going about their pretend lives, I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t a polygon when the world seemed to be filled with them. When I looked at my skin, it was soft and squished under touch. My hair was coarse, dull, and brown, unlike my mothers which was static with energy and never quite the same after you blinked. My face was asymmetrical too, as many shapes are. Eyes that seemed to be too big, ears that poke out a bit too much, bags that never went away… well, I don’t think they did anyways. You have to understand, it’s been a while since I’ve seen it. After a childhood of feeling as though the world hadn’t been fair enough to make me a nice red square, I just accepted it. I learned not to mind my lack of shape, and felt content to be liminal.

The first time I decided to look further into what made the town fit together into the odd puzzle it was, was the Masonic Lodge on the empty lot of Seymour and Drummond. It was always changing, not that it mattered enough to give it a second thought. In the morning, it could be a red trapezoid but by noon it would shift into a cracked yellow octagon. Personally I always preferred the trapezoid. The men who entered in the evening but never seemed to exit in the morning were also known to change. Whether by name, appearance, age, or multitude… who went in did not dictate who went home. Not that anyone cared about that, either.

When I was feeling especially curious, I would watch them enter from the dim car park away from a flickering old street lamp. As nights went by and I felt brave enough to stand directly under it, I found it made no difference as they never even looked at my direction. By the morning, the cars would be gone and the men allegedly returned home to their spouses and families. And I would leave, deciding to return again at the next meeting whenever I felt the disturbing pull in my stomach beckoning me to witness it. The scheduled days varied, but was always twice a week starting at 8:12 pm and ending when the street light flickered, shrouding the building and parked vehicles in darkness, then flickering on again to show an empty lot. They never met on Tuesdays.

My mother worked down the street at the Birdie’s Bed & Breakfast to help Bertha Goodwin when the old woman needed assistance navigating the cottage she’d rented her whole life, it seemed like. Bertha, though we always called her Birdie, was in her late seventies when I was born, and she was in her late seventies when I left for college. She was still in her late seventies when I returned home the next fall with nothing to show for it and a mother who didn’t even acknowledge I had gone in the first place. Not that they even noticed when I was living with them as a child either. When they deemed me old enough to care for myself, Mum would leave in the mornings with a freshly ironed apron, cleaning supplies I never saw opened, and my Dad would leave to work on blueprints of buildings I never saw built. After staring at my ceiling for hours, distracting myself with faded stars stuck up with putty and cracks in the walls, I would leave my blue square of a house and wander the streets looking for a clue to a mystery I wasn’t quite sure existed.

I tried to be academic, I really did. I wanted to leave that old town and its jagged shapes and build something for myself, but the longer I spent away the pit in my stomach grew more and even looking in the mirror hurt my eyes. I couldn’t feel the softness of my skin anymore. It felt like plastic. The faces of my classmates were static and boring-- none of them pulsed with the same energy as the people back home and all sounded the same. After barely a year I couldn’t take it and moved back home. The school didn’t even call to finalize my resignation.

As a child who grew up with strange disappearances monthly (Birdie said Misses Morgan moved to the States, but her car still collected leaves in the drive), stores popping up that never seemed to stay, and the absence of new neighbors, nothing was too out of the ordinary for us. But I’ve read some of the other statements, Jon, and it seems nothing was quite ordinary at all. Construction workers would vanish and it would rarely make the papers. The opening of a new chip shop was a blessing, but no one would ever be able to go more than twice before it was on its way out of town and replaced with some new fad.

Until the year the cemetery flooded and the school gymnasium roof caved in, about 2006 (it’s hard to beep track of the years), I didn’t think extraordinary could exist. Or at least not in any way that mattered. That was the year the Abbott’s moved in to the house on Cowley Lane, a house I had only ever seen out of the corner of my eye. On a street filled with shapes, this was a straight line.

They arrived as most families do, escaping an unpleasant moment in time by “starting fresh” and “turning over a new leaf”. I never quite understood that expression, as turning over a new leaf does not negate the old one. By turning over a leaf with a sullied edge to admire the green underside, it still remains the same leaf. Turning over a new leaf simply means the old one is left to decompose while you find a crisp, untarnished leaf, while the other still has a perfectly acceptable side to be admired. And, as most families do, they leave the unsightly leaf to be buried with the hundreds of others they’ve “turned over” and promise to change. The promises stay, but are never quite redeemed. Sorry, I got carried away… it's hard to find things to be passionate about these days. I'll continue.

The Abbotts integrated as well as they could, two children ready to attend school no matter the construction work in the gym or the fact it was well into November, and a third to stay at home as infants are wont to do. They threw a barbecue to get to know the neighbors, and the whole village attended bringing their own family recipes and baked desserts. I stayed home.

The Abbott's father, Mark, gained a quick job as an iron-worker while his wife (I never knew her name) stayed indoors looking after the baby. I’d see him in the mine, hacking away at rusty cars and rail too old to use and loading the scraps to be taken away. Hours, I’d watch, as he compressed the piles and laid the new framework to keep unwanted visitors from being crushed to death by eroding stone walls. The day he was called to help install the new wrought iron fence where the cemetery flooded and washed away, I followed him there too. Wherever he went, the shapes that once filled the town lost their vibrancy. Instead of fluctuating between tetrahedrons and prisms, they became either stagnant or frantic. Everything at once, or nothing at all.

I watched him dig in the downtrodden soil, unearthing rectangular caskets and hexagonal coffins. The rain that year had brought landslides and sinkholes, most destructive in the cemetery just outside town and disturbing the dead where they slept. Headstones, monuments, and mementos washed away and sank into the soft dirt, the running fence encircling the land broken up and dragged along with it. Once an infinite circle that cut the burial grounds off from the rest of the puzzle, the shape was now distorted and wrong. Without gate to close and make it whole again, I felt the muted shape of the cemetery slip away and become a tangled mess of string.

He dug for hours until the orange circle of a sun lowered itself behind the branches of the forest and their quickly disappearing leaves. Moving from one plot to the other, from the pristine headstones of recent years down to the protruding stones with names barely legible beneath the moss and decades of wear. Digging, digging, digging, all the while the formless fence to-be remained untouched. When the sky turned dark and snow clouds threatened to shed their weight, I finally turned my back on Mark and left him alone with the dead for the first time all evening, the man seeming blissfully unaware he hadn’t been alone in the first place at all.

The next morning when I went to check on his new project, the buildings along the way had lost their shape. No longer were streets lined with sturdy trapezoids, rectangles, and prisms. The colors were off, like a child with a crayon who had not yet learned the concept of limitation. They bled into each other and polluted the air, cracked frames unable to hold them back. The air tasted like static and I couldn't feel the ground beneath my boots.

By the time I got to the clearing, the holes had been filled and the new fence had taken shape in towering columns that crawled and stretched like spider webs across the dying grass. It was the same dirt, the same stone, trees, and air, but it did not feel like the cemetery I had watched be torn away the night before. I felt a chill settle in my bones and leave as quickly as it came like waiting for pain after burning your finger on a hot mug. From all my observing of the town, never once has a feeling ever driven me to run far away until what I was seeing before me was but an afterthought.

I passed by the Abbotts house, static growing stronger until I could barely hear the crunch of leaves or gravel beneath my feet. Only the wife's car was in the drive and a fresh coat of snow indicated there had only been the one all night, and the black pick-up Mark drove was nowhere to be seen. The sign on their door was new, barely two months old, but as I looked at it, truly looked at it, did it appear to have aged to rot. Abbott’s House it said in curvy lettering (with all the determination of a line pretending to be something it’s not) with five handprints beneath for each family member. Five. Mother, three kids, and… now four. The longer I thought about it, the longer I stared, trying to blink away the dots that kept getting in the way of my vision, the more my eyes convinced me there had always been four. Never two cars, never five hands. Through my haze, I barely felt my feet take me home. Even when I layed down to rest in a foreign looking room, I decided that my childhood mystery, a fantasy I had grown to accept, had found another clue and a little bit more of the town chipped away. Mark didn’t show up for work anymore.

Little things were changing, it just took a trained eye to notice. You don’t have to be a detective to see the details, sometimes you just have to be very, very afraid. The sign for Birdies Bed & Breakfast was now spelled with a ‘y’ instead of an ‘i’, and the apron my mother wore was now a faded lilac instead of a robin’s egg blue. The oak tree that stood tall in our backyard, old as the town itself with a slow swinging hammock tied to the branches, was now a young birch. I likened it to two puzzles cut from the same machine. Different pictures with pieces that fit together only in the most literal sense. The longer I noticed, the more I wondered which puzzle was truly mine, and which one was slowly being replaced.

Each morning the static filled my nose, irritated my eyes, and clouded my ears with a soft dizzying hum that slowly drowned out my senses. The shapes that made up my entire world were broken, dull, and chipping away until everything I knew was muddled and loud.

It was only when I woke up in an empty room, no posters, cardboard boxes, or dirty clothes, I found my feet barely touched the floor. I felt weightless as I wandered down to the kitchen where Mum usually got ready, feeling as though the back of my eyes were filled with cotton. There were only two seats sat at the dining table, and when I tried to open my mouth to speak my tongue tasted like ash.

Before I could blink or even cry, suddenly I was in the street. Red shapes filled my periphery and everything between, and the town was gone. A red sky bled into the houses, cars, and potholes cremating them like the dead. I felt myself falling away from my body and I finally saw my shape. It was a shifting mass of angles and colors and somehow I just knew it was me. When I finally did cry, smaller shapes fell from her eyes copying the drops that fell from mine. Was it out of malice? Pity? Understanding? Was she crying because she shared my pain or was she just a cheap reflection of who I thought I was or simply longed to be?

It’s been a while since I’ve been here, in this black and red. She still mocks me. Radiant and pulsing with color while I exist with imitation soft skin and coarse hair. They’re the only things I can be sure of, as I haven’t seen my face in a long time. Only hers. Now I’m not sure who she is, but she’s the only company in this void. Until I saw your shape, Jon. Blue and black polygons blinking between colors with the beat of a foreign heart. You lead me here to a library of pain that reflected my own, a reprieve from the emptiness I’ve been floating in. Maybe if I tell you my story you can bring me back to the shape of your world? I suppose only time will tell, and I have an eternity to wait.

Waiting for someone to save the outline of a person who isn’t sure they ever existed at all.