rusty_kink | Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

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Author's Note: Okay, so I said that the last one was gonna be part one of chapter 9... but part two ended up being.... longer than I initially drafted. It makes more sense to just split them up as different chapters now. Soooo I'm just gonna call this chapter 10.

Can you believe I thought this was gonna be short fic??? Anyway, hope whoever's left here enjoys this! I will start to edit and update on AO3 this Saturday.

When Martin wakes up, you have the Archivist say “I love you.’’

You say ‘I’ in the same way a human might crouch while cooing at a small animal. With this word, you present yourself as smaller than you are, as more individual and personal. Still, when you sit on the edge of the bed, Martin’s fear spikes.

“What are you… what are you going to do?’’ Martin asks, wearily.

“Nothing you don’t want.’’

This pronouncement doesn’t make Martin less afraid. The Archivist frowns.

“You’re worried that we still want sex. That this is all just to get your guard down to make the moment we force it on you later more horrible. But that’s not quite it.’’

“Not ‘quite?’’’ Martin asks, bitingly.

“We--I would still like to have sex. That is true,’’ you say. “No use in lying about that. But last time was—it was unpleasant. It is better if you participate willingly. That will make for a more pleasant experience for all parties involved.’’

Martin stares. “That’s not going to—Jon doesn’t—how does an eldritch horror even want…?’’

You blink at him, hoping that will break up the discomfiting nature of your stare. Martin clamps his jaw shut.

“I don’t think you even have a concept of what… ‘willing participation’ means. In anything, much less...that.’’

“That’s not true,’’ you say.

“Then let Jon go. Stop controlling him.’’

“It’s not control. I am ‘Jon,’ the Archivist. Jon is us.’’

Martin shakes his head, and turns back over. He squeezes his eyes shut, believing everything you said throughout this conversation to be a lie but still hoping you will stick with this lie a little longer.

“Martin,’’ you plead.

“I want to go back to sleep.’’

“No. You can’t sleep forever.’’ You tug at his sleeve. “Stay with us.’’

Martin stays there, speechless and unmoving, until you relent, and let him drift into calmer nightmares.

Again, when Martin wakes, you make sure the first thing he hears is “I love you.’’

Martin says nothing to this.

“Martin,’’ you say. “Come with us. With me. You’ll feel better if you get up.’’

He does not move. He’s figured out you like it when he talks to you, and beyond his one request he doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction. Your agitation expresses itself through the Archivist as pacing.

“There is tea and breakfast. Muffins, made exactly like the ones from that café by the Institute that you used to love. Eating will help you feel better. We want, I want you to feel better.’’

Martin lies there, trying to will his thoughts and fears still, trying to make himself small and beneath notice as he used to do with his mother. It is as futile as running or fighting was, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“We will wait,’’ you say, “Until you’re ready.’’

The self-harm doesn’t start until you take the Archivist out of the room.

It was a silly gesture, perhaps, but you thought he might feel better with the illusion of a moment's privacy. Of course, you extend far beyond the Archivist, so you are still with Martin in that room even when the Archivist is not. But you still thought it might be a comfort.

Martin explores the room first—checking behind the curtains to confirm there are no windows, trying the doors, looking in every cupboard and only finding a single pen and his notebook.

Nothing, of course there’s nothing. Stupid, why did I think for minute--

He hits his head against the wall, suppressing wail of despair. Then, he digs fingernails into the skin on his arm.

It’s hard to say why he escalates. His thoughts are racing wordlessly, and there is no single moment where he thinks or decides to hurt himself. Perhaps it’s the urge to punish himself, somehow, for the suffering he imagines ‘Jon’ is experiencing. Perhaps it’s just that the intensity of physical pain, at least, is enough to drive everything else from his mind.

Either way, his skin tears, and blood starts to drip onto the floor.

“Martin!’’ the Archivist’s voice goes shrill. “Martin, stop!’’

Of course, the Archivist is there the second that you want him there. Martin jerks away, still too wild for reason.

“Stop it. Be calm,’’ the words are yours, now. “Sleep. Rest.’’

Martin falls limp into the Archivist’s arms.

“I love you.’’

Martin notices the Archivist’s voice first, and then the bandages on his arms. He closes his eyes, and wants to sleep again, even though he knows it won’t bring him any relief and it will always lead to him waking up here.

“I love you,’’ you have the Archivist say again. “I don’t want you to be hurt. I want you to be...’’

You want Martin in all of the ways he can be—and yet, hurt-Martin is the one you want the least of all, right now. The conflict this creates in you is too confusing to put into human words, so the Archivist trails off.

You itch to lay hands on Martin again. But the mere thought stings. Because it will make Martin hurt (but you want him hurt) (but you want him to be happy) (but you want--)

“We can, I can take you anywhere in the world. The most magnificent falls. The pyramids. All the wonders of the world,’’ you tell him. “True, they’re all demolished now, but we can change that. I can fix them up again just so you have something beautiful to look at for a moment. Just get up and come with me.’’

Martin is, for a human, incredibly stubborn. He gives you nothing.

He knows he cannot hurt you, really. He cannot keep you from this thoughts or his fears, if you want to dig into them. But he can deny you his words, his movements, the reactions of he makes that you love. So now he throws himself into this final battle of attrition.

He has to get bored of this eventually. That’s how they are. Like the train, with that woman who gave up...

“No,’’ you say, responding to his thoughts in the absence of his words. “We won’t ever get tired of you.’’

You stoke his fears by walking the Archivist closer to his bed. His heart freezes at the sound of the footsteps, but still will not deign to give you a single twitch, if he can prevent it. It makes you ache.

(But you love his hate, you realize. You love his stubbornness. Even when it makes you ache.)

“I love you,’’ you tell him again.

Perhaps if you say it enough, he’ll begin to understand.

"Maybe other people will help you feel better,'' you say the next time he wakes. “Humans do need their friends.’’

Martin’s thoughts immediately jerk to attention.

"Not the troublemakers, of course,'' you say. "We'll keep them where they are, sealed in their blindspot, so they can’t do anymore damage. But Basira...''

Martin bolts upright, horrified.

"No.’’

The Archivist hums, feeling your happiness that Martin’s started to talk again. "But you like Basira.''

"I--'' --we never really--but she sat there with me after mum-- "No, I don't. We hardly know each other.''

Martin feels the weight of your many stares.

"She doesn't even like me.'' --when Peter started to close in, she kept trying to help-- ''And she can be really mean.''

Does he hear my thoughts all of the time? Or just whenever he wants to? If I play it off, can I...

"We always want to hear what you're thinking,'' you answer.

Martin looks down. When he speaks up, his voice is thin.

"Just leave her out of this.’’

But a thought stirs in discordance with . But if Basira was here, maybe together we could plan a way to—no, what am I thinking, she’d just be trapped--

"Basira has been obedient, before. She will be good for you,'' you say, happy at this emerging hope. "We'll bring her.''

"No! Please,'' --begging hasn't helped before, but I have to-- "I don't want her to see me like this.''

"But you want her around. I can see it in you. The thought makes you hopeful.''

"Hopeful that she'll save me from you!''

"Yes, exactly.'' You have the Archivist smile at him, softly. "Your hope is beautiful too, Martin.’’

Martin tears at his hair.

“You want a friend, and we like to give you what you want.’’ You turn your gaze upon Basira. “She is faltering now, tired from her long journey through a sea of bodies and twisted flesh. She longs for a soft place to rest, even if she feels she does not deserve it. Even if she will never ask it of anyone. We can enmesh the border of this realm with where we are, so that when Basira takes her next step--''

"Stop! Stop it!’’

Martin grabs the Archivist by the shoulders roughly, as though to shake him. For a second he furious, ready to retaliate. You thrill at the touch, more eyes opening in attention as your delighted hum escapes the Archivist’s throat. Martin winces, immediately losing his nerve. His grip slackens.

A thought flits by: a thought of the pocket where the Archivist used to hold his tapes, and how close Martin’s hands are to it now.

"I'll--if you leave Basira alone, I can--''

Martin leans his head closer to the Archivist. It feels like putting his hand on a stove-top. The thought of offering a kiss runs through his mind, but it makes him sick. You might ask for more, is what he worries. Maybe, he thinks, that is something you’d consider “willing participation.’’

I can't do it. I can't. Jon wouldn't want--but if Basira gets trapped here, then--

Martin's knees are shaking. You have the Archivist put a hand on his, to which he only shudders a little.

"Martin,'' you say, linking fingers with his. "You don't have to kiss us or… do anything you don’t want to, to save Basira from imprisonment. It wasn’t a threat.’’

''Like hell it wasn't,'' Martin chokes out.

"You don't have to do anything. Promise,'' you tell him. "Just rest.''

You have the Archivist wrap an around around Martin’s shoulder—but the movement is slower than you intend, as though you are moving it through thick mud. Till, you grab Martin a bit more clumsily than you intended, and guide Martin to sit down on a couch in the corner.

Martin takes a sharp breath, but the freezing panic in his gut quells when you sit the Archivist down beside him at a reasonable distance.

"We want you to be happy in your fear,'' you tell him again. “As much as you can be. Happy, and not in danger of hurting yourself. Human companionship usually decreases suicidal thoughts and self-harm.’’

"Please don't bring Basira here,'' his voice cracks. “I’ll—I won’t self-harm again, okay? If you want me to be happy, then listen to me. Please--''

I don't want to fuck over someone else because I was stupid enough to want something.

You can feel the Archivist’s face crumple, pityingly. “It’s not wrong, o-or your fault, for wanting things, Martin.’’

Martin actually lets out a sad laugh. “Please, please just leave Basira alone.’’

"Alright. Alright, we will.’’ A pause. “I won’t let anything happen to Basira.''

Martin lets out a breath. You reach for him through the Archivist. This time, the gesture is choppy and much faster than you intend. You grab Martin’s hand again, squeezing. He doesn’t resist, this time. It sends a happy thrill through you. You pull his hand towards the Archivist, and...

...and without thinking, you have (the Archivist has?) pressed Martin’s hand up to the breast pocket of his coat, where his lost tapes used to be.

Martin tenses. “What are you--’’

You freeze. Before you can even realize it, the Archivist has yanked Martin’s hand into his pocket, where it seems something had been sewn in there. There has been some trick pulled on you, some trick using the same material that created the blindspot, creating this inner pocket you could not detect.

Something crinkles. Martin yanks his hand away, but now there is something in his hands—a polaroid?

It’s the slightest moment of discordance between you and the Archivist. Hardly a twitch. It takes you less than a minute to seize the Archivist again.

It’s not enough time to stop Martin from looking at the hidden message.

[CLICK]

[WHIRRING]

MELANIE

You want a show? You want some information? Think you can web us in here and terrorize us and then get all of our secrets down on your little tape?

Bet you thought you could! Bet you thought we’d have no way out. Or that we’d have no way of keeping any information without you knowing about it. Fucking voyeur.

Well. You’re wrong, shithead. You’re not all powerful, or as all-knowing as you think. But if you really want a snack, here’s something for you!

[A MATCH LIGHTS]

MELANIE

Record this, fucker.

[THERE IS A ROAR OF FLAME. THEN, THE SOUND OF EXPLOSIONS, AN ENRAGED SCREAM, AND THOUSANDS OF SPIDERS SKITTERING AWAY.]

[CLICK]

WHOAA, WHAT! A hidden pocket, ohhhh clever!!!!

I really enjoyed how the Eye kept saying "I love you" every time he wakes up. The Eye doesn't seem to feel boredom, does it? The detail about how its frustration turns to Jon pacing is great :D. Also, I wonder if Jon influences the way it speaks. In an entirely different context "That will make for a more pleasant experience for all parties involved" is such a Jon-ish thing to say, I think, and I love that.

The scene about Basira is so interesting. The eye calling Melanie and Georgie "troublemakers" is hilarious, oh my god. "That wasn't a threat" and "no harm will come to Basira" was rather sweet. I do enjoy the "logical" way the Eye thinks about things. "Humans need social contact. Martin enjoys being held. Martin will feel better if I provide this :)." It's is a great mix of creepy-cute.

When I thought about how Martin would react to the Eye being in love with him, I hadn't guessed that Martin would simply think it to be some sort of elaborate torture method. I wonder if he actually doesn't believe the Eye at all, when he heard Jon describe it. Does he think it's really the Eye itself talking to him?

I'm so excited about this, thank you so much!!

Aaaaaaa thank you so much for the comment! I am so glad you think the hidden pocket was good, because I struggled over that plot moment a lot :'D

The Eye can't really feel boredom the way Martin is hoping, no--the Eye is just aware of too much information in any given moment, and has such a long existence to the extent that even having Martin do nothing for 24 hours is like 1/100000 of a second to its perception. Plus, Martin just sitting there and having thoughts is still Fascinating to the Eye, even if Martin up and talking and interacting is much preferred. Also, yes, Jon is absolutely affecting how the Eye ''talks.'' If it were talking through Elias, it would sound more ''Elias-y''

The scene about Basira was fun to write--because for once, the Eye isn't trying to be horrible on purpose... but still is on accident. The Eye is Trying to be generous and caring, and slowly Martin's affections. But after previous actions, everything comes off as a threat. And really, it effectively is--the Eye controls everything about Martin's enviornment, can do anything it wants to him (or Jon or Basira, if it feels like it) and has deliberately hurt Martin in the past. Right now it has a whim of trying to be caring--but it's not a whim Martin can realistically trust.

Martin is in Denial. Right now his thought process about it is ''it's not Real love, it's just a desire to torture me in convoluted ways.'' Which, well. It kind of is. But it's also more complicated in ways that Martin is deliberately not thinking about. Framing it as Not Love is easier, right now.

As for who Martin thinks is talking to him... he actually can't totally wrap his head around the Eye as a being that's Talking to him. The way he is sort of conceiving of it is like an Evil Individual who vaguely looks like Elias in Martin's head is controlling Jon's body and voice while Jon screams inside.

Thank you so much for commenting! It fuels me to write :D Expect more soon!

YES JON! YES *MELANIE*! SUPURB!
Once again I am LIVING for the Eye’s characterisation—in particular, the way it seems to be becoming more no more comfortable claiming its own actions and saying “I”. (Is this character development? I choose to think so.)
I continue to be in awe of the way your portray Martin’s slow journey through the stages of despair, it’s just so true to life, and his emotional responses are so real and vivid. I like the way that even in his shut-down mode he can’t quite maintain hopelessness; he still, like it or not, keeps on hoping just a little. I really cannot appreciate enough how this fic plays with the ideas of agency. I hope on the one hand that the Eye starts to listen to/understand Martin about his and Jon’s need to have autonomy (it’s trying now, at least!), but the very fact that it has control over whether or not to grant it makes the whole concept of consent and agency tricky. Also, I really appreciate how Martin’s lack of privacy is directly tied to his lack of power/safety (both his and Basira’s), as the inherent violation of surveillance is so central to the concept of Beholding!horror. I feel like sometimes the series proper makes the horror of being known/seen slightly theoretical, so the use of that as the primary source of Martin’s fear here is incredible and also just done so well.
Also hidden pocket! Jon! Melanie! Wow I’m so hyped to see what comes next!

I am so glad you’re liking the Eye’s character development. The Eye’s own conception of itself is changing. Before the apocalypse (and loving Martin) the Eye never wanted to speak directly to anyone, or control a body so directly. Doing so now forces the Eye to think differently about itself.

Ah, Martin’s journey through despair. It is a slow, painful process. He knows now that he can’t escape or fight, so he just shuts down and does his best to stay shut down as possible. But yeah--he still can’t keep his own darn hopes and feelings completely down. It is one of the many reasons the Eye loves him.
I am so glad you’re still loving the exploration of agency and the lack thereof in this story. Martin’s lack of agency is so directly related to his lack of privacy, to the Eye watching him every moment, even down to his thoughts. He can’t even keep his suffering to himself. And now the Eye has another point of leverage to hold over Martin (Basira) even if it doesn’t mean to be unkind about it.

Jon and Melanie getting one over on the Eye was SO satisfying to write. Jon’s slow but deliberate attempts to maintain what agency he can have paid off!! And you can’t keep wtgfs down! Thank you SO much for the comment.

For a heartbeat, Martin believes he is saved.

“Jon.’’ A whisper, followed by a cry of terrible hope. “Jon--?!”

Tearing the Polaroid from Martin’s hands doesn’t erase what he’s seen. Nor does it let you find out yourself. Its message is blotted out to you as much as its existence was before.

You look into Martin’s head, scanning for whatever knowledge he has gleaned from it. But as with his memories of the blind spots, that is blacked out to you as well. A blind spot in Martin’s mind that you can only see the borders of.

Jon, it was Jon, Jon did this, Jon Jon Jon

Martin’s face twists into several different expressions. His hands hover in the air. He tentatively reaches them an inch forward.

“Jon!’’ He doesn’t touch the Archivist. “Jon, I’m sor—talk to me, please--’’

You rip up the Polaroid with the Archivist’s hands. Martin’s face falls, his hands withdrawing and curling back into his chest. But tearing the thing to pieces can’t remove what has been seen.
Martin's mind wraps around the knowledge, and will not let it go.

Uncertain, you cast him into a deep sleep.

The thing is—when Martin wakes up after that, he gets up and drinks the tea you placed at his bedside. He swallows harshly, throat threatening to close up, but he does it.

“...Jon?”

“Martin. I love you.”

Martin takes a careful breath, and presses his lips into a flat line. “Thanks for being obvious, at least,” he says. “So, you can’t wipe memories, then.”

“Martin...”

“Because you would have, wouldn’t you? And you haven’t, so that means you can’t. That’s one thing you can’t control.” Martin’s eyes dart around the room for a second. “I know there’s a way out. I saw it. I know Jon can leave, and--”

“The Archivist won’t survive, cut off from us.”

Martin’s mouth hangs open for a moment. Then, he closes it.

"You already suspected, the first time you learned how to quit,'' you remind him.

There is a tape on a nearby dresser. Martin jumps when he hears the click, followed by his own voice.

''Can you even survive?''

You do, and don't, love the utter misery on Martin's face at the reminder.

"Without us, he will die.''

But he didn't, at- Martin's eyes dart around. Maybe it’s not--

“You know what I think?” Martin says. “I think you’re full of shit. He didn’t die when he was cut off from you.”

“A slower death isn’t the deliverance you’re hoping for, Martin."

“We could get help. We could take him to a hospital and..."

"And what?" you ask. "Lose all brain function a bit more slowly than otherwise? Draw out the complete loss of memory and motor function to excruciating lengths? Extend that horror for a few measly years before succumbing?”

"Years?"

His tone goes soft, at that. The Archivist frowns, puzzled.

"The Archivist will die without us, at this stage," you repeat. "That is certain."

"How many years, exactly?" Martin demands. "How long will it take for him to die without you?''

"Oh, Martin." You ache at how human this is of him. "Years are not as significant as you imagine. They are less than the blink of an eye against the vast expanse of history--or the vast expanse of what we can now experience together."

Martin grits his teeth. “How. Many?”

You consider denying him. You consider withholding the information entirely, and waiting to see how he might plead or beg or bargain for it. But right now, Martin is alive. Truly alive and feeling, instead of withering away into fog. And you love him so, especially like this.

"The last Archivist who reached this level and quit—well. That was hundreds of years ago,” you say. “It is rare for an Archivist so perfect to come into themselves, and among those even rarer for one to quit. So there is little information on what happens in these cases, even for us.”

Martin's eyes are wide and focused, drinking up your every word. He is so fixated on you it makes you soar.

"He lasted slightly over three years, blinded,'' you explain. "He was well taken care of, for he was a wealthy man with every luxury available for his time and place. But his mind quickly deteriorated. At the end, he died ranting and raving, unable to recognize any of the people he loved.''

Martin stares."But with modern medicine...''

"Maybe the Archivist now could last longer. Maybe not. But it would come to the same, for that is the fate of all minds outside us—brief sparks that flicker away into the cold night. Only we preserve life. Only we save life.

“Martin, that is the difference between what you seek for the Archivist, and what the Archivist has here. A tiny flash of a miserable life, against an immortal existence with all the knowledge and power in the world, where every moment is filled with the purest of our joy.''

Martin looks at the Archivist, hollowly.

"Years,'' he says. "We could have had years.''

“Martin,” the Archivist paces, feeling your agitation. “You do not understand—cannot understand. If you could, you would not want this.”

But Martin does not hear. He thinks only of that moment on the tape. The moment where the Archivist thought to quit, and Martin cut him down for fear of his life.

"Jon, I'm so sorry.''

You expecting the worst: more cycles of fighting, then despair, and then shutting himself off from everything. But instead, there is only quiet resolve: Martin pacing in his room, questions and thoughts and quickly discarded plans mixing in his head.

“Walk with me?’’ you lilt the Archivist’s words up at the end, to ensure it sounds like a request and not a demand. “You always used to imagine walks in the park.”

Martin considers for a moment, and then gets up to follow. You have the Archivist smile.

It is a giant dome, closed in so that there is no danger of Martin looking at the sky. The garden is lit instead with bioluminescent flowers. Martin looks at them for a minute, and then shudders when he sees they, too, are eyes.

“So,” --moving on, don’t feel it, don’t feed him-- “You do sometimes answer questions honestly, it seems,’’ he says.

“We love your questions,” you tell him.

Martin’s thoughts rush. I can get answers, find things out, find out the limitations--

Martin’s gait changes, when he is thinking. There is a bounce in his steps, quick and energetic quality to way his head and eyes move with him. He doesn’t notice the Archivist beaming at him fondly, channeling your joy.

You think before you make your next move.

"Maritn, I am going to hold your hand now."

Martin’s thoughts freeze, and his hands immediately shoot up so he can stubbornly cross his arms.

"You--"

"I thought I'd warn you. It seems worse for you when there isn't any warning."

Martin squeezes himself, a defensive little self-hug.

"Just holding hands," you tell him, keeping the Archivist's voice slow and reassuring. "I won't do anything else."

"And I don't get a say in it, I suppose.”

You gently touch his upper arm, and follow it to his wrist. He pulls away just an inch and grips his own arm tighter for a second. But then, he thinks through his options and relents.

Warning in advance is a success, it seems. You make a note of this.

You link the Archivist's hands with his. You beam at him, but he refuses to look at the Archivist's face (--I can't--Jon doesn't deserve--I'm furious, I can't--) so instead you decide to have a flower glow at him, its eyes radiating a soft glow. Martin shuts his eyes, and swallows his anger.

It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. It’s—I can deal with it. I can use this. I just have to get him to answer--

“Not so bad, then?” you ask.

Martin keeps his eyes fixed on the ground. “Let’s just walk.”

Martin barely looks at the fountains you grow before him, in your garden. Instead, his hand twitches in your Archivist’s hand, and he gets straight to his questions.

"Do you need Jon?''

"You're speaking to 'Jon' now,'' you tell him, amused.

He rolls his eyes at you, adorably enough.

"If Jon left through Hill Top road, or stopped being the Archivist, would this horrorshow end?''

No coyness. No hesitation. Martin's eyes glint in the soft bioluminescent light around him. He knows that he has no way to force you to answer, much less answer honestly. But he knows there are answers, and he thinks those answers might help him. The possibility is turning his desperation into steely determination.

You pause, considering.

"You're afraid,'' Martin challenges. "You're not so certain you can stop us from escaping. That's why you don't want to answer.''

"Martin.'' You still love his name on the Archivist's lips. "Manipulating us isn't really possible when we can see the intent in your head.''

Martin juts his chin forward, determinedly.

This is a far cry from Peter, Martin admits. But he...people can still be... but you can still be influenced, even if you know it's happening.

It takes you a moment to realize he is addressing you in his own thoughts, accounting for your presence in them. The many-eyed flowers glow brighter, new blooms sprouting on them. Martin shrinks back. He tugs his hand away for a moment, but you hold it tight, and so he gives up.

You rub the Archivist’s thumb in gentle circles against the skin of his wrist. Martin squirms, but does not pull away again. You mark this as another success.

"If you must know,'' you say, "No. Removing the Archivist--this current Archivist, ‘Jon’--will not collapse our world. Instead, the position will simply fall to the next most appropriate person--and there are quite a few in this world, budding Eyes ready to drink in more, once they grow.''

“So, you wouldn’t die.” Martin says. “You wouldn’t even be inconvenienced.”

“Not in the way you re thinking, no.”

“Let him go,” Martin asks, keeping his voice level. “You keep saying you love me, and that you want to give me what I want. I want Jon out of this. I want him to be free to make his own decisions, uninhibited by you.”’

“It’s not inhibition.” Your indignation makes the Archivist’s tone petulant, almost whining. “You’re not conceptualizing it in the right way.”

Martin blinks tiredly. “I don’t care. Just let him go.”

“No.”

Martin didn’t, and doesn’t, expect anything to come of his request, so there is no disappointment. “You’ll lose nothing.”

“I’ll lose you.”

This actually makes Martin start, surprised. He stares at the Archivist, confused.

You try to explain. “We won’t be able to experience you without a human vessel—with all the senses, and talking to you as we do so.”

“So can you pick another--”

“You won’t look at us the same way, in another face.” But no, that’s not entirely it. You hiss at the difficulty of putting these contradictions into words. “You won’t look at us and have it bloom in you. Love.”

Martin’s jaw hardens, and his hand twitches in yours again. “I already don’t love you. Wearing Jon like a-a Nikola suit doesn’t change that.”

You tilt the Archivist’s head at him, and feel everything go soft in you.

“I know,” you say. “It doesn’t matter. I love you, Martin.’’

You bring his hand up. Martin twitches again, hand instinctively jerking away before he stops himself. You press the archivist’s lips to the top of his hand, and plant a kiss.

The question that brings it all down comes over a dinner table you laid out for him of his favorite foods, in between a few half-hearted bites.

"So," Martin starts his first question, looking at the eyes on the wall rather than the Archivist. "You keep calling yourself 'we.’ What’s that about?”

You take a moment. And then longer. It is not something you thought through, when you started to use the Archivist's words to talk to Martin. You search the expanse of your memory and thoughts throughout existence

"What's wrong?" Martin grouses. "Are you going to tell me you don't know? Because that would be just hilarious."

"Because we are many," you say.

"What does that mean?"

"It means--hmrgh." There is a bit of a twinge, upon considering yourself. "You think of 'the Eye' as a singular presence. A giant alien brain in space, somewhere, outside of all reality but inserting itself into it."

"I--" Martin frowns. "Okay, yeah. That's not what you are, then?''

"We arise from many consciousnesses," you say. "Many different brains, people, throughout existence."

"Many avatars, you mean."

"Yes. But non “avatars” as well. The powerless woman who keeps checking her apartment every day for hidden cameras--she is part of us too. The little boy who sticks his nose in all the places he shouldn't--he is us, as well, even before anything you call supernatural has touched him."

Again, there is a rush at seeing Martin look directly at you, so carefully considering what you say.

"And," you say, thinking. "And because, there are many eyes experiencing, watching through the Archivist, and have been all along."

"What does that mean?'' Martin frowns. "Like... other people, looking at what's happening through Jon's head?"

"More or less."

"Other... other avatars?'' Martin asks. And then, he shrivels back. "Elias? Wait, how much has Elias been--has he--has he seen...?"

"The one you call Elias, Jonah Magnus, has been watching, yes. For he is also us."

Martin swallows. Then, he puts a hand over his mouth, feeling sick.

"When I… Elias was--he--"

"Magnus is us, too,” you reassure him. “Of course he loves you, and has been with us in these moments."

Martin's stomach churns.

"I need a moment."

There isn't any place Martin can "have a moment" in the way he wants.

He gets up from the table to make a run for it, and a quick sweep of his eyes remind him there are no doors, only walls with eyes.

"Let me--" Martin starts, only to realize it's no use. He's started to internalize the immensity of your presence threading through this world. If you were to let him run to a bathroom, or his bed, you would be there as well. You are everywhere, in this world.

So he freezes where he is, one realization hitting him after another.

Elias, watching the Archivist's hands assault him.

Elias, laughing at Martin’s undignified shrieks.

Elias, not just seeing it but experiencing it in all the ways you do, feeling how Martin's bare skin feels, how he shrinks away.

Elias, (worse, worse, worse) there in the moments that Martin had thought safe before--during the chaste hugs or the reassuring holding of hands on the way out of the Lonely.

“Stop,” Martin pleads. “I get it. I get it. Stop putting it in my head--”

“We aren’t.”

Martin puts a hand to his mouth. His eyes are darting around the room, again looking for a place to rest where you don't meet his gaze from the cracks in the wall. He breathes in, and it makes a pitiful noise.

"Martin," the Archivist's face falls. "Oh, Martin. I’m so, I-I-"

Martin actually slaps his hands away when he reaches out. Not enough to hurt, but enough to be a warning. "Don't.''

The Archivist closes his mouth, and waits.

Martin doesn't vomit. Instead, he closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath, and holds it. After a few deep breaths, his thoughts solidify.

“So you don’t actually need Jon to ‘experience’ me, then,” Martin says.

“What… what do you--?”

You look into Martin’s mind, and see the idea that has formed there. A single, succinct compromise that would resolve Martin’s most pressing issues with the situation.

“No,” you say. “Martin that’s not—that’s not what you want. That won’t make you happy.”

Martin opens his eyes wearily. “I’m already unhappy.”

And since I’m going to be unhappy either way, I’d rather Jon be free.

“No. It won’t be the same. It won’t be like—you won’t smile.” It is so hard to put into words. “We don’t—I want it to go back.”

“Nothing ever goes back.” Martin blinks slowly, voice aching. “It’s already too late for that. Just let me have this one thing—please.”

You stare him down. And then finally (not conceding, not yet) you hold out a hand.

“Come, then.”

Martin takes your hand.

It is a long walk to the Panopticon.

“We could’ve had years” fucking broke me

Thank you for the comment! Always happy to share the pain.

Ohhhh have I mentioned that I really like the way you use Beholding horror because I REALLY like the way you use Beholding horror. This gets the side of it that’s the fear of your vulnerable/private moments being perceived and judged by an unseen audience so well and intimately and the line about Magnus being there too made me physically recoil. Poor Martin!
Also I cannot think of a single happy outcome of Martin going to the Panopticon—(is he going to give himself to Jonah? Give himself to the Eye directly? Oh no I don’t like this)—and I absolutely cannot wait for whatever fresh angst the next chapter brings.
Also, little detail but the bioluminescent eye flowers were such a cool image and I’ve been doodling them on my schoolwork all day.
(PS Sorry for messing up the comments order with my last ones 😅(this is pensive))

Aaaaaaaaa I always love your comments in particular. You always notice interesting things that other people don't always pick up on!

As to Beholding horror--yes! It's such a subtle but horrible thing. The idea that someone will be watching your breakdown, will be watching your suffering and... judging or extracting something from it without your consent. It's been pretty abstract throughout this fic, but putting a name and face we know (Jonah) onto it makes it concrete.

You're right about there being nothing good that can happen for Martin at the Panopticon... but he feels like as long as it minimizes the harm done to Jon, he'll take the risk.

I am glad you liked the bioluminescent eye flowers! Wish I could see those doodles...🥺

(Re: your PS: No need to apologize--I think I should have added the chapters a bit differently in order to keep the formatting good no matter when people posted comments. Anyway, thank you so much!)

What has entered your world is a true abomination. Not chosen or favored like the Archivist, but a mutation; an aberrant glitch springing from the Eldest one.

And yet it walks and it brings with it the stench of death.

You don’t see how it and the shadowy ex-assistant get through all of your barriers. Only that they slip out of your view for a moment, and the next they are freed. Finally, you send minions, ancient archivists who have naught left in them but eyes to slow its path.

It opens its mouth, and for a moment you hear it clearly. “The moment you die--”

And they fall listless where they stood. You recoil, sending ripples through the air and ground, folding the landscape back upon itself to shove the two of them away.

It is no use. It advances, regardless, and death enters your world.

You allow Martin to walk underneath the open sky for a time.Then, smelling death in the distance, you encase all of London in a protective dome.

“What’s that about?” Martin asks. “I wasn’t going to--I know that you won’t let Jon go if I get razed to the ground.”

You knew that already. The Archivist knew that already too, and you can feel his pulse quicken for a moment. But Martin quickly moves on.

“If you’re so worried about it, why don’t you just--” He swallows. “You can’t—I mean, you aren’t—?”

You’re not just teleporting us there.

Martin regrets the question, but it’s already slipped out. You stop the Archivist, pausing for a moment. It did not even occur to you to “teleport” before, but immediately you know you can't.

“Really?” Martin asks, testy at the silence. “You don’t just automatically know? Or did you even plan to take me there?”

You struggle. “It takes time,” you say. “It is a journey to realize the implications of a choice, and to commit to it anyway. Also, it gives us time to make sure Magnus is… presentable.”

Martin squints. “Why? What’s… wrong with El--Jonah?”

Elsewhere, you continue to tweak the neurons of Magnus’s brain to ensure that he will be able to process thoughts into verbal statements Martin will find comprehensible. “Nothing,” you say. “Magnus is fine.”

“Sure. Great. Cool.” Martin decides to let this go. “Okay, in plain language then—how long should this take?”

“However long it takes for you to stop hoping someone will sweep in and prevent you from making this choice.”

Martin swallows. “Right. Right, then.”

He takes a step ahead. Behind, the Archivist’s head turns away from the path, towards the smell of death wafting in the distance. He staggers toward it, unbalanced. For a second, he nearly veers off the path, but then you re-balance him, and focus him ahead.

The first stop Martin takes he sits down on a nearby rock. It’s not to rest from physical tiredness, but an attempt to rest from the cold, creeping dread crawling through his spine.

"Why me?" he asks, eyes fixed on the ground. "There must be other people you...got obsessed with torturing."

Might as well ask now. He thinks. It'll be better than hearing the answer from Elias.

You tilt the Archivist's head.

"You are beautiful in ways you can’t understand,” you tell him. “But I will try. You feel so strongly, so vibrantly. You are deeply imaginative; every possible pain you anticipate is as strong as though it were actually inflicted. "If I were to call human minds ‘lights,’ you would be the sun. If I were to call fear blue, you would be the brightest shade of the sky.”

"So you love torturing me. Big shock. But you can do that to anyone.”

"Yes. We do. We-I have. But I don't have to," you say. "I know you, Martin. You are evolved and conditioned to torture yourself. All we had to do was nudge, and then watch you go."

Martin doesn’t say anything to that.

"It's more than that now, though,” you explain. “I love your hope and love, your pettiness and anger. I love--” oh, it hurts a little now, thinking of it all. “I love how in the midst of your fear, you still find ways to smile."

Martin still will not look at the Archivist’s face. It is easier, he finds, to separate the Archivist from you when he dissects the Archivist into pieces: a voice that speaks higher and fonder than 'Jon's', disembodied hands that reach out at the edge of Martin’s vision.

“I’m not smiling now,” he says.

“No." It gnaws at you. "You aren’t.”

Martin gets up, and walks forward. You have the Archivist follow, knees locking up as you try to move him.

"There are other humans with hope and love and imagination," Martin points out, wryly. "Other people who torture themselves in their heads."

“And I enjoy them. But I don’t love them. I love you.”

“Hm. Right.”

You sense his doubt, and stop to cross the Archivist's arms. "There are other bitter, witty academics with graying hair, yet you fell for this one specifically. Why? Is your love less real because you hypothetically could have fallen for someone else?"

Martin juts his head more forward, trying to hide the way his lip wobbles at that. It’s no use of course. You can always see it.

"I love you, Martin," you say. "You're the first and only one we have loved like this. It doesn't have to be a punishment," you say. "You can live happily with us.”

Martin only keeps walking.

The next stop is an open door frame. Not one of your twisting sibling’s, but one of heavy wood and intricately engraved patterns: a door frame Martin can easily recognize from the Archives.

“What’s this about?” Martin asks, tiredly.

But he knows. Through the doorway he sees the bare sketches of a memory exposed under your watchful sky. The desk. The waste bin full of ashes. The rickety chair that refused to sit solidly even when Martin had put a napkin under its shortest leg. The lighter Martin had used to burn the statements, fallen on the floor forgotten.

"This isn't--This isn't funny," Martin snaps. "What are you--?"

Martin doesn’t finish, because when he looks down at the chair he’s back in the moment of Magnus’s punishment. Specifically, to how Magnus had touched him.

First, both hands on his shoulders, pressing on Martin to stop him from collapsing in on himself. Then, one of those hands moved to Martin’s face, stroking his skin there lightly before turning his head up.

Martin had not actually seen into Magnus’s eyes. His vision was blurred by the sparkling white dots of sensory and emotional overload. But Magnus had been looking deep into his eyes, savoring his pain through touch and sight and sound.

Martin grip the chair to support himself.

"I thought it--" Martin says. "I thought maybe I had imagined that part. The touching. It didn’t seem real.''

"It was."'

Martin's memories of the incident were fractured. Not forgotten, not repressed, but only recalled in pieces. The carvings on the doorframe, when his vision had cleared enough to look up and see Magnus leaving. The way the chair had ricketed back and forth. The smell of ashes in the dustbin. The detail of Magnus’s touch always slipped in and out, vanishing before Martin could dwell on it.

Martin grips the chair harder.

"So," he says. "This is intimidation. A threat."

"No. It was just on your mind," you say. "A reminder. The reasons you find it so difficult to continue."

Martin, again, rolls his eyes at you.

"Yes, of course I'm terrified of Elias. Congratulations. What a--revelation about myself! I had no idea before."

"Martin," the Archivist says. "You don't have to...i-if you want to go back..."

"Shut up. No. That's not how this works," Martin takes a breath. "I'm terrified and I'm going anyway. That's it. That's all. Fear won’t stop me."

"Why?"

Instead of answering, Martin continues his trek.

Martin doesn’t stop again until he sees the cabin in between himself and the tower.

"Oh fuck off. Really?"

“It was on your mind,” you tell him, honestly.

“Right, of course,” Martin snipes. “Certainly has nothing to do with you trying to purposefully derail me.”

Still, Martin enters rather than going around.

All is as they left it. The same floorboards creak as Martin steps on them, the same blankets are thrown haphazardly over the couch, the same mugs are cleaned and turned over to dry by the sink. Martin walks through, numbly regarding every detail like someone walking through a museum.

It’s the smell of burnt french toast (first breakftast Jon made) that makes Martin burst into tears.

“Martin,” you tell him, reaching out. “I’m going to hug--’’

“Don’t,” Martin spits. “Don’t you dare.”

You let the Archivist's hands drop, waiting. Instead Martin hugs himself, sniffling pitifully.

“We can stay here,” you say. “I know this is what you want.”

“No,” Martin says.

“You want to live in a cottage with the Archivist,” you say, narrating the painful flashes you see in him. “You long to wake up every day next to the one you love, to sit beside him quietly reading, to cook together or surprise each other with meals made with love. You want--”

“Okay! Okay I want that,” Martin's voice breaks. “I want it. Of course I want it."

"Then..."

"But this isn't it! You think it is, but it's just a, a twisted imitation. A lie."

He wipes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. "Jon never loved me. Jon never would have even liked me as a person if it had been entirely up to him."

“That, that’s not…”

"You can't dangle what I want in front of me like some carrot," Martin says, "Because you are--are incapable of giving it to me. You can't even understand, or you'd realize this isn't it."

You struggle with this for a moment, running it through all of the knowledge you have and looking for some new insight to navigate this. You find nothing.

"Are you really sure you don't want to stay here?"

Martin storms forward and opens the cupboard. There is whiskey in there, he knows. Left over from the hunter, nearly untouched by him and Jon. He brings it out and opens it, but doesn't make to drink any.

"The lighter," he says. "Give it to me."

"Martin..."

"You said that this 'journey' is about my own doubts. Bullshit," Martin says simply, voice cutting clean through his tears. "You never cared about Jon's doubts or reservations along the way, or anyone else's. My own decisions don't actually matter. What matters are yours. You’re the one waffling here, not me."

"That’s…” this turns you to think about yourself, which makes you hiss out of the Archivist’s mouth, discontented. “That’s not… untrue.”

"So when I say, if you're going to keep me no matter what, I'd prefer to stay with Elias and let Jon go to Hill Top Road, will you actually listen?" Martin challenges. "Will you actually make an effort to do a single thing I ask? Or will you keep stalling and trying to derail me while pretending to care about my feelings?''

You try to move the Archivist's lips, but they feel thick and numb. Failing that, you take the lighter out of his pocket, and hand it to Martin.

Martin pours the whiskey over the couch, and shortly after watches his dream of comfort go up in flames.

It is only a short way to the Panopticon, after that. As Martin approaches, his head stays low, eyes on the road ahead of him.

He has one more question before he goes.

"Did anyone love me?''

"I love you," you tell him. "The Archivist loves you."

Martin shakes his head. "In the human way, I mean."

"That's an oversimplification. Our love is as human as it is not. Drawing distinctions doesn't make any--"

"Stop. Just answer.”

"It isn't a fair question," you whine. "You say 'did anyone love me' but you think 'am I lovable, as a person?' and 'is there something wrong with me?' And simply answering the surface level will imply answers to..."

"So. No one, then.”

How can such a pronouncement hurt you?

You search your extensive collection of knowledge regarding Martin: every memory he has, every memory others have of him, every cherished moment you caught him on security cameras.

“It’s not that you are unlovable,” you say. “Or that you put people off, or that you did anything ‘wrong’ from some kind of moral standpoint.”

Martin’s lips are already pursing miserably, eyes glistening.

“Many people found you charming, attractive, sweet--but when they reached out with kindness or interest…”

“I..” Martin finishes. “I was--I was afraid.”

“When the assistant Tim started to invite you out, you had a recurring nightmare that he was setting you up for a massive ‘Carrie-style’ humiliation,” you recall, your smile curling guiltily up the Archivist’s lips. “When your library supervisor gave you a gift--”

“I get it.” Martin snaps. “No need to rehash the greatest hits.”

He wraps arms around himself again.

“It’s not your fault," you say, because that seems to be the thing to say.

“Like that matters. I’m--no one loves me now, no one will miss me o-or…”

“I love you. Now, I’m going to...” you trail off, rethinking your wording before holding out the Archivist’s arms. “Would you like a--?’’

“No.”

“But--”

“Don’t,” Martin says, squeezes himself tighter. “I don’t want you doing--doing anything with Jon. Hear me?”

You tilt the Archivist’s head, and frown. Then, having an idea, you mold a nearby lamppost into a scarecrow-like figure with outstretched arms. Martin jumps, and hisses in surprise.

“What--?!”

“Is this better?" you ask.

Martin stares at the stuffed, headless thing with eyes blinking in and out of its arms for a second. Then, he laughs. Shrieking, sobbing laughs that wrack through his frame.

“That’s--that’s not,” he gasps. “That’s, you’re--you complete idiot.”

You are about to withdraw the figure, but then he practically throws himself on it. He holds it tightly, burying his forehead where its head should be, and sobs. It’s cold, it’s creepy, it squeezes back just a little too tight, but none of that matters now. Martin just needs something to hold.

But something curls in you, watching this; something sweet and stinging and sickly warm. For now, it is enough.

A curiosity: the Archivist’s races at the foot of the Panopticon.

His eyes dart about, looking for shadows or cracks along the lattice around London. His legs seize up, and he threatens to fall over.

Martin knocks on the reflective obsidian of the tower, and it opens to a doorway.

Another curiosity: you know how these knocks sound both to Martin, and to the Archivist. To the Archivist they are far louder, loud as bell tolls, blaring out all other noises.

Magnus, of course, is already waiting on the other side.

“Always so polite,” he drawls. “I always did like that about you, Martin.”

“I-”

Martin is cut off by Magnus cupping Martin’s cheeks and kissing him on the forehead. A violent shudder runs through Martin’s body.

“Lovely, as always.” Magnus grins. “Do come in, Martin. Shame Jon won’t be joining us, of course. Imagine the fun we could have with you between the two of us.”

Martin freezes up. “Don’t--Jon isn’t…”

“Come,” you and Magnus say. “Or are you getting cold feet?”

Martin takes a first step up the tower, and finds the Archivist’s hand on his shoulder. He flinches.

"Stop that," Martin says.

The Archivist grips harder instead. Martin attempts to shrug him off, stomach bottoming out.

“You said--” Martin swallows. “I thought you were going to let him go.”

Magnus answers for you. “We are.”

You try to remove the Archivist’s hand. It stays. Tugs Martin back, even. His eyes dart around wildly, looking for shadows (shadows, blindspots, the eerily hopeful smell of death) but there are none.

Martin trembles for a second, caged in between them (you). Then, his shoulders drop.

“Let go, Jon.”

And then, as though burned, the Archivist does.

Martin does not look back at the Archivist, before the tower closes. It is for the best. The look on his Archivist's face would have hurt him.

“Goodbye,” is all he says.

The tower closes behind them. The Archivist is left outside. At that, all of the churning inside him flatlines, as surely as if he’d passed out.

There is nothing in him as you walk him away from the tower, nothing in him as you walk him to Hill Top Road.

It hurts to push him through the chasm there. It makes cracks run through the lattice around London. But you have gotten used to doing what hurts, these days.

For a moment, you see a red door through the Archivist's eyes. Then, nothing.

[CLICK]

JON

I’m not. Going.

[LAUGH] That’s the thing. That’s what Georgie said. You have to walk through the door yourself. You have to choose it.

Well, I’m here. I’m in this--house. I can tell it’s like the… the other places. I can feel that the Eye is cut off. I can feel myself slipping. Can’t go back out, or I’ll lose myself again. But if I go forward, Martin will still be...

[DEEP BREATH] I see… I see the way out. The way to the other world. But I won’t take it. I can figure out something, some way to… to save...

I won’t leave--I won’t leave another person behind.

I can’t.

[CLICK]

Late comment! Very late! Apologies!

Anyway this chapter was amazing, gosh, the slow evolution of how the Eye relates to Martin and respecting his volition, I feel like it (they?) wouldn’t have done the lamppost thing just a chapter or two ago. (Which apart from being hilarious was just so perfectly dorky, and somehow in line with Jon-style romantic gestures of the ‘gouge your eyes out and run away with me’ variety. Who’s having an influence on whom, I wonder?)

Also “...to ensure that he will be able to process thoughts into verbal statements Martin will find comprehensible” made me laugh, Jonah’s always the second favourite. Not to mention it throws a different light on him being there watching/listening; what the Eye means by that is definitely not what Martin understands by it.

Ohhh and the journey, because Martin’s already made those choices but the physical gesture of burning the cabin in particular was so satisfying. I love the way you portray him with both the insecurity to ask if anyone had ever loved him and the strength to be able to straight up say “these are your doubts, not mine.”

And I already yelled @ you about this but YEAH Jonah being his delightfully terribly self :D. I really can’t wait to see how the Eye’s affection looks filtered through a different lens. (Unfortunate enjoyment of Martin’s suffering:
The Eye 🤝 Me )

...it has come to my attention that I really need to be checking the ao3 updates as well as I missed an entire Georgie scene. I’m worried for her going End?

I am so glad you liked the chapter! Writing the Eye’s slow evolution to recognize and respect Martin’s boundaries is… interesting, because I want to write the Eye as a complex, growing being capable of change while also not… undermining the damage or horror of the situation. But yes! The lamppost thing would not have happened a chapter ago, even. Good on you for picking up on the “who is influencing whom?” thing :D

(Also, I like that your hesitant (...they?) for the Eye. “They” might actually be more accurate than “it” in some ways. Not due to gender, but due to… plurality.)

The Eye scrambling to fix up Jonah so he can, uh, talk? Was a fun detail to throw in. I am glad you were delighted to read it! And, yes--Martin conceptualizes ‘Jonah is watching’ in a way that’s… different from what it Actually means for Jonah to be there watching.

Martin burning the cabin was so satisfying to write in this fic, because it’s--well, basically it takes the decision Martin has made and solidifies it into an action/image. Martin is a complex person! He’s both very vulnerable and wanting to be loved is such a weak spot for him, but he’s gotten enough of a spine to look an eldritch god in the eye (ha) and be like “no fuck you, YOU’RE the one with doubts.”

Jonah’s two little lines were fun to write. The way I see it is like--Jonah is definitely a different Lens, and he leans hard on the wanting to Poke and Taunt Martin to see what pretty fear colors he makes. (Unfortunate enjoyment of Martin’s suffering: The Eye 🤝You 🤝 Me ).

I do sometimes add things to the AO3 versions that aren’t here because it’s Easier, but I’ll try to not cut out anything so important in the future. You are right to be afraid for Georgie, though! She’s walking a bit of a line right now.

Thank you SO MUCH for the comment. ♥♥♥♥♥

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Absolutely not.

GEORGIE

(GENTLE) It's just how it is, sometimes. We’ve already left so many people behind.

MELANIE

You didn't abandon me.

Don't tell me it was because I was easy to help. I screamed at you over the phone, banged on your door in the middle of the night...

GEORGIE

It was a different world, though. There was more time. More help to go around.

But now we're in the apocalypse. So—

MELANIE

No. I won't.

[TRUDGING FORWARD.]

GEORGIE

I'm slowing down, Melanie.

MELANIE

Not listening!

GEORGIE

It's harder to move. Harder to want to. Eventually, I'm sure I'll become like Alex. I'll just sit down, unfeeling, and wait—

MELANIE

I don't care! I don't care what happens with you. I'm not. Going. To leave you.

GEORGIE

(QUIET) It won't save me if you die too.

MELANIE

(ACIDLY) Then you better factor that into your calculations if you plan to sit down and die.

[SHE STOMPS FORWARD FOR A MOMENT. THEN STOPS.]

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[SOUND OF TAPE RECORDER BEING PUNTED.]

[CLICK]

[PAPERS RUSTLING, CUPBOARD DOORS OPENING, AND SLAMMING SHUT.]

JON

There has to be something—

[OBJECTS CLATTERING TO THE FLOOR.]

Something that could block out the Eye. Come on, think. Think.

Georgie can. But she isn’t here.

Whatever the thing that was protecting Salesa. A… camera? If I had that, I could walk right up to the Panopticon, and—

(BITTER LAUGHTER)

But I don't. Have it. And I certainly can't go back and get it! Should have thought of that at the time. Could have at least asked, figured out some plan. But no, it didn't seem important.

(SELF-MOCKING) Sure, the Eye is torturing everyone in the world, but it’s not hurting me . I suppose it’s altering my thoughts just a tad, but certainly that’s just fine .

I should have—

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON SCRAMBLES, DIGGING THROUGH CUPBOARDS. THE RINGING GETS CLEARER, AND JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP. ]

JON

Who is…?

MARTIN

Jon?

[JON’S BREATH CATCHES.]

MARTIN

Can you hear me? Jon? Jon?

...Please say something. Please.

JON

H-here?

MARTIN

(RELIEF) Jon. I...

Listen to me. You have to go through the door.

JON

I—(STALLING) Sorry, how are you making this call? Did you escape? Is there something…?

MARTIN

No. No, I’m not pulling one over on the Eye, Jon. (SIGH) I just asked? Asked to talk to you.

Annabelle arranged the call, though. Jona—the—my um, unfortunate admirer can’t actually reach in here. But she has wires everywhere. She was.. Smug about it.

JON

They really just let you call? Just like that?

MARTIN

More or less. Look—I—can you tell me what’s wrong? Why haven’t you gone through the door, yet?

[PAUSE]

Maybe you can't remember, but the door is the way out. The red door, like in the picture Georgie and Melanie…

JON

I remember just fine, thank you. No need to talk to me like I’m your goddamn mother after the dementia kicked in.

(INSTANT REGRET) Shit.

MARTIN

Okay. (QUIET) I just wanted to—

[LINE DISCONNECTS. DIAL TONE PLAYS.]

JON

No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what I—Martin!

[DIAL TONE CONTINUES]

[JON THROWS THE PHONE ON THE FLOOR.]

JON

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

[CLICK]

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Okay. The memory loss and disorientation is going to set in, so I’ve taped notes… everywhere. I’m making every kind of record I can. Lots of reminders to not go outside until I have formed a plan.

Hopefully Georgie and Melanie will show up. If not, then I don’t know if I can…

I don’t know what I’ll do.

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP .]

JON

Martin?

MARTIN

(SUBDUED) Jon.

JON

I am so—our last call. I’m…

MARTIN

It’s fine.

JON

No, it’s not. I, hold on. (NOTE CRINKLES) I shouldn’t have—

MARTIN

(WEARY) We don’t have time for this, Jon.

JON

I—Alright.

MARTIN

I need you to promise me if you hear anything… worrying over here… you won’t charge out here and endanger yourself.

It’s…if anything happens, it’s probably going to sound worse than it actually is. So… promise? Because if I think you will, then I can’t… I won’t continue this.

JON

Okay. I—okay. (SCRIBBLES A NOTE)

Are you alright? Has Jonah…?

MARTIN

Please. Don’t.

Why haven’t you left, yet?

JON

You’re serious? Because I’m not leaving until I get you out of there!

MARTIN

Right. So do you have an actual plan regarding that, or…?

JON

N—well...

If Melanie and Georgie show up, I can… maybe. Or-or! (SCRIBBLES) Melanie can move through the apocalypse unseen.

MARTIN

You just said she’s not— (REALIZING) No.

JON

There are several different objects I could use to uh, quit. Here.

MARTIN

No, no, no, no—don’t you dare. That’s not—Jon, how would you even find the tower?

JON

Melanie gets around fine.

MARTIN

(SHRIEKING) Melanie had to be hospitalized! For weeks! She would have died of blood loss otherwise. She had time to recover. She had-had support, people around her to help her.

She was not waging war on an all-powerful terror entity right after she blinded herself!

JON

...Could I--could Melanie die of blood loss now, though? In this world? Where everyone is kept alive regardless of their physical state.

MARTIN

Yes! Yes she could, Jon, she almost did when some rubble fell on her! She and Georgie mentioned it the first ten minutes after we…

Right. You can’t remember.

JON

I didn’t get it on tape, so…

MARTIN

You didn’t get it on--

Why aren’t you just..? Why can’t you just leave?

JON

Why—sorry? (PACING) Everything that happened to you is because of me!

MARTIN

Is that all? That’s not remotely tr—

JON

Yes it is, Martin! I… I was… I did all those things.

MARTIN

That wasn’t you!

JON

(MISERABLY) It w--It’s... I should have… if I had resisted more, earlier, if I hadn’t given so much of myself over to it early on, if I had told you my suspicions...

[MARTIN AUDIBLY STARTLES.]

Martin?

MARTIN

...Sorry. Sorry, I-I-I’m still here.

JON

Martin, are you…?

Is Jonah listening?

MARTIN

...I told you, this is happening with his… permission. So, yes.

JON

How, how near is…?

MARTIN

(QUICKLY, LOUDLY) Look, Jon. We’re dealing with a being that can snap its metaphorical fingers and rewrite people’s brains. It’s—I don’t think any human choices can really stand against that.

I need you to understand that the things that… happened to me aren’t your fault. (SHAKY) Okay? Please?

JON

But I—

[FABRIC RUSTLES ON MARTIN’S END. MARTIN EXHALES PAINFULLY.]

MARTIN

(TEETH GRITTING) I don’t have time to argue the point. I wish I did. I wish I could sit there with you and tell you again and again that it isn’t your fault, but I-I-I—can’t? So I have to ask you to believe me the first time.

it’s not your responsibility to endanger yourself to atone for something you didn’t do. Just. Go through the door. Promise me you aren’t going to gouge your eyes and die of blood loss.

JON

I won’t promise that.

MARTIN

No. No, no. You wouldn—

(VOICE BREAKING) Don’t do this? Please. Please.

JON

If there’s no other way, then…

MARTIN

Jon! Making sacrifices that can’t accomplish anything isn’t heroic, it’s just—

JON

(SNARL) Like you’re one to talk. As though I ever asked you to do this to yourself! As though I wanted you to shuffle me off to die somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at me!

[QUIET. THEN, A MUFFLED HICCUPING CRY ON MARTIN’S END.]

JON

Wait. No. Martin, I’m—

[DIAL TONE.]

[JON SLAMS A FIST ON THE DESK.]

[CLICK]

Magnus, in particular, had always found Martin to have a pretty face.

In the walls of your tower, he absently wonders how that pretty face would look if he had no air. The moment that curiosity stirs, you twitch unthinkingly into action.

Martin struggles and thrashes at first. He throws everything he can get his hands on, beats his fists against Magnus—all useless. Then, he falls to the floor, writhing, spitting, eyes fluttering helplessly and lips turning purple.

Martin crawls to Magnus. Grabs at his leg, angrily at first and then pleadingly. He tugs and looks up at Magnus with tearful eyes, begging soundlessly.

please no no no no more, air, need air

“Dear, sweet Martin.” Magnus says, fondly stroking Martin’s hair. “So quickly, when you wouldn’t deign to touch Jon? I’m flattered.”

Martin punches Magnus one more time. It lands weakly, and instead Martin flails and has to support himself there, clinging to Magnus’s legs. Magnus chuckles, lovingly bemused at seeing the sweet humiliation of this position wring through Martin’s thoughts.

“No need for that, love," Magnus says.

Magnus takes Martin by the hair and pulls him higher. Martin would scream in panic, if he were not so effectively muted.

For all Martin's racing thoughts, there is nothing in Magnus's mind or in his eyes that Martin expects. There is no vengeance, no hatred, not even the desire to take further physical advantage yet. There is only rapt fascination and fondness at Martin's pain, and how beautiful he is under it. And also, a sudden paradoxical fussiness when Magnus realizes Martin's neck is getting sore.

Martin is precious, and Magnus feels he must be a Gentleman after all—in his own style. And so as Martin is limp from suffocation, Magnus arranges him to rest comfortably, Martin's head laying in his lap in the most comfortable angle possible. Martin spasms, thinking to get away only to find he doesn't have the strength.

“There go. Much more comfortable,” Magnus says. “Relax now.”

He makes no move to let Martin breathe again. Instead he scratches Martin’s scalp, exactly where you used to lovingly have the Archivist caress him. It wrings out a stream of hot tears.

(You love Martin’s tears, but—)

You hurt, and it runs through Magnus like hot lava through his veins. He shudders at the intensity of it, but not for a second does stopping ever come to mind. He is lost cataloging the texture of Martin’s hair, the convulsions of his throat as he tries to scream but can’t draw enough breath to whimper. Your paradoxical pain at seeing Martin like this only loops back into more agonized joy.

Like a nerve pressed so that it cannot help but spasm, you watch, and watch, and watch.

[CLICK]

MELANIE

Absolutely not.

GEORGIE

(GENTLE) It's just how it is, sometimes. We’ve already left so many people behind.

MELANIE

You didn't abandon me.

Don't tell me it was because I was easy to help. I screamed at you over the phone, banged on your door in the middle of the night...

GEORGIE

It was a different world, though. There was more time. More help to go around.

But now we're in the apocalypse. So—

MELANIE

No. I won't.

[TRUDGING FORWARD.]

GEORGIE

I'm slowing down, Melanie.

MELANIE

Not listening!

GEORGIE

It's harder to move. Harder to want to. Eventually, I'm sure I'll become like Alex. I'll just sit down, unfeeling, and wait—

MELANIE

I don't care! I don't care what happens with you. I'm not. Going. To leave you.

GEORGIE

(QUIET) It won't save me if you die too.

MELANIE

(ACIDLY) Then you better factor that into your calculations if you plan to sit down and die.

[SHE STOMPS FORWARD FOR A MOMENT. THEN STOPS.]

Oh, for fuck's sake—

[SOUND OF TAPE RECORDER BEING PUNTED.]

[CLICK]

[PAPERS RUSTLING, CUPBOARD DOORS OPENING, AND SLAMMING SHUT.]

JON

There has to be something—

[OBJECTS CLATTERING TO THE FLOOR.]

Something that could block out the Eye. Come on, think. Think.

Georgie can. But she isn’t here.

Whatever the thing that was protecting Salesa. A… camera? If I had that, I could walk right up to the Panopticon, and—

(BITTER LAUGHTER)

But I don't. Have it. And I certainly can't go back and get it! Should have thought of that at the time. Could have at least asked, figured out some plan. But no, it didn't seem important.

(SELF-MOCKING) Sure, the Eye is torturing everyone in the world, but it’s not hurting me . I suppose it’s altering my thoughts just a tad, but certainly that’s just fine .

I should have—

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON SCRAMBLES, DIGGING THROUGH CUPBOARDS. THE RINGING GETS CLEARER, AND JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP. ]

JON

Who is…?

MARTIN

Jon?

[JON’S BREATH CATCHES.]

MARTIN

Can you hear me? Jon? Jon?

...Please say something. Please.

JON

H-here?

MARTIN

(RELIEF) Jon. I...

Listen to me. You have to go through the door.

JON

I—(STALLING) Sorry, how are you making this call? Did you escape? Is there something…?

MARTIN

No. No, I’m not pulling one over on the Eye, Jon. (SIGH) I just asked? Asked to talk to you.

Annabelle arranged the call, though. Jona—the—my um, unfortunate admirer can’t actually reach in here. But she has wires everywhere. She was.. Smug about it.

JON

They really just let you call? Just like that?

MARTIN

More or less. Look—I—can you tell me what’s wrong? Why haven’t you gone through the door, yet?

[PAUSE]

Maybe you can't remember, but the door is the way out. The red door, like in the picture Georgie and Melanie…

JON

I remember just fine, thank you. No need to talk to me like I’m your goddamn mother after the dementia kicked in.

(INSTANT REGRET) Shit.

MARTIN

Okay. (QUIET) I just wanted to—

[LINE DISCONNECTS. DIAL TONE PLAYS.]

JON

No, no, no, no, no. That’s not what I—Martin!

[DIAL TONE CONTINUES]

[JON THROWS THE PHONE ON THE FLOOR.]

JON

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

[CLICK]

[DEEP BREATH]

JON

Hopefully Georgie and Melanie will show up. If not, then I don’t know if I can…

I don’t know what I’ll do.

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[JON ANSWERS WITH A BEEP .]

JON

Martin?

MARTIN

(SUBDUED) Jon.

JON

I am so—our last call. I’m…

MARTIN

It’s fine.

JON

No, it’s not. I, hold on. (NOTE CRINKLES) I shouldn’t have—

MARTIN

(WEARY) We don’t have time for this, Jon.

JON

I—Alright.

MARTIN

I need you to promise me if you hear anything… worrying over here… you won’t charge out here and endanger yourself.

It’s…if anything happens, it’s probably going to sound worse than it actually is. So… promise? Because if I think you will, then I can’t… I won’t continue this.

JON

Okay. I—okay. (SCRIBBLES A NOTE)

Are you alright? Has Jonah…?

MARTIN

Please. Don’t.

Why haven’t you left, yet?

JON

You’re serious? Because I’m not leaving until I get you out of there!

MARTIN

Right. So do you have an actual plan regarding that, or…?

JON

N—well...

If Melanie and Georgie show up, I can… maybe. Or-or! (SCRIBBLES) Melanie can move through the apocalypse unseen.

MARTIN

You just said she’s not— (REALIZING) No.

JON

There are several different objects I could use to uh, quit. Here.

MARTIN

No, no, no, no—don’t you dare. That’s not—Jon, how would you even find the tower?

JON

Melanie gets around fine.

MARTIN

(SHRIEKING) Melanie had to be hospitalized! For weeks! She would have died of blood loss otherwise. She had time to recover. She had-had support, people around her to help her.

She was not waging war on an all-powerful terror entity right after she blinded herself!

JON

...Could I--could Melanie die of blood loss now, though? In this world? Where everyone is kept alive regardless of their physical state.

MARTIN

Yes! Yes she could, Jon, she almost did when some rubble fell on her! She and Georgie mentioned it the first ten minutes after we…

Right. You can’t remember.

JON

I didn’t get it on tape, so…

MARTIN

You didn’t get it on--

Why aren’t you just..? Why can’t you just leave?

JON

Why—sorry? (PACING) Everything that happened to you is because of me!

MARTIN

Is that all? That’s not remotely tr—

JON

Yes it is, Martin! I… I was… I did all those things.

MARTIN

That wasn’t you!

JON

(MISERABLY) It w--It’s... I should have… if I had resisted more, earlier, if I hadn’t given so much of myself over to it early on, if I had told you my suspicions...

[MARTIN AUDIBLY STARTLES.]

Martin?

MARTIN

...Sorry. Sorry, I-I-I’m still here.

JON

Martin, are you…?

Is Jonah listening?

MARTIN

...I told you, this is happening with his… permission. So, yes.

JON

How, how near is…?

MARTIN

I need you to understand that the things that… happened to me aren’t your fault. (SHAKY) Okay? Please?

JON

But I—

[FABRIC RUSTLES ON MARTIN’S END. MARTIN EXHALES PAINFULLY.]

MARTIN

it’s not your responsibility to endanger yourself to atone for something you didn’t do. Just. Go through the door. Promise me you aren’t going to gouge your eyes and die of blood loss.

JON

I won’t promise that.

MARTIN

No. No, no. You wouldn—

(VOICE BREAKING) Don’t do this? Please. Please.

JON

If there’s no other way, then…

MARTIN

Jon! Making sacrifices that can’t accomplish anything isn’t heroic, it’s just—

JON

(SNARL) Like you’re one to talk. As though I ever asked you to do this to yourself! As though I wanted you to shuffle me off to die somewhere you wouldn’t have to look at me!

[QUIET. THEN, A MUFFLED HICCUPING CRY ON MARTIN’S END.]

JON

Wait. No. Martin, I’m—

[DIAL TONE.]

[JON SLAMS A FIST ON THE DESK.]

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[HURRIED BEEP AS JON PICKS UP.]

JON

Martin?

JONAH

You can still come back, Jon.

[JON HISSES, STANDING UP. ON JONAH’S END, THERE IS IRREGULAR THUMPING IN THE BACKGROUND]

JONAH

It was important to honor dear, sweet Martin’s wish, of course. But his wishes need not override your own. If you choose to come back, then even Martin would have to agree your own choices take precedence.

Isn’t that right, dear?

[THRASHING]

JON

What have you done to him?

JONAH

(GLEEFUL) Wouldn’t you like to know?

You would like to see every detail, I’m sure. Every little shiver and sound he makes. I know you must feel terribly bereft, left behind and unable to see the grand show over here.

And poor little Martin imagined you were suffering in our world.

Would you like me to send you pictures, perhaps? Our master can record everything in perfect detail, so if you liked I could give you a memento. No, what am I thinking. Of course you’d prefer a tape! Then you can hear all the darling noises he makes when I’m inclined to let him.

[FRANTIC THUMPING]

Ah, that terrifies him. The threat of someone watching you is always so much sharper when the audience is someone you know, isn’t it? Shh, don’t worry. Jon won’t think less of you for all of the begging.

JON

...Just stop this. Don’t hurt him.

JONAH

Mm. No, I think I will keep hurting him all I like.

JON

(FURY) This isn’t… this isn’t what we—(WINCE) what it wanted.

JONAH

Then come back. Take over the care and keeping of our dear Martin yourself. Go as easy on him as you want to. Or you can leave, and die alone in a world you don’t recognize.

(ODDLY SOFT) It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Archivist. To prefer life to death. Or power to powerlessness.

JON

I—

JONAH (?)

It felt better, with you. Being you. Loving him through you.

Think about it.

[DIAL TONE]

[CLICK]

JON

Maybe I should consider it. No, I-I already am considering it.

It wouldn’t be a happy ending. But maybe it would be better? Better for Martin, at least? It’s not what he wanted, but... I-I don’t know.

[PAUSE]

At least I wouldn’t be alone.

[CLICK]

JON

I-it’s been…it’s been several...

He hasn’t called.

[SILENCE]

He still hasn’t…

[SILENCE AGAIN.]

[CLICK]

[PHONE RINGING]

[BEEP]

JON

Martin...?

MARTIN

(RAGGED) Jon.

JON

Are you alright? Sorry, no—terrible question. (SCRIBBLES) I actually wrote “Don't ask Martin if he's okay” on the wall, to remind me, and yet!

MARTIN

(SADLY FOND) Of course you did. (THEN, FLATLY) This...this is the last time I’m going to get to call.

JON

What? No, no—that’s… that can’t be… why?

MARTIN

Because it’s not—never mind. Let’s just—let’s just focus on the important things. I want to be able to, before I go…

There are--there are other things I want to say. (SHAKY) Jon. If... if you come back, because you don't want to—don't want to die...

JON

That’s not why—

MARTIN

It's okay to not want to die. (LAUGHS) Jonah got that one right. It won't be—I won't judge you for valuing your own life.

I mean. I think it would be a bad decision. I think you'd end up regretting it, because they—the Entities always take more than you think you’re agreeing to. I, I’d be worried about you.

But I don't think it would make you—weak? If you took that deal, instead of dying. Especially since you leaving isn’t going to save the world or anything.

Just, don't say it's for me.

JON

Okay.

MARTIN

If you... (PAINED) Do you want to come back here and... be the Archivist, again?

JON

I...

I don't. Maybe it would be a different story if it was just the power, and none of the... (STRANGLED) none of what I did to you.

MARTIN

Jon, it wasn't—

JON

Let me finish. Please.

I don't want to rejoin the Eye. But I don't feel like I can just leave, either. Tim, Sasha, and Daisy died. I've made so many mistakes, but I'm the one who got to survive. I'm the one who got a second chance. Who got power.

I have to do something.

I have to help. I have to make it worth it. (FRUSTRATED GRUNT)I have to save someone! Anyone! Otherwise, it's all been for nothing.

MARTIN

(SADLY) Oh, Jon.

Okay. Just. Let's talk it through. Each option. What are the-the consequences?

JON

Rejoining the Eye would... most likely completely eradicate my agency.

Blinding myself and going back out... Significant mortality risk.

MARTIN

And... Melanie and Georgie?

..You don't have to say, if you think it will compromise...

JON

No. It's fine. It's...

They aren't here. I don't think they were headed this direction. I might be waiting a long time. During which time I will... continue to suffer progressive memory loss. A-and I am not sure if, if when they arrived I'd even be of any use, or just another burden in my current state.

[PAINED SILENCE.]

And then, there's the door.

MARTIN

Yes.

JON

Best case scenario, I will die after three years of memory loss. I eventually won't remember Georgie, or Melanie, or Basira, if any of them even survive.

(STRAINED) I won't remember you.

[SILENCE]

JON

Martin. I... I'm scared.

MARTIN

It's okay.

JON

I don't want to die like that.

I don't want to get weak and helpless. I don't want to waste away in bed knowing I can't do anything. Knowing that it was all pointless in the end, right up until I forget everything that ever mattered to me.

I don't want to die unknown, in a strange world. (TEARS) I don't want to die alone! I don’t want to die alone.

I wish you were here.

MARTIN

I wish I was too.

I'm sorry. I wish I could buy you better choices.

And I'm so sorry I acted like I could make this choice for you. Now I just—I want you to know. Whatever choice you make I—I'll understand.

But if you rejoin the Eye, I won't see you again.

JON

Wh-what?

MARTIN

F-for my own...

I can't, Jon. Even if Jonah is—worse. Wh-when you’re there, it’s just… (LAUGH IT OFF) It's just easier when I can straight up hate the face that's doing this to me, you know?

I talked to them. Jonah and... you know. They... they do want you back. But they'll respect my request to not have you be the one... doing. All that.

JON

Oh.

MARTIN

I'm...

(EXHALE) I’m running out of time.

JON

No, that's not—can't we have—?

MARTIN

Can you—can you do one thing for me before I go?

JON

(ANYTHING) What?

MARTIN

Can you write "Martin says it's not my fault" on one of your reminder notes? Since I won't be there to tell you every time you go on about it, again?

I just. If you forget things, I don’t want you to forget that I didn’t blame you. I don’t want you to wonder about that.

JON

...Fine.

MARTIN

And Jon. Again. Any choice. Any choice is—understandable. But, um, also.

You don't have to be a superhero to justify your existence? It's okay if the life you save is your own.

I—

[DIAL TONE]

[DIAL TONE CONTINUES]

JON

Dammit. There was more... there was...

What was I going to—? oh, that's right. I made notes! To remind myself, to— (PAPER CRINKLES)

"Tell Martin he--"

[BREATH HITCHES. JON COLLAPSES ON A TABLE, A SOB EMERGES, AS THOUGH HE'S STUFFED HIS FIST INTO HIS MOUTH.]

I didn't. I didn't tell him.

[CLICK]

JON

Still no Georgie or Melanie. I’ve...I’ve made my choice, then.

I can't do anything here. Not as a part of the Eye. Not blinded. Not when I can barely remember… I can barely think.

But, if I... if I survive long enough, I think they can pull through and find me. Even if I’m not. In the greatest shape.

I suppose it is the fate of all human life to deteriorate, isn't it? To grow infirm, and weak. To forget. (ROUGHLY) I still don't want to go. Not alone. But I-I-I...

I'm going to. Just for that hope we can meet again, as myself. Until then, I guess this tape will just be my message in a bottle.

(TAPS THE RECORDER, GENTLY)

Martin. This door was supposed to be for you. I handed you the map with the feverish hope that you'd find your way here, even if you had to on your own. Even if you had to leave me behind.

Funny how that worked out.

...Remember the map. Remember the signposts. Find me, in the next world. Okay?

[HE STEPS FORWARD, AND KNOCKS.]

[THE INNER DOOR OF HILLTOP ROAD OPENS WITH A ROAR OF FLAME. JON’S FOOTSTEPS CAN BE HEARD STEPPING THROUGH, AND THEN IT DIES DOWN.]

[THE DOOR CLOSES.]

[CLICK]

And when the Archivist leaves this world, you feel it.

Magnus feels it through you, as you. Yet he makes no move to tell Martin until you slowly open his mouth.

“The Archivist is gone.”

Martin stirs, where he lay limp and unresistant against Magnus’s body on the loveseat you have pulled out for them. “D-dead?”

“Through the red door.”

Grief rips through Martin like a bolt of electricity. It should not surprise you. The Archivist has always had a unique way of making Martin hurt in the places where even Magnus could not reach.

At the same time, Martin smiles. Genuinely smiles through his tears. You watch him, not through Magnus’s eyes but through a pair on the wall. Martin meets your gaze there without flinching, without turning away or attempting to hide either his grief or the soft joy you see lighting up his face.

Magnus strokes his hair again.

“Hope the seizures don’t set in too quickly, out there,” Magnus says blithely. “Hope he doesn’t—’’

And then, Magnus cannot open his mouth. You grind his teeth together, shutting it as solidly as possible.

Martin notes something is different, something is wrong. But he is too wrung out to even stiffen, and too fearful to question it.

“N—” Magnus hisses, then snarls. “What is this?”

Because your pain runs through him now, as much as your joy. It burns through him, where he touches Martin. But that only makes him grip Martin tighter, drawing another whimper from Martin’s tired throat. Magnus convulses again, painfully, but not even considering letting go.

So you remove him. Slowly, uncertainly, like you are waking up an atrophied muscle, you remove his body and his hands.

Martin stares up at Magnus, wide-eyed. Magnus, for his part, looks just as shocked at himself. Then, Martin shivers, and you hurry Magnus to a cupboard, pulling out a blanket to drape over him. Martin pulls his knees up to his chest, and huddles into it.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

Your dome cracks. The tower rumbles unsteadily. Martin flails.

“What’s going on?”

But before you can open Magnus’s mouth to answer, you feel something take advantage of your splintering. Something outside strikes at the newly formed cracks.

And through those cracks wafts the smell of death.

[CLICK]

[WIND WHIPPING, AND WHAT SOUNDS LIKE SOMEONE HACKING AT GLASS.]

[MUFFLED VOICES, AND THEN IT COMES INTO FOCUS.]

GEORGIE

Do you promise, then?

MELANIE

God fucking—

Okay. (SIGH) Okay. I promise.

GEORGIE

Alright. (WEARY ATTEMPT AT BRIGHTNESS) Alright! So, since this might be our last run, let’s make it a good one.

Let’s bring this down.

[MORE HACKING. THEN, THE TOWER CRACKS.]

[CLICK]

ALRIGHT actual comment that’s not just me screaming incoherently into your inbox let’s go!

Okay, first of all, continue to love Melanie and Georgie in this.
[SOUNDS OF RECORDER BEING PUNTED] you go Melanie

For someone who hasn’t had his agency about him for the majority of the story, Jon’s had such a good arc and this is such a wonderful culmination of it. I love how he’s still struggling with his feelings of fear at, especially, forgetting and being forgotten/alone, and with his tendency to cope by in turns lashing out and being stubbornly reckless.

It’s just, it’s the relationship between him and Martin, because it’s the consequences for Martin that makes he realise he doesn’t want to be complicit even if they’re never going to see each other again, but also Martin’s acknowledgement that it HAS to be his choice. And I love how, in the end, of the extreme limitations on choices Jon has, he still manages to make one that’s entirely his own, because while the life he’s saving is his own, his loyalty to md care for others IS such a big part of his character motivation, and so to have the foundation of his choosing to leave be the hope he’ll see Martin again is just. Perfect. (Also romantic love or not they’re still anchors and 🥺)

So when he goes through it’s on HIS terms in a contrast to his lack of choice throughout the story and it’s sad and /earned/ and aahhhhhh

Okay that ended up incoherent regardless, I just love this chapter??

(Also was the FABRIC RUSTLES ON MARTIN’S END an intentional reference because Oh)

Melanie and Georgie are so fun to write in this! And I felt like Melanie deserved to punt a tape recorder. As a treat.

I am glad you have liked Jon’s arc! It’s sort of an arc about him realizing he has so little agency and his individual personhood is being eradicated. In this chapter, he finally gets to process that, and so he cycles through his destructive tendencies--reckless self sacrifice and lashing out. In the end, he reclaims enough of it to make One informed choice--and that allows him to regain his selfhood.

The relationship between him and Martin is important, even if it’s not romantic! Jon still cares SO deeply for Martin, and is horrified by what’s happening to him. Martin wants the best for Jon too, but also comes to realize he can’t railroad him into taking care of himself. And yes--Jon’s decision at the end is finally completely his own, and his friendship to Martin and the others is a big reason for that choice! He wants to see them again. He wants even more to help them, but since he has to acknowledge he can’t, he chooses the option that leaves him hope of seeing them again. Martin is still his anchor--and vice versa.

I don’t mind the incoherence at all! I am glad you liked it.

(Also, the FABRIC RUSTLES were an intentional reference, in the sense of “how about I take this comfort stage direction for the fandom and turn it into Pain” :D. Because that’s always fun.)

Death crawls in through the cracks, and you cannot see it.

You can see its edges. You can hear the droning of its awful promise. You can feel its pull like gravity, warping the tower so that the walls and the ceiling bend towards it.

But you cannot see it. Once it enters the first floor, that floor is no longer yours.

Above, the tower sways so that Martin nearly falls out of his chair. You reach for him with everything in the room, but Magnus is quickest. He grabs Martin by his upper arm and steadies him.

“There, now.” Magnus again, and he marvels at how pleasantly involuntary the words feel. He doesn’t have much more time to wonder at the experience, though, because the tower rumbles and tilts again.

“Let’s not fall on our face.”

“You’re—You’re being attacked,” Martin says. “Something’s—”

On the very first floor of the tower, where Martin cannot hear and you cannot see, a familiar voice crackles through the air.

“Elias!” It’s the shadow, the one who left you. “It’s your fucking turn!”

Magnus swallows. Hastily, you collapse every set of stairs in the tower. Martin watches Magnus’s reaction carefully, and thinks. His mind races for a moment, and the first guess he lands on is unfortunately accurate.

“Melanie.” Martin's voice wobbles. “Georgie.”

He breaks for the door. Magnus gently allows it, knowing how futile the action is. You watch as Martin reaches them, and is reduced to pounding and kicking as they disappear into the wall.

“None of that.” Magnus clicks his tongue. “You wouldn’t want to see your friends’ demise, after all.”

Magnus is not as certain as he sounds, but he was always a big believer in “fake it ‘til you make it.” At the very least, the way Martin turns ashen at that is worth the bluster.

With Magnus’s thought, you rain shards of glass like hail down on the interlopers.

You cannot see. This is the problem.

You get glimpses of indistinct forms and hear fragments of shouted plans. It is not enough. You cannot see where to attack, or hear what they will do next. The most you get is that infuriating shadow running ahead of the void, blinking out and appearing in your sights only to reveal that your latest projectile missed.

“Not even close!” You can hear a grin in her voice. “What, having a little trouble now that you can’t see? Imagine that.”

You seethe and fling a chair down. All you get in return is laughter.

They take the next floor. You see a flash of tools and rope, and hear the cracking of glass. Then, the second floor becomes as unknowable to you as the first one, and you feel shudders run through the tower as death steps closer to where Magnus acts as your focus.

Upstairs, Martin steps back from the wall, despair hollowing him out.

“Can I get you to,” —begging helped Jon, at least— “I don’t want them to die. Please…”

But then the begging dies on his lips. Instead, he notices a crack running up the one sided glass that makes up the tower. He takes one look at Magnus, considers the distance between the two of them, and then throws himself at the wall.

You cannot see them. You cannot see them.

You continue to rain broken glass and knife-like obsidian down upon them. Then, impatient, you bring an entire floor upon their heads. But instead of flattening them, it crackles against the force of the Eldest, and glances off like cardboard.

“Shit,” the shadow breathes. “You’re—It’s not nearly as strong against you as we thought it...”

You recoil, and extend the tower by a hundred stories. You close every avenue there is, every way up. You continue to rain projectiles, hoping at least to take out the more vulnerable ex-assistant when she strays, if you cannot touch the Eldest’s creature.

And yet, they break though and it proceeds.

If you could see them, if you could look into the void—

“Georgie!” calls the shadow, glinting at the edge of your vision, huffing. “I had an idea. Maybe we don’t—he’s always listening, always watching. So maybe—”

The sound cuts out, and you hear no more.

Upstairs, you lurch everything you have at Martin to stop him. Magnus gets there first, seconds before you wrap the tower itself around Martin’s ankle. Martin cries out in frustration, but his eyes glint with powerful hope.

It’s a real threat. That’s why he, you won’t let—if I can just reach it—

Martin struggles as though it’s the beginning, again. He thrashes and beats his elbows against Magnus with new furious strength. Magnus smiles, unaffected except for how charming he finds the expression of wild, desperate hope.

“None of that,” he says. “The most you could do is hurt yourself. Now—”

As he talks, another floor disappears to you. This time you didn’t even see a hint of how they accomplished it. You expand the tower again by dozens of stories to make up for the lost one, fortifying each new one with fire and spikes and anything that might stop them.
But if you could see—if you could look into the void—

You search, and search, and finally you find something: a single slot in one the floor most recently taken by the Eldest’s abomination. You squeeze in an eye, stinging as you peer into the hazy view it gives you.

A shadow flits by.

“Georgie! Found one!”

Before you know what is happening—you see. You see into the thing at the center of the void: a bright silhouette against the nothingness, a shape of something that once was a human.

It looks back at you, and locks on your existence.

“You,” it says. “Jonah Magnus.”

Right before it says the words, you realize you have made a mistake.

Magnus stops mid sentence, seeing what you see, hearing what you hear—the both of you completely unable to stop it.

You know the words, have known what they meant even before they had been translated into human speech. The first terrible knowledge ever held by sentient life, the first knowledge you ever recoiled from. The promise of the Eldest, who was there before you and will be there at your end, for all your attempts to deny it.

You knew the words. But you did not know, until now, how Magnus would hear them.

(THE MOMENT YOU DIE IS THE REST OF YOUR LIFE)

And Magnus hears: you never escaped.

And Magnus hears: all you have done is for nothing.
Through him, you feel death. You feel it as you have never felt it before. It wrings through him into the core of your being: the despair of an inevitable end, the futility of all action, the
smallness of any will against the immensity of nothing that comes before and after it.

You blank out for a moment. When you return, you cannot feel Magnus, or see through him. Cut off from your gaze, he collapses like a puppet at Martin’s feet, and starts to crumble.
Your vision splits into a billion pieces.

At the bottom of the ocean, a man dies. His rib cage is crushed again under the leagues and leagues of water, but this time you cannot knit it back together and keep the cycle going.

You watch.

In an apartment in London, a woman burns to death. As she melts for the last time, her pain ceases to be comprehensible to her. Her vision blacks out so she cannot be horrified by the sight of her flesh melted and consumed.

You watch.

What you can still see of your tower sways and crumbles. At the edge of your perception, you hear that harsh voice calling out.

“Come on, Georgie!”

“...can’t…”

“You can survive this! One step at a time, okay?”

Slowly, as though every inch is pained, the void withdraws from your tower.

You watch.

At the very top of your tower, your restraints have slackened away from Martin. He has made it to that looming crack in the glass. He bashes it with his fists and elbow until he bleeds.

"Come on!" he screams. "Come on, come on, come on!"'

Three years three years three years three—

He shatters it, and falls through. You watch.

Miles away atop the grand canyon, a woman who has been falling for months now finally hits the ground. Her bones shatter and her organs explode. She is reduced to a splatter on the ground, a mockery of the form of a human being..

You turn achingly back to Martin. You cannot just watch.
You throw every bit of will you have left at him. Wind resistance, cutting down the length he has to fall, generating every soft thing you can manage towards where he lands.

You cannot bear Martin dying. You cannot, you cannot, you cannot.

Martin blinks at how he lands, cushioned painlessly on impossibly soft grass and flowers. There has been so much pain, recently. He expected to feel his bones break as a punishment, to have to crawl through his own blood and pulp away from the foot of the tower.
Before he can reflect on why, his mind turns sharply in another direction.

Three years three years three years three—

He jumps up, calling.

“Melanie?! Melanie!”

Signposts, the path, the picture, Jon, where—

He runs. But before you see where he goes, your vision fractures again.

Everything spins, incoherent.

In a theater, a puppet tears out their hooks and limps away—bleeding out but determined, jaw set as they stumble forward.

You watch.

Deep below the ground, a worm finally makes it to the surface of his tomb, limbs rearranging into a human form as he weeps in relief, finally able to see the sky.

You watch.

Animals burst out of the factory, running off the factory belts as though they have just woken up from a trance.

You watch.

You cannot control or switch between perspectives as you have before. Nor can you view them all at once. Instead you cycle helplessly from one view to another, scarcely able to direct your own gaze.
You are wounded. You are weak. You are out of control. You are dying.

You have always been dying, you realize miserably. But you are not dead. Not yet.

You break the earth, and steam hisses out of the cracks at your frustration. The sky burns, the sea boils, the wind bites as you whirl around it, attempting to regain yourself.

Even cut down like this, your lifespan ranges hundreds of thousands of years. Even gutted you have power. Even struck by the Eldest, you have purpose and desire.
You look for Martin.

Slowly, painfully, you regain control of your gaze. You search, and search—and then you realize that ultimately there is only one place he could go, only one place where he could escape.

You find Hill Top Road.

The End’s creature and its shadowy attendant already loom near it. They have traveled far, in the uncountable span of time you have needed to recover. You seethe at their presence, the wind hissing about the house with your displeasure. If only you could shut them away, them and the wretched gate to another world.

You can’t quite manage that. You are too wounded. But you are not powerless, even now, so you open weak eyes around Hill Top Road and slowly arrange the landscape.

You wait.

Thank you! I am glad you liked it.

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Prompt Post: The Magnus Archives #1

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