Rereading a fic I first saw a few years ago. It's a tma "fix-it" fic- that is to say, everyone survives. It's a Jon/Gerry/Martin fic, it's great. It's long as hell, and I've been looking for a podfic of it for forever.
Anyways, I forgot just how FUNNY it is. Like- it's a great characterization of everyone, ESPECIALLY Jon, the self-loathing is just *beautiful*. It's got those cute little romance scenes that make your stomach flip. It's perfect at building tension. It has the type of unreliable narrators that make you KNOW that they aren’t trying to lie, they're just humans (so to speak) who aren’t perfect. And then--- pow, a joke. And it'll be funny, something that punches you in the gut, making the scene work even better.
Anyways, the fic is Illicio by @that-one-girl-behind-you (sorry in advance for tagging you), I give it a 10/10, and if I'm just stupid and it has been podficced, someone let me know.
TWs for this chapter:
Fire
Grief
Gore (implied)
Insecurity/jealousy, but the second part is mostly lighthearted and discussed almost immediately
"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"
"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.
"When we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.
It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.
Oliver isn't home.
Of course he isn't, he left months ago after another row of fighting. It hadn't even been the worst by far, but they just- Graham was tired, and Oliver was always busy.
Graham looks at the table again, running a finger over one of the curved edges of the spiderweb.
Perhaps that's why he's thinking of Oliver after all this time.
Despite his collected, professional looks, Oliver's got a very endearing weakness for "the occult", as he likes to call it. Somewhat of a guilty pleasure, he often says.
Said.
Anyways, Oliver would've been all over the table, with its web design that if you look at juuuust close enough, turns out to have hundreds and hundreds of names written into the canal-like grooves, in a font so tiny it reminds Graham of that carved rice grain at the Ripley's museum.
Perhaps- perhaps he'll give him a call.
They didn't end in the best of terms but it doesn't mean they can't build a relationship again, right? Doesn't mean they can't be friends. He once loved Oliver, that can't be gone just because he's no longer in love with him, which is something Graham often tells himself despite being very much sure of the opposite.
Maybe just lunch, and then a visit to the flat so he can fawn over the table. Run a finger along the edge like Graham likes to do when things are overwhelming, only to look up and find it's been hours since the last time he did so.
Only if Oliver isn't busy, though.
"And you were," Sasha says. Her voice feels- it doesn't feel like her voice, and there's a pang of panic in her stomach. If it's not hers, whose is it then? "I- you never picked up the phone."
The man looks a bit pale still, looking at her like he's seen a ghost.
"I'm- no. I think I might have- Jon?" He turns to give him a questioning look, and Jon shrugs.
"Hm. I didn't think you'd recognize Graham's real appearance," Jon hums casually, almost to himself. "Maybe because you were dead when she was taken. Anyways, you were on the ship at the time. Bad reception, and then the satellite killed you."
"Excuse me, the what?" Sasha blinks. None of this makes any sense, why is Oliver here and why was he dead? Who is this Oliver person, what-
"Graham-"
"My name is Sasha," she shakes her head. That's the main thing she has to be sure of. She's Sasha. She may have been Graham once, but now Graham is Sasha and that's all there is to it. "Jon, care to explain what's going on?"
Jon gives her a worried look, the corner of his lips turned down in a concerned gesture.
"Back when you were only Graham," he starts slowly after a moment, "you knew Oliver. I think you were-"
"A couple," Sasha nods abruptly. She remembers, intimately. But this makes no sense... was- how did she never notice Oliver was an avatar? He was always a terrible liar, she would've- "How- how did you end up like this?"
Oliver's eyes -they're light gray now, she realizes, like the color has bled out from them- slide to Jon somewhat nervously, like this encounter isn't going as neatly as he wanted.
It's very Oliver of him to have planned the whole thing, Sasha thinks with a spark of fond amusement. They must cut an appalling picture smack in the middle of his no doubt carefully orchestrated dramatic encounter, the Distortion and the Them dogpiled up on the Archivist.
"Oliver," she says, her voice firm. "Jon is alright, with some luck he's not going anywhere while we talk. But now, I think you owe me an explanation."
"I owe- what happened to you?" Oliver asks back, still looking for all in the world like he did all those years ago when Sasha asked him what his plan was if Barclays didn't work out, bewilderment and confusion warring on his usually calm, handsome face. "You were safe! I- why are you not Graha-"
"Don't call me that," Sasha snaps. "Don't ever call me that."
Ollie's face clears up all of a sudden, the way Sasha remembers it doing whenever he caught onto the plot twist of a movie. His eyes soften, and he looks at her gently, sadly.
"Stranger?" Is all he asks. His voice is careful, almost apologetic, and it makes Sasha want to cry. It's- this new existence is confusing at the best of times, and there are so many things she didn't get to tell Oliver, so many things she only thought about after he left.
Is this the constant in all of her lives? Loved ones left behind none the wiser, unsaid words that weigh her tongue down?
"...There was a table," she says after a moment. A table, popping up in her life again and again, to rip her away and fill her absence with poison. To hurt those she loved wearing a face that isn't hers, killing her a little more every day. "I got it at an antiques sale, you know I liked- you would've liked it. It was black shiny wood with a spiderweb design. Very on-brand for your aesthetic," she adds with a wet-sounding snort.
"...That's why I couldn't see your root," Oliver says after a long, tired silence. "It wasn't you anymore."
"I'm going to pretend I know what that means."
"It's- Jon can explain later, I'm sure," Oliver sighs. "I- Jon? Was it because of me?"
Sasha feels Jon move under her, partly to shrug, partly because of the Web urging him to escape. She readjusts her position to hold him down, and he gives her ankle a grateful squeeze.
"At this point I'd say it's just as likely that it was because of her past association with you as it is that it was because of her future association with me," he says in the end. "I'm not too keen on figuring out the Mother's mess anymore."
"I'd say that's wise." Oliver runs a hand down his face, and Sasha's stomach contracts with a sudden, fierce rush of fondness, as she knows with unerring certainty what words will come out his mouth next. "This is not going how I expected."
"Always glad to rain down on your plans," she grins.
Oliver snorts at the familiar exchange, shaking his head softly as his lips stretch into a smile. The dimple forms on his left cheek still, Sasha notices with muted amusement.
She loved him so much. Those should've been her parting words, instead of a scathing remark and a sarcastic 'wish-you-well'. And now they're quite literally two different people -many different people, in her case-, and whatever bridge still connects them to the past is now weak and crumbling.
Will it feel this way with Tim too? With her daughter, her wife, her cousin? Though she's back after so long, she's not the person any of them lost, just enough of it to hurt them.
"Sasha..." She can hear Jon under her starting to speak, and she shakes her head.
"I'm fine. Just- I'm fine." She turns to Oliver again. He's still giving her that pained, sorrowful look, and Sasha looks away. "Tell him what you need to tell him."
Oliver sighs, and moves around them to crouch by Jon's head.
"I'm sure you've noticed by now, but-"
"Humans are dying here," Jon interrupts. "It makes sense, but it's still unexpected."
"Do you know what that means?"
She feels Jon nod.
"It's not a big leap," he says, and Helen snorts.
"You don't need to be Martin to figure it out?" She asks.
"Exactly," Jon says, and the smugness in his tone makes Sasha smile. "The Watcher isn't loving the revelation, I must say."
"I didn't think it would," Oliver agrees. "There's plenty still here, but mine isn't the only End domain."
"Not by a mile. And other avatars are not as into the passive observer style as you are," Jon says. "Which is a bit surprising from you, by the way."
"Is it really? t's not like trying to help ever did me or anyone any good." Oliver shrugs.
"It did me a lot of good, I'd say," Jon's voice has turned almost contemplative.
It feels like an eternity, before Oliver responds with another question.
"What about everyone else?" he asks in a careful, measured tone.
And then another one, before Jon speaks again.
"I... can't speak for anyone else, but- but Oliver, I'm grateful I woke up. For many reasons," he says thoughtfully. "Even if I shouldn't be."
Out the corner of her eye, Sasha sees Oliver nod slowly.
"What will you do about this?"
Jon sighs. "I don't really know. The Mother and the Watcher are both trying to take me to the panopticon, but I suspect they each have a different goal once they get me there, and I can't say I care much for either of their plans, whatever they are."
"That'll make them happy," Oliver observes. Then, after a moment, "you know what's funny?"
"Historically, I don't," Jon says in a dry, monotone voice that makes Sasha snort. "What is?"
"I could feel you, back at the hospital. You were halfway into my patron by the time I opened the door for you to leave if you wanted," Oliver says. "You weren't afraid of dying back then. You felt mostly... irritated."
Jon sighs. "I didn't want to- I couldn't stand not knowing what had happened with the others. Or why this had happened to me."
"I figured. But yes, you weren't afraid." Oliver shrugs. "You are now, though."
There is silence, as Jon contemplates how to respond to that.
"Didn't have much to leave behind back then," Jon shrugs. "Sasha? I think it's time we get going. Helen left."
"Oh?" Sasha turns around, only to find that Helen and the door are nowhere to be seen, and she's already halfway through getting off Jon. "Well, that sucks."
"It's okay, it worked for a lot longer than the last time," Jon smiles up at her as he gets up, his eyes already turning the poisonous neon green of the Beholding. "I'll see you soon, and... thank you, Oliver."
"It was nothing. Really," Oliver says quietly, watching Jon walk away. "So... so you cut him off from the Eye?"
"Both of us," Sasha corrects him. "One of us can weaken the call so he's conscious, but both of us can make him stop."
"That must be useful."
"It is." Sasha shrugs. She should say something else, but she can't for the life of her figure out what. She's no longer the Graham he knew and loved a lifetime ago. "I better get going. I have to keep up with him."
It's only about a dozen or so steps, that Oliver speaks again.
"Sasha?" He asks, and it's the same tone he used for her old name before, despite the word itself being different.
"Yes?" She half turns to look at him, keeping an eye on Jon even as her heart hammers in her chest.
"It was- it's nice to know you're back," he says. His lips are curled in the gentle smile that not once failed to make Sasha respond in kind, not even now.
"You too," she says. Then, because she has to, because it wouldn't be fair otherwise, "I'm different- I'm not the one you knew. Not really."
Oliver seems to mull this over for a couple seconds, before looking back up at her with those uncanny pale eyes.
"I'm not, either." He shrugs. "But... those two didn't end up well anyways, did they?"
Sasha snorts; it feels like a weight is dissolving off her stomach, and she gives him another smile before she goes to turn again.
"Don't be a stranger, Ollie."
------------------------
The Eye feasts and feasts and feasts, gorging gluttonously on its brethren themselves feeding.
The other entities have ever resented it for that, but there's little they can say when it was the Beholding and its avatars that brought for the world they've been crawling towards for millennia. Feeding it with the suffering they cause is the least they can do.
And still, the feeding isn't quite as satisfactory as it should, not after the Archive's continual revelations, which the Eye is increasingly peeved about, were overlooked by the Pupil in his search for triumph.
More humans have to be being created now, despite the world's new state. Even the Lonely bred its own stock. Surely they won't all end up waltzing into Terminus' cold, impassive embrace.
The eye feasts, but what before felt a scrumptious banquet tastes like ash, and scatters just as fast.
------------------------
"You got any plans?" Martin asks. The fire in the middle of their 'camp' -are they really stopping for the night if there's no night anymore?- gives off little in terms of heat, but it pushes the illusion of normalcy, which Martin is grateful for. "After we fix this?"
"If we fix this," Tim shrugs by the other side of the pit.
"When we fix this," Martin remarks a bit more firmly. He feels a lot more like himself today, 'camping' with his friend and with his boyfriend stuck to his side, still clad in Martin's green hoodie that clashes so much against the rest of his outfit.
It's easier to believe it like this, that Gerry doesn't want him just because of Jon.
"Hm. I don't know. Traveling, maybe. I liked that before. And now I don't have to stay at the Institute, so..." Tim shrugs brusquely. "You?"
"Well... we have to stay up north until Gerry's carrots are ready to harvest-"
"Stop that," Gerry smacks a hand against his thigh, his face coloring charmingly in the light of the fire.
"I'm serious! I've got plans for those carrots," Martin snorts. "But yeah, after that... I don't know? I don't want my flat back, and Jon probably lost his already..."
They- maybe the cottage? If they get Daisy back, they could purchase it from her. If they don't- well, she won't be asking for it back anyways.
The three months they spent there were nothing short of heavenly, and Martin remembers even the awkwardness of learning to move around each other with undeniable fondness, boundaries and tastes learned slow and carefully, like they had all the time in the world.
They'd been very naïve, in hindsight.
"The bookstore and my mother's house above it are still standing," Gerry pipes up. "We'd have to find out if Gertrude did something with the papers; hopefully it won't matter that the owner was dead for a while."
"It's still sad though," Martin boops him on the nose. It's hard to feel down when faced against Gerry's absurd sense of humour.
"Oh, tragic. I hear he left behind two grieving boyfriends, he was apparently supernaturally handsome and charismatic."
"Bit of a big head, though. But hey, there's no accounting for taste," Martin shrugs, then smiles when Gerry places a kiss on his shoulder. "But yeah... I guess it's an option. I just didn't expect you'd want to live th-"
"We can raze it to the ground, sell the plot and use the money to purchase something," Gerry cuts in, his voice casual and light.
Tim's eyes flash orange across the campfire though, so Martin guesses there's a lot more feeling in the remark than what Gerry meant to put into words.
They sit in silence for a moment, until Martin softly squeezes Gerry's shoulders.
"I wouldn't be opposed to a little flat, I suppose. Granted that there are no wet towels left on the bathroom floor."
"What kind of unconditional love is this?" Gerry laughs.
"If Jon loves us less because of improperly dusted surfaces, I can love you less for having to step on a towel at three in the morning." Marin smiles. This feels good. They will fix this. They will.
"I still can't believe you two tried cleaning in front of Jon," Tim snorts. "Did you learn nothing from the first three months down at the archives, Martin?"
Martin shrugs. "I learned he liked his tea with two sugars, he was less of an ass when I made it that way."
"Your taste in men sucks," Tim says for the umpteenth time, rolling his eyes to the sound of Martin's laughter.
------------------------
"We'll need to stop him soon," the Dist- Helen says. Her voice reaches the Archive as if through water, the call of the Spider adding to the natural muddying of the Spiral.
"So soon?" Sasha- yes, it's Sasha, the real one. "He said we shouldn't do it too often, didn't he? Or they'd get impatient."
"It will be a short one," Helen reassures. Just like everything else Helen does, it's not too reassuring. "I've been keeping something for him, and he's going to need it before you go into that one."
"...You know? That was also very annoying back when you were Michael."
The Archive feels its lips curl into something resembling a smile. With all the overlap between Stranger and Spiral, it's not too surprising that they bounce off each other so easily.
"You still went to the cemetery, didn't you?"
"That says more about my lack of self preservation than it does about your powers of persuasion, if you ask me," Sasha says dryly. "Should I sit on him again?"
"Oh, for sure. She's not going to like it one bit." Helen's sharp, angled smile is all too easy to picture.
"Wonder why she hasn't stopped you yet, then."
"Can't reach me in here," Helen responds, and the Archive hears a loud creak, like old hinges and wood. "Dear Tim did quite an exhaustive cleaning last time he was in me."
"...You're just saying stuff to make me curious on purpose aren't you?"
Helen chuckles. "There's just enough Beholding in there."
"Real funny," Sasha says, and then there's a pair of slender arms wrapping themselves around its torso, and then a long hand does the same around its wrist, and the call fades off into the background.
Jon blinks owlishly up at the sky, a bit disoriented as he always is whenever Sasha and Helen call him back.
The sky blinks back, and Jon rolls his eyes before focusing on his captors.
Sasha's barely older than a teenager today, he realises with a pang of sadness. It's- not having known them personally, it's easy to ignore the many victims the Not Them took, the many lives it cut short far too early.
Young Lisbeth Ackerman had meant only to squeeze in a last minute rehearsal for their acting club's performance, even willing to ignore the prop table that had unnerved them so much the whole week.
Still, this body's strong and heavy enough that it will take Jon some effort to break free when he inevitably starts trying.
"Hi. Want me to sit on your stomach?" Sasha asks, leaning her head on his shoulder as she tangles her fingers behind his waist. "Your lap?
"Hi... My- my lap I think. I should be able to see- Helen said she had something for me?" He turns to look as they lower themselves to the ground, and finds that the hand on his wrist extends into a forearm and then an arm clad in a pristine purple suit jacket that disappears behind a bright yellow door.
'That doesn't bode too well for Martin,' says Helen's voice behind the wood, and Jon's heart skips a beat.
"H- Helen?" He asks, his voice hoarse with anticipation.
'-oesn't. But I'm- I wonder if you'd be this far gone, if I hadn't turned you away when you first came to me.'
"It's time," Helen says; Jon can only barely catch a glimpse of her mischievous grin through the cracked door.
And then a lone tape recorder pokes through the threshold.
'Is that what this is, then? Making amends?' A tired sigh. Has he always sounded this exhausted?
'Not really. I- we were always going to change, I think. Our only choice is how we do it.' The sound of something being pushed across a flat surface, and Jon remembers the eerie stillness of the office, the hopelessness after Anabelle's revelation. 'I hear you collect them?'
'Only until it's time.'
'Time for what?'
'I don't know.' An amused huff that is echoed from behind the door, even as Helen's hand convulses around his wrist. 'Doesn't it frustrate you, Jon?'
A little, choked up laugh that has Sasha giving him a little squeeze in her arms. 'You'll have to be a bit more specific.'
'All these rules about what should and shouldn't be done. We are power. Why should we be contained?'
Helen's hand flinches and spasms, and Jon reaches out almost desperately to grab on to her jacket. There's- this feels like Eric Delano's tape, and even back then the Spider never did factor avatars helping each other into her plans. There's something here that he needs to hear, and she will not stop him.
'I think... Because I want to be contained.' Jon says so many months ago. A man not yet broken but starting to crack, held together only by the flimsy promise of hope. 'If I'm going to be a monster, I'm going to be one on my own terms.'
Jon feels his breath catch on his throat, as the feelings that back then accompanied the words rush back into him.
'How noble of you.' Helen says, and Sasha snorts on his lap.
'Selfish, really. It's the only thing I have left.'
'Didn't she say it wouldn't matter, in the end? The grand scheme of things, and all that?'
'It matters to me.'
'So you'll spend the entire journey there being miserable, just for the sake of some moral high ground?'
'If I weren't miserable in this situation, I wouldn't be Jon. I- maybe the Spider dropped me gift-wrapped at the Eye's front door, yes. But it can't take that from me-'
"...It can't take who I am," Jon speaks over his own voice.
There's- Sasha's weighing him down, and Helen is still trying to cling to him, and the Eye and the Web are pulling him forward while his pained heart pulls him back, and it's just- it's just too much.
He earned his happy ending, and they tore it from him. Just like his life, his loved ones, his home, his hope for a future.
His hands clench -the burnt one with a spasm of mind-clearing pain- in Helen's jacket, in Sasha's sweater.
"Jon?" Sasha whispers against his shoulder, her breath hot through the fabric; a reminder that she's alive because of him. Because of his actions, not the Eye's, not the Spider's.
"Let me up," he says, and when Sasha leans back in surprise her face is illuminated in an eerie green glow that makes her skin look pale and greyish. "I need to be up."
Helen's hand spasms so violently it releases its hold on his wrist, and a moment later Jon feels the sharp sting of her knife-like fingers in the flesh of his forearm, trying to anchor herself by whatever means possible.
And Jon looks up.
At the panopticon so far away, at the empty expanse before them where he Knows the Mother of Puppets waits patiently for her little toys to return, dancing to the tune she plays so cheerfully.
The glow of his eyes Illuminates the way ahead, and for a moment Jon fancies himself a beacon, a lighthouse standing impassively while the storm rages around it.
The world around him trembles, rises up to meet the one who created it, who gave it a new purpose.
"I think," he says, his voice deep and laden with power, just like he remembers it being when he brought the world down. "I'm quite done being told what to do."
And the call breaks.
It feels like coming up from a deep dive and breaking the surface to take a deep breath, like he can see the world around him clearly for the first time since his time at the cottage.
The pain of Helen's fingers digging into his flesh is sharp in a way it wasn't before, like it's Jon who's feeling it rather than the Archives, which he guesses is just the thing.
"...Are you okay?" Sasha asks, and Jon nods a bit shakily, grateful for her arms around him as he doesn't feel too steady on his feet at the moment.
"I just- I'm going to need a moment," he says, squeezing back at Sasha's chubby frame.
And so they stand there, their silhouettes profiled by the bright, angry orange light of the burning city waiting ahead of them.
------------------------
This new domain feels... odd, is the best way Gerry can describe it.
Familiar but not quite right, like visiting your childhood home after a few decades, and finding you no longer fit in it, if you ever really did.
All around them hundreds, maybe thousands of people walk towards their own death, dragging their feet along the bright, pulsating red root that marks their individual ends.
"This one feels worse than the Stranger," Martin grumbles by his side.
"You think so?" Gerry hums absentmindedly.
There's something almost peaceful to the victims' journey, a sort of poetic acceptance to their long-awaited rest. Like-
"Gerry?" Martin's hand lands on his bicep, pulling him to a stop.
"Hm?" Gerry blinks, looking up at him with a lazy smile.
"...No." Martin frowns, snapping his fingers an inch from his eyes. "Cut it out, I'll pinch you."
"Cut what- oh, fuck!" Gerry flinches away at the sudden jab of pain, his mind coming back into focus. It feels a little like waking up from the dormant, pseudo-conscious state he remembers from the book and-
Ah. Of course.
"Are you with me?" Martin asks, his hand still heavy on his arm.
"Let's revisit that later, but yes," he blinks a couple more times, careful to keep his eyes on Martin instead of focusing on any of the victims. "Where's Tim?"
"We were having a conversation before you went Walking Dead on us," Tim's voice behind him sounds decidedly grumpy.
"What happened?" Martin's hand moves from his arm to cup his cheek, and Gerry feels his face warm up at the tenderness in the gesture. It's not- despite being so liberal with his own touch, he's not too used to others reciprocating in kind. "I thought the Eye-"
"The book," Gerry's voice sounds a bit hoarse when he forces it out again. "I'm- I did spend a good chunk of time wishing for an End of my own, I suppose."
"...Ah."
"I'm fine now, it's- it just felt familiar," Gerry says as reassuring as he can even as he still hears the siren call of Terminus all around him. "I'm sorry for scaring you."
It takes a few more moments, but Martin eventually huffs with what could pass as amusement. "Just warning you, if you do it again I'm just going to drag you out."
"You know what? That sounds perfectly fair, you deserve your own 'dragging a stubborn mule of a man away from a fear entity's grip' experience, it's life-changing." The smile comes to Gerry's lips a lot easier now, and he scrunches his nose at Martin just to make him snort and shake his head in fond exasperation.
"So funny, mister Keay..."
"This is very sweet and all," Tim grunts behind them, "but could we please get going? This place is not even scary, it's just depressing."
"I'm sorry it's not up to your standards," says a new voice, and Gerry whips around with Martin in tow.
The newcomer is a slender, young black man with short cropped dark hair, giving them an unimpressed stare with his eerie grey-white eyes.
"We don't want any trouble," Gerry says, slowly and carefully. There are three of them, but End avatars are different. He's not too sure any of them can even be killed anymore, but all they need is to pass through; better to do it without any fanfare. "We'll just be on our way."
"Everyone is, it seems," the man rolls his eyes, before pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, ignore that. Sorry, I'm not having a great time."
Gerry risks a look at the travelling corpses in lieu of voicing his retort, and the man shakes his head.
"Yes, I know. It's not like I can do anything about that, though, so-"
"It's- you're him," Tim's voice cuts through like a knife, and Gerry's surprised to see his brow furrowed in thought. He hasn't heard of this particular avatar, and he can't imagine why Tim would've either. "With the- Martin, the veins."
"The- what?" Martin scowls in confusion.
The newcomer seems collected and peaceful, but Gerry keeps his gaze trained on him; he's met kind monsters before.
"You came by the Archives to warn Gertrude she would die," Tim says, and Gerry has to rip his eyes from the man then. "Jon asked me to look for him," he says, and the tiniest pinprick of orange glow alights in the depths of his dark eyes when he turns to look at them. "He said the Web kept me from finding him. His name is Oliver Banks."
Gerry feels Martin's hand twitch in his arm, as the man nods in response to Tim's words.
"Apparently I’ve made of trying to help archivists somewhat of a hobby," Oliver shrugs, before his gaze settles on Gerry. "You feel like the End."
"Books fear me, the Entities want me," he says with a shrug as Martin's hand flinches on his arm again, and Tim snorts. "Are you going to let us through?"
"Ah. Gerard Keay, then." Oliver's gaze is a bit unnerving still, but Gerry holds it as steadily as he can, with the certainty that he's simply not going to die until- "You're going after Jon, aren't you?"
Huh.
"How'd you know?"
"Your root ends with him," Oliver half-shrugs, tilting his head to the side as his gaze intensifies. "Or... starts. I've never seen anything quite like you."
"He gets that a lot," Martin cuts in dryly. "Now if you excuse us, we ought to get going," he adds, when Oliver doesn't immediately look at him.
"Yes, I suppose you should," Oliver nods in the end. "They aren't too far ahead."
"Got it, thank you, bye."
Gerry arches an eyebrow as Martin marches on, pulling him along by his grip on his arm.
"They?" Tim asks behind them, but Martin is channelling a draft horse and they're out of earshot by the time Oliver responds, if he even does.
They stop when they reach the end of the territory, which is as any other liminal stretch between domains; just empty, barren land with little to no defining features other than a rock or two.
Martin very tellingly doesn't let go of his arm.
"So. Are we going to talk about that?" Gerry arches an eyebrow.
"About the dead people walking, or you wanting to join them?" Martin huffs, going to sit on a boulder a few feet away.
Gerry snorts fondly, walking calmly up to him.
"I told you why I wanted to walk with them," he shrugs. "Are you going to tell me why you were jealous of that man?"
Martin's head whips up to look at him like a deer in the headlights, and Gerry feels a burst of triumph in his chest. Getting one over Martin doesn't happen often, and he doesn't think he'll ever stop enjoying it.
"I wasn't- where on earth did you get the idea that I was jealous?!"
"Martin, not six months ago you were looking at me like that," Gerry rolls his eyes. "So either you're jealous, or you have a very curious way of showing me you don't like me."
"You know what, I'm starting to question it myself," Martin grumbles, his face colouring a little when Gerry laughs. "Stop that. Come here."
"Coming, coming," Gerry says consolingly, taking a seat next to Martin and throwing an arm over his hunched shoulders. "What is it?"
"...Jon was in a coma for about three months," he says in the end.
Gerry nods. "Melanie did mention something like that when I woke up and she was threatening him with a knife, yes."
Martin's lips twitch, but they don't quite smile, and his eyes are still downcast and, when Gerry leans in a bit closer, going somewhat grey.
"I went in to see him every day," Martin says, his voice not white sullen anymore, just... defeated. "Every day for three months. I talked to him, I asked him to come back, but- and this Oliver guy went in once, gave him a state- it wasn't even a statement, he just spoke to him! And-"
"And Jon woke up?" Gerry completes the thought when Martin abandons it. Then, after a weak nod from the man, he adds. "He's an avatar of the End, Martin."
"It doesn't matter," Martin remarks sullenly. "All I know is he pulled Jon back. I couldn't bring him back from the End, I couldn't bring him back from the Buried, and I wasn't even there when you called him out from the Dark. I keep failing him when he needs me the most and-"
"If it helps somewhat, you didn't even try to pull him out of the Buried, I'm still convinced you could've reached him."
"...Gerry, how on earth would that help?" Martin deadpans, and Gerry holds his hands up in surrender.
"I said if. All I'm saying is I just know you went straight for the tapes idea because of the Lonely. It worked just fine in the end, but if you'd called him, he would've heard."
"But then-"
"The End is different, Martin." Gerry's arm goes back to its place on Martin's shoulders, his free hand coming to tangle their fingers together. "Terminus doesn't give up its victims so easily. I doubt anyone but one of its avatars could've opened the way back for Jon, especially if the Web was involved."
"...It's very stupid, isn't it?" Martin mutters after a few minutes.
"You can't help how you feel." Gerry squeezes his hand. "As long as you understand it's not something you need to be worried about."
Martin snorts softly, before pressing a kiss to Gerry's cheek. "I should learn from you, then?"
"Oh no, I'm not possessive but I'm very jealous," Gerry shrugs with a sheepish smile, "I just dealt with it in a completely different way, apparently."
He squeezes Martin's hand again when he breaks down laughing, satisfied with his efforts. Gerard Keay, paragon of emotional maturity and healthy communication.
"Am I interrupting?" Tim's voice breaks him from his reverie, and Gerry looks up to find him standing a few feet away, arching an eyebrow at the tableau they cut.
"We were just done," Martin responds, somewhat breathless still. "Did he tell you who Jon was with?"
Tim shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "He just said some other avatars. Helen, I guess."
"Maybe he found Daisy?" Martin asks, his amusement fading into intrigue.
"Maybe..." Tim mutters.
Gerry arches an eyebrow. "You don't sound too happy about that."
Tim gives a half-hearted shrug, and a tired sigh.
"I saw her change, down at the tunnels. It was- I never said it because Basira had been running herself ragged, but... at this point, I wouldn't want anyone to find Daisy, not even him."
------------------------
All around her it smells like fire and burnt hair and cooked meat. The smoke tastes of salt, like evaporated tears, and she can hear anguished cries coming from countless ragged throats.
These aren't prey, she decides. The hunter feeds on panic and adrenaline fueled by the eons-old instinct to escape or be killed. She despises the taste of sorrow, of hopeless desolation. Of those that have given up and lost all the fight they could give.
The fire licks at her sides, at her paws. It singes off patches of raggedy sand-coloured fur, and makes every step on her already misshapen legs even more agonising. Her form, which is only suited for giving chase and taking prey down, is all but encumbering as she tries to make her way through the burning buildings.
What was she looking for here?
Was it- retribution?
She came here to settle debts, to pay harm with harm. To find-
"And to what do I owe the honour? The great and powerful Archivist, and his pet monsters?" says a voice, up, up, up in one of the burning buildings, and the hunter's chest swells with a snarl that crackles louder than the fire around her, before she jumps.
The building's wall cracks under her weight, her claws digging deep into crumbling concrete to pull the hunter up. The smoke chokes and blinds her, but the sting barely registers in her mind. All she has to do is go up, up, up.
"I'll be honest, we could've taken the long way. I was just curious," says another voice, and the hunter flinches, her torn, leathery ears perking up in recognition. Is this the prey she's looking for?
"-were already a little nosy prick back then. Sometimes I still regret not having killed you, your pain was so tasty," a voice says. It's hoarse, like the speaker has spent years inhaling smoke, and bitter. It sounds like mean laughter and pained cries, and the hunter's hackles raise.
"It's a very popular opinion, I've found," says the other voice, quieter, tired. Unamused.
The Hunter's brain flares up with alarm as recognition finally hits. This is the voice in the deep, the one that spoke of home, and he shouldn't be here- or- or should he?
The hunter stops her climb for a moment as her smoke-addled mind snaps and chases at itself. Which one has the blood that sings to her? Which is the one she's hunting?
"But then again, I wouldn't have this sweet, sweet little corner of hell to myself would I?"
"Ideally, no. I suppose you've enjoyed it so far?"
"Who was this again?" asks a third voice, one that sounds like confusion, like lies. It makes the Hunter angry, she doesn't like its kind. It was voices like it that took her into the deep and tight and crushing, where her will broke along with her mind and body.
"No one, really."
"Oh, is that so?" the first voice cackles. "Look at that, becomes an eminence and forgets about the ones who made him. You wouldn't be here without my mark, Archivist."
"You say that like it's a bad thing, though I can see why you would be under the impression that I ought to be grateful for that."
"Jon- the fire is-"
"Of course you'd be one of those," the voice laughs again, "all holier-than-thou and pretending you're above the rest of us. Pretending you're not the worst of us. Does it make it easier for you to sleep at night, after what you did?"
"I don't sleep much," says the voice. Then calmly, quietly. "I'm going to kill you, Jude."
"Jon?!" the lying voice asks. "You said-"
"You're bluffing," the first voice barks. "You're feeling their pain aren't you? Feeding off of it, like the parasite you are. Are you enjoying it?"
There's a pause, during which the hunter crawls higher up towards the smoking window the voices are coming from. She's so close, so close to being done.
"I am."
"Why would you shut down an easy meal?"
"That's just who I am, I suppose." The response doesn't wait this time, and the voice in the deep is firm and calm, before it adds almost sheepishly, "that, and I really don't like you."
The steel frame of the window is partially melted, soft and malleable under the hunter's claws, and she can finally see inside the room, preparing her hind legs for a jump. The woman reeks of wax and smoke, facing away from the hunter and towards-
The hunter freezes.
And she knows all of a sudden, with the sort of instinct all great predators are born with, that she's no longer the biggest danger in the room.
The creature on the woman's other side pulls at her as much as his presence terrifies her, soothes her and agitates her in equal measure.
Apex, whispers some tiny, primal voice at the back of her mind, and a low, anxious growl leaves her throat.
She should leave. She should turn tail and run and make sure to never again cross paths with this being, to never-
"You can't be angry at me still, Jon. You shook my hand didn't you? It was your fault, like everything else," the woman laughs, and the hunter sees red.
The woman crumbles like sand under her weight, and her claws dig into soft, pliant flesh that tears so easily, that bleeds out choking rivulets of thick black smoke that swirls up into the hunter's nose and eyes.
Boiling wax sticks to her teeth and sears her gums and tongue as the hunter bites and tears and chews. The woman is not so much afraid as she's shocked at the pain, at finding herself a victim. Prey.
Swallowing her bit by bit satisfies a deep, old hunger seated deep within the hunter's stomach, and she feels herself relax at last.
It took her a lifetime but she did right by her pack, which is what matters, she thinks as she plops down on the hot floor to lick the wax off her paws.
"Jon, what the hell is that thing?!" The hunter whips her face up at the voice. She's on the shorter side, plump-faced and with a large, soft belly, and she reeks of the Stranger.
The hunter hates her immediately.
She climbs to her feet again; her humped back bumps against the burning ceiling, searing some more fur off.
"Uh, you- you may want to go into Helen," the man says as the hunter takes the first step towards them. He's small in size, and were it nor for the power the hunter feels contained within his frame, she could swallow him in a single bite.
"I really don't," the stranger says. She takes a step back, and the man steps before her. "Jon-"
"It's- she can't hurt me," the man says, though he doesn't sound so sure. There is a certain hint of fear to his scent, a dubious, sad sort of terror. What scares this monster, the hunter realises, is not knowing if he should be afraid of her. "I- do you remember me?"
The hunter snarls.
He smells of old paper, of shiny plastic and blood. Of suffering, so much suffering that the hunter wonders for a moment how it is that he's still walking around.
He smells of- of everything.
Darkness, lies, pain, deep, fog and all the others, they swirl around inside him like he's containing them all, like he's made out of them all.
Another step. She cannot kill him, but she can kill the stranger.
"Y- you said you'd kill the other one, maybe you want to redirect that murderous energy?"
"I- no!" The man's face pales. He takes a step back as the hunter advances towards him. "No, she- Daisy?"
"This is the cop?!" The woman retreats all the way back to the crumbling, smoking door. "The one that tried to kill you?!'
"Daisy, can you hear me?" the man asks again, and the hunter responds with another snarl. She doesn't want to fight this being, but she will if he stands in the way of her prey. "We've- we were worried about you, all of us."
There's a thin, pale scar in the man's throat, and something aches in the hunter's chest.
"Please," says the man. His voice is soft, and it reaches the hunter as if through many miles of rock. "Please, Daisy. I don't want to hurt you."
"I don't think she'll do you the same courtesy, Jon." The stranger has managed to open the door behind him. "Come on."
"Sasha, I can't- I need to at least try to-"
"She's clearly not recognizing you, let's get out of here!"
"We can't."
"What?!"
"Don't- Sasha, listen to me," the man gives the stranger a worried, anxious look that sends a pang of recognition through the hunter's mind. "Don't try to run, she wants to chase you."
"I- why me?!"
The man's eyes, large and dark and sad, turn towards the hunter again.
"She's not too fond of the Stranger."
"Well- well, that makes two of us," the woman stutters, but she lets go of the door. "Jon..."
"She's in there," Jon- the man says. "Daisy, I found you once-"
The hunter snarls, but he trudges on, unimpeded. He's always been so stubborn.
"No, listen! I've been looking for you! Basira's looking for you!"
The name feels like a whip across the face, and the hunter recoils. It's a name of- of coconut and yellow, a name whispered with a last, dying breath.
'Will you find me?'
It pulls at her like a hot-red hook through her entrails, the name, the man's voice.
'Always.'
There's dirt closing off all around her, sharp stones digging into her flesh, and try as she may she simply cannot draw a breath that doesn't smell of rotting old wood and rain. Her ears are ringing with thousands of agonised screams, and the hunter can't tell if it's the Desolation's prey or her own, or if there's any difference at all.
"Jon, I- fuck!"
"Daisy- !"
The man's blood on her tongue tastes familiar, and his fear is delicious and filling and wrong. It burns her tongue and makes her choke like she just bit into something foul, but her jaws are locked around him and she feels-
She feels defenseless.
She was so afraid of this, of losing control, of losing herself.
But she did it for him, for- for her. It was worth it, to give herself away one last time. Why does this hurt? What is she missing?!
"Daisy!" The man is screaming in pain, and it hurts, the word jabs at her blood-lusted mind like a knife, and the concern in the man's voice is the cruel hand twisting the weapon in the wound. "Daisy, please!"
"Daisy, the quiet!"
------------------------
"You know... I still stand by my opinion that the carousel was far too on the nose, but this isn't a much better look," Tim sighs.
The heat of the fire all around them feels like a pleasant, almost familiar warmth, and the victims' pained cries taste absolutely scrumptious with sorrow. It serves to remind him of what he is, and he hates it.
The flames nearby flare up, fed by his resignation.
"I don't know where you got the idea that these things know how to be subtle," Gerry says, pulling him out of his mind. When he looks over, the man is almost done putting his hair into a messy bun, which he ties with a hair tie Martin pulls from his own wrist before pulling the hood over his head and tug on the drawstrings, presumably to keep the ash out. "If it makes you feel better though, you're as far removed from an avatar of the Desolation as you could be. I think the reason it brought you back-"
"Was to make me miserable, I know," Tim grunts, as they resume their trip across the burning city. "I just- I hate it here."
Or more accurately, he hates that he doesn't hate it. That knowing everyone around him is for once in as much pain as he constantly is in gives him a sense of vindication he hasn't experienced in years.
He could stay here, he thinks.
They pass the remnants of a burning hospital, and Tim breathes in the hopeless cries of those who will just never find peace again, not in this place. He could make it so that each and every one of them suffers what he suffered- what's the saying?
Misery loves company.
"Are we going to run into someone here too?" he asks after a while. "I don't think I ever met anyone from the Desolation."
"I don't think so," Gerry says carefully. "This place is....recently unoccupied."
"What's that even mean?" Martin turns to look at them with an arched eyebrow. "How would you know?"
Gerry shoots a look at the infinite, unblinking eyes that cover the sky.
"Right-" Martin nods, "dumb question."
"Was it Jon? Like he did with the- with the thing that took Sasha?" Tim asks.
"I... Think? I only get vague knowledge, nothing too specific. Right now all I know is this place is looking for someone to sit on the big chair." Gerry looks at him out of the corner of his eye, and Tim keeps his gaze fixed firmly on him. "How are you doing?"
"I don't like what you're implying," is all he says, sending the closest flames flaring up into the sky.
"That's good. I don't like it too much either." Gerry looks on ahead. "But here we are."
"Here we are? What- oh." Martin says before following Gerry's gaze. He seems to deflate, but his colour surprisingly doesn't wane when he turns to look at him. "Tim?"
"I'm not going to stay here," Tim says so shortly it sounds strained even to his ears, like he's trying to convince himself more than he's trying to reassure Martin. "I won't. I-"
"Tim," Martin repeats, gentler this time.
"What?" Tim clenches a fist in the fabric of his jacket.
"I'm- I know you wouldn't do this-"
"I wouldn't." But he would, wouldn't he? Hasn't his entire existence been about causing pain, ever since he woke up? To Jon, to Martin, to himself- hasn't he fed on it, fueling his fire with their loss? "Martin-"
"I know. But- but I think you need to look up," Martin's hand feels warm for once, the chill of the Lonely chased away by the fire's heat.
"I don't want to," Tim shakes his head. "Just- just guide me out."
"...I get the feeling that won't get us anywhere," Martin says gently. "Gerry? Am I wrong?"
"It would be too easy, I think. We've established the Desolation will gladly feed on him, and- and the Watcher wants to see him choose."
Tim shuts his eyes tight, resenting in a way he never did when he was human the bright orange spots that explode behind his eyelids as he does. He- he doesn't want it.
Not the pain blossoming at his chest, nor the power he can feel at his fingertips, or the voice -his own voice- that tells him this is justice, that he deserves this.
Who knows pain if not him? Who knows better how to rip these humans to pieces, how to show them just how insignificant and hopeless their lives are, until all they are is an agonising longing for that all that they have lost, all they have destroyed?
Who-
"Tim. You have to look." Martin's voice is still gentle, but firmer this time.
"I really don't want to," Tim says.
I really don't think I can.
"You're not alone this time." Martin's hand on his shoulder squeezes a little, and surprisingly doesn't flinch when Tim lets out a dry bark of laughter.
"That's rich, coming from you." There he goes again, striking where he knows it'll hurt the most, where-
"It is, isn't it?" Martin's voice sounds like- Tim opens his eyes to see the sad, gentle smile spread across his features. "I think it makes sense, though."
"It does."
"I would know."
"You would."
Martin doesn't react to the jabs, doesn't retaliate with the pointed, barbed remarks Tim knows he's capable of dealing.
"I don't think you want to be here anymore," he goes on casually, like they're talking about leaving the office early. "I don't care much for it either."
The crackling of the fire calls him, the screams of those that are like him, that decided to take out their hurt on the world, to strike first, lest it strikes them down.
"Martin-" it feels like the smoke is choking him, even though that shouldn't be possible anymore. "I don't think I can say no."
"I think you need to try." Martin squeezes his shoulder again, and his voice is so calm, so casual that Tim clings to it to try and anchor his own whirlwind of emotions, before looking up.
The House of Wax museum looks just like he remembers. Just like he dreamed it would look like burning to the ground.
It smells of burnt plastic and wax, and through the smoke-blackened windows he sees silhouettes, so many silhouettes. Some are human of course, clawing at the walls and at themselves and each other and screaming through tear-hoarse throats.
Some others move far more gracefully than they should, trapped in a haunting dance even wreathed in flames as they are.
He- this is for him.
This is the little tailor-made corner of hell afforded to him by the grief and the spite that simmer at his core.
In here, it doesn't matter how much he lost, how much he hurts, because he can make sure everyone else hurts more. Isn't this what the Desolation means for him, a way to pay back the world for how much it took from him?
"Tim?" Martin asks gently. "Are we going?"
Tim wants to say yes, he knows he should. He doesn't want to stay, he's relieved to realise; his feelings about that haven't changed and the burning wax museum is not as much a lure as it is a sad reminder.
Where is he going to go?
Walking away from this doesn't mean he doesn't take it with him everywhere he goes. Not contributing to torture the people trapped in this domain doesn't mean he will not do the same to the people out there, he doesn't think he knows how to do anything else anymore.
"I- Martin, what for?" They don't really need him, do they?
"What? We're looking for Jon-"
"Well, you can keep doing that. Gerry's the one that can find him, not me," Tim sighs. "Just... just fix this mess."
Make everything right so that Tim can go back to sitting in the dark in Martin's old flat thinking about everything he lost.
"That's exactly what we're doing," Martin says firmly. "All three of us. You said you didn't want to stay."
"I don't." Tim shrugs, his eyes still glued to the blazing building, and it almost hurts to tear them from it to look at the other two. "But Martin- this is what I am. It's always going to be what I am."
"Don't be-"
"Martin, just- stop," Tim interrupts, punctuated by a loud crack from one of the museum's windows. "I've tried to fix it. It doesn't work. Maybe it's time to accept that. Maybe there was something else in there at some point, but it's gone. This is all that's left."
Martin's face crumpling down just accentuates his point, he feels like. Dealing with Tim is like trying to handle broken glass, you're bound to slice your hand open at some point, no matter how careful you are.
"Tim-"
"Hey. I'll say something too," Gerry cuts in, leaning around Martin to look at him. His eyes are Watcher-green and he has no doubt the man is seeing more than what Tim means to let out. "First off, I think you're an asshole."
What.
"...This is your pep talk?" Martin gives his man a very unimpressed look, but Gerry merely shrugs.
"It's true. You get under my nerves, but they love you, so I'll deal with you," he goes on. "You hurt people when they try to help you, because you're hurt. It sucks, sometimes we get dealt a shitty hand."
The flames covering the building flare up in response to Tim's irritation, but he pays them no mind in favour of glaring back at the man. "You would-"
"I would know, that one's not going to stick with me." Gerry clicks his tongue. "But I digress. What I mean to say is I'm impartial here. You can't try to rationalise this as Martin being Martin and trying to cheer you up because he likes you, like you were doing just now."
"You're making a real good case to get me to come." Tim's eye twitches. He sees Martin's eyebrows raise, and his lips twitch like he's holding back a smile. "It's not like I think Martin's a doormat or-"
"Good! He isn't, but he and Jon are willing to let you get away with a lot of crap I don't particularly care about." His eyes are fixed on him with laser-like focus, yet he speaks casually enough that Tim gets the feeling he isn't even interested in the conversation, which is- Tim no longer feels too guilty about melting his hand by the carousel. "I only met you after the Desolation brought you back, so I have to imagine you weren't always an insufferable prick, just most of the time. But I did notice something about you."
"Oh?" Tim grunts, annoyed. "Really? Aside from that charming diagnosis of my psyche, you had time to notice something about me?"
"I'm observant like that," he says, and his neon-green eyes flare up a little. "I've only seen you use what the Desolation gave you one time, you know? Which is quite tame for avatars with your particular alignment, like I told you."
"I- what?"
"Come on, Tim." Gerry smirks. "I'm sure you remember lighting up Manuela Domínguez like a summer bonfire."
Tim clenches his fists by his sides. "Don't- it's not like I enjoyed it, I had to do that!"
"Oh you had to?" The asshole has the gall to fake shock. "Why?"
"Because-" Tim starts then stops, his indignant snarl stuck in his throat.
Because Jon was in danger.
Gerry's smirk grows more pronounced the longer he stays quiet, and Tim- Tim hates him for that-
"What about-"
"Stop."
"-the tunnels? With Julia and Trevor?" Gerry steamrolls over his objections, like he doesn't know the answer, like he doesn't know it's because he was trying to buy Jon time to get to Martin, to help.
"What's your point?!" he bites out. The asshole is still just standing there, looking like a particularly smug turtle with the hood of Martin's hoodie pulled tight around his face.
"My point is you're trying, Tim, whether you think it's enough or not." Gerry shrugs, and the animosity melts off of his face. "It's really the only thing we can do, any of us. It's what Martin and I will do. Now, are you coming with us, or not?"
Tim blinks. And then he blinks again. And then a third time.
The building still burns behind him -inside him-, but it's no longer the only thing in his mind. He saved Jon, that time up north. He helped save Martin, helped protect Basira. The Desolation never meant for him to do anything other than cause more pain either to himself or others, but he did it still.
He takes a step forward, and then another, and Martin and Gerry fall into step beside him, all three of them in silence.
He can only guess they did what they had to here, because they come to the end of the burning city not long after- or rather, the end of the burning city comes to them, marked by a tall, blackened building with claw marks up its side.
"Jon was here not too long ago," Gerry's eyes flare green again as he looks at the building. "We're closing the gap."
"Is that how he pulled you out of the Lonely?" Tim grunts as they watch him walk further on, looking at the ground like a hound sniffing for a trail.
"It's very frustrating, isn't it?" Martin snorts by his side. "But very effective, I'm afraid."
"I suppose," he says. Martin is smiling at him when he looks up. "What?"
"I knew you'd come."
"...I have to try, I guess," he sighs. "Is that a house up ahead?"
It looks far too normal than it has any right to be, just an old manor with a large garden, and moth-eaten curtains billowing out every open window.
"I... guess?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "Doesn't look too bad compared to the others we've seen, does it?"
"It doesn't, and I don't like it," Tim scowls. It feels... familiar. Like it's sapping warmth away, like even the Watcher averts its gaze from it. "I think we'd better take the long-"
"We have to go through the house!" Gerry's faint voice reaches them, the man merely a point of bright green profiled against the building's silhouette, waving his arms at them.
Martin winces. "...Looks like we have to go through the house."
"We have to go through the house," Tim sighs.
------------------------
"Doesn't that feel weird?" Sasha asks, because she's mostly sure she's not in mortal danger anymore but also because that has historically never stopped her before anyways.
"I figure it feels better than going naked through the apocalypse," Helen says, sticking her head out her door a few steps away. "Besides, she's done worse."
The other woman doesn't answer.
She's clinging to Jon's hand like a kindergartner about to cross a busy street, and hasn't said a word other than his name from the moment she climbed out of the bloody, misshapen hide naked and covered in gore, and now she walks behind him in silence, dressed in the ill-fitting, torn garments of the woman she mauled to death.
She looks- frail, is the only word Sasha can think of.
Despite her lean frame being lined with muscle, despite her height and her teeth sharpened to a point, she seems lost and confused, like Jon is the only thing she's sure of anymore.
Bit of a surprising look, for someone who made him dig his own grave before she decided not to execute him.
A few steps ahead, Jon sighs.
"I- please don't bring that up. Out loud, I mean," he says.
Sasha arches an eyebrow. "First off, if you keep looking into my head, you'll see things you don't want to see-"
"That's very ironic, coming from you."
"-and second off, why? Is it a bit too R-rated for her?"
"Sasha," Jon sighs again, and she bristles.
It still irks her, to think of all that happened, all that she couldn't help with because of her stupid detour to Artifacts Storage.
"It wasn't your fault," Jon says, a lot more patiently than Sasha would've thought him capable of. "And Daisy- she's different than she was back then."
"Must've been one hell of an apology." She crosses her arms over her chest.
"Not really..." Jon looks away, his gaze fixed at some point by Sasha's shoes. "... it's not like I can forgive her for that. She knows that."
"Then? What changed?"
"She did." Jon shrugs. "It's never going to make it right, but- but she's no longer the person that could justify those things. That would do them on the first place."
"Hm," she huffs, and Jon gives her a tired smile.
"We may not be humans anymore, but we're still just... people. It's always going to be messy." He looks forward then, before squeezing at Daisy's hand and gesturing at Sasha to keep moving. "We should go on; I'm getting cold."
CW for
-Thoughts of mortality (the End domain)
-Verbal abuse and guilt tripping of one Timothy Stoker
"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.
"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"
"Jon?"
"Yes?"
"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"
"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.
"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."
XXV
The Eye is not dissatisfied.
How could it be, with the world remade in its image, able to witness the terror of every sentient being trapped in a taylor-made nightmare, fed a steady influx of the victim's horrified thoughts through the Pupil's gaze, and even more substantious recollections of fear through its beloved Archive.
No, the Watcher is not dissatisfied. It is far too large for such menial emotion.
It does not at all resent how the Web has such a strong thrall on its Archive, or the fact that it can't risk burning it away even with all its power, because it's currently the only thing spurring the Archive towards its rightful place.
It does not, of course, resent the figments of Stranger and Spiral that drag stubbornly after its Archive, halting its process, delaying the assimilation, or how its Archive seems to relish these interruptions in its pilgrimage.
It is certainly puzzling, the Archive's reluctance. What else could it want, if it's so close to achieving its full potential?
Truly, out of all the Servatoris that the Eye has had over the course of millenia, the Archive that used to be Jonathan Sims is by far the most vexing one. For all that it's given in to its true nature, absorbing knowledge everywhere it goes with no purpose other than to know , it still clings to its humanity with a zealous fervour that not even Gertrude Robinson, so desperate to not become a monster, possessed.
And for the first time in centuries, ever since a young avatar started toying with the idea of a ritual to join all rituals under his patron's inevitable gaze, the Watcher feels the inklings of the familiar, dangerous impulse that birthed it in the hearts of all creatures millions of years ago.
Curiosity.
-------------------------------------
It's weird being like this, Sasha thinks as she looks down at her reflection on a foul smelling oil puddle.
This time she's a bit shorter, with wavy reddish hair and light brown skin dotted with freckles here and there, and bright hazel eyes that look back inquisitively.
Is this how she looked before? Was this her face?
"Did you meet me? Before I changed, I mean," she asks out loud. There's no one in sight at the moment, but it's not like Jon will think she's ridiculous for talking to herself, not when he's doing the zombie tour back to his creepy tower.
"It wouldn't really matter, would it?" Helen's voice comes through the bright yellow door of a broken down barn. "Do you remember me?"
"Not really. But I don't- there's a lot of things that are blurry. I don't know which memory comes from which life." Sasha sighs. "I'm so stupid."
Helen tilts- no, she rotates her head to the side. Sasha shrugs.
"It's not like I didn't know the sort of things that were in Artifact Storage, you know? Part of- I always knew these things were real, at least a little. But I still went in there."
"I feel like I can't give you too much flack about going into places where you shouldn't." Helen shrugs.
"I don't know that I can blame you either, Michael was very convincing," Sasha chuckles to herself. "Should we give him a break? Maybe if we try sitting with him she'll have a harder time breaking us apart from him?"
Helen's smile is the mischievous, malevolent gesture she remembers from her predecessor. "If it'll bother the spider."
Jon comes to slowly, when Sasha wraps her arms around his torso. He slows down first, his eyes still bright green and focused on the tower, before Helen layers a large hand on his head, and he turns his face to look at her.
"Who- oh. Sasha?" He asks.
"That's me. Wanna sit down?" She smiles fondly at his relieved expression. It's- whoever she is, she's someone who brings comfort, who brings safety.
"Yes, that- thank you, both of you. That would be good," he says, blinking hard as they pull him down to the ground. He folds like a piece of paper, wrapping his arms around his knees; Sasha sits sideways on his feet, and hooks an arm behind his calf before grabbing her own wrist with her other hand. This should work at keeping them linked for a bit.
"That was faster than before," Helen comments. Her knees bend at three or four places as she sits down next to them, and it makes Sasha feel a little dizzy, so she looks away.
"I could sort of hear your conversation." Jon's voice is thick and raspy, like he's nursing a hangover. He blinks once more, before aiming a serious look at her with determination burning in his dark eyes. "What happened wasn't your fault, Sasha."
She doesn't really answer that. Maybe one day she'll forgive herself for falling first, for not being there -would she have made any difference?-, but the hurt is still a bit too fresh. Instead, she leans on her side to rest her cheek on Jon's knees.
"Talk to me." She can feel her arm trying to snake away from under him, and she clamps down even more stubbornly on her wrist. They'll have this, goddammit, they deserve it.
"What do you want to know?" He asks quietly.
"Everything," Sasha responds. Off to their side, Helen chuckles. "What?"
"Very on-brand," says the Distortion. Like Michael before her, it feels like Helen is reacting to the punchline of a joke that hasn't even been set-up yet, and Sasha finds it very frustrating.
"Fine, then." She rolls her eyes. "You've told me about the fourteen. About Elias and Gertrude," she lists off, like she doesn't know exactly what she wants to ask about. "About Leitner. We haven't talked about the elephant in the room, but I figure explaining how you came to be the apocalyptic MVP would take far longer than we-"
"Sasha," Jon interjects quietly and almost politely, and Sasha deflates like a balloon.
"Well? Will you tell me?" She asks, moving to sit on Jon's feet again as she's almost slid completely off.
Jon's hand comes to wrap around her wrist and gives it a sympathetic squeeze.
"We- it was mostly my fault," he begins. It's a starter he uses often, Sasha has noticed. "When you- I was- I pushed him away. Him and Martin, but I think it hurt him the most, you know? Martin was probably used to it by then," he adds bitterly.
Sasha nods, the scratch of the rough denim of Jon's jeans a welcome distraction from the thoughts beginning to swirl in her head. Of course it hurt him; he always did put too much faith in the people he loved.
"It was too late by the time I realised the truth. We- did he tell you about-"
"Danny?" She whispers. "Not all of it. Just that he... went missing. That he was looking for him."
Above her, Jon nods slowly.
"It was him," Jon says. His voice is almost defiant as he declares it, almost proud. "The Watcher likes to think it was me who stopped the Unknowing, that it was the reason the Stranger didn't succeed. But it was all Tim."
Something inside her rears up its ugly head at his declaration, angry and spiteful and filling her mind with thoughts of fire and pain and melted wax.
"You... blew it up. The whole place," she says. The memory feels as foreign as remembering her mother's voice, and it comes with the empty sadness of knowing nothing is truly hers anymore.
Jon nods again. "We both- we died there. Or we should have but we both..."
"Chose to come back," Helen says pointedly, and Jon merely sighs as she brings her hand up to wrap it around his shoulders again.
"Why did you?" Sasha asks. It's a bit morbid maybe, but...
"I was afraid of dying," Jon responds in a voice almost too low to be heard. "I couldn't- I didn't want to die without-"
"I don't think you have to apologise for wanting to survive," Sasha says in what she hopes is a soothing voice.
"Sasha, I knew what I would become. I knew, and I still chose-"
"Jon, you're human," is all Sasha says, but it's pretty effective at stopping Jon on his tracks.
He snorts, and he only sounds the slightest bit hysterical. "No I'm not. We're not, I don't think."
"Why do you think Tim chose to come back?"
"To...kill me, probably?" Jon smiles fondly. "He would have, if Gerry hadn't been there I think."
Sasha blinks. "Who's this Gerry person? You've been mentioning them, but I don't think I ever knew them. Any of me," she adds, combing through all of her memories for the name.
"I- uh. You didn't- or you did, but not- not in person." Jon starts squirming away from her, but moves back a moment after realising the pull. "He's Gerard Keay, remember the statements he was in?"
"...The guy with the bad dye job? Casually shells out five thousand quid for a book? Shows up burned to a crisp at a hospital to tell the nurse cryptic shit?"
Jon snorts, and Sasha smiles. It's always been hard to make him outright laugh, so especially with the current circumstances it's a bit of a victory.
"Give him a break, he was trying his best," Jon says fondly after he sobers up. His smile turns a bit sad then, after his words. "He always is."
Sasha arches an eyebrow. There's a lot to unpack in that look, but first things first.
"So he came back?" She asks. "I remember he was supposed to be dead, did he fake it, or is he like us?"
"Like you and me, dear," Helen answers before Jon can.
"...What's the difference?"
"Helen is not exactly an avatar," Jon sighs. "She- the Distortion is a creature of the Spiral. Like- like the Not Them were to the Stranger. It was never meant to have a physical form, it was only by Gertrude's doing that it became tied to Michael, and later Helen. She didn't choose to become an avatar, she was just... made by the entity. Like you, or Gerry."
"So I'm even more monster-y than you, got it." Sasha gives him a dry stare that Jon responds with a small sheepish grin, and she huffs. "So which one remade him?"
"Beholding," Jon says, and his eyes flash green briefly as if in recognition.
Sasha gives him a long, searching look. His face is... his whole expression is a bittersweet tableau, his lips curled in the same sad smile from a bit ago.
She nudges his knee with her cheek. "What's the story there?"
Jon sighs, deflating like a balloon under the sun.
"It's- Gerry's kind. Good," he starts, giving her a firm' look like he's daring her to disagree. "I- I didn't ask for him to be- if I'd been given the choice, I would've chosen to let him have his rest, because he deserves it."
"But?" Sasha asks, because this all sounds like Jon is trying to convince himself rather than her.
He gives her a look then, a little bit lost, a little bit guilty. "But I don't regret that he was brought back, Sasha. I don't regret him, or anything that has happened since then. I know the kind of person that makes me, but-"
"Hey," Sasha interrupts him, looking up at him from the uncomfortable, well-loved cradle of his bony knees. "What happened to you, Jon?"
The sad, sheepish smile comes back with a vengeance, making Sasha's chest ache for him.
"Fell in love. Ended the world."
"Well, that escalated quickly. Anyways, I can't wait for you to introduce me to your cryptic mall goth boyfriend." She smiles back at Jon's little snort. "Okay. So... so Tim came back from the dead. You came back from the dead. You brought someone else back from the dead-"
"Technically it was the Beholding-"
"Yes yes yes," Sasha waves the correction away. "What about Martin? Is he alright?"
"As alright as he can be," Jon sighs. "he was... Pretty angry at me when I left them, I think."
"Them?" Sasha arches an eyebrow.
"Him and Gerry. I- they were still at the house. I don't know if-"
"Wait. The house?" She asks, and Jon blinks back at her a little owlishly.
"Our- well, not ours I suppose, it's Daisy's. But I don't think she's in any state to ask for it, and Gerry's garden is-"
"Jon?"
"Yes?"
"Why does Martin live with you and your boyfriend?"
"Uhm-" Jon's skin is dark enough that it's always a bit hard to tell when he's blushing, but Sasha knows him, and her suspicions are only confirmed when Helen chuckles behind him.
"I think that story will need a few more stops to tell, but it's pretty amusing if you ask me."
-------------------------------------
"This is- what is this?" Martin asks. Nestled down innocently at the bottom of an unassuming valley, the construction spins and spins, and faint pipe music echoes around, eerie and alluring in equal measure.
"Don't try to make sense of it." Gerry shrugs, giving his hand a squeeze.
"On the nose, is what it is," Tim grumbles on Martin's other side, and Martin snorts.
"Is it really? Technically, carousels are more of a carnival thing, not necessarily circus-y, are they?"
"Wow," Tim deadpans, "I didn't know Jon was contagious."
Martin feels his lips curl into a sad smile. Jon is a sensitive topic with Tim at the best of times, and this is far from it. Of all the territories they could've come across this is definitely the worst one, and Martin knows too much by now to even consider the thought that it's a coincidence.
"We don't have to get close to it," Gerry is saying now, pulling Martin out of his reverie. "We'll just cross, move on to the next, right Martin?"
Tim remains quiet, his wax skin rippling like water about to boil, his bright orange gaze fixed on the carousel where faceless figures chase after one another with no rhyme or reason as to who's prey or predator anymore.
This feeling isn't new, comes the sad realisation. Time and time again, the Stranger has torn Tim's life apart right when he's managed to piece it together again. This is what's worst about the entities, isn't it? It was the Desolation that claimed Tim's humanity, but the unknown will never stop haunting him.
Gerry's hand squeezes his again, a bit more insistently this time. Martin blinks, and looks sideways to find Gerry's seafoam gaze focused on him.
"Martin?"
"I- yep. Just walk right past it, I never did like carousels anyways. Never got what the fun was in just spinning around with all the folks staring at you."
That startles a laugh out of Tim at least, rips his eyes away from the spinning behemoth for an instant.
"You don't like rollercoasters, you don't like carousels... you'd be a pretty lousy carnival date, huh?" Tim's attempt at a joke is weak, but it's there; it's a lot better than the haunted look from a moment ago.
"The ferris wheel at sunset sounds pretty nice," Martin shrugs, before adding pointedly, "you know, in case anyone wants to keep it in mind."
It has the desired effect of making both men snort, and Gerry squeezes his hand a third time, slowly and fondly like he doesn't even care Martin's skin is only barely tangible.
"Subtle."
And Martin, with the Lonely condensed in his stomach like an empty void, would love nothing more than to shake himself free and disappear, when faced with the brunt of these emotions aimed at him. Instead, he squeezes back a bit tighter, because some things are worth the hurt.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he grins. "Let's go then."
The walk down the valley is a lot shorter than it looked; distances are not really a thing anymore, always just the right length to be frustrating.
True to their word, they try to stay as far from the carousel as the domain will allow them, which is to say, not far enough. The figures -he victims , Martin reminds himself- reach out to them with begging hands, never longer than an instant before the slow spin of the gargantuan machine takes them away.
"Do you remember that time-" Martin starts, before letting his voice fade. What would he even bring up? Not the little tidbits Tim mentioned about Danny, their childhood games, the excursions that would lead to his loss. Not the memories of the four of them during the early archives days, before Sasha was taken and Jon was sent down a road he could neither see nor escape. Not the days at his flat during the past year, after Tim's mockery of a resuscitation, when his hatred and sorrow forced his tired heart to beat again. He doesn't know anything about Tim that wouldn't cause him much more pain, he realises with a start. Just enough familiarity to hurt, never to heal.
It's infuriating, to think he's all that Tim has anymore.
"You kept my flat after I left, didn't you?" Martin asks instead. "Be careful; I had a couple break-ins when I was living there," he adds. The attempt at humour tastes somewhat bitter on his tongue, but Tim's mouth twitches a little at the remark.
"That happened to a friend once," Tim says after a moment, trying to drown the sound of the victims. "Sod always had terrible taste, ended up moving in with the intruder."
"Well, who knows? Maybe the intruder was surprisingly charismatic," Martin says. Gerry nudges his shoulder with his own.
"I can guarantee he isn't," Tim snorts this time, and Martin smiles.
"I don't know Tim, I think you may be biassed." The carousel extends for many yards still, but it's- it's fine. They don't have to walk around it, their path is just a tangent to this circle of lies, and they'll leave it behind soon enough. "I find that he makes really good conversation."
"I don't think I've ever been on one of these, you know?" Gerry takes the cue flawlessly, albeit... weirdly.
"Never?" Martin arches an eyebrow. "They're fairly common."
"My mom wasn't really the fun carnival day type," Gerry shrugs, "maybe my dad took me on one, but I would've been too young to remember."
"And you never wanted to take a day trip on your own?" Martin asks, and Gerry snorts.
"Bit too old for that then, I think dear."
"Your boyfriend was riding carousels at twenty three, I doubt anyone would've judged you," Tim cuts in dryly, and both of them turn to look at him in surprise.
"Jon?" Martin asks, at the same time Gerry asks "He was?"
"Once, after he and Georgie broke up." Tim's shoulders jump in a sharp shrug; he looks uncomfortable rather than angry though, and it doesn't escape Martin that this is the first time Tim's brought up Jon on his own. "He told me back in research, before- before Sasha transferred."
Oh.
The next few steps go by in silence, and Martin reflects on that statement, and all the things contained in it.
A time where these two trusted each other, when the biggest problem between them was a misplaced folder, and both of them were healing. Hoping to heal. None of them with the slightest inkling of the storm brewing over their heads from the moment they signed their name on the dotted line of the contract.
"...I wonder what animal he rode. Did he tell you?" Gerry's voice breaks the silence, and Martin snorts.
It's... it's very Gerry, to focus on the little details of the people he loves, instead of the past gone by. It makes a lot of sense considering the life he's lived.
"I- don't think he did?" Tim blinks. "I'd bet on the-"
"Cat," Martin says along with him, smiling. "If you ask me, that sounds like the healthiest coping mechanism he's tried."
"I don't know," Gerry leans over, hooking his chin on Martin's shoulder. "There was this really good period when he was moping about you ignoring him, I made him coffee and he read me definitions off the dictionary."
Martin laughs. It catches on his chest a bit; he's- he's laughed so little, since the world changed. It burns the Lonely inside him, but it's worth the effort to turn his head and lay a soft kiss on Gerry's cheekbone. "Very romantic."
"Jon doesn't even like coffee," Tim groans from his other side. "You know? I think this might be my personal tor-"
"Nice of you to visit, big bro," says a voice to their left, and Tim freeze s.
-------------------------------------
The man that now traverses the Corpse Routes does it with a single, firm certainty.
He will die.
Like everyone else that came before him, and everyone else that will come after, he's not exempt from mortality, and he doesn't shy away from the fact, though that doesn't mean he isn't terrified by it.
He wouldn't be here otherwise.
He fears not the inevitability of the deed itself, but the thick veil of the unknown draped over it like a shroud.
The man was implacable before the change, month after month he visited a new specialist, tolerating the pinching and the pricking and the judging in an attempt to find what would it be. What would take him? Would it be his lungs, his heart, his brain? Or would it come from the outside, he'd think as he clicked on yet another news website to see just what tragedy had taken many like it would surely one day take him.
This quest was never guided by the burning determination of those who desire to live, but rather the desperation of those who wish to be rid of uncertainty, those for whom the wait is a lot more painful than the blow.
In a similar vein, the man poured years of his life into trying to resolve the question that has plagued humanity since the first time a loved one was checked with worry, and found stiff and cold to the touch.
What is it that comes after the End?
He's been to endless places of worship, listened to wise words from all paths of life, swallowed truth after truth after truth, despairing a little more every time that believing didn't bring forth an Answer. Needless to say, the man never really grasped the true meaning of faith, but then again it was never spiritual peace that he was after, was it? The man sought the answer not in order to avoid a grim fate, or to score himself a few extra points before that unknown assailant inevitably drags him away from everything he knows.
He fought sleep off every night, trying to remain alert until his tired eyes gave up and fell closed, and his last thought was without fail dedicated to whether or not he'd ever open them again. Whether or not he'd ever discover what lays beyond in time to prepared, or if his mind, his life, his very being would just blink out like a lightbulb, never to experience a single thought again, no more idea of what happened to him than he does now.
The route this man follows is a long one, longer than anyone who marches by his side. Terminus feeds on each and every one of the fearful theories the man spins even in this scenario in which When, How and Why are especially useless.
The Coroner watches him -and others- from his post overlooking the domain, though he does not know either how or when the man's route will end. The End hasn't decided yet, and the uncertainty of the man in the face of inevitability is the most delicious feast.
The Archive watches as well, and he- it quietly contemplates the blurred distinctions between the entities that now rule the world in deference to its patron. The man's desperate search for knowledge, for truth, didn't do anything to endear him to the Beholding. His fear of the unknown didn't bring the Stranger or the Spiral running to sink their claws into him. Instead, the man's fixation with his own end, was what dragged him here, to the one path in this new reality that may in time grant him relief from his torment.
Terminus has always been far gentler than its peers...
The Archive- n- no. Not- not the Archive, is it? Is he?
He- he has a name, sometimes. Thoughts of his own, like just now. Questions that go unanswered, or that did, before all this.
It- he has them more often, lately. Murky, unfocused things that barely scratch the surface and can never leave his lips, until the Distortion and the Them place their hands on him.
Or their entire mass, like the- like Sasha's doing right now, clearly taking advantage of the larger body she has today, with a round face and short black hair, pretty much covering Jon as she lays on top of him.
"Was this really necessary?" Jon asks. Then, when he recognizes the throbbing pain at his knee, "did you trip me to the ground?"
"Technically, Helen did." Sasha shrugs, "I want to test how long it takes like this. I think I have to notice if she makes me move my entire body."
"I hardly tripped you too, it was bound to happen when you're going around reciting your little statements as you walk," Helen grins, resting the tip of a sharp finger on his forehead to clear the last remnants of the Web's pull away. "This one feels different, doesn't it?"
"It... does." Jon feels his brow furrow. "There's- I can feel the edges of this domain."
"And?" Sasha asks, squirming to slip an arm under hers and Jon's bodies for extra safety.
"And there's-" the realisation hits him so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that it's all he can do to turn his wide eyes towards Sasha. "Sa- there's- there's less people by the end of the domain, than there is by the beginning."
Sasha blinks and gives him a flat stare, and Jon kind of remembers that expression; it's nice to know that was real, even if the Not Them stole it. "That's not as telling as you think it is, Jon."
Jon smiles sheepishly as the dryness in her tone. "Sorry. It's just- Sasha, people are not supposed to die anymore. They're supposed to suffer forever, this is how this works-"
"Lovely."
"-but if there's less humans once this domain ends... that means they're-"
"Dying," interrupts a voice that is most definitely not any of Sasha's. A voice that, perhaps very tellingly, Jon remembers in a dreamy, confused haze. "And that is exactly what I wished to talk to you about, Jon. If I can still call you that, I mean."
Sasha's gone stiff over him, and Jon stretches his neck to look over her shoulder. "Oliver Banks," he says in lieu of greeting as he crosses glances with the other avatar.
Oliver arches a thick eyebrow, pointedly looking down at Jon's current situation. "I- should I ask?"
"I'd rather you didn't," Jon huffs, "but if you're still in Anabelle Cane's good graces, I'd appreciate you telling her I can walk on my own."
The man snorts at that. "I find that she very rarely is satisfied with the pace one chooses to move at. Will- can you get up, or will we have to talk with them holding you down all the time? I don't think I've ever seen you on your feet."
"Please don't say it like tha-"
Sasha shifts and twists on top of Jon, pulling him this way and that until she's sat behind him, her arms criss-crossed over Jon's chest as she holds him in front of her like a barrier, and Jon sees Oliver's frame stiffen as Sasha looks up at him in the body that once belonged to Graham Folger.
"I know you."
-------------------------------------
The hunter snarls softly in irritation as it drops its latest kill, a small woman that tastes of running at full speed across an open field.
It's not the first of her kind the hunter has killed, though the last one was a long time ago. Back when it hid its claws and fangs, and it had a name and a pack.
The thought -the hunter is not too used to those anymore- leaves behind a sharp pang of hurt in its stomach, and it shakes its head trying to rid it again of the scent of coconut, the muted buttery yellow of a soft headscarf. She who hunts them isn't pack, or she would stand by the hunter's side and soothe the deep-seated rage that smolders inside its stomach.
There's smoke in the hunter's nostrils, and it huffs and puffs to clear it away too. The mere thought of fire makes it angrier, and it can't pin the reason why.
It remembers it feels personal, an injury close to its heart. A burn-smooth hand clinging to it in the depths of the pit, and the bitter understanding of its own stupidity, its own hypocrisy.
They weren't pack back when it happened, but the hunter should've made it right when it had the chance.
If the one that hunts them isn't pack because she does not stand by them, what does that make of the hunter, that let her own get hurt and then didn't avenge their pain?
Smoke and suffering prickles and burns in her nose, and the hunter's snarl deepens.
The great Eye in the sky follows the hunter's movements, as she changes directions abruptly to finally follow the scent of fire.
-------------------------------------
The man that stands before them is wrong .
His dark hair reflects the light like a cheap plastic wig, his skin is just the slightest bit too tight, his full lips pulled into a sneer like someone who's heard what a smile is supposed to look like, but didn't understand it well enough.
Coupled with the fact that he looks like an off version of Tim, it's not hard for Gerry to figure out his identity- or rather who he's supposed to be.
"I don't- you're- you're not him," Tim says.
"Oh?" says the skin of Danny Stoker, stretched thin over its plastic frame. "And whose fault is that, big brother?"
"Don't listen to it Tim," Martin cuts in firmly when Tim flinches. "You know what this is. What it want-"
"All I wanted was for you to come with me that night, Tim. But you were... what was it? Too tired? Too worried about getting caught?"
The mannequin takes a step towards them, and Gerry moves to stand on Tim's other side, feeling the Eye bristle and come to life under his skin. The Ceaseless Watcher holds no love for the Stranger, and they once fought over Tim.
"Fuck off," Tim snarls. His shoulders are stiff, a muscle on his jaw twitching with stress. "Get back to the carousel, or I'll-"
"You'll kill me?" Danny smiles again, even more unsettling than last time. "A bit too involved for you, isn't it? I'm honoured, at least this time I wouldn't die alone."
Tim's skin is starting to bubble at his temples and the edges of his mouth, and every deep breath he takes in seems to make the air around them hotter.
"What are you even doing here?" He tries. "I thought- I thought Grimaldi ate you just like that."
"It's easier to believe that, isn't it?" the puppet grins. Like the smile before, it's meant to be unsettling and it delivers on that front. "Just a quick flash of pain, and sweet little Danny's gone forever... Did that help you sleep at night?"
"Can you do something?" Martin leans forward to look at him, and Gerry grimaces.
He... could.
The Eye has made it no secret that it's pleased with him for serving his purpos e, and that in this new world Gerry's firmly under its protection and patronage. He could do something, he thinks as he looks at the puppet passing for Danny. The Beholding thinks it's some sort of poetic justice, that Gerry suffered so much in life, and now he gets to not only See his victim's past pain, but force them to relive it too, to feel it all over again until it destroys them.
Gerry mostly thinks it's a bit patronising, and entirely useless in a situation where he doesn't want Tim to watch his brother's lookalike bending under the weight of all the regrets and wrongs Daniel Stoker ever had or made in life.
"It- not here. It wouldn't work."
"What do you me-"
"Oh, we fed on him for days , you know?" The thing keeps saying. "Stripped him of everything bit by bit, skin and memories and secrets, and you know what the best part is?" Danny grins. "He didn't ask for you at all.'
"Stop."
"He knew how you were, poor dear Danny, his big brother too much of a selfish coward for him to have any hope of you saving him even as he lay dying, as we ate him-"
"It's not the thing that took your brother, Tim," Gerry says as calmly as he can, taking a short step away from the searing heat Tim's emitting as the Eye provides the information. "It just looks like it. It's how this works; it's showing you the ones the Stranger took from you, it's trying to get a rise out of-"
"Well, it's working !" Tim snaps, whipping around to face him.
It's objectively a good thing, because at least that means he's not paying attention to the puppet, but it also serves to confirm just how out of it Tim is, his eyes glowing like burning coals, his skin bubbling and melting off his frame at the corners of eyes and mouth.
Gerry's abruptly reminded that he doesn't know Tim nearly well enough to help calm him down, and he Knows with the certainty given to him by his status, that if Tim loses control now they're never getting him back; he just can't let that happen, can't let him lose himself to his patron now that they're en-route to fix this whole mess.
Gerry grits his teeth. "Hey, try to think of-"
"I'm actually surprised it was so effective," the puppet smirks.
"On me," he tries again, reaching out to yank on Tim's shoulder when he makes to turn back, and regretting it pretty much immediately as the boiling wax sticks to his skin, and fuck , he'd forgotten how much it hurt. "It's not worth-!"
"I would've gone for Sasha, but then I remembered you don't even know what she looked-"
And then his voice is gone, just like that.
The only thing breaking the silence left behind is thEir heavy breathing, and the eerie music of the carousel and the strange, fading echo of what might've been a scream.
The two of them whip around to face the empty space where the puppet used to be, only to find a swirling of mist and a mostly transparent-
"Mar- what did you do?!"
"Don't," Gerry grunts out through the pain when Tim makes to move again. "Breathe."
"Let go of me," Tim grumbles. He sounds- hurt. Agitated. Through his connection with the Eye, Gerry can sense just how much of it is humiliation at once again having the Stranger drag out what he thinks are his biggest failures. Wrong as it may be, he can't bring himself to care too much, not now that he's not in immediate danger. Tim has those who can comfort him, and he's not one of them.
"I can't. Maybe once you cool down a little."
Tim bristles, his eyes glowing just the slightest bit brighter and a new wave of pain flares through his hand. "Was that a fucking jo-"
"It really wasn't," Gerry has the presence of mind to notice how even when he's in excruciating pain, he mostly sounds tired. He should talk to someone about that. "In fact, I don't think I'll be doing anything with this hand in a bit, let alone letting you go."
"I- what- oh, fuck !" Tim flinches, when he looks down to see his arm mostly melted around Gerry's throbbing, bright-red hand. "Shit, I-"
"It's fine. I'm already losing feeling on it. Just calm down." Gerry shrugs. Now to deal with more pressing matters. "Martin? Are you with us?"
It takes a while, but Martin's faint voice thankfully reaches them, though his silhouette is still hard to see amongst the mist.
"Turns out the Lonely's still a thing. Or at least something I can do, it seems like," he says, quiet and far-off like a whisper over water. "I'm sorry, Tim. It was the only thing I could think of."
"Worked like a charm," Gerry responds after it becomes evident that Tim won't. His hand lost all feeling minutes ago, but the heat emanating from the man's body is starting to subside, so with some luck they may be able to unstick soon. "You held up good, considering everything," he turns to Tim.
"I... I know it was lying. I want it to be a lie." Tim's voice is hoarse with emotion, and Gerry aches for him a little.
"The Stranger lies," he says simply, and that is all he will say on the matter. The true extent of Danny Stoker's suffering is a secret he'll keep to himself, as is the fact that he did, in fact, call for his brother with his dying breath.
Some knowledge must be kept secret, despite his patron's convictions.
"It will not hurt you again," Martin's echoing voice reaches them again. Gerry doesn't know if he means the specific puppet Martin sent into the Lonely or the Stranger as a whole, but he doesn't doubt the declaration anyways. Martin's eyes are visible through the mist, and they're cold .
"Don't leave?" Gerry asks; the slight pleading in his voice may be somewhat underhanded, but he'll do whatever it takes.
"...I'm not planning to," Martin responds after another long moment. "Will your hand be okay?"
"I suppose it'll heal? I may not be Jon, but I'm still a monster of the Eye, I'm bound to have some special privileges."
"Don't say that," Martin huffs, and his form becomes a bit clearer. "You're not a monster of anything."
Gerry feels his lips curl softly into a smile. With the remaining nerves in his hand, he feels Tim pull away slowly until his skin peels off of Gerry's melted palm.
"Sorry," he mutters, his gaze glued to the ground.
"At least you only did the one hand. Molina went for a full hug." Gerry looks down at his burned hand curiously. The skin is already trying to regenerate, and he hopes it will finish healing before the nerves grow back. He also hopes the nerves will grow back, of course. "We should keep moving; now that this place has messed with us, it should be about ready to let us out."
"Is that how it works?" Martin asks as he takes a step closer -but not too close- to them. "If we hadn't feared the Stranger, we would've been trapped here forever?"
"I doubt it, because we're not afraid of the Stranger," Gerry answers as he starts walking again. Getting Tim away from this thing can only be beneficial.
"...so we can only be trapped here if we fear the Stranger, but we can also only cross this place if we fear the Stranger?" Martin's dry voice brings Gerry's smile to a full grin.
"Makes perfect sense if you ask me."
"I was going to thank Tim for not burning you to a crisp, but I'm not so sure anymore," Martin's silhouette grows a little more visible, and then some more when Gerry blows him a teasing kiss. "You stop that."
"What is that?" Asks Tim's exhausted voice.
"What- oh," Gerry stops short a few feet of the... Formation? Three stones of decreasing size, piled one on top of the other, and between the second and third-
"Gerry-"
"Shit." He launches forward before Martin can get another word out; he doesn't- the Eye didn't give him a heart when it brought him back, but Gerry's chest still feels impossibly heavy and tight as he shoves the smallest stone off the pile. Below it is a soft green hoodie, folded neatly in a square with the off-white, slightly chewed-up zipper on the front. It's not his, but Gerry has worn it his fair share of times since moving into the cottage, and the last time he saw it- "Martin."
Martin's still translucent hand comes to rest on the hoodie, his fingertips passing straight through the soft green fabric before he pulls back. "W- do you think he left this for us?" He asks, and the hope in his voice is almost painful to hear.
Gerry lets out a slow exhale, crouching before the makeshift cairn. Is- if Jon left this, if Jon is trying to communicate... then he's still fighting. He's still trying .
"... I'll go on ahead," Tim says, and it's only then that Gerry notices how long the silence has stretched for. "Won't go too far."
Martin waits until Tim's steps have faded, before sitting down next to him.
"We'll get him back," he says. His fingertips pass through Gerry's knee like they did through the hoodie, and it's a bit startling how it feels like nothing , Gerry decides.
"I know we will."
Silence.
"It's been different, hasn't it?" Martin says.
"It hasn't. It's the Lonely speaking," Gerry responds perhaps a bit too quickly. It is the Lonely, it-
"It's not bad to admit it." Martin's echo-y voice cuts into his thoughts. "Like I said, we'll get him back."
But Gerry can read between the lines of what Martin is saying, has grown to know Martin enough in the past few months, and he doesn't like what he's hearing.
"I don't know about you," Gerry starts slowly. It feels like that night so long ago at Jon's flat, trying to phrase things in a way that wouldn't send him sprinting like a spooked horse. "But I don't think different is bad. We're... adjusting. But I don't need Jon here to want you. I was hoping you'd know that by now."
"I did. I do." Martin sighs, and out of the corner of his eye Gerry sees him get more and more solid, and feels the weight of his hand on his knee. "It's still a bit hard to forget this only started because of him."
"Things rarely start and end the same way, don't they?" Gerry shrugs before awkwardly unfolding the hoodie single-handed, and pinning it under the burnt hand's elbow to pull the zipper down. It may be a bit on the nose, but it's still worth it to see Martin come back to his full colours -and then some-, when he starts slipping the garment on. "I'm going to need some help with the other sleeve, if you could?"
"You're ridiculous," Martin's voice is soft, when he goes to gently stretch the cuff open so Gerry can slide the damaged hand through without scraping it against the cloth.
"Like I keep telling Jon, it's far too late to send me back," Gerry grins.
Martin doesn't say anything else, but he zips up the hoodie to just below his chest, before leaning in to press a kiss on his forehead, and Gerry's pleased to notice his lips are far from cold on his skin.
"You made a difference. To Melanie, to them," Tim says, his voice drenched in stubborn determination, and he surprises himself thinking he sounds like the Tim that believed there might still be hope, in those short few days after the first attack on the institute before he realized his friend didn't trust him, and Sasha (never Sasha) made it clear that he could only trust her. "I just-"
"Hm?" Gerry turns to look at him, his face a mask of mild curiosity.
"Maybe it's not- maybe the destination is the same. But how we reach it matters."
Gerry's gaze returns to Martin's form, like pulled by a gravity he can't hope to resist. "Those are some wise words, coming from you."
Tim kicks up some dry dirt at him. "Sod off."
XXIV
"You're staring at me." Gerry's eyes don't open when he speaks, but the corners of his lips turn upwards.
Martin smiles, resting his chin on his bent knees. This cave, at least, is empty of Slaughter (or otherwise) victims, and he'll be damned if he doesn't enjoy the momentary peace, especially since the Lonely inside him is starting to rear up again in response to Gerry and Tim's presence. "How could you tell?"
"Eye things." Gerry shrugs and, much to Martin's amusement, keeps his own eyes closed still. "And you just admitted to it, of course."
"Of course," Martin nods sagely before he reaches out to run a couple fingers through Gerry's hair. "Your roots are coming in again."
Gerry's eyes do open at that, tinged with an annoyance so sincere and resigned that Martin is surprised to feel a chuckle bubble out of his mouth.
"Which is incredibly unfair, if you ask me. Beholding brings me back, body made anew and all that, and it doesn't even have the decency of saving me the pain of hair dye."
"I think it looks cute," Martin says with a smile, which only grows wider when Gerry's pale skin flushes at the compliment. "But who knows? Maybe you can ask if there's an abandoned box of dye lying around. Might be a box full of spiders at this point, though, so maybe it'll have to wait until we fix this."
Gerry moves to sit up and against Martin's shoulder, and places a kiss on Martin's cheek. "One more reason to fix it then."
"Are you done?" Tim says so sullenly that Martin breaks out laughing. "Glad to see you're having fun."
"In my defense, I was just looking at him. I didn't know he was awake," Martin smiles.
"You knew he wasn't asleep, he doesn't sleep!"
"He does, sometimes! Back at the cottage, he-"
"Martin, I'm begging you."
Gerry presses another kiss to his cheek, possibly just to piss off Tim, and Martin laughs again. It's... It's good to have things to laugh about sometimes.
They'll fix things. They just- they have to keep trying.
-------------------------------------
The Archive walks, and how wonderful it is that it walks!
It crosses the domains untouched, unharmed, documenting everything it sees as it was always meant to do, feeding its patron with the fear of the watched, the wicked delight of the watchers.
The Eye loves it as one would their own heart, or lungs, or hands, as much as a being of its nature can feel anything that isn't voracious hunger, and it yearns for the Archive to come at last to its rightful place, so they can consume and delight in what they've created together.
Right now, the Archive traverses one of the Stranger's domains. It can feel the reluctant respect it's awarded there, by the entity that would've brought its own new order, or believed it would if not for the Beholding's actions.
Here at least, the Archive is not an outlier. It doesn't ache for its old name, as those are meaningless in this domain of spinning confusion, of stolen faces and broken identities. The Distortion follows it around, as usual. The Archive sees it pop here and there, watching it as it gets closer and closer to the ever-spinnning carousel, but it doesn't dare get too close. It has felt the Stranger's grip on its wobbly sense of identity, and the encounter was far too close for it to feel comfortable trying again so soon, especially when the Archive is not in the right place to save its hide once more.
The Archive worries not about the beings that ride the carousel, victims that turn assailants and back again at every turn of this reality that has become the only thing they know. They are not powerful enough to hurt it, nor would they be able to rip its identity away anyways. It has trascended such concepts, and in this world it has created it has no need for fear.
When a man walks up to it, it does not concern itself with him, though it does wonder briefly about why he is here, and not spinning along with the others.
"Jon?" He asks in a deep, smooth voice- but not he, not quite, right?
The Archive walks.
"Jon!" The man- the person insists, hurrying his- their pace, to keep up with the Archive. "Jon, where- what the hell is happening?!"
"He's not very much himself at the moment," the Distortion pipes in. It stays carefully away from the- the Not Man, only close enough for its ever-changing voice to carry over. "He destroyed you."
"He what? I- what on Earth are you talking about? You- who are you?" They hold a hand up to their shoulder, like the memory of an old wound aching.
"I'm Helen," the Distortion says, its long, long fingers wrapped around the edge of its door, prepared to shut it tight at a moment's notice. "I take it you're not the Not Them, then? How'd you get back?"
"I- no! I'm- I'm everyone," Everyone says. "Or- not. I'm- I have a name, I just don't- listen, I know Jon. I'm sure of that. He must know my name, if he'd just- Jon, look at me!"
"You could try touching him," the Distortion suggests. "It brings him back for a couple minutes when I do it."
The person (who has a name), scoffs vaguely in its direction. "I know you probably think you're being helpful, but I have no idea what you're talking about."
The Distortion smiles then, a sharp-toothed, ever-changing mirage of a gesture. "Do it, then, if you dare. If you want to know."
The Archive pays them no mind, as it walks. Its attention is focused onward, always onward, towards the place where its patron and the Mother call it back. One step at a time, savoring all there is to witness, all there is to add to its annals, and-
There's a table.
There isn't. Or- or there is, but it's not just a table.
You have to touch it.
You shouldn't, you don't want to, you're just- it's confusing here, and there are so many things happening, just-
"Jon?!"
But you do! Don't you get it? You were put on this Earth just to touch this table. It will solve all your problems, you just need to touch it.
You will never see him again, any of them, but you have to know, don't you? Hasn't that always been your downfall, the stone you trip over every step of the way? There are other ways to find knowledge, better ways. If you don't touch it-
Touch it.
"J- it hurts!"
Your skin itches. It's not- It hurts along the seams (what seams?), but it won't for long. You don't need it anymore. That lovely, lovely face with the freckles that only really show up when you smile, when the sun hits you just the right way, won't you let me borrow it for a while? No, not whole, just- yes, your nose will do, and the way you chuckle when you keep secrets. You can keep the gleam in you eyes just before you make a joke, and your hands that are so agile and smart.
They won't even know the difference, I promise. I'll take good care of them for you, or should I say, for me?
"Jon!"
The Arch- Jonathan Sims looks up at the shout, to the face of the tall young man with the sandy hair and light brown skin who's got a hand wrapped around his wrist.
Does-? He doesn't know this man, does he? Is- he's not one of the ones he left behind, he's not- what are their names?
"Huh... I'll be honest, I was counting on you vaporizing them like you did before," the Di- Helen says as she comes to stand by his side, laying a long-fingered hand on his shoulder, and the call of the Eye, of the Web, breaks down even more.
The- the man, he's got to focus on the man.
No one that ever met him remembers him now, as his cousin Lawrence is currently trapped miles and miles under the ground, and the only thing he remembers with clarity is the wide open sky that he will never see again.
He looks into the man's eyes, the soft warm brown with the gentle speckles of green, set in a perfectly unremarkable face.
This man, when he was born, was named Carl Moore.
"Jon?" Helen asks again, and the mild headache her voice brings is a blessing to him, as the waves of confusion and distortion chip away at the control of those who would call him to the place where he belongs. "Why are you not dealing with them again?"
"I- you wanted me to destroy them?" Jon blinks, still a bit dazed by the clarity in his thoughts.
By his side, Helen shrugs. "I mean, they did try to kill me, and you, and everyone else in the Archives at some point or another. I thought they were due for some retribution."
"I'm not them. Or- or I am, but- but not them," says the man who is neither a man nor Carl Moore, and Jon nods."I don't- I don't know how it works very well."
And then it hits Jon who they are, who she is, because he can see (not See) how much that bothers her, how much the thought of there being something she doesn't understand, some information she doesn't know, itches at her like a scab.
How perfect she would have been for their patron, Archivist or not.
Her hand is still clenched tight around his wrist, and through the confusion of the Stranger spreading from it he feels relief and despair warring at his chest.
For all that he grieved losing her... this is not a fate he wanted for her, just like he didn't want it for Tim, for Martin, for himself.
"Jon?" she asks, in a voice that isn't her own except that it is now, for all intents and purposes, along with all the others inside her. "Do you know who I am?"
"Your name," he starts carefully, with intent. If by decreeing it he can make it a so in this new reality his words wove together, he will abuse the power, just this once, for the ones he loves. "Is Sasha James."
-------------------------------------
The beast's bright red tongue runs over rubbery black lips stretched too thin over a long, bony muzzle.
It tastes of iron and pain, and victory.
Those of its kind don't usually fall to their own, but this one ran too far from its packmate, thinking it could overtake the beast just with the strength born of its rage, and it paid the price in blood.
And still the feeling of satisfaction is short lived, and the beast's hackles raise and its fur stands on end as it feels itself watched again.
It despises this new world, with the billion eyes watching its every movement, trying to make it feel like prey even as it moves through the territories hunting those that wronged it in the past.
The beast's bloody drool splatters onto the barren earth as it takes another step forward, lifting its muzzle in the air to sniff out its next target, when it smells it.
The scent is too sweet, like a wound left to fester, beginning to rot. It follows the beast, as it's been doing so for many blinks of the ever-watching eyes in the sky; the beast knows not where it comes from, except that it brings with it the memory of old hunts, tinged with the taste of dirt and secrets and shame. A raggedy cot dressed in sheets that smell of-
Of her.
The beast's throat ignites with a low growl, as its patches of mangy fur stick up in response to the stress. Who is she, chasing it like the other two? What gives her the right, then, to hunt a hunter? What power could she possibly have?
Is it the strength of shared secrets, the guilt of a vice left to fester because ignoring the infection was a lot easier than cleaning it out? The pain of understanding that the stains of blood in the past won't be erased with effort, just like they weren't with tears. Or does the power come from somewhere different? From wanting, wishing so desperately for more time, just enough time to build a future where mistakes are not forgotten but not repeated?
Is it the taste of a last, bitter kiss, being ready to leave this world knowing your last breath is safe in her lungs-
The beast shakes its head, as if trying to rid itself of the corruption's carrion flies that feed on the blood so often dripping down its face.
The dripping salt is an unexected treat for them, but not one the beast is aware of, or equipped to understand. It's not a creature of thought, but of impulse and feeling, but this one is new and confusing, and all it does is make it angry.
It bends its elbows, and rubs its face free of any wetness on the coarse, dry dirt. In doing so, a new track snakes into its nose, and all thoughts of unpracticed gentleness are quickly chased from its mind, as it perks up to attention.
The time for thinking, for feeling, is gone. Only the hunt remains.
-------------------------------------
"A w- excuse me?" Tim looks up at Martin, arching an eyebrow. "You want to do what?"
Martin's eye twitches the slightest bit at Tim's voice. "Take a walk. Just for a few minutes. I won't go far, I just- I need a break."
"Sure, just look at the scenery." Tim glares up at the sky. It glares back, of course. "What do you even need a break from?"
"That'd be us," Gerry says on his other side, shrugging. Tim whips around to face him, the prickle of irritation catching on his chest like an errant flame on dry leaves, but the man isn't even looking at him. He's giving Martin a look Tim can't quite decipher, like he's reading into things Martin didn't even say. "Please don't leave. Okay?"
Martin's far-away eyes seem to focus on them just the slightest bit, and he smiles a little. "Promise. I'll- I really won't go too far. I just-"
"I get it." Gerry nods, offering an encouraging smile. "Go."
Martin looks... he's different, Tim decides as he watches him walk away without a single look back, and he pretends he doesn't notice how he seems to grow more and more grey with every step. Even before the world ended, when Tim visited him at his little happy ending, the Lonely clung to him stubbornly, muting the glow of his sappy, enamoured little smile. But this is something else-
"Are you okay?" Gerry's voice snaps him out of his reverie, and Tim looks away from Martin standing alone a few stone throws away, out of earshot but not out of sight, just far enough to not be with them.
"Is he okay?" Tim asks, but he's not too sure he wants to know the answer. When in his life has it been better to know than to remain ignorant?
Gerry's shoulders sag a little, and though his smile from a moment ago hasn't completely disappeared, it looks... sadder, somehow. "As much as he can be. He's- it's the Lonely. I can only imagine that our presence is overwhelming at times." He turns to give Tim a softer, sadder shrug. "It's not you, by the way. He had to take time away when it was just the three of us too, at the cottage."
Tim stays quiet for a moment, contemplating this new information. Matching it with this man that yearned for company, for camaraderie. That just wanted to belong."...It sucks. That he'll never get rid of it."
"It does." Gerry nods. "But he'll be fine, I think. There's more to him than just the Lonely. Like there's more to you than the Desolation."
What makes Tim pause is the way the he says it, this man he doesn't particularly like, and that doesn't like him either. The casual confidence in the declaration, like one would establish well-known truths. The sky is blue, water is wet, and you are so much more than the sorrow that won't let you die.
Tim doesn't know that this is true anymore, but... it's a good thought to have.
"How are you holding up?" Gerry asks.
Tim snorts, his breath coming out in a puff of white, hot steam. "You know, enjoying the apocalypse. Why do you care, anyways?"
Out the corner of his eye, he sees Gerry shrug.
"I just do. You'd have to be a lot bigger of an asshole for me to not care." His mouth curls into an amused smirk, before it softens into something much more muted, and when Tim follows his eyes, he sees Martin's silhouette still facing away from them. "Besides, they love you. I'd do a lot worse than caring for an idiot for the two of them."
Tim purses his lips and looks away then. What can he say to that? What does he have the right to say?
He knows a thing or two about loving lost causes, but what he felt was never enough to save any of them. Not his brother, or Sasha or- Tim is starting to suspect his pained heart was where the spark of the Desolation first caught, where else could his grief stem from?
"I'm glad they have you," he mutters in the end. That much is at least true. However obnoxious he finds the man, he was at least there to be what Tim couldn't. Maybe if he'd come sooner, Sasha wouldn't have been lost.
"Thanks. But-" by his side, Gerry sighs, "I don't know how much of a difference I really made. The world still ended, and I was just another piece on the board."
He was, wasn't he? It's what Martin whispered to him. A gentle, encouraging piece that made Jon feel loved and supported, so he wouldn't notice the trap he was walking into, the thing he was becoming.
"You made a difference. To Melanie, to them," Tim says, his voice drenched in stubborn determination, and he surprises himself thinking he sounds like the Tim that believed there might still be hope, in those short few days after the first attack on the institute before he realized his friend didn't trust him, and Sasha (never Sasha) made it clear that he could only trust her. "I just-"
"Hm?" Gerry turns to look at him, his face a mask of mild curiosity.
"Maybe it's not- maybe the destination is the same. But how we reach it matters."
Gerry's gaze returns to Martin's form, like pulled by a gravity he can't hope to resist. "Those are some wise words, coming from you."
Tim kicks up some dry dirt at him. "Sod off."
-------------------------------------
"But... but how?" Sasha -that's her name, how could she ever forget it? It... it's hers, no matter what face she wears now- "I'm- I was dead. I felt her ripping my face off."
She feels Jon flinch under the hand she's still wrapping around his wrist, under the one the other woman lays on his shoulder, and her heart aches a little. He looks so tired, covered in scars and his face gaunt, with a deep, haunted look in his eyes that are just now starting to go back to the usual, warm dark that Sasha knows, instead of the uncanny neon green.
"It said you were alive, after that. That you even tried to get us to see you, but we-"
"But you didn't." Sasha nods. She... she remembers that. Sort of, like flashes of a fever dream. Just a shadow clinging to her stolen body by a thread of white-hot pain, just enough to keep her from death, to feed off her suffering and fear as much as it fed from the uncertainty it sowed amongst her loved ones. "I don't... this is all crazy."
If not reassuring, it's certainly validating, she thinks as Jon explains what happened to her, the confirmation that her suspicions were right and they were tangled and stumbling blind into a web larger and stickier than any of them could've seen coming, but that's about the only silver lining in the story Jon tells. All of her friends -and Sasha has to wonder if that isn't exactly why the Not Them went for her specifically, with no one outside the institute to notice or care what happened to her- turned to horrors against their will, doing their best to survive without becoming the very thing that ruined their lives.
"Keep your hand on him," the woman says pointedly, and Sasha looks down to find she let go of Jon at some point.
"Why... why do you think it couldn't kill me? Why am I me, and not the others?" she asks after grabbing him again.
Jon, or rather this stranger that wears his name and his face, yet behaves so much more gently, who looks like he's been carrying the weight of the world -or his guilt, which might just be heavier- for a long time, shrugs.
"You were marked by the Spiral and the Eye, before the Stranger took you. I think the Stranger just couldn't rip that out of you entirely; both the knowledge and the deception were too big a part of you, and neither is something the Stranger deals with easily."
"I feel like I should take offense to that."
"I mean, I am only implying you're nosey and a liar, but take it as you will." Jon shrugs again, this time with the barest hint of a lopsided smile on his thin lips, and Sasha snorts. She hadn't heard Jon joke around since their time at research, and she'd missed it. Perhaps this is her Jon after all. "In any case, I suspect you- since you were the last victim, and the only one who retained a bit of conscience, when I- uh-"
"When you killed it," the woman -it's so weird to think of her as the Distortion, when Sasha can still remember Michael so clearly- supplies promptly, and Jon flinches again. "Quite a sight."
"...Yes, thank you Helen. Your- your hand, please." Jon clears his throat. Helen stops fidgeting with her hair, and grabs his shoulder again. "When I destroyed the Not Them, all the identities they'd stolen were released. But the only one that still remained was you, so-"
"So now I'm all of them?"
"I- they're all you now, I think."
"Hm. How am I different from the Not Them, then? Will I have to keep doing what it did?"
"I... doubt so? The Not Them did not have a sense of identity, which is- it's basically what you are now. I- I have no idea how you would feed the Stranger. I suspect similarly to how Tim feeds off his own fear?" Jon frowns, and then... and then his face goes slack, and his voice grows deeper, smoother. The voice she heard often behind his closed office door as he read melodramatic tale after take into an old recorder. "The fear of losing your identity along with your ever-changing body, who are you, if you shed your face like a mask without any warning, any control over it? Is that your face in the mirror, or have you lost yourself again, this time for goo-"
"Jon?" Sasha scowls.
"Touch him," Helen reminds her.
Sasha goes to squeeze his wrist again, and his eyes snap to her, bright green and empty for a moment, before the color starts draining again. "What was that?"
"I- who-" There's a hint of confusion in his dark eyes as they sweep her face, and Sasha feels something inside her shift with delight at being unknown. "Oh. I- right. Sasha. I- I apologize," he runs his free hand over his face. "I- sorry. I just need to- the fear needs to be annexed, wherever it comes from."
"That's very enlightening." Sasha deadpans.
Jon chuckles sheepishly. "It's as clear as these things get, I'm afraid."
Sasha arches an eyebrow, which takes her by surprise because she had never been able to arch her eyebrow before. Perks of a new body, she guesses. Maybe she can even whistle in one of them.
"Rose Cooper's can whistle." Jon nods, before grimacing a bit. "Sorry."
Sasha whistles. Or she doesn't, because apparently Carl Moore can't do that, but it's the sentiment that matters. "That'll take some getting used to."
"I'm-"
"It's not your fault." She shakes her head. "It's still hard to believe, you know? Elias being some sort of- of cosmic big baddie all along. Why would he want you?" she asks, then winces when she realizes how it sounds. "I mean-"
"No, I- I get it. It's- it really wasn't- I wasn't special. It was the Web's choice."
"Jon-"
"I- I can feel it pull at me even now, you know? That's probably why- Helen, your- thank you," Jon stops, continuing only once Helen's hand has been laid on his shoulder again. "It's not too happy you're blocking me from it. Or the Eye, for that matter."
"It's a pity that Tim killed that woman from the Dark, then. Maybe that would've been enough to cut them off completely."
Wait, what?
"Tim killed someone too?" Sasha asks, forcing the words past the lump in her throat.
"...If it's any consolation, Martin hasn't killed anyone," Jon says.
"Yet," Helen adds with a smile that curls in on itself over and over again. Her dark curly hair waves in the non-existant breeze, and her eyes swirl like milk stirred into a coffee. "But I'm rooting for him."
"I'd much rather you didn't," Jon deadpans, rolling his eyes. "I'm... I think I don't have much time left," he says then, in a muted, demure voice
"What?" Sasha whips around to look at him, feeling her fingertips grow cold with anxiety, realizing only then that she let go of him again.
"W- oh! No, not- not like that." Jon looks up at her, and she's stricken again with just how- how tired he looks. "I just- I have to go. But I'll be..."
He lets his voice fade before the 'fine', and Sasha knows he couldn't bring himself to lie.
"Well, yes," Jon chuckles. "I've been told I'm a spectacularly bad liar. I didn't see the point in trying." He sighs then, his gaze drifting off far away. "I wish there was a way to- I'd like to leave them a message. To let them know I'm- they know where I am. But I- I'd like them to know I am myself. Sometimes."
"Uh- question?" Sasha lifts her hand. When did she let go of his wrist? She grabs him again.
"Yes?" Jon asks. Sasha notices Helen's hand on his shoulder letting go one finger at a time, and his eyes starting to glow green again.
"Does that mean we're coming with you?"
"Huh. I- I suppose it would be easier if one of you told them in person."
"...But?"
"But nothing, I suppose," Jon sighs. "I- I felt slightly better, thinking I wouldn't be going alone."
Sasha's heart aches in her chest, and she feels her resolve solidify. She left them alone before, she was ripped from them.
It will not happen a second time.
"Actually," she says hurriedly. "You got a point. If two evil entities want you to walk into Mordor, and we can slow it down, we should. Message it is!"
Jon gives her a charmingly owlish, confused look, before it morphs into careful gratitude. "Message it is, then." He turns his hand around to squeeze at hers. "We just need to think of how."
"I don't imagine you were carrying a pen and a notepad when you got called, did you?? Helen taps her chin with a long finger, and Sasha's shoulder aches. "I could stab you, like the good old times. Blood is easy to write with."
"I- uh- I feel like bloody writing wouldn't be particularly reassuring." Jon grimaces again. "I think... yes, that could work. I- Sasha? Could you help me?"
"Yes, I- always!" Sasha hops to her feet as well, and Helen unfolds herself to keep holding Jon's shoulder. "What do you need?"
"That rock, the- yes, the flat one. Could you push it closer?" Jon asks.
The rock Jon pointed to is medium-sized and oblong, and Sasha finds it easy enough to flip it on its side to roll it over to where Jon waits, holding a smaller one to his chest. Without Sasha's hand on him, his eyes have gone green again, but he still seems to have control over himself. Mostly.
"Thank you. Now just- I want it on top of this one." Jon kicks at a larger, flatter rock by his feet. "We can probably just flip it over- yes, like that."
He waits until Sasha has finished pushing her rock on the other one, before placing his own on top.
"A cairn? Don't you think we need more than three rocks?" She asks, arching an eyebrow.
"No I- three's a fine number i think," he says. There's something both soft and intense in his eyes when he says so, and Sasha feels her lips curl into a smile. "Oh, actually... Could you lift the top one again?"
As soon as Sasha does, he shrugs off the faded green hoodie he's wearing, with its frayed cuffs and much too large for him, and is left only in a threadbare t-shirt -also far too big- while he carefully folds the garment. He lays it on top of the middle rock, and nods for Sasha to place the top one back.
"There. They should- they'll know I'm thinking straight. Or- or at least that I'm not completely gone," he mutters.
"Hmmm knowing them, that wouldn't stop them from following you." Helen says by his side.
"Yeah, that... that does worry me a little, thank you Helen."
"Anytime," she smiles. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be, I fear." Jon sighs. "I... its good to have you again, Sasha."
'It's good to be back,' Sasha can't bring herself to say. She's only heard a part of the story so far, but she already knows returning from the dead is not a positive.
"I'm here," she says instead. That at least she can be sure of.
CW: disease, violence, general apocalypse torments
"It is... very satisfied. And for what it's worth, the Eye won't hurt you, I think. You're very important to Jon," Gerry says. 'And to me,' he doesn't add. He's not so sure it matters. Unwanted as it is, his allegiance to the eye is enough to keep him safe, but he's very aware he's no Archivist. "We'll find him. We just- we have to keep walking."
"Towards the menacing eye tower, I assume?" Martin asks, his voice as dry as the cracked ground below them.
"Elias really said to hell with subtlety." Gerry snorts, and the ends of Martin's lips twitch for a second, before he schools his face back into a thoughtful frown.
"What are we going to do when we find him, Gerry? I'm- I'm guessing we'll end up at the panopticon one way or another, but once we're there... what then?"
XXIII
This town is sick.
Not just the inhabitants, mind you, though it is in them that the infection is more unsubtly, glaringly present.
The illness runs deep into the town's core, it crumbles walls and rots trees, makes the water run thick with muck and the air so dry and heavy that if given a choice, those breathing it might choose not to.
They are not given a choice.
Most of the people in the village (they were people once, before they became sacrifices, fodder for the illness and the observer above) do not remember the days before the change, before the illness came. Those who do, wish they didn't. It's a special kind of torture, to remember better days and to know they are long gone, and not likely to return.
Festering hope is as painful as any other disease.
Perhaps the worst thing about the illness is that it's not merely affecting their bodies. The masks keep out the worst of the virus, hide the rash and the pus and the rotten, bleeding gums from their neighbors' eyes, but they do nothing to stop the purulent words, the suspicious gazes. The disease has poisoned them so deep and so good, that they have convinced themselves that They are the ones at fault, They brought the plague here, if they were to get rid of Them, the illness would go.
Who 'Them' is changes from person to person, but it is always someone other than themselves.
No one can pinpoint exactly when the man comes into town, because they lost track of time so long ago, but they all Know he is here. The people of the village don't like outsiders any more than they like each other, which is to say not at all, but this is one they can't lift a finger against.
They bar their crumbling doors and draw their raggedy curtains, and peek out with suspicious, watery eyes at the man that stops at the main square, and talks into some device for a while.
His voice comes out strong and clear, unimpeded by any mask, and the gazes become judging, resentful, jealous. The man breathes in the sickly air and doesn't cough, doesn't collapse with painful sores blossoming across his skin.
Some notice the delicate round scars that mark his skin here and there, but they are dry and clean, and they don't ooze the congealed, pungent pus that the town's inhabitants have grown used to wiping off their faces with rags that only grow dirtier by the day.
The man takes a last look around the plaza, then risks one at the Observer above.
Then he is gone, and the villagers are relieved.
He looked healthy, they tell each other in a rare moment of solidarity against a common foe. But who knows? Who can really know what sort of ailment he carries whithin his chest, and whether or not it will be worse than their current situation?
It is better that he is gone, and takes his problems with him. They have far too many as it is.
It is not long before the inhabitants of the town have forgotten about the man, and they're back to glaring at each other over the rim of their masks, wondering which of their neighbors carries the disease in them, which of them deserves to be put to death to protect the community, to keep everyone safe.
And so, the illness spreads.
----------------------------
The village grows smaller with every step it takes. The Archive knows it doesn't make much sense, but it also knows that is how things are now.
It's experienced the fear of that domain, archived it, and it no longer matters. It can fade in the distance now, like so many useless memories.
"Well, that was just the slightest bit disturbing," says a voice to its right, just as a door creaks open. The Archive doesn't stop walking; it never does. "Hm. You're not even going to talk to a friend?"
"I have a place to be at." The Archive says, the words bitter on its tongue. Out of the corner of its eye -it's always looking forward, always at the goal- it can see the Distortion tilt its head and arch an eyebrow. "Don't you?"
"It can take care of itself for a bit. It's not like I can do much about it one way or another. But you know about that, don't you, Jon?" It says the name slowly, like it's testing how it'll react.
"I Know." It says simply.
"Ugh. You're even worse at conversation now. Tell me, where are lovely Martin and Gerry? Do you Know that too?"
"I do." The Archive says. The Distortion's voice hurts its senses, makes its head hurt, its ears throb. Still it looks forward, to the place where he ought to be, and continues walking. "They travel too. I know what they wish to accomplish. I also know it to be futile."
"As optimistic as always, I see. Is it Elias?"
"Magnus," the Archive corrects, neither it nor the Eye willing to let a piece of bad knowledge go unchallenged.
"Yes, yes, whatever. Tell me, how does it feel if I do this?" It asks, and a long hand wraps its fingers many times around the Archives' wrist.
It starts almost imperceptibly, like a trickle that slowly but steadily becomes a stream, and the Archive feels its steps falter, before the Distortion sticks its head before its own.
Her eyes are swirling and bright-colored, as usual, changing from one second to the next like a kaleidoscope slowly turned on itself. It makes his head hurt, but she's finally, thankfully blocking the Panopticon from his sight, and though the call still pulls strong at his chest, he can think.
"H- Helen." He says, testing the name just like she tested his. That was his name, wasn't it? He's Jon.
"That's neat. I figured it might confuse it a little," Helen smirks, looking awfully pleased with herself even as she walks backwards to keep up with him. "But much as I'd like to, I can't just stay staring wistfully into your eyes until they catch up, I'm afraid."
"You- no. It would grow tired of the intervention, sooner or later. I could destroy you."
"Is that a threat, Jon?"
"A warning," Jon sighs. "But thank you, for- for the respite. How did you find me?"
"Popping up here and there. Usually I have a knack for showing up where I want to be," Helen chuckles, shaking its- shaking her head. The- the confusion she caused is starting to wane.
"Yes, I... that makes sense." The Arc- Jon focuses on keeping his eyes on hers, on the swirl of nausea in his stomach, on the way his steps are unsteady and faltering. "I think you should go."
"Mmm yes, I think so too." Helen nods, before taking a step back. "Good talk, Jon. I'll be dropping by again."
The Archive does not respond.
There is a place where it must go to, where it will have all the power the Eye has seen fit to give it. Where it will Watch over the world its created for itself, feast on the fear of victim and torturer alike.
The Archive walks.
----------------------------
Basira huffs in annoyance, as the trail she's following changes directions abruptly.
It looks different now from before the world ended, but she's unsure if it's because she's changed, or because Daisy did.
It doesn't really matter, she supposes. She'll figure it out when she catches up and has to figure out how to get the jump on her. Right now, Basira has other things to focus on.
This place -this 'domain', a voice that sounds suspiciously like Jon's says in her mind, and Basira shakes her head to dislodge the thought- this area, she thinks stubbornly, is covered in rot and stinks to match.
It looks like the alleyway behind a convenience store, or rather countless convenience stores, and every so often employees with pus-coated fingers and faces covered in bleeding ulcers come out of reinforced backdoors to throw out perfectly good food.
It begins rotting as soon as it touches the ground, barely recognizable under the mold by the time the starving victims that litter the alley reach for it with their bone-thin hands. Still they eat it, they've had nothing else for days, and then they drag themselves away, their stomachs already seizing with cramps.
She can't help any of them, not the ones who took pleasure in denying the ones in need, who clung to their wealth with the ferocity of a hoarding dragon and whose biggest fear was to one day be treated like they did others, nor the ones whose only crime was being born in a pit they couldn't escape, those whose nightmares were written on overdue bills and sung in the crying voices of hungry children.
It's disgustingly appropriate, Basira thinks, that she once again finds herself in privilege. Untouched and above it all, and following Daisy's trail.
Later, she tells herself.
She has a promise to keep, and then- then she can find Jon, and get this over with.
-------------------------------
"How are you doing?" Gerry asks as they walk. The dirt beneath them crunches and kicks up in little clouds that don't dissipate as much as they go on to meld with the dust floating ever present in the air.
They've been walking in near-silence for the better part of the day, each of them lost in thoughts they can't or won't share with the other. For his part, Gerry's been very abruptly reminded that whatever he shared with Martin at the cottage started because of both their feelings for Jon, and he's been wondering how firm a ground they stand on now that he's gone. He likes Martin, cares for him a lot, but... this is a worst case scenario if he's ever seen one, and he's seen what stress does to people.
"Well, not great. But also a lot better than I could be in these circumstances, I think." Martin sighs. "Definitely better now that we're moving, though I wish it wasn't- you know. How about you?"
"Similarly, I guess. I'm worried about Jon." Gerry shrugs, and his stomach feels a bit lighter after putting that out there. "There's probably only one thing that can hurt him now, and he's walking straight for it."
Martin sighs again, longer this time. It makes Gerry want to lay a hand on his shoulder, but he doesn't know how well-received it would be, so he abstains.
"It must be good, to at least know some things."
"You're marked by the Eye, can't yo-"
"I'm only marked enough to know it resents me a whole lot for choosing the Lonely," Martin says with a mirthless chuckle. "Enough to know I only very narrowly avoided getting the short end of the stick under the new administration." He gives Gerry a look he can't decipher, out the corner of his eye. "I'm guessing you're a lot better off than me?"
"It is... very satisfied. And for what it's worth, the Eye won't hurt you, I think. You're very important to Jon," Gerry says. 'And to me,' he doesn't add. He's not so sure it matters. Unwanted as it is, his allegiance to the Eye is enough to keep him safe, but he's very aware he's no Archivist. "We'll find him. We just- we have to keep walking."
"Towards the menacing eye tower, I assume?" Martin asks, his voice as dry as the cracked ground below them.
"Elias really said to hell with subtlety." Gerry snorts, and the ends of Martin's lips twitch for a second, before he schools his face back into a thoughtful frown.
"What are we going to do when we find him, Gerry? I'm- I'm guessing we'll end up at the panopticon one way or another, but once we're there... what then?"
Gerry doesn't respond right away, instead letting several minutes go by marked ony by the rise and fall of their footsteps. The ground is not too dry anymore, the dirt now moist and a turning a deep, worrying hint of reddish brown that he contemplates as he thinks of an answer.
"I don't know," he admits in the end. "I... this is not a possibility we ever planned for. You heard Gertrude's tape, she didn't think it would be possible to change the world back if a ritual ever suceeded."
A few more minutes go by, their steps no longer kicking up dust but making a soft squelching sound instead. The scent of iron in the air is strong, and though Gerry tries to Know what's ahead of them, all he can glimpse is that it is Not For Him, that his place is further away, and he must continue.
He hopes it wont be for Martin either, because he's not sure what that means for him. For them.
"I didn't like that she yelled at you," Martin says quietly by his side, and Gerry has to backtrack a little in the conversation to make sense of what he's talking about. "Did she do it a lot?"
Gerry snorts again, but it comes out a little choked up. It still feels odd, when someone feels offended or protective on his behalf instead of the other way around.
"When she wanted me to listen." He shrugs. "Gertrude wasn't stupid."
And he says no more, because he does not know what else is there to say. Martin, perhaps better than anyone, understands.
"There are rituals, aren't they? Rituals that actually work. Like Elias', like the one Gertrude used to bind Agnes." Martin kicks at the dark, soggy ground beneath them. "Both are Web, I suppose?"
"I don't know that they're the Web as much as that the Web itself is just playing all the participants around."
"Wait, what?" Martin stops and spins on his heel. "You mean this wasn't even the Eye's doing?!"
"I'm- I really don't know anything, Martin." Gerry runs a hand down his face. "I'm starting to wonder if I ever did. It's just guesses upon guesses- if I knew something, anything, I'd tell you. Please trust me on that."
Martin doesn't answer, and when Gerry looks up at him, he finds his eyes -green and grey, and dull with a far-off look but so stubbornly present- pinning him to his spot.
"I do." Martin nods in the end, after a couple more seconds of silent contemplation. "I really do." He sighs, then. "We're getting close, aren't we?"
Gerry arches an eyebrow. "How can you tell?"
Martin's answering smile is tiny with barely a hint of almost sheepish humour, and Gerry feels his stomach flip on itself as he smiles back.
"Too many people."
----------------------------
They can't see them.
They aren't really drones per se, but she can't think of any other way to describe them, these metallic yet organic looking contraptions that glide around focusing their shutters on everyone and everything... Or evereyone and everything that isn't them. Their cold, uncaring gaze drifts over the two of them (three, if you count the cat in the bag) like they aren't even there, and the things themselves part before them as they walk towards them.
It's almost hilarious, or it would be if the situation wasn't so dire, Georgie thinks as they traverse the broken streets of what once was London in one of their little recon missions. Turns out all you need is to be scared enough one time that you fill your quota, then you're good to go for the apocalypse.
"What's this one like?" Melanie asks in a whisper.
"There's- it's offices," Georgie explains. "Blocks and blocks of office buildings."
They're built in shiny, transparent crystal, so that the people working inside have a clear view of the outside world, or could, if their spines weren't warped and bent, pulling them down every time they dare lifting their gaze from the blinding light of the screen before them.
Even from a distance, Georgie can see their bleeding fingers with their cracked fingernails, tapping away at their keyboards, see the tears running down their face from eyes that cannot blink.
None of the buldings have a door, and when Georgie looks more carefully -she doesn't want to, but she figures she owes it to these people; if they have to suffer through this, then she the least she can do is witness it- she sees that none of the computers are connected to anything.
The workers cry and cry, their quiet, broken sobs echoing across the street as if undeterred by the glass, and Georgie feels like joining in.
"They're working. They can only work. It's- it's just torture, how is that even a fear? They're just-"
"Trapped?" Melanie asks, her voice bitter. "Buried, probably. It's not too much of a stretch, is it?"
"I- I wonder if we could get them out. I mean, the walls are just glass, we could just break it and grab as many as we can and run?"
"Run where though?" Melanie arches an eyebrow. "It's not like there's a place where..."
Georgie turns to her, when Melanie's voice fades into silence. "Are you okay?"
"...A place where the Eye can't-"
"Melanie?!" A third voice says, and the two of them whirl around to face it.
The woman is wearing dark clothes and a headscarf, and her eyes are glowing an eerie, poisonous green that has Georgie pushing Melanie behind her as she comes closer.
"Who-"
"Basira?" Melanie asks, leaning around her. Georgie gives her a fleeting look, before returning her attention to the newcomer.
"Your coworker?" She asks. She's heard a bit about her before, from Jon when she asked how they found such a secluded hiding place so fast, from Melanie when she complained about the work; she even saw a picture of her on Melanie's phone once, but- but she's deep enough into this that she knows faces don't mean anything anymore.
"Maybe?"
"What do you mean maybe?"
"If the Stranger didn't pull its shit again. Basira, is that you?"
The woman stops a few steps from them, holding her hands up to her chest.
"Not saying it's a good thing, but I don't think the Stranger could touch me now," she says.
Behind her, Georgie hears Melanie huff.
"Gone all team Watcher then, haven't you?"
The woman flinches a little at that. Her hands clench into fists, and the corner of his tightly pursed lips twitches, before she gets it back under control.
"I have to find Daisy," is all she says.
"...Yeah. That- that would do it, I suppose." Melanie sighs. A pause. "This is Georgie."
The woman arches an eyebrow. "The Georgie?"
"Yup."
"Huh." The woman's too-bright eyes sweep over her. "Nice to meet you."
The Georgie in question -the Georgie, apparently,- blinks. "Likewise? I think? I-"
"Do you know where Gerry is?" Melanie interrupts. "Jon?"
The woman blinks, and her eyes glow a bit more intensely for a moment. "I do. I- he's next on my list. After her."
"Well, that sounds ominous," Georgie interrupts. This Basira doesn't seem too human herself, what right does she have to hunt Jon? "I highly doubt he meant to cause this, in case you thought-"
"I know that." Basira rolls her eyes, and Georgie feels her eyelid twitch. "This was- Elias was marking him. Or rather, having the entities mark him. It has to have been him. It's- that's why Tim and I sent them up north. To try and keep Elias from- we didn't know, or we would've-"
Her voice fades.
The three of them stand there for a moment in silence, and Georgie's grateful. She doesn't know how Basira would have ended the sentence, and she doesn't want to know.
What would it have taken to stop this from coming to pass? What will it take to fix it?
"Are you two safe?" Basira asks, and Melanie snorts again.
"Safer than them," she says, gesturing vaguely in the offices' direction. "I don't- I think it can't see me. And as long as I stick to Georgie, neither can the others."
"I- that's good. It's good to know it worked." She gestures at her face for a second, until she seems to catch on that Melanie can't see her, and Georgie feels her lips twitch at the embarrassed frown in her face. "Your eyes, I mean."
"Yep. Good investment," Melanie says dryly. Then, after a beat, "I tried calling Helen. She didn't come."
"You think they lost it?" Melanie asks. Her voice is, Georgie notices, just the slightest bit sadder.
Basira shrugs, the movement jerky and evasive. "I don't know. Maybe? It feels like- I have some control, because of the Eye, you know?"
"I can imagine. You don't sound super thrilled."
"I'm not." She pinches the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a migraine. Georgie notices some of the drones turn to her like moths to a flame, and the light behind her eyelids grows brighter still. "Enough. I've got to get moving, before Daisy gets too far."
"Well... Be safe, I guess."
"...You too. Both of tou." The woman nods at Georgie. "I'll try to bring the others back here. Don't get too close to the tower on the meanwhile."
Georgie snorts. "Trust me, we weren't planning on it."
"Good. Bye." And with that, Basira spins on her heel and starts walking away, without a single look back as Georgie watches her grow smaller and smaller in the distance, until she takes a turn and she loses sight of her.
"Your friends are lovely," she comments, and Melanie snorts.
"Gerry's a lot more charismatic, when you're not badmouthing one of his boyfriends. Also I figure hunting down your lover turned monster in the middle of the apocalypse would leave you with little motivation for small talk."
"And you thought the YouTuber community was full of unnecessary drama."
"Ugh, don't even mention it, that wasn't even interesting drama." Melanie bumps her arm with her shoulder, smiling. "Let's go back, shall we?"
----------------------------
"This way!" Martin yells after he spots an opening. He goes to run that way, his heart beating an incessant, frantic drum in his ears even more deafening than the one resonating all around them.
"Wait- no!" Gerry screams behind him, and he yanks Martin back just as another of the creatures falls exactly on the spot Martin was going to step into, stabbing with its bayonet fingers at blessedly Martin-less space.
"How do we get out?!"
"Keep running-" Gerry just barely dodges out of the way of an incoming blow, and the creature roars, enraged at losing a kill. The one that almost skewered Martin just now responds in kind, before it launches itself against the other and starts stabbing at its bloody, battle-marred skin. The only good thing about this place is that these things seem as interested in hurting each other as in hurting them, Martin thinks.
"Run where?! They're everywhere!" Martin's voice is nerve-wrackingly high-pitched with hysteria, as they watch the two monsters roll around stabbing and cutting at each other, and hear the clanking steel of weaponry as more are drawn in by the sounds of the fight.
"I'm trying to See a way, but-" Gerry throws himself back when one of the creatures swings too wide, pulling Martin along with him. "Try calling the Lonely! Maybe it'll make it easier for you to sneak-"
"I'm sorry, but I'm feeling very present and stab-able at the moment!" Martin snaps.
"Stop screaming!" Gerry screams. The creatures scream back. Martin is very tired of this Slaughter kingdom or territory or whatever the hell it is.
"Fine." Martin takes a deep breath; it smells of iron and sweat, and only really serves to put him more on edge. Still, he takes a couple slow, controlled steps back, trying to not call the attention of the fighting creatures, least they become their target again. "Fine, just- shit!"
It's all he can do to pull Gerry against him as yet another creature of the Slaughter pops up behind him, and then they're running, running, just running, even though every fiber of Martin's body is itching to turn around and fight back, be it his own instincts or the Slaughter's influence on him.
His skin feels too tight, his hands aching to clench around something, and Martin is furious.
He wonders for a moment if this is how Melanie felt, the rage burning under her skin at the prospect of yet again being found lacking. Isn't that how it always is? Martin, who needs to be saved, explained the world around him, Martin who everyone is always so keen to underestimate...
"-tin, don't- don't turn around now, we're amost there, don't listen to it-" Gerry's voice is muffled by the blood pulsating in his ears, but something in Martin aches at it. He needs to listen to him, he knows. The Slaughter is not for him, and there's no telling what might happen to him if he stays here. He can't leave Gerry alone, and- and they need to find Jon. Still, the promise of release, of finally letting go of all the tightly compressed anger he's been hauling around for years, it calls to him as enticing and deadly as a siren song.
"I don't- talk to me," he asks, begs. Gerry's voice pulled him out of the Lonely, and he wants the comfort it brings. "Can you feel Jon?"
"I can," Gerry responds hurriedly as they run, pulling at Martin through patches of dirt turned to red, slippery mud, the iron stench spearing at Martin's nostrils as they stumble across them. "I can, Martin, he's moving, but he slows down at times, we just have to catch up to him."
"Do you think he's alright?"
"More- more alright than us, definitely. But he still needs us," Gerry says. His voice holds a strange, forceful conviction to it, and Martin has the sudden suspicion that the words are as much for his own benefit as they are to keep Martin distracted as they reach the end of the trenches. "Almost!"
They come to the end of the Slaughter's territry in a last, frantic race. Martin really only realizes they're on the clear because Gerry skids to a stop, then bends at the waist to catch his breath in the sort of shaky, ragged gasps that are all one can give once adrenaline starts to fade.
"Don't-" Martin starts, then stops to clear his throat. It still tastes like iron, and he wonders if he bit himself while they ran, or if it's the air itself that carries rage within it. "Don't ask me to go into the Lonely again."
"Huh?" Gerry looks up at him, just a bright blue-green eye peering through the curtains of his deep black hair.
"Before. You wanted me to- you said I should go into the Lonely, to try and sneak away."
"Oh. Yeah, it- I thought they might have a harder time spotting you if you did."
"Well, don't suggest it again." Martin scowls as Gerry straigtens up, his brow furrowed in what looks like confusion. "I don't know if I can even go into the Lonely anymore with the new rules, but I'm not leaving you behind anyways. Ever."
"...Oh." Gerry's confused frown softens, and he looks away from Martin as he lets out a quiet snort of nervous laughter. "Right. I'll keep that in mind."
Martin rolls his eyes, but his irritation has faded enough that he finds the sight endearing. "You're ridiculous." He says, and Gerry chuckles again, not offended in the least. "Well. If that's settled... how on Earth did Jon go through this by himself?!"
"Ah... well," Gerry brings a hand up to rub at the back of his neck, the easy, pleased smile practically evaporating from his face. "Like I said, I don't know that he has to worry about getting hurt anymore, Martin."
They stand there for a beat of silence, while Martin wonders how to break it to his- is Gerry his boyfriend? They didn't really discuss it before the world ended- that he's not being nearly as clear as he thinks he-
"So your type is just 'generally ominous bastard', then," says a familiar, well-loved voice. Martin turns around with a smile, as Gerry groans loudly behind him. "There's no accounting for taste, I suppose."
Martin lets out a relieved, slightly hysterical laugh. "It's good to see you again, Tim."
Someone asked about Jon's reaction to Gerry's declaration at the end of Illicio's chapter 16, and I am physically incapable of resisting Jongerry so...
[[MORE]]
"I love you," Gerry says, simple like breathing, like it was an expected conclusion, like it's only natural.
Jon freezes. This is not the first time he hears these words, and with that thought comes the one that none of the times he's heard them before -or felt their intent behind a different phrase, because Jon is oblivious, but not completely blind- have ended well.
Objectively, he understands this is not some sort of inescapable omen, a jinx on his and Gerry's relationship; it never worked before, but that doesn't- it doesn't mean those people didn't love him, or that Jon didn't love them back.
He looks down, and Gerry's just laying there on his lap, looking contented enough with just watching Jon and still holding the palm of his hand to his lips.
"I- Gerry-" Jon starts, but finds that he has no idea how to end the sentence. Gerry scowls for a second, before he closes his eyes and sighs.
"You're scared."
"Wh- no! I- i'm not, just-"
"Jon, I can feel things in your voice, remember?"
...Ah, fuck.
"I'm- listen, it's not-" Jon fumbles with his words, and the fear in his gut turns to outright panic when Gerry moves to sit up. "I-"
"Jon, calm down." Gerry sits against the wall, leaving between them a few inches of space that feel insurmountable. "It's alright. I'm not expecting you to say anything. I told you when we got together."
He did, didn't he? 'I'm here, whichever way you want me', and isn't that such a him thing to say? Giving out everything he has to offer, and not expecting anything back because when has he ever gotten it anyways? No expectations mean no disappointments.
But why shouldn't Gerry expect something back? Doesn't he deserve to have some of what he gives returned to him? Jon's blood boils, the initial shock evaporating in favor of a healthy dose of indignation.
"You did. But I- it's not-" Jon groans, letting his head fall back against the wall. 'It's not that I don't love you', he wants to say, but he can't. Considering his powers, it's a little ironic that words will not come when he wants them to, but this is nothing new. It's just-
Love is not something to be talked about. It's not something to be laid on a table and dissected and studied.
Love is- it's something that happens.
It's a cup of tea that is somehow always warm when you reach for it. It's moving down to a new job with the knowledge that whatever happens, you're not alone. It's having nowhere to run but a place you thought closed to you long ago, and finding it open for you.
It's accepting a cup of coffee every night even when you don't care for the damned thing, because it's not about the coffee just like it's not about the quiche, but you don't say either of those things because thinking one can reduce love to three words is a disservice at best and outright arrogant at worst.
"Jon?" Gerry asks carefully, and it's only then that Jon realizes he's probably frowning up a storm. "Listen-"
"No," Jon says, and Gerry stops so abruptly that he wonders for a second if he didn't accidentally compel him. "No, you listen."
"...Okay? I'm- oh!" He flinches a little when Jon crawls into his lap, rising with his knees caging his thighs and pushing at his shoulders. He looks up at Jon with a mix of amusement and curiosity, which is miles better from the mute resignation from a moment ago. "I'm listening."
As it turns out.
Jon doesn't have any words to say.
He is, however, fairly confident he got his point across, when they finally rise from the kitchen floor sometime later.
A reversal of the last scene in Illicio's 13th chapter to go with this amazing art by @ivehadanapophany
There has to be another way to destroy this thing. If anything, Gertrude and Dekker never failed with their bombs and their concrete, so that's always an option.
Gerry tries to prod at the Eye for information, but gets nothing more than a vague feeling of annoyance. However much the Watcher wants the Dark Sun destroyed, it's perfectly clear who was supposed to be doing the-
THUD
Something collapses to the ground behind him-
"Jon!" Basira screams, and Gerry's blood runs cold. He whips around at the sound of her gunshot, but all he finds is an already raging fire, and there's a split second in which all his mind supplies is 'I told Martin this would happen'.
But the tether at his chest does not point to the person enveloped in flames; Gerry recoils when he recognizes the broken form at her feet.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck.
"Jon?" Gerry crouches at his side to turn him on his back, and flinches back immediately. His eyes are a mess of mangled flesh and blood, and he looks- he looks like an empty husk, a broken mannequin and he's not healing, why isn't the healing?! "J- FUCK!"
There's- there's more fire now, and Gerry darts a look at Tim, his brain going into overdrive. The man's panicked gaze also fixed on Jon's bo- on Jon, and his face looks like it's melting off its frame, the hand extended towards Manuela Dominguez shaking with barely-there restraint.
"Basira!" Gerry screams, slipping his arms under Jon to lift him. He comes easily enough, limp in his grip like- don't think about it, don't- "We have to get out now!"
She doesn't even stop to acknowledge him, just bolts towards the exit. The air in the warehouse is overheated way past the point of being breathable by now, and the cool night breeze outside hits Gerry like a brick to the face when he steps outside.
He collapses a short distance from the burning building, with Jon still a dead weight in his arms. His- his eyes are mostly gone, the light of the fire reflecting against the thick blood on his face in an almost hypnotic dance of reds and oranges.
"What's wrong with him?!" Basira snaps, coming to her knees on Jon's other side. "Why isn't he healing?!"
"I don't- he- I think he-" the word gets stuck in his throat like so many others, his thoughts bouncing uselessly inside his head. Jon is gone, slipped through his fingers again and it somehow feels even crueler this time, now that Gerry has come to terms with having him for himself, when- "He's-"
"He's not dead." Basira declares firmly, and when Gerry lifts his gaze he finds that her eyes are green with Beholding, as she looks intently at him. "You're still here, so he's not dead, he's just-"
"In the Dark." The realization is like a slap to the face and if anything, it makes it worse. Jon is- Jon is alive, but he's alone in the Dark, and there was no time to prepare, no time to even feed appropriately, all he has is that statement he took from Manuela and-
"Keay! Do something!" Basira snarls again. "Come on!"
"I'm- yes, I-" his mind is still screeching, but now there's a course of action at least. He- Jon said Daisy fed him a statement in the Buried, but he's alone now, and he can't just feed himself. The- the tapes called him back last time, but they don't have any at hand. Still, there's- that's an idea. "We need a statement-"
"Well, give him one! I thought that was your thing!" Basira yells, and Gerry flinches back before forcing himself to focus. It's- it's not the fucking time for his ridiculous trauma, it's- Jon needs him, Jon-
A statement. A statement from the Dark, preferably. He's got some of those, he definitely does, it's-
'... A man defeated the Dark through the power of breakfast food, is what you're saying?' Jon's voice says in his head, and he can almost feel the ghost of his hands on his scalp.
'You said a man used quiche as his anchor!'
'It was not about the quiche, I thought you'd understood that!'
It feels almost arrogant, to think that this particular statement might lead Jon out not just because of the subject matter, but because of the memories associated with it. With him.
"There was a- I met a man once, that told me about the time he got lost in his living room." Jon's body feels cold in his arms, but it's got to be a trick of his mind, because he can still feel a faint pulse where his hand is white-knuckled around Jon's wrist. It's just that, it's his fear. Which entity's feeding on him right now? It's- it doesn't matter, not now, not when Jon's life is on the line, not- "He'd always been afraid of it, could always see the things moving just out the corner of his eye. He said his dreams were always in that not-grey color you get when your vision is just getting used to the lack of light."
It's not working.
It's not working, he thinks as he goes through the statement, the man making sure as always that everything was in order, that his path to the stairs across the room was clear, before flicking off the lights.
Why did he think it would work? Why did he think that it- that he would be enough, when even Martin wasn't able to pull him back from the Buried?
The man in his statement finds himself in the Dark, lost in an expanse too massive to be his little suburban living room. He tries walking on a straight line, convinced he will find the stairs, but the shadows in the darkness stalk around him, waiting for him to falter in his step before pouncing.
Is Jon lost in a similar way? Can he see the things in the dark even though his eyes are- why isn't it working?! Even if Gerry's not enough, the Eye is being fed. The Archivist is listening to a statement, he should-
"He was- Jon, please. He- he said he had just about given up. He was about to sit down and let whatever it was that was lurking in the shadows tear him apart. Are- can you hear me?" Jon's wrist is growing colder even when they're sitting so close to Tim's inferno, and he can't lose him, he can't. "He said it made him think of his wife, because he was too tired to keep walking, and she was always trying to get him to exercise more. And then he- he said he remembered what- what his wife told him before he turned off the lights at the living room."
Jon's forehead is cold as well when he bends down to kiss it, and he feels Basira's pitying gaze on him, but Gerry can't bring himself to be ashamed at the display.
"She- she reminded him to set the alarm, because they would be having breakfast with her parents next morning, and- and he said he remembered the way then, Jon, because he wanted- you were right, alright? It was the fucking quiche, he just-" are Jon's eyelids twitching, or is it just wistful thinking? Is his skin growing warmer, or is Gerry growing colder himself, his life fading away even as he tries to cling to Jon? "He walked out, just like that. And he was at the top floor, with- with his wife, and he could see the light of his clock, and he knew she'd already set the alarm for him because she knew he'd forget- Jon, open your eyes please-"
And he does.
Jon's eyes are their usual brown, with only the slightest hint of green at their depths, and Gerry's quite sure if he'd been given a heart, it would have stopped by now.
"What- where's Manuela?"
"Tim dealt with her. And the Sun as well," Basira answers immediately, and Gerry's glad. He wouldn't be able to form a word if he tried.
Jon's eyes -his eyes are alright, he's alright, he's back- turn to the still roaring fire. Gerry can see the first stirrings of worry and of course this man would walk straight out of the Dark and be worried about someone else.
"Is Tim-"
"In there." Turns out he can form words, if it is to reassure Jon. "He'll be alright, it's- fire can't hurt him."
And then Jon's gaze is on him, pinning him in place with something much more effective than the power of the Archivist.
"I heard your voice. I followed it out." Jon's fingers graze softly against his temple when he reaches up to push some hair behind his ear, and Gerry blinks as the corner of Jon's lips twitches upward in a smirk. "Like quiche"
Oh.
It's- the wave of relief that washes over him is overpowering. Gerry's eyes prickle with heat, and it's all he can do to laugh before he collapses against Jon, burying his face in his neck.
"I- I'm back. I came back." Jon mumbles above him. Gerry squeezes him tighter, clinging to him like daring the world to take him again. "I'm home."
"You really are." He mutters, his voice thick and strained and wet. "You are, Jon."
He's glad his face is hidden, when the first tear slips past his tightly shut eyelids. The whole world at his disposal, and the only place he wants to be at is in Jon's arms.
