"Disability is not evil" my disability is. I am being tortured and imprisoned. The cure narrative is an attempt to drop a bomb on my prison and bury me with it, not to free me. The social model is an insistence that if only I were treated better by the guards and if the society did not think of the prisoner status as lower I would not mind being tortured and imprisoned.
If you do not mind your disability — congratulations, genuinely. Now stop shutting those of us who do up.
(this is not specifically about the line the post started with, it’s about many other things including individuals saying that disabled suffering is only ever an ableist stereotype)
_
A less venty and metaphorical post on this where I also talk more about the inherent ableism of the cure narrative towards those who would actually like to be cured too: https://tumblr.com/dyspunktional-leviathan/715674903692673024/
In your opinion which character from Fnaf security breach would most likely go to prison for committing multiple felonies
Montgomery Gator
Roxanne Wolf
Gregory
Vanessa
Glamrock Freddy
I'll be ranking these as if they were all human and could get arrested on human terms lol:
1: Vanessa. she committed the same if not more crimes and murders than Gregory did but didn't have the insane amount of skills at hand to cover it up seamlessly. she would be more likely to get caught than him and would eventually be tracked down if she tried to run. Vanny seems like the type to make one mistake and then they lose
2: Freddy. this seems crazy but I do think this. Freddy also committed murders but even if he was under control like Gregory and vanessa i dont think he would offer himself the same benefit of the doubt that it wasnt him he offers to the others. he wouldnt have covered his tracks, and Freddy is not stupid but he wouldnt be able to. so when they confronted them he wouldnt fight it and go with them
3: Roxy: I think she would be overrun with guilt for doing something terrible no matter how unwilling, and it melds with her bad self esteem to an awful degree. she would probably try to cover it up and defend herself if they came to get her but they could say something specific to set her off and then its over
Monty: despite the murders he would understand who is really at fault. and he literally already got away with Bonnie (even if that was unwilling too) where people knew something happened and was up but nobody could point any fingers. that's what would happen with him. they would suspect him but he would play it so smoothly plus his covering up they wouldnt be able to arrest him
5: Gregory. not to put my fave at the end for most smart and best or something but like. the entire book of GGY was about how nobody suspected him and he seamlessly covered up everything to the point where absolutely nobody noticed. and he knew super quickly when someone was even beginning to solve his mystery and monitored them, and knew exactly when to snuff them out so they couldnt expose him. the police wouldn't even know he did anything to arrest him
bonus joke response for Chica: she would let herself get arrested for the promise of a last meal
The water was disgusting. Not shortly after Dream had started washing himself, the water turned into a grey-brownish color. There were clumps of hair swimming around and Dream hoped they weren’t about to clog up the pipes.
Dream stood up, careful not to drop too much water onto the already wet floor. He hoped Technoblade and Phil wouldn’t find out about it, so he took a few of the towels and laid them out on the floor.
He carefully stepped out of the tub, his entire body tired from the warm water. He could just lay down on the floor and fall asleep but he knew his hosts wanted to meet him after his bath. The water quickly disappeared into the towels, making them damp.
Phil did say that he could use as many towels as he wanted, so he hoped him cleaning the floor was alright.
Dream ignored the shaking in his exhausted legs.
After toweling himself off, he took the clothes which had been folded neatly on the stool for him and sat down himself. He looked at them and the first thing he noticed was that they were not in his usual green color. Dream didn’t know why he had expected them to be green but he shouldn’t complain.
He shook the first piece of clothing and it quickly unfolded itself, only to reveal a sweater in a soft, dark blue color. Dream touched the material and it was extremely fluffy and promised to keep the wearer warm and cozy.
He quickly put it on and Dream felt like he was drowning in the sweater. The sleeves were way too long and standing up, the bottom of the sweater fell past his hips. He quickly put on the boxers and turned to the baggy, dark grey pants. Dream was sure he had seen Technoblade in them once before but he wasn’t sure. He saw a little emblem stitched into the bottom of each piece, which Dream could decipher as the symbol of the Antarctic Empire, clearly pointing at Technoblade’s past as a ruler of a whole continent.
Dream stumbled over to the sink, holding himself up with the help of the porcelain. Even just standing for a few minutes was already too exhausting for him. Dream stared at himself in the mirror wondering if he will ever be able to come back to his former self’s strength.
He hung his head low, letting it rest on the cold sink while still holding himself up.
Dream opened his eyes and saw the wet towels all laying around on the floor, so he quickly straightened his back and went to pick them up. He didn’t want to make another mess after all.
He could already feel his legs shake from the unusual stress and activity they had to endure in those few hours, so Dream more or less dragged himself towards the door. His hands were full with towels so he decided to knock against the door.
The mumbling voices on the other side stopped and he could hear steps hurrying towards him.
“Are you alright, mate?” Phil asked from the other side, his voice close to the door.
Dream swallowed loudly, trying to think about what to say. He took a deep breath.
He wanted to answer but his voice was scratchy and he immediately started a coughing fit. He buried his head in the soft yet wet towels, to lower the volume of his coughing. Tears stung in his eyes. He hadn’t talked in weeks, so he shouldn’t be surprised by his body’s reaction to finally speaking again.
“You can come out if you want to.” Phil answered when the coughing had stopped. “You can eat and drink something or you can go to bed immediately if that’s what you want to do.” He said through the door and quietly stepped back, leaving Dream enough space to open the door.
At first he only peaked through a gap of the slightly opened door. He could see one of Techno’s pig ears and Phil casually walking through his vision. No one looked into his direction.
Why?
Weren’t they worried he’ll attack them or steal from them? Why did they trust him that much? Didn’t they know what he did?
But no matter how long Dream waited, no one even turned to glance at him. No one came and dragged him out and no one was angry at him for taking so long. Phil may have said he could come out if he wants to, leaving the choice up to him but… it’s still their house and their rules. If they wanted to they could just change the rules, even without telling Dream.
Slowly Dream pushed the door open and took his first step out. There was a smell of something delicious in the air. Food. Warm food. Dream could immediately feel himself drool just at the thought of something warm to eat, something which wasn’t raw potatoes.
He pushed the wet towels closer to his body when Technoblade stood up from the couch to look at him. His eyebrow was raised as he stared at the many towels.
“Why did you need so many of them?” He asked while carefully taking them out of Dream’s arms to throw them into another room. Dream stood in the middle of the room, his naked feet curling up on the wooden floor. He started fidgeting with the hem of his blue sweater and stared at the ground in front of him.
“That was a rhetorical question, nerd. You don’t have to answer.” Technoblade calmed him down quickly.
Now Technoblade stood next to him, also looking awkwardly around the room, desperately trying not to make Dream too uncomfortable with his presence.
“Stop standing around, doing nothing!” Phil suddenly yelled from the kitchen. Dream flinched at the loud words and his shoulders went up. “Dream, you can go to sleep if you’d like or eat something, like promised, Techno you help me in the kitchen.” The older man ordered.
The Piglin Hybrid nodded and slowly wandered into the kitchen but not without looking back to see Dream still standing in the middle of the room.
“Do you want to go to sleep first? You look like shit.” The Piglin Hybrin asked him genuinely. Dream probably did look horrible with dark bags under his eyes, sunken in face, and slumped body language.
“I’ll show you where you can sleep.” Technoblade offered, waiting for the man to give him a sign of approval.
Dream still played with the hems of his sweater, unsure what to do. He still didn’t get permission to talk and there was no sign of his punishment yet, so it made him uneasy. Was that Technoblade’s thing? Suspense? Keeping him waiting, never sure when to expect the punishment, until he strikes once Dream least expects it?
Not being able to do anything against it anyways, he just accepted his fate and nodded, slowly shuffling after Technoblade. He felt his knees wanting to give in every step he took, his body just wasn’t used to the exercise he had been through today. But he just had to keep walking until he could go to sleep.
He wondered where Technoblade would take him. Where would he be allowed to sleep? The basement with the villagers? The attic? Maybe outside with the dogs? None of those sounded as bad as the burning, rough, obsidian floor of the prison, so it was an upgrade in Dream’s book.
The two of them walked down a dark hallway together, Dream closely behind Technoblade, not wanting to lose him or go anywhere he wasn’t allowed in. Suddenly he bumped into something solid, yet soft at the same time. The hybrid had stopped walking and Dream ran into his back. Quickly he backed off, raising his shoulders up to his ears, fumbling with his sweater again, and looking to the floor, trying his hardest to look apologetic without actually voicing that he was sorry.
Technoblade didn’t seem to be bothered by it at all, he simply opened a door, giving Dream a sign to follow him in. It was a dark room and Dream couldn't really see anything at first. Out of nowhere a source of light appeared. Technoblade put down a lantern next to an orange bed, where a few dogs were sleeping on. Apart from that, there were two double chests, a little nightstand where the lantern was resting on, one table with a chair. Sitting on the small table were bandages, wipes, bandaids, various potions, and another lantern. The room was well lit.
“We usually use this room as an infirmary, so don’t be confused by all this medical equipment.” Technoblade must have noticed his concerned and confused look. “We mostly treat our dogs in here, that’s why those three are here.”
He pointed at the three dogs on the bed. All were white, which meant they must have all been from around here, blending into the environment perfectly, yet all with different fur patterns. One had a grey back and a grey stripe on his tail, another one was covered in grey pots, and the last one was completely white, except for a grey stripe along his nose.
“I hope you won’t mind sharing the bed with them.” Technoblade added before slowly turning to look at him. “Do you want me to bandage you up?” He asked, carefully scratching the head of one of the dogs. “Your injuries should really be wrapped again, especially after a bath. Your skin is clean now but there is still the risk of you opening your wounds and infection.” He added and started petting the other dogs who all wanted their master’s attention now.
Dream was… unsure… Technoblade and Philza were treating him better than anyone else on the server had for years but still… There was the punishment.
“I understand if you don’t want me to but you should really look after yourself.” Techno stood up and took a roll of bandages into his hand, waiting for an answer. After none came he sighed.. “Or do you want to do it yourself?”
Dream quickly nodded and fumbled with the roll which had been thrown into his hands. He nearly dropped it. He was careful not to ruin any of the belongings of his hosts, so he ignored the stinging pain in his arm.
The Piglin Hybrid made his way back to the door. “If you need anything just yell for me or Phil, we’ll be there, ok?” He turned around to look at Dream one last time, before he left the room and closed the door.
Once Dream was alone he didn’t know what to do. The smell of flowers was flowing through the room and he noticed that it was coming from the shampoo in his hair. There was a faint smell of dog and the sweet aroma of healing potion, mixing in with the flowery smell of his hair.
The first thing he did was opening the door just a bit, so he won’t feel locked in. He needed to see that there was still a way out. The bathroom hadn’t been so bad because it had a window installed, unlike this room.
The overwhelming sense of exhaustion suddenly settled over Dream and he noticed how he had to sit down now, or he was going to collapse. He made his way over to the bed on shaking legs and threw himself on the mattress, startling the dogs.
Three pairs of black eyes stared at him. One brave dog came slowly towards him and sniffed at his exposed arm. Old scars and not yet faded bruises covered his arms, together with fresher wounds, some still oozing blood. The dog sniffed his hand and quickly wagged his tail, licking Dream’s hand.
A small smile appeared on his face. It felt weird smiling again, unfamiliar, yet something deep in his mind remembered it. Convinced that Dream meant no harm, the other dogs came over to him, to sniff at his clothes, face, hair and skin. They dogs seemed to smell the familiar smell of their owner on him, and thus quickly took a liking to Dream.
Dream had been worried. He knew that animals had some sort of magic sense. They were able to easily differentiate between good and bad people, so he had been worried they wouldn’t like him. He was an unlovable monster after all. But since the dogs seemed to like him, maybe there still was a chance for him.
After a while of petting and running his scarred hands through the soft fur of the dogs, Dream remembered that he was still bleeding from some places. He didn’t want to ruin the bed and get himself into trouble, so he quickly sat up from the bed. Carefully he pressed his hands into the mattress, feeling the unfamiliar softness of it. It had been months since he had last slept on a bed and he was unsure he would be able to do so anymore.
Shaking his head, Dream unrolled one of the bandages, he had earlier put on the bed. He had had a lot of time to practice bandaging himself in prison, so even difficult places like his shoulder or elbows were no problem for him.
He was finished quicker than he originally had thought and now stared at himself. His entire body was covered in bandages, yet only the ones on his feet and hands were visible, the rest was surrounded by the soft material of his new clothes. Lent clothes. They weren’t his. Nothing belonged to him anymore. He didn’t deserve to own things, Sam had told him so after he burned his last books, even though he had behaved. Sam had said it was because he was a monster and he needed to be punished for his evil deeds. Once he was good again, he’ll get them back, he had promised.
Sam was a good man. Dream had specifically chosen Sam to be the warden because he was a fair and just person. If Sam said so, it must have been true.
Dream felt the healing potion soaked bandages slowly start working. At the same time Dream grew more and more tired. The dogs were resting on one end of the bed, so Dream decided to do the same and curl up on the other side.
He could feel the occasional tickles of a tail on his leg and could hear one or two huffs of the dreaming dogs, while he laid on the soft mattress. In prison, Dream had wished for nothing more than somewhere nice and soft to sleep on, away from the harsh and sharp obsidian ground, which had cut him many many times.
Still… he couldn’t sleep.
It felt foreign, like he wasn’t supposed to be here. The feeling of guilt washed over him and a knot formed in his stomach.
He didn’t deserve to sleep in a bed. Sam had said multiple times if he had just been a better person, not a monster, he would have brought him some blankets and pillows long before, but Dream didn’t deserve it, not yet at least.
With a sigh, Dream slowly slid out of the bed, lowering himself on the cool floor. He didn’t want to upset or anger Technoblade and Philza after all. They didn’t allow him to speak yet, so why should he be allowed to sleep on a bed? The ground wasn’t too bad anyway. Their wooden flooring was cool and way more comfortable than the floor in the prison. He was used to worse, so he couldn’t complain. He should be thankful that he was allowed to sleep here.
WIth a small smile on his face, Dream fell asleep.
this train of thought is whacky as hell but a lot of the sentiment around Mickey caring for Terry is actually really eye-opening for me personally in regards to the debate around the abolition the prison-industrial complex and the death penalty. (look, i know. let me explain)
because i see a lot of people completely outraged that Mickey is treating Terry with some amount of kindness and making sure he is taken care of properly, because in their minds that means Mickey and Ian (and by extension the writers) are forgetting/forgiving all the terrible things that he did, which. Just no.
Helping and showing kindness to someone is not an endorsement of their actions.
And obviously there's an incredibly important difference between fiction and reality and obviously Mickey is in a very special position as both Terry's caretaker and as a witness and victim of his abuse.
But what I see a lot of posts burn down to is the notion that if a person does bad enough things, they lose their right to be treated with a base amount of respect and dignity. That being seen and treated as a human being is a privilege that can be lost.
For the record, if that's your opinion then that's fine. I might not share it but i respect it.
To me personally, and this may have to do with growing up German, human dignity is and has to be inviolable. Period. No ifs, no buts, no exceptions.
It means that there is no question of whether a person 'deserves' dignity, it is something they hold and that cannot be taken away under any circumstances.
And i do believe that the way we treat the lowest and most morally rejectable members of our society says something about us in return.
Maybe this is kind of a far reach but idk this thought wouldn't leave my head.
Apart from Mickey’s complicated personal relationship with Terry, i think the reason why he cared for him was because he felt it was the right thing to do. Because he didn't want him to sit neglected and helpless in squalor (the way he, as a child, was likely often left).
And i've said this before but i believe this short storyline said so much more about Mickey than it did about Terry.
there is no law. sam, shut up. there is absolutely no law. if there was law, every single one of you would be inside that prison right now. shut the fuck up, sam.
Logan : We will make sure to meet you again Remus, but for now, Remus, it's important for you to "play it safe" as some would say. *nods* Remus.
Remus : Why are you saying my name like that? That's pretty often
Logan : Remus, I do research. One of the worst parts of your situation - Remus- is the constant dehumanisation by being given a number, Remus. In order to help you realise you're still a person with the name 'Remus' and an identity, I shall address you by your name a lot, Remus.
leaves too high to touch (roots too strong to fall): a TMA fanfic
Tumblr tag || Also on AO3
Chapter 29: Sasha
Nobody in the Archives says anything, but a subtle change starts coming over the team after Michael’s unexpected visit. Jon starts spending more and more of his time in his office and seems tense and fidgety whenever they go in to talk to him, or he comes out to talk to them. Tim’s body language becomes more and more closed-off and his jokes become rarer and with an edge to them that’s never been there before. Martin seems mostly himself, but there’s a desperate, almost frantic eagerness to please about him that hasn’t been there since the first few months they were all in the Archives when he was trying desperately to earn Jon’s tolerance, if not approval.
Sasha makes it three weeks before she cracks.
It’s Tim that’s the final straw, Tim and the look he puts on Martin’s face. They’re winding down for the evening, tidying up their desks and the statements they’ve been dealing with—mostly false, to be honest—and Martin ducks into Jon’s office to remind him of the time, then comes back and informs Tim that Jon is “finishing something up” and won’t be ready to leave for a bit.
Tim shoves a drawer shut. “Fine. He knows the way home then.” He snatches up his files and stomps off to put them back on the shelf.
For just a second, Martin lets his emotions loose from behind the placid look he’s had plastered there lately, and Sasha sees the genuine shock and devastation in his eyes. Tim’s only left Jon behind once in the almost six months since the infestation of the Archives, and she still remembers Martin’s mock-stern look, Tim’s teasing smirk, and Jon’s sheepish grin as they told her about having to literally talk him out of the building. Hell, he barely lets—or let, anyway—Sasha walk out of the Archives alone after she stopped living with them; his protective-slash-herding instincts have been in overdrive. And both he and Martin worry about Jon’s health and safety, a lot. Bad enough that Tim is—seemingly—willing to leave Jon behind. Worse that he’s essentially making Martin choose between them. Sasha actually can’t guess which way he’ll go.
“Right, that does it,” she says abruptly. She looks at Martin and waves at Jon’s office. “Go get Jon out of his office.”
“He’s in the middle of—”
“He’ll come if you ask him,” Sasha says certainly. “But you’ll have to ask him.”
Martin frowns. “Why?”
“Because you’re the one he trusts most right now.” For a second, Sasha feels a little…not lightheaded, exactly, but the same sensation she gets when she drinks a glass of champagne too fast. It’s a feeling that’s been increasingly common lately, so as usual, she ignores it and keeps talking. “The only recording he has of Tim from before that table was delivered is the one we did the night after Jane Prentiss attacked, and he can’t bring himself to relisten to it, so he’s got no real proof Tim hasn’t been taken over by that thing the Primes mentioned. And even though he knows you and I are still ourselves, he’s a little on edge around me because I’ve been more distant than the two of you have been. So while he doesn’t really think any of us are out to get him, you’re definitely the only one who’s going to be able to pry him out of his shell like the stubborn mollusk he is.”
Martin stares at her for a moment, then nods. “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly.
He gets up from his desk and goes over to Jon’s office. Sasha gets up, too, puts on her jacket, and then goes over to the trapdoor and unearths the handle, but doesn’t open it yet. Instead, she heads back to their cluster of desks, grabs a torch out her drawer, and waits.
Martin, accompanied by Jon, comes towards her just as Tim comes back out of the shelves. Sasha doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Tim’s arm in an iron grip and jerks her head at Martin. “Come on. This way.”
“Sasha, what the hell—” Tim begins, but Sasha doesn’t give him a chance to argue further. She drags Tim over to the trapdoor, yanks it open, and half-shoves him down ahead of her.
“Come on,” she repeats over her shoulder, then starts down the steps herself. Behind her, she can hear Martin coaxing Jon into heading down under the floor, and then the door shuts behind them, leaving them in darkness for a split second before Sasha clicks on her torch.
She doesn’t bother knocking on the first door they come to, just turns the knob and opens it. The Primes start up from a nest of blankets, blinking sleep out of their eyes, which, okay, she should have expected. They aren’t exactly nocturnal, but they also don’t have cell phones anymore—not that there’s service in the tunnels anyway—so they tend to sleep when they feel like and get up when they want, and since they can’t come out into the Archives safely during business hours, they ordinarily don’t wake up until close to the time the team is usually packing up to leave. All of which is something they’ve certainly told her at some point and she’s filed away for later use and just never thought about until now. They both look slightly panicked, likely because neither one of them has the slightest clue who just barged in.
“This,” Sasha announces, releasing Tim’s arm and pulling the door shut behind Jon and Martin, “is an intervention.”
“Sasha, Christ, you scared the piss out of us.” Martin Prime sighs.
“Sorry,” Sasha says, even though she isn’t particularly. “I just thought we ought to do this somewhere the Ceaseless Watcher…couldn’t.”
Jon Prime feels about and locates two pairs of glasses. He slides one of them onto his face, then hands the other to Martin Prime before getting to his feet. “An intervention for what?” he asks, sounding weary.
“Yeah, an intervention for what?” Tim echoes. He sounds pissed. Tough.
Sasha folds her arms over her chest and glares at him. “That’s part of it. You’re acting like the world has personally offended you and you’re taking it out on the three of us. And you”—she turns her glare on Jon and waves a finger at him, which he flinches back from like she’s flung a knife at him—“are twitchier than the most neurotic statement-givers we’ve ever had down here. It’s getting ridiculous and it stops now.”
“Oh, does it?” Tim snarls. “What makes you think it works like that?”
“It’s going to work like that if I have to knock your fool heads together,” Sasha snaps back. “You can’t keep going on like this. We don’t deserve your attitude—”
“My attitude?”
“—and you don’t need to be so suspicious—”
“I beg your pardon?” Jon bristles at her.
“—so enough is enough—”
“You expect me to believe—” Jon’s voice is rising with every word.
“—anything to worry about—” Tim is waving a finger at her.
“Guys, come on,” Martin says pleadingly, but it gets lost under the flurry of words from the others.
“I’ve got one of those, too.” Sasha brandishes her own finger at Tim. “You can’t—”
“—what you’re hiding—”
“—all calm down and—”
“—don’t even care—”
“—trying to work while you—”
“—never see what you’re—”
“—lack of oversight—”
“Everybody shut up!” Martin Prime shouts.
The silence is almost deafening as all four of them turn to look at Martin Prime. His eyes are closed and he’s massaging his temples. “Look, if you’re in here having this talk, it’s because you want us to be involved in it, and I cannot follow the conversation if you’re all talking at once. Frankly, I doubt any of you can either, but I can’t focus on who’s saying what and it all blends together. If you don’t want us involved, fine, go find another room to argue in, but if you’re going to do this in here, knock it off. You are going to have to take turns.”
Sasha’s never actually heard Martin—either Martin—raise his voice, which definitely serves to make her pause. They all stand in silence for a long moment before Tim speaks. “Fine. I’ll start. You want to talk about my attitude? Let’s talk about my attitude. Or better yet, let’s talk about your attitudes, towards this whole…situation.”
“What?” Martin and Jon speak at the same time, Martin sounding confused and worried and Jon deadly calm.
“We are working for the evil embodiment of knowledge,” Tim grates out. “You know that. You know the more we learn about this shit, the deeper we go! And none of you are even hesitating—”
“Tim, it’s our job,” Martin tries. “We—”
“You’re not even trying to resist it!” Tim shouts, wheeling around to face Martin as he clenches his hands into tight fists.
Martin flinches. No, that’s too mild a word for it. Martin recoils, cringing back away from Tim and curling inward on himself, shoulders hunched, arms wrapped protectively around his midsection, head turned sharply to one side, eyes screwed shut, lips pressed tightly together. He looks up just as quickly as he looked away, eyes wide and wet. His pupils are so blown out they almost swallow his irises whole, and his skin is paper white, throwing every freckle into relief so stark they look almost three-dimensional. It obviously costs him a great deal to make eye contact with Tim, but he manages it, and something about his posture…
It hits Sasha in the same moment it hits Tim, judging by the sudden shift in Tim’s expression. Martin has braced himself to take a blow. He actually expects Tim—Tim—to lay a hand on him. Since Sasha knows it’s not anything Tim has ever done in the past that makes Martin think that, it must be something from further back, and she’s struck with a sudden, powerful desire to take a trip up to Devon and find out if all the true crime stuff she reads in her spare time will make it easier for her to commit a homicide and not get caught.
The anger drains out of Tim’s face, replaced with shock and remorse. “Oh, God,” he chokes out. “Martin, I—I didn’t—” He starts to reach out, then evidently realizes that won’t help and runs his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. It’s just…I’ve been watching all three of you. I-I told you the other day, I see your face—all your faces—when you’re looking into some of this stuff, and…I’m scared. I’ve already lost one person I care about to this. I don’t want to lose anyone else.” He takes a deep breath. “And—I feel like I’m watching you all die right in front of me.”
“Oh, Tim,” Jon Prime murmurs. He sounds—and looks—heartbroken, and Sasha remembers the careful way the Primes picked around talking about Tim that first day. She wonders if Tim Prime felt the same way, and if they ever got this conversation. From the pinched look on Martin Prime’s face as he wraps his arm around Jon Prime’s waist, she somehow doubts it.
Martin’s lip trembles, and he swallows twice before he manages to speak in a small, shaking voice. “It’s not—i-it’s hard, Tim. I’m t-trying, but…I think it’s too late for me. Even before…even before we knew, I was…” He closes his eyes and turns his head away for a moment, evidently fighting back the tears. “I thought it was just wanting to prove myself. Now I don’t know. But i-if I don’t dig into things deep enough, it hurts. And I don’t know how to stop it.” He looks up and turns to Martin Prime, but without, Sasha notices, relaxing his protective posture. “Was it…was it like that for you?”
Martin Prime hesitates, then nods. “I think so. It’s hard to be sure, since, you know, I didn’t know what we were up against for longer, but by the time I started thinking maybe this wasn’t a great idea and I should stop…I couldn’t.”
“My God,” Jon Prime breathes. “I-I didn’t realize…was it like that for the others?”
“Maybe? It’s not like we sat around and compared notes. And I was definitely in it deeper than everyone else, even before things got bad.”
“Jesus.” Tim tugs at his hair for a moment, then lets his hands drop to his sides. “I am sorry, Martin. A-and you, too,” he adds, looking at Jon, then at Sasha. “You’re right, you don’t deserve…I just, it’s always been an issue with me. I get scared and it comes out as anger. I’m not angry at you. Not really. I mean…maybe I was, a little, but mostly it’s the whole…situation. I feel so damned helpless. I didn’t know anything about what Danny was involved in, so I couldn’t do anything to save him, and I lost him. Now I do know what’s going on, and I still can’t do anything to stop it.” He takes a deep breath. “I—I’ll try to talk it out before it gets this bad again.”
“Thank you,” Martin says softly.
“That helps,” Jon mutters. “A bit.”
“Right, your turn,” Sasha says, turning to face him. “What’s got you so on edge?”
Jon stiffens. “I beg your pardon?”
“Come on, Jon. You’re as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a rocking chair factory. I half expect to go into your office and see you with a map covered in pins and string. And I don’t get it.” Sasha ticks off points on her fingers. “You know who killed Gertrude Robinson, so it isn’t like you suspect one of us, let alone suspect us of trying to kill you. You’ve been obsessively playing every tape you can find from before that table got delivered that has one of us on it, over and over, so you know our voices by heart and know we haven’t been taken over, except for Tim because you can’t bring yourself to re-listen to the tape you made after Jane Prentiss attacked, but you’ve got that Polaroid we took on your birthday last year stuck in the bottom drawer with your backup recorder, so—”
“How do you know that?” Jon interrupts, a slight edge to his voice and his eyes widening.
Sasha stops, runs through what she just said, and covers her mouth with one hand. “Oh, shit.”
“You say things like this and I’m supposed to, what, not be suspicious? Not worry that I’m just…hearing what I want to hear on the tapes and you’re not—” Jon waves a hand at her.
“No, I’m—I haven’t been snooping through your office or anything. I just—” Sasha winces and glances at Tim. “I guess I’m…in too deep, too.”
A despairing look flits through Tim’s eyes. “I was afraid of that.”
“Jon, I swear to you, nobody in this room has it out for you,” Sasha says, turning back to her boss. “And I think the evidence is on the side of ‘I would know’. You know that, too. I told Martin earlier you don’t really suspect any of us, I know you don’t. I’d even go so far as to say I capital-K Know it. The Not-Them isn’t in the Archives. We don’t even have any real evidence that it’s anywhere, that it’s taken over anyone, and if it has it isn’t bothering us—”
“But we don’t know that!” Jon bursts out, gesturing in a way that has Martin taking a half-step back to avoid his flailing hands. “There’s no—it could be anyone in the Institute, it’s not like any of us went around gathering tape recordings or taking Polaroids or anything, so how would we know? How could any of us know? I-it could be anywhere, it could—and it’s not just that thing. Michael just appeared in my office, and even if he was after Helen Richardson, he could come in at any time. Jane Prentiss was living in the walls, my God, she—she was right here all that time, for all those weeks, a-and she could have come in at any time and we never would have known. Breekon and Hope just appeared—Rosie said she had no idea how they got in to deliver the table, and then they came down here and—they could have done anything and I wasn’t even here—” He draws in a sharp breath. “You think you can’t—I-I’m supposed to be in charge. If, if these things can just waltz in whenever they please and I can’t even detect them before it’s too late…it’s bad enough when they come after me, I-I almost want them to come after me, because that means they aren’t going after you. I don’t know what else to do. I can’t keep any of you safe.”
Jon Prime closes his eyes and turns his head towards Martin Prime’s shoulder. The tears brim up in Martin’s eyes, but he blinks them back fiercely. Tim lets out a hiss between his teeth. “And you think we’re going to be okay if you get hurt?”
“No! No, but—God.” Jon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “I’m scared, too. A-and I’ve never—I’ve always had to deal with this sort of thing alone. So I—I suppose I went too far that way. I was trying to handle it all myself, and…” He looks up and looks at the other three. “I am sorry. I never meant—I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t realize I was—”
“Shutting us out?” Sasha supplies.
“Folding in on myself. Scared of things getting down into the Archives, and it started translating into being scared of what was already here. I-it all…compounded.” Jon gives a small, bitter laugh. “I was so desperate to protect you all that I didn’t realize I was making things worse. I-I’ll try to open up a bit more, too.”
Martin’s shoulders sag slightly in evident relief. Tim manages a smile. “Tell you what, boss. I’ll let you know if you’re being an asshole if you’ll do the same for me, deal?”
Jon actually smiles back, a little. “Deal.” The smile fades, though, as he turns to Sasha. “I—while we’re being honest, Sasha…I’m not sure how much I trust you these days. It’s—it’s not that I think you’re…I know you’re still you. You’re right. I know that. But…you’re keeping secrets. I-I’m not saying you’re not allowed to, but…the way you avoid us, it makes me worry about why. What you’re up to.”
A stab of panic hits Sasha, for no real reason. It’s not like it’s a dangerous secret or anything, it’s just…she doesn’t tell her secrets. “It’s not about the job, Jon. I promise.”
“I believe you, but…that doesn’t mean it can’t hurt us. Or you, for that matter. I worry that you’re involved in something that might be…” Jon gestures vaguely at the universe.
“You’re the one with the ability to just know things about people,” Tim points out. “Which means our ability to keep secrets from you has just gone down drastically, not that you weren’t the type to dig them out anyway. Hardly seems fair that you’re the only one who gets to have secrets.”
“Wow, okay.” Sasha frowns at him.
“Sorry, I don’t—” Tim closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “That wasn’t nice. I’m sorry.” He pauses. “Or at least, I’m sorry for how I said it. I think I meant it. Maybe not that harshly, but…”
“Sasha,” Jon Prime says quietly. “Take it from someone who’s been there. It will be a lot easier on you—on all of you—if you trust them with…whatever it is now.”
Sasha is about to say that he doesn’t have to be cagey when she realizes that he doesn’t know either. Her counterpart never told them, and then she was dead and it didn’t matter. Which means their Sasha took her secret to the grave. Something else occurs to her about that, and she can’t hold back a gasp at the sudden lance of pain, covering her mouth with her hand. Oh, God, that means…
“My uncle,” she half-whispers through her fingers. She closes her eyes for a minute, takes a shaky breath, then lowers her hand and tries to speak in a more normal tone. “My mother’s baby brother—he’s only about ten years older than I am. My parents died when I was six and he…he raised me. He taught me everything I know—especially about computers and, well, hacking and all that.” She takes a deep breath. “He’s in prison. Something to do with something he unearthed that he wasn’t supposed to. I don’t know all the details, he won’t tell me and I haven’t wanted to risk digging for them, but he’s been there since 2010. It’s why I came to London in the first place, and it’s why I live where I do—so I can be closer to him.”
“Sash.” Tim sounds shocked and sad. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”
“I—I don’t know. I’ve always been like that, I suppose. Uncle Wade used to tease me about the way I would dig up secrets, he’d say I should have been named Harriet instead of Sasha. I never did anything with them, I just…liked having them, I guess. But I’ve also always been big on keeping them. It’s like…like it wasn’t a good secret if anyone but me knew it.” Sasha lets out a blow of frustration. “I can’t explain it, Tim. The only answer I can come up with is that I didn’t tell you because then it wouldn’t be a secret. And it’s stupid, and I know that. I should have told you all a long time ago and I’m sorry.” She bites her lip and looks over at the Primes, who both look stricken. “I…I’m guessing, um, Sasha Prime never told you that.”
“No,” Martin Prime says softly. “She never talked about her family. We never knew…” He trails off.
Which means Uncle Wade, in their time, probably never knew what happened to her, Sasha thinks miserably. She suspected as much before, but to have it confirmed…it’s painful. She presses her lips together for a moment, then looks at the others. “If anything happens to me—”
“Nothing’s going to happen,” Jon says sharply, a flash of panic in his eyes.
“But if it does—you’ll make sure he knows?” Sasha swallows. “Wade Copper. HMP Pentonville. Just…promise me that if something happens to me, one of you will tell him. Please.”
Tim swallows, but nods. “Cross my heart.”
Sasha relaxes. “Thank you.” She looks back to the Primes. “I’m sorry. I know I’m technically not the one who didn’t tell you, but…I kind of am? So I’m sorry I never told you, either. I—I don’t know if that would have made things better or worse.”
“Worse, probably,” Jon Prime says, a little distantly. “The Not-Them never went to visit him, or at least not on days when I was…well, stalking it, instead of Tim or Martin. But if I’d known…if I’d thought for a minute about…” He sighs. “There was a lot going on, and I’m afraid I didn’t give a lot of thought to who might need to be notified of our Sasha’s death.”
“Think Elias would have told him?” Tim asks. Sasha can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“I doubt it,” Jon Prime answers. He sounds bitter. “He probably got more delight out of the uncertainty and fear and anguish your uncle felt, not knowing why you’d suddenly stopped coming to visit, not understanding why no one would talk to him about—”
“Jon,” Martin Prime warns.
Jon Prime pulls up short. “Sorry.”
Sasha shakes her head, not sure what she’s denying. Maybe that he needs to apologize at all. She thinks she’s starting to get it. It’s probably not going to be uncommon for any of them to suddenly blurt out a truth that has the potential to hurt at least one other person in the room, because that’s what the Eye thrives on, is the fear of knowledge. The fear of secrets exposed.
“Is that why I’ve got that aspect of it?” she asks aloud, surprised by the direction her thoughts are trending.
“What?” Jon Prime frowns at her.
“The—you told us that you’ve got all sorts of…weird Archivist powers. You can compel people to tell you things and sense when people have statements for you and sometimes you just Know things without knowing how you know them, right?” Jon Prime nods cautiously, and Sasha continues. “I haven’t noticed me being able to compel anyone, I don’t think I can force people to tell me things or anything like that, but I-I think I’m developing the ability to just…Know things. Like about that Polaroid. I get this weird…fizzy feeling in my mind? Like it’s full of bubbles, or—”
“Or static?” Jon Prime supplies.
Sasha closes her eyes briefly. “God, how did I not think of that?”
“Probably because it never would have occurred to either of us that you might…that that might happen.” Jon Prime glances up at Martin Prime, then back at Sasha. “You’re right. If you’ve all been sharing the recording duties as well as the research duties…well, Jon is still the Archivist and still going to get the lion’s share, but I suspect the rest of you will at least develop something. Possibly not you, Tim, if you stop now.”
“Yeah, not happening,” Tim says, sounding reluctant. “I might not like it, but now that I know…I’m not going to leave my family to do this alone. I’ll help. Damn the consequences.”
Jon manages a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “That’s the spirit.”
Sasha smiles, too, then turns to Martin. “What about you?”
Martin blinks, evidently surprised. “Me?”
Sasha gestures around them. “We’ve all been…acting like this. You’ve been acting like yourself, or more accurately like you did when we all started out in the Archives, when none of us knew you yet and you thought you had to prove you belonged here. I don’t need freaky Eye powers to know that you’re trying too hard. We put the burden of…everything on you, and none of us thought about how the way we were behaving might have affected you. So, it’s your turn. What do you need from us?”
Martin stares at her, then at the other two. Tim’s face is still ashen, Jon’s eyes still wide, but they’re both looking at Martin intently—like they can see something about him that Sasha can’t. Which they quite possibly can. Sasha may have been given the gift, or curse, of being able to ferret out secrets and hidden knowledge, but the friendship these three have developed, especially living in such close proximity to one another, has probably given them an understanding of one another that is beyond anything an entity of fear can see. His shoulders slump slightly, his protective posture eases back, and he actually smiles—it’s small, but it’s genuine.
“Actually,” he says, and while his voice shakes, it’s not as bad, “just you having asked means a lot.” He takes a shuddering, steadying breath. “I-it’s just, well, I don’t…do so well alone anymore? I-I mean, I’m trying, but…I don’t think I can actually…” He trails off and doesn’t finish.
“You’re not alone, Martin,” Jon says, his voice cracking slightly. “Not anymore. Not ever again.”
All the tension seems to seep out of Martin in one rush, and his arms drop to his sides as he straightens, like a burden has just dropped off his back. Sasha isn’t sure who moves first, Tim or Jon, but they both reach Martin in almost the same instant and wrap him tightly in a hug. Martin hugs them back, his eyes squeezing shut, but Sasha sees the tear force its way out of the corner and the relief in his face. She realizes he’s been suffering these last few weeks and wonders—have any of them touched him, even briefly? Have any of them touched one another, or have they all been keeping separate and distant?
Whatever the case, Sasha decides that, just this once, she wants to be a part of it. She lets the torch fall heedlessly to the ground and crosses the floor to join the group hug. Someone’s hand curls around her arm, she’s not sure who, but she feels the warmth of her friends—her boys—soak into her body and wonders why she’s gone so long without this.
She raises her head briefly and looks in the direction of the Primes. She can just see them in the torch light glowing up from below; Jon Prime is watching them with a look of mingled warmth and longing. Giving in to impulse, she jerks her head to indicate that they should come closer.
And, for a wonder, he does. They both do, and suddenly there are more arms joining the pile and six people instead of four. Six broken, lonely pieces slotting together to make a single picture. Not quite complete. It may never be complete. But at least there aren’t any holes. Not anymore.
