Mar 23
Happy 10th birthday to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London!!!!
seen from Iceland
seen from Malaysia
seen from United States
seen from Colombia
seen from Australia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Algeria
seen from China
seen from Iceland
seen from Malaysia
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iceland
seen from Iceland
seen from Ireland
seen from China
seen from Malaysia
seen from Iceland
seen from China
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seen from Bulgaria
Happy 10th birthday to Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London!!!!
Happy One Year Anniversary of MAG200! 👁
Happy 10th MAG001niversary!!!
woke up sad for some reason so i painted the Admiral anxiously waiting for jon in s3
A year ago today they went one way or another, together
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Here please take some wholesome older art of S1 Martin trying to get Jon to dance one late night in the archives
happy (late) tma ending day
Melanie
In honor of the MAG200 anniversary, here’s the opening of the fic I wrote beginning to end in a grieving haze in the 24 hours after the final episode dropped, then left sitting in my google docs for a year. Lmk if I should post the rest 😅
This time, Annabelle is the one who knocks.
Mother would have liked that. Circular narratives make for satisfying endings, and Mother always loved a performance. It’s unsurprising that Annabelle still plays her role, even when her audience has left the theatre of their world for all the realities beyond. Even if she’s no longer a titanic beast made of millions of spiders and the tatters of her human form, Annabelle cannot help but dance on Mother’s strings. It’s all she’s ever done. Anyway, it’s not as though the safehouse has a buzzer. While the building may be close enough to the nearest village to receive weak cellular reception, its walls stand unblemished by electronics in the shadow of the treeline.
She knocks again. Martin Blackwood opens the door, takes one look at her, and slams it shut.
“That’s a bit rude,” she calls after him.
“Fuck off!”
Not the most auspicious of openings, but Annabelle is patient. Her new housemates will need time to adjust to her presence. While she’ll be sorry to lose her banter with Martin for a while, she isn’t surprised that taking him hostage put a damper on their blossoming friendship. He’ll come around eventually. “Glad to see your comebacks haven’t improved since the end of the world. I’d hate for Arun to think he has competition in the poetry department.”
“I have bug spray in here,” Martin threatens.
She raises her brows. “Won’t do much good, will it? Not now you two have banished our patrons.” Though that’s bound to be a touchy subject. Speaking of which… “How is Jon, anyway?”
“I also have a knife.”
Annabelle pauses. She doesn’t doubt he’ll use it, especially if Jon is in bad shape. It would be embarrassing to get herself murdered within a week of the world being saved. Not that she’ll survive much longer in the post-apocalyptic world without help.
“Could you at least lend me a hat?” Annabelle asks. “Bit challenging to hide that I’m missing half a skull.”
A beat, and then the door wrenches open. A knit cap hits her in the face.
“Appreciate it!” she calls cheerily.
“Just leave us alone.”
She ignores his voice cracking. “I’ll be back in a few with supplies. Any special requests?”
“Yeah, I told you, I request that you fuck. Off.”
“Sorry, I can’t hear you, there’s a door in the way. Be back soon!” Annabelle counts the strangled noise of frustration as a win. She stuffs enough grass in the cap to disguise the hole in her cranium and heads into town.
Tracking Martin down was a stroke of good fortune. She hadn’t been sure she’d find him up here. It’s a long journey from London up to Scotland, but given this was the one place he and Jon had ever known safety, she’d put her money on them retreating to the safe house. Now she just needed to convince them to let her inside, too.
