#nikola orison | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

late-to-the-magnus-archives · 8 months

Text

Nikola - part of the Magnus Monsterverse AU

What was I even truly being asked to do? Was I being used like Jonah had used me before?

I had no way to know that tonight, and I was too damned tired to think about it. And I still had to go to work.

Web Martin, I decided before I slept, was giving me a gosdamned raise.

Part of the Magnus Monsterverse AU.

AO3

------

I almost forgot about my job.

I had a job! A job! One I’d stressed over! And I damn near missed it. I woke with my heart in my throat (whatever that meant for a man made of eyes) and sprang out of our bed so fast that I scared Martin half-invisible.

What followed was, according to the Eye, every bit as delightful as Tsukino Usagi running late for school in some anime called Sailor Moon, which I was vaguely aware existed as I scrambled around the room looking for business-worthy clothes, and by the time I was reaching for the door (stealing one more kiss from Martin, who was back to full-color, and so proud of me his cheeks were red), It had caught me up on all 18 volumes of manga and half the 200 episode series.

I didn’t really want any of that, but It was so damned happy about it that I felt bad telling It to stop. I finally did, though, when It projected to me the image of running down the street with a piece of toast in my mouth, which I absolutely would not do.

Fine, It whined, and fed me a silly science-fiction podcast following people in a space station orbiting a red dwarf star some seven and a half light years away from Earth instead.

This London was so different than I didn’t at first realize just where the bus was taking me.

It was just so damned quiet; no one spoke, not even in whispers; no one but me looked around, even though London was beautiful. Sort of in the way a mausoleum is, honestly: clean and stone and shadowed with ghosts of itself. I didn’t realize. I really didn’t, not until I saw we were driving past Battersea Park (Why was that the same name? How did that work?) and clocked just where we were going.

Owlwood Library sat in Chelsea, a few blocks from the Thames. It was a lovely building on the other side of Vauxhall bridge, near the embankment. A lovely Victorian structure, red brick and white stone, four stories and two towers and hell beneath the ground.

But it could not be. This was not the same place. It could not be the same.

The bus stopped.

A few people got off. I… almost didn’t.

I couldn’t let Martin down. I couldn’t… let this chance slip away. I leaped to my feet and staggered off the bus, breathing hard, snagging everyone’s attention because I was behaving like a loon, and then had to take a moment on the sidewalk, bent over, leaning on my thighs, just trying to breathe.

For an inner ear made of eyeballs, mine did a lovely job of making the world spin 'round. It was a coincidence, I told myself. My new job just happened to be in the same building as the Magnus Institute had once been. Ha ha, so funny, someone's idea of a joke. And after all, some things were the same (and never mind the utter madness of how many things had to be coincidences to make that so), so it couldn’t be related, it could not.

Could it?

The Eye wanted to show me and… couldn't. It fizzled. Sparked. Seized up? Froze like an old-school CRT monitor, blue and flickering. What? Why would…

The Eye didn’t do that. The Eye hardly reacted to what it saw, even with all this latest hyperactivity. The only time it ever just froze was in the face of—

Oh.

I stood slowly and looked at the building, looked at the building, LOOKED AT THE BUILDING, and saw the webs.

They were… everywhere. Everywhere. Blocking every window. Covering every door. Dangling, with little twirls as if in non-existence wind, brushing the heads and faces and unblinking eyes of every person who walked in and out of this place, and so many people did. So many. University students, mostly, but there were teenagers, and older academics, and the odd single parent looking for a good read. It was a busy place, and a happy place, and a stronghold of the Web, and I was two good, deep breaths away from just running down the street with a scream.

“Hey,” said Web Martin behind me.

I did scream as I spun. I’m sorry, Quiet London.

“It’s okay,” said Web Martin, holding out, of all things, a cup of tea on a little saucer. “You’re all right. No need to freak out.”

I stared at him. Through him. Oh, gods. He was full of spiders.

He sighed. “Jon. I’m not your enemy. We’ve been over this.”

“Don’t you dare fake impatience with me,” I snarled.

The act dropped. He smiled, looking like Annabelle Cane’s soul in Martin’s body. “Sorry. Force of habit; disappointment was usually the best way to get you to do anything.”

Oh, heavens. “Well, that’s not me anymore,” I said with far more force than I felt.

“Please come in. I promise this isn’t a trap. We couldn’t trap you, anyway; Jon, you could literally burn this entire web to the ground if you looked at it too hard. We are the ones in danger here, not you. All right? Come in so we can talk. It isn’t safe out here.”

“Did I even earn the job on my own?” I blurted, which was the dumbest thing in the world to say.

“Did you earn the original?” he said, deadpan.

Damn. That hurt.

His apology looked real. “Sorry, Jon. Please come in. We’re trusting you.”

And I must have been mad because the next thing I said was, “You’re paying me for my damn time.”

He laughed, and I knew, knew , I’d genuinely surprised him. “Of course! You really did get hired. Come on, now, let’s go.” He offered the tea again.

It was an Earl Grey with the most delicious scent, automatically calming, positively Pavlovian, and I inhaled for a moment, eyes closed.

The Eye was here. I was not alone. Not that It could do much to help me against the Web, but… I looked back at the building, then at Web Martin.

I looked at him. Looked. LOOKED.

He shuddered. “Wow,” he whispered. “That feels… not great?”

I’m sure it didn’t, because I saw him.

He was afraid of me, genuinely. He hadn’t lied. And filled with spiders or not, he… this was Martin.

Not my Martin, but he was Martin. He hadn’t been replaced with something else. This was genuinely him, with a different path, different choices.

My eyes pricked for a moment (yes, all of them ), and I wasn’t sure if they did in grief for the loss of the Martin I might have known, or guilt for refusing to see him as a person this long.

“Come on,” he said, relieved, because he hadn’t been sure how I’d respond (he… what? He what? ), and lead the way toward the Institute.

No, toward the Owlwood Library. Fuck.

It smelled exactly the same: books and cardboard boxes, cleaning material and that oddly earthy scent of old air conditioning installed in even older places.

The carpet was different. The marble was not. The office of Elias Bouchard was now a conference room and there was no Rosie guarding it. The door to the Archives still loomed, marked, EMPLOYEES ONLY, and I could not bring myself to see what lay beyond.

“Hi, Hannah!” Martin said quietly, waving at a researcher who waved back. “Mark coming today?”

“No, not today,” she whispered in returned, and smiled.

Martin shrugged it off and lead me deeper in.

I kept blinking. Between one blink and another, I could see more webs, or none. The place was just… full, but even I could see that some books were more wrapped than others, that to touch them would be to get web on your hand.

I wasn’t sure I could do this.

“You won’t be getting any on you,” said Martin, guessing from the way my own eyes were wide and horse-panicked.

“You got me the job,” I retorted.

"We’re well aware of what you’ll do to us if we upset you,” said Martin. “This is an attempt to invite you along, not do anything to make you upset.”

“Sure.” Wait, what had he said? “Invite me along to what?”

“Truth. And then, of course, your choices.”

“Oh, and you have no investment in those, I suppose,” I muttered.

Martin did not answer me until we entered a back office—a space that had, in my time, actually been divided into study rooms for our student population. Now, it was his space; books lined the walls, and maps, and he had lovely stylized things like globes and old portraits.

I stared and a lovely Victorian portrait of an older woman in mourning clothes, smiling knowingly at the painter. Her back was straight and her shoulders were squared; she looked like she knew exactly who was staring at her face from across time, and knew she could out-think them. “That… who is that?”

“Johanna Owlwood,” said Martin, “who founded this library in 1818 as part of a Cesarean outreach to the underprivileged who lacked the means for higher education.”

Cesarean. There was a whole bucket of nonsense I’d yet to upend. The Roman Imperial Cult was what lasted in this world, though it still ended up spreading Latin and Greek throughout, and—

“Have a seat, please. Let’s get your orientation out of the way,” said Web Martin.

“Wait a moment. Are you my boss?” I blurted.

Web Martin grinned.

“Oh, that’s simply unfair,” I said, trying to joke, and sat.

“Now, the pay rate and benefits are exactly as you saw in the paperwork you signed,” he said.

I hadn’t made it here the other day, though. “I didn’t sign any—”

Martin slid unsigned paperwork across, and I suddenly understood this was one of those conversations: time was a construct, and all that mattered was crossing and dotting appropriate letters.

“Fine,” I said, taking a moment to read it over.

“However, we’d hoped to discuss something that isn’t in your list of official duties,” said Web Martin.

“Out with it,” I said.

“You know something is wrong with this world.”

I sighed. “Nikola said so, yes.”

“The other Nikola. Would you like to question the other-other Nikola?”

“The… the one who’s imprisoned somewhere?”

“Yes.”

I sighed. “Look. I understand you have the need to make things complicated. I remember what it was like to talk to Annabelle. But I also know you can understand me when I say this: my tolerance for nonsense is, right at this moment, nearly as low as it ever has been.”

“Yes, we—”

“ No, you don’t understand,” I said. “I want straight answers. Simple. Clear. Few syllables. No trickery, no leading questions.”

Web Martin studied me for a long moment. I had the strangest impression; like gears made of web, turning in some colossal and complex machinery too intricate for me to understand. “All right,” he said. “I’ll try.”

We’d see. “I’m listening.”

“A god rules this world. It’s not a good god; it’s a cold god, and cruel. We believe it’s Eye-related.”

“Why?”

“Because it has so far seen, with complete clarity, every plan we’ve attempted, every investigation, and every try to get away from its influence.”

“That sounds aggressive,” I said, using the first word that came to mind. “The Eye doesn’t do that. It’s passive.”

“We said Eye-related for a reason.”

“And you intend for me to do… what, exactly?”

“An Eye cannot see itself,” said Web Martin.

“Uh-huh.” I crossed my arms.

“We believe you can uncover what’s really going on and help us to stop it.”

“What is it doing that’s so terrible?”

He tilted his head.

I pushed. I already knew the answer on some level, but I pushed. “London, at least, is clean and quiet. Crime rates are incredibly low. Tell me what’s so horrible about it all.”

“Guilt, Jonathan Sims,” said Web Martin, who had not blinked at all since agreeing to be honest with me. “It rules the world with guilt. Didn’t you know?”

I did.

I… I truly did. It wasn’t fear; but it was like the fear, driving things, controlling things, forcing people into boxes not meant for their size. It compressed human beings into shapes not right, sucked out joy, bled away hope.

Guilt.

And the moment—the moment —I forgave people, that god of guilt lost its grip on them.

Crew. The Distortion. Martin. Tim.

This wasn’t possible. Shouldn’t be; my word should not be enough to counteract whatever this other force had going. “The whole world?”

“Yes.”

I realized I was wringing my hands and stopped. “Only the one guilt-god? It’s not… there aren’t other cruel gods?”

“Oh, the Fears are here,” said Web Martin, “along with the quiet scents of the ones your Gerry disbelieved—love, mercy, all those things. But they’re balanced . They are as they should be; merely higher up the food chain, neither depleting nor depriving, simply existing as all things do. But this… this throws it all out of whack. We can’t feed as we ought. We are starved; and the fact is, Jon, that’s putting our patrons in… something of a bad position.”

I stared at him. “Will they die if they starve?”

“No. They’ll go mad and devour the world, is what they’ll do.”

He was right. Oh, gods. He was right. I knew it. Felt it. “But… all the other rescued avatars don’t seem to be starving.”

Web Martin’s smile wasn’t kind. “Well, that’s because—in spite of misunderstandings—our patrons do take good care of us. As long as we feed them, we who represent are cared for. Even though they are not receiving enough, we do. But that can’t last forever.”

When I’d told him to be blunt, I hadn’t expected this. “So you’re asking me to help undo something the Web can’t figure out.”

“We don’t need understanding, Jon. We need sight. That’s your department.”

“Why not ask someone else? Gerry, or…” But there were precious few people of the Eye here, weren’t there? Precious few. “Did Manuela avoid rescuing people connected to the Eye?”

“They don’t survive. Something destroys them while she brings them in.”

I stared. “What?”

“It’s quite awful. They’re torn apart, or… well. They tear themselves apart, is what it seems like to us.”

“Tear themselves apart?”

“As you very nearly did.”

I… had. Shame over what I was, what I had done. If not for Martin... “This isn’t what I expected.”

“You asked for bluntness.” Web Arthur shrugged. “Unlike Annabelle, I actually know how to do that when needed.”

“Can’t whatever this thing is see us now? Didn’t it see your machinations to provide me with gainful employment?”

Web Martin started giggling again. “Machinations.”

I sputtered. “Well, it’s accurate!”

“No, no, you’re correct, you just… manage to put such nefariousness into the word. Adorable.” He kept chuckling.

I glared denial. “Can you tell me anything else?”

“Ah, let me see.” He wiped his eyes. “Yes. There’s something of a resistance? It all has to be carefully done, since… well, being watched is unavoidable; but the thing is that this god, whatever it is, seems limited to guilt. Those who have slipped the yoke, as it were, can be recaptured, but if they manage to fight it off, they can be useful.”

“Do they know they’re part of a resistance?” I said, dry.

“Some of them,” he said with that still-surprising honesty. “Of course, they all think it has something to do with Manuela and Leitner.”

“Does it?”

“I don’t know.” Web Martin shrugged. "The Spider can’t really work with them, you see. They simply don’t react as predicted; they aren’t mappable. We have not been able to pull a single thread to get them to do anything with great effect. Are they working for this guilt-god? We don’t know. Is Sasha? We don’t… think so, though she’s certainly unintentionally complicit.”

“She believes guilt keeps us safe,” I said slowly.

“An effective lie, isn't it?” Web Martin shrugged magnificently. “Is there anything else? I have a nine o’clock I really have to take.”

I stared. “You have to tell me more than that.”

“We don’t know more than that. We have guesses, but nothing proven. Do you really want speculation?”

“I…” Blast. “Maybe?”

“Not yet, I think,” said Web Martin. “You’ll get overwhelmed. As it is, you have to put in a full day of work.”

Dear lord, was this happening?

“Oh,” he said. “I’d suggest trying to meet with Nikola tonight. She won't last much longer, now that her original is gone. Since you can portal, you can do that.”

“But I don’t know where she…” Except I did. Manuela’s mountain.

“If you come up with specific questions—”

“Which I will.”

“—then we will answer,” said Martin. “But there is the fear that giving you too much information will send you on some… damned crazy crusade.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“We can’t really afford any broken tables, Jon,” said Web Martin almost gently. “Not this time.”

Oh, ouch. “Oh, there’s the manipulation,” I drawled. “Wondered where that went.”

He smiled like the sun rising, and absolutely conjured the feel of spider legs tickling under my skin. “Good luck.”

“Wait a minute. What am I even doing?”

“Today, it’s simple: go around the place, all four floors; find the carts with returned books on them. Return the books.”

“Don’t they need to be… logged, or something?”

“In a normal library, yes, but not this one.”

I sighed. “And for this, I’m being paid a livable wage?”

“You can actually shelve any book in the place without getting entangled. Quite frankly, you could ask for more.”

“Maybe I will ,” I said.

“Maybe you should,” he said, and smiled like the sun.

Someone knocked on the door. “Mister Blackwood? Your nine o’clock is here.”

“Thank you!" he called. "And thank you, Jon,” said Web Martin.

“Don’t thank me. I know you’re just tugging heartstrings again.”

“Maybe, but I do mean it. Good luck.”

Good luck , as it turned out, meant, Those carts are old and the wheels don’t work well and you’re going to have a time trying to steer them places.

I checked, too. The wheel brakes weren’t on. They were just… I don’t know. Maybe designed to move according to the will of the Web, or something, and my presence apparently cut that off.

I looked up books and shelved them, relying on the Eye to give me the Dewey Decimal information so I wouldn’t have to continually go back downstairs to the card catalog (which was not digitized, and I couldn’t decide if that made me happy or annoyed).

It was pleasantly mindless work. I have always loved the feel and smell of books, and as the ones I touched were mysteriously web-free, I got to enjoy them.

I got lost a couple of times reading a book before putting it away. You know. On the clock, because the Web can go to hell.

How much of what Web Martin said was true?

All of it , the Eye assured me, but that didn’t help. I knew the Eye was thinking in absolutes; not in shades of color, in the angle of a lie. This was not a true/false scenario. This had dimensions. I just wasn’t sure what they were.

The Web was the Web; the Spider couldn’t change her nature, so I knew this hadn’t been completely blunt. But… I think it was about as blunt as she could manage. The question was what to do about it. Who was this resistance? What on earth could they accomplish, given they could not go unseen? What were they resisting, anyway? Feeling bad?

Why hadn’t Gerry been invited? What the hell was I going to say to Nikola in an hour?

I felt stupid today. I’m sure it had absolutely nothing to do with being exploded at and impaled last night, not to mentioned helped by an iteration of my worst enemy. No, I’m sure all of that was totally incidental.

The Eye began feeding me internet programming about mental health and what stress does to the body. Yes, thank you. I don’t have a body. I have eyes in a sack. Thank you. I’m… I’m good now. Thanks.

It switched to “reality” programming following couples around who kept secrets from each other. Oh, what the hell? What?

We weren’t keeping secrets from each other. Fuck that noise.

(Or at least, I wasn’t.)

(I knew he wasn’t, either. Come on.)

I finished my shift and checked in with Web Martin. He handed me some paperwork to take home, an unbelievably fake smile, and a cursory good night.

It was getting dark out. I texted Martin: Want me to pick anything up?

Just you , he typed. Then a moment later, That didn’t come out right

I laughed, walking on a rapidly darkening street, phone in hand. I’ll see what I can do about that.

He sent a few emoji which were not public safe, and I walked with a grin and heated cheeks. What ridiculousness!

I had a lover, and he was… he really cared for me. That hadn’t happened before, any of it. I’d been friends with some cuddling with Georgie, but nothing like this. Even then, she’d… well. She’d liked me. She’d trusted me, which I managed to destroy completely; but she hadn’t really… enjoyed spending time with me?

I irritated her. My rants. My little obsessions. My... well. Neurodivergence, I suppose.

That thought took a lot of introspection. It seemed I didn't annoy Martin by just being me, and that in and of itself was more of a miracle than gods or monsters or any damn thing.

I needed to keep him safe. If Web Martin was right, and I had a unique chance to figure out what was going on with this world…

Oh, shit. I’d freed Martin from its grip. Was he in danger?

I stopped walking. It had grown dark enough that street lights littered the sidewalk with circles of dimness, and I really needed to get to the bus stop and go home.

Or.

Or, I could spy—which I hadn’t done yet—and see if Manuela was out of her mountain so I could go speak to Nikola.

Manuela had security in place; I remembered that. But I wondered if she’d thought to put it in the cell where Nikola was locked away.

Was I really thinking this? Making a plan to appear in close quarters with a monster who had actively tried to skin me?

I was thinking this. I focused.

The Eye showed me her cell, and it was through her own eyes. Looking down at her plastic body, at the rags she’d been permitted; at the nothing that was her day, a completely empty space apart from a single board attached to the wall like some godsdamned cowboy prison.

Nikola had fake moonlight. High on the wall apart from the door was a barred window opening to nothing—into the mountain—but it had light coming through it, aping the outside.

Why had Manuela done that? Enrichment was clearly not a thing. Why had—

The Eye… showed me: it is a mockery of hope. A mockery of the outside she’d never see again, a mockery of real life she would never feel on her skin, day and night changing place without seam, a reminder of what she would never be given as long as they deemed her unsafe.

Nikola was starving. And I was thinking of hurling myself into that cell. Was I really going to do this?

I looked for Manuela. She was at home, watching Brother Love season two, wrapped in a robe, holding a mug of hot chocolate.

Great. Now I felt bad for betraying her by doing this.

I need Manuela not to see this, I thought.

The Eye responded with one simple image: the lanky, slumping, teenage form of Callum Brodie.

There was an idea. First… I had to go home.

“Yes, I have his number,” said Martin, my Martin, who was so much better than Web Martin that I could just crawl into his clothes while he was wearing them and kip for a month.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Tonight?” Martin was baffled. The containers of Thai he’d picked up for us sat on the counter, opened and steaming.

“Yes.”

“Well.” He blinked. “All right.” He handed me his phone.

It was impossible not to catch glimpses of his texts.

Michael D. Apology already given and we

Mike C. Sure we can meet up how about the

Peter L. Anytime.

I forced myself to stop peeking and click the compose icon. (He obviously wasn’t hiding anything. He’d just literally handed me his phone, for crying out loud.)

Callum, this is Jonathan Sims. I apologize for using Martin’s phone to reach out to you, but I don’t have your number. If it’s all right, I need a favor this evening. Please let me know if you’re available. Thank you. -JS

Martin took it back, stared, and started giggling. “Really? Format grammar and everything. Jon, it’s text. ”

“It’s an introduction,”I said, just a bit defensively. “I have to make the right impression.”

“Oh, Jon. You’re ridiculous,” he said so warmly, so gently, and kissed my cheek.

“Ew?” said a cracking teenage voice to my right, and I jumped.

Callum Brodie stepped out of the shadows. Just out of the shadows, completely invisible to me, and then not, and I had a badly frightened moment that must have shown on my face, because he laughed. “Shouldn’t’ve been snogging, then, you didn’t want to get scared.”

“Take the piss out of someone else,” said Martin mildly. “Callum, this is Jon. Jon, Callum.”

“Hi,” I said, unable to see inside him, able to see him with anything but my very human eyes, and it was so very strange. I hadn’t just used my two basic eyes for so long, and hadn’t even realized it. He almost didn’t seem real. Flat, like a cardboard cutout of himself. “I have a favor to ask.”

“What do I get out of it?” he said.

“Um. What do you want?” I said.

“Way to bargain, Sims,” said Martin, the corners of his mouth curled.

“Oh, shut up. What do you want, Callum?”

He studied me. “Money.”

“Oh. I just got a job today.”

“Not that kind of money. A lot of money.”

“I’m not… robbing a bank for you , or something.”

Callum stared at me. Then he looked at Martin, eyebrows raised.

Martin shrugged, wearing a beatific smile.

Callum looked back. “I want you to find me things . Things only Eye-guys can see. Not robbing people. I’m not stupid.”

“I… don’t understand what you’re…”

“Lost treasure. Missing things. Overlooked paintings. Things like that.”

I scratched my head. “How are you going to handle provenance?”

“Not your concern, Pupil Boy.”

Martin lost it, just for a moment. “I am so calling you that.”

“Don’t you dare,” I said back, equally unserious.

“You’ll do it?” said Callum.

I checked with the Eye. “Looks like it’s possible,” I said. “All right. I suppose so, but not open-ended. Three things.”

“Sure,” said Callum, who clearly thought he’d gotten the better end of the deal (and probably had), and then said what they all say: “I killed you in my world.”

“Yes, yes,” I said.

“You tried to see through the dark, and you couldn’t. It ate you.”

“I think you mean one of the things inside it ate me,” I said, pedantic. “One of the lightless beasts, or whatnot.”

“No,” he said with a little shrug. “The Dark ate you. Really enjoyed it, too. Gave me a real boost.”

“Oh,” I said.

A deeply awkward pause… happened.

“Callum,” said Martin, chiding gently.

“Fine,” said Callum. “What do you need?”

“I need Manuela Dominguez not to notice that I am visiting her special lab in the Alps.”

“Done,” he said.

I blinked. “What do you mean, done? It can’t be done already.”

“It’s done. What, you think I don’t know where she is? You think I don’t know how to hide something stupid like a visitor from her system?” Callum said.

I stared at him. “You’re… efficient.”

“I fucking destroyed my world. Yeah. Efficient’s the word,” said Callum. “Four things. For being rude.”

Martin chortled.

I could sort of see why. Callum was abrasively winning, somehow. Bleh. “Sure. Four things.”

Callum smiled. Like a shark. “Do whatever you gotta do. I’ll keep you out of sight the whole time you’re there.”

“Thank you.” I kissed Martin quickly.

“Ew,” said Callum, who watched eagerly nonetheless.

“Be careful,” said Martin.

“I will make sure we’re safe,” I said, nuzzling him once.

Then I opened a portal and stepped through.

I made it sound so easy. Opened a portal and stepped through. As if it didn’t involve narrowing my mind, opening my gaze; somehow seeing across hundreds of miles and through a mountain of solid stone that had supposedly been protected against this very thing. As if it didn’t involve telling reality to open, to part, to fold so that I could step from my London flat into her Switzerland lab. I couldn’t explain how I did this if my life depended on it, and it frightened me, because what if I couldn’t hold on to this instinctive skill?

The fear made it stronger, of course, and faster than I was ready for, I’d arrived. And oh, gods, I couldn’t see shit.

Okay. Okay; no, I could see, but the same way I saw Callum: strange, two-dimensional. It felt like I could only move in one direction across a flat plane.

Her door skewed, a trapezoid, but I found my way to it, reached through it somehow (don’t think about it, Sims), and walked inside.

Nikola Orsinov was deeply startled to see me.

Oh… oh, she was not well. Her feet and hands had both been melted off; there was no paint left on her, anywhere. The ringmaster's uniform was shreds of red, unrecognizable on her mutilated manikin body.

In spite of all that, her shock was palpable. She sat up, joints creaking, plastic squeaking. “Archivist?” she said in a broken-music box voice.

This wasn’t right. She was being tortured. This was… inhumane. This was monstrous. I didn’t care what she had done. This was…

I had to be out of my mind. “I know you’re a copy.”

We were still for a long moment, she and I, staring—one without eyes, the other whose sight was flattened by the Dark.

“She told you,” said Nikola.

“Yes. I’m here to find out what you know about guilt.”

“Are you? That’s lovely! I don’t believe you.”

Of course she didn’t. “What have they done to you in here?” I said.

“You, the arbiter of that which exposes, which sees and reveals, wish to learn about guilt?” she said, and her laugh was terrible. It sounded like ping pong balls rattling together, as if they’d been dropped down the stairs.

“I’m hoping I can stop it,” I said.

Nikola could not stare. She had no eyes—but that which was within her could most certainly see. I found myself pinned, peered through, seen by that which must see clearly in order to erase and replace it with itself. I was… this was…

This was a god , and anyone who’d called me one was full of shit.

“I see,” said Nikola. “You think you can restore the balance? You?” She stood.

I couldn’t move. I couldn’t… even think. Felt like I was held in a hand made of knives, and it hadn’t skinned me yet, hadn’t pierced, but with the slightest twitch, it could.

She stopped in front of me, pretending to see, letting the other see. “You could, I think… but might it be more fun not to let you?” Her stump pressed into my chest and

fingers she had fingers though they were not visible

They pressed into my skin, and—“I’m torn, Archivist. I’m so very hungry, and you’re right here, and delightfully afraid. It’s like you’re a little Cornish pasty, steaming and ready!”

For one second, just one, she had me. Terror—a lifetime of it, before my bizarre millennia floating in nothing—settled into all its familiar place, refitting its fingerprints to the bruises it gripped into my soul.

The Eye showed me Martin.

A glimpse, lying beside me in our small bed, too close, smiling in the morning light; sleepy-eyed, utterly relaxed, mine.

Oh, fuck this creature. “ Don’t touch me ,” I said, and I don’t know where it came from or how it worked, but it thrust her away with the same trembling force my forgiveness.

But this was not forgiveness.

Nikola cracked back from me into the wooden board that was her bed and collapsed there, limbs askew, clacking and creaking and inhuman. She laughed.

And then from her issued a… sense. Sentence? Communication that was not in words.

Maybe you can do it

She didn’t say those words. That which looked through her at me said those words. The godsdamned Stranger itself regarded me, and Nikola stood down. “She would never tell you to ask me,” she said, stolen voice box creaky like her limbs. “I take it she is dead.”

“Yes. She’s dead.”

And this Nikola’s whole form… shuddered , making a sound like a failing bridge. “So then it's done! I am no longer needed.”

She was falling apart. “I need information!” I snapped. “What, you’re going to just… die?”

“How can I die when I’ve never been alive, Archivist? What funny things you say,” she said, and I—

could see

Exactly where she was being held together, and the threads of unreality were being pulled away, and I

held

them fast.

That which looked through her unpainted face groaned.

“Tell me what you know, Nikola Orsinov,” I commanded.

“It controls,” she moaned, “needs to control… to keep all… where it thinks they belong. It does not allow… chaos. ”

What?

Oh.

Oh… that made… sense to me.

Sense in a horrible way, sense in a way I did not want, like feeling the beauty of the Vast, or the joy of the Distortion, or the relief of the Lonely. Keeping it quiet, keeping it shamed , meant no one would do the worst things, or very few would. It meant saving people. It meant calm.

But was that actually saving anyone?

No. It wasn’t. I knew that. Saving them at the expense of their joy was not saving them at all.

It was becoming hard to hold Nikola together. “Do you want to live?” I asked her.

“I don’t live, silly Archivist,” she said.

“Answer me.” I could make her do that.

She shuddered, rattled. “I want to be released from this form. I won’t truly die, Archivist—but I can be untrapped.”

Fuck Manuela for doing this. This wasn’t right. I don’t care what Nikola did, how many lives she’d taken; we were supposed to not be the monsters here. “I release you,” I said. “And… I forgive you, too.”

She fell apart. Clattering, legs rolling under the board, arms plonking to the ground and rocking just for a moment. Her head rolled all the way to my feet, where it landed, looking up at me.

Impossibly, there was some paint there, after all. I’d swear it was a smile.

I don’t know what I did, by doing that. Maybe I made things bad. I don’t care. This hadn’t been right, and I…

I was angry .

I opened a portal and stomped back home.

Martin and Callum both did a double-take and stared.

“It’s done,” I said.

“Jon?” said Martin as if unsure.

Great. What was wrong now? “Of course, Jon. Why? Do I look like someone else? Did the fucking Stranger…”

“Jon, you’re glowing,” Martin said.

“I… think… uh,” said Callum. “You’ll pay when you can, probably.” He took two steps back and into the Dark and was gone.

I looked down at myself. I wasn’t glowing. “What?”

“Jon, you… you look radioactive.”

And suddenly it hit me. Sometime during that time in Nikola’s cell, I’d adapted to the Dark. seen in three dimensions; seen fully, comfortably, no longer restricted by whatever Callum cast over us.

Damn. I’d done it again. “Glowing?”

Martin nodded.

I tried to stop doing that. “Still?”

Martin nodded.

I waved my hands. “Fuck!” I declared.

Martin took a step. “You’re warm,” he whispered.

“Warm!” I said the word like it offended me.

He stepped closer, and very, very carefully, reached to touch my hand.

Immediate relief. I hadn’t known I was hot, hadn’t known I was burning up like an underground fire, but I was; and from him, coolness, relief, isolation spread over my skin like a healing balm, and I welcomed it.

I could have fought him fought the Lonely's kiss, but why? For a moment, I was all alone, alone in the world, in an ocean of mist and silence, and it was bliss.

Then I was in his arms, trembling, knees weak. “Oh,” I whispered.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “Doused it. Whatever it was. Don’t know how, but… but it worked.”

It worked because I’d wanted it to. Oh, gods. I clutched him, feeling weak as a kitten. “She’s dead. The fake. Died as soon as she knew the original was gone.”

“So you didn’t get a lot of answers, did you?” he said.

“No,” I sighed. “I didn’t even get to learn how the original Nikola got here.”

ALWAYS HERE , the Eye told me.

Sure. That made sense.

“Come on,” he said. “Full day of work, running around inside of mountains, blowing up enemies… I think you’ve done enough, yeah?”

I laughed. “When you put it that way.”

I let him drag me to the bathroom, washing off the grime, the sweat, the workplace . I let him take me to the living room, where I sat on the sofa like a dropped shirt, limp and barely awake, and let him feed me leftover curry.

He made a fuss over the fingertip bruises on my chest, where Nikola had pushed in, somehow. I hardly cared about them.

I cared about him. “Too good to me,” I kept mumbling.

“Oh, hush,” he mumbled back, and got me to bed.

I was exhausted. I had to do most of this again tomorrow? Somehow? Why in blazes had I gotten a job, again?

Martin was already out, eyelashes moving with his dreams, breathing softly.

What was I even truly being asked to do? Was I being used like Jonah had used me before?

I had no way to know that tonight, and I was too damned tired to think about it. And I still had to go to work.

Web Martin, I decided before I slept, was giving me a gosdamned raise.

#tma #tma fic #the magnus archives au #tma au #jonathan sims #nikola orison #martin blackwood #callum brodie #web martin #magnus monsterverse

13 notes · View notes