#emil walpole

[staysaneathome]

Since the wonderful @johndead answered some pressing concerns about Martin Care, decided to write a little something set in their universe!

Emil frowned at the creature sat on the countertop before him.

It was short and squat, about the size of a kitten. Its…hair? Fur? Was long and stringy, and matched the rest of its ragged appearance.

Its large eyes stared at him, unblinking and wet.

Emil blinks first, and frowned harder at the creature. His thumb hovered over the contacts in his phone.

Alexa was the most sensible one in the office, and the one most likely to know what this was and tell him with the least fuss, but she also had said when she left work that she and her boyfriend were taking a long weekend to Bath for a romantic getaway, and so any emergencies would have to wait til Monday.

Danny was probably next best, as his hyperfixations meant he could spout off detailed knowledge about any number of random subjects, but if this thing didn’t fall under that umbrella, then he and Emil would both be stumped. He was also still on that urban exploration kick, and might be bowels deep in a sewer somewhere with no phone reception.

Which left…

Emil sighs, then stiffens at the way the creature stared at him, leaning forward slightly.

He didn’t want to have to do this. But desperate times…

He hits the video call button, and waited a few tense minutes for it to ring.

“Hello? Emil, is that you?”

His heart most definitely did not skip a beat at the face filling his screen, peering at him in concern. “Lynn.”

“Hi Emil!” His boss (who he certainly did not have a crush on, shut up) chirped, a smile splitting their face. It wavers slightly. “Um. Not to be rude of anything, but you never call me outside work hours—is something wrong?”

“I got home and found something had got into my flat.” He stated. “I’ve no clue what the hell this thing is. Hold on, I’ll show you.”

He turned the phone around to face the creature. It reared back slightly, wet eyes darting between him and the screen, nose twitching.

Whatever Emil expected to happen, it was not for his boss to let out a small squeal of delight.

“Aw! Hey there buddy, hello! Oh, you’re so little, Emil he’s adorable!”

He raises an eyebrow at the creature, whose fur/hair/whatever was beginning to lift like a cat’s. “If this thing is adorable then I’m about to win Love Island. What is it.”

“Oh, oh right,” Lynn said, sounding flustered. “Well, that’s a Jon! I don’t know as much about them as I do about Martins, but they’re really fascinating creatures! A bit shy and prickly at first, but really quite sweet once you get to know them. I’ve only ever seen them in pet shops before or videos online, where did you find him?”

“I got home and found it drinking water from my sink.” Emil reports, keeping a firm eye on this “Jon” thing. “I must have not turned it off right when I left this morning—Oi. Stop that. Lynn, it’s doing something weird.”

A set of floating, glowing eyes are starting to manifest out of the air surrounding the Jon, staring hard at the phone as it bristles and lets out a low hissing noise.

“Is that the first threat display he’s made?” Lynn asks. “Didn’t he do this when you got in?”

“No,” Emil grits out, crossing the kitchen with a hand hovering over his phone protectively. Thankfully the eyes can’t follow more than a few inches, and the Jon’s hissing died down some, though it still glares imperiously at the phone. “Little bastard just walked over and stared at me the entire time.”

There’s an excited gasp from the other end of the line. “Oh wow, Emil, I think that means he likes you! Most of the videos I’ve watched say that Jons usually do a lot of threat displays to people or animals they’re not sure of. Maybe he thinks you’re a kindred spirit?”

Emil can’t help the scowl and slight flush that comes to his face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He snaps. “It’s not like I’m keeping the damn thing.”

“O-oh.” Lynn’s face falls slightly, before they smile again. Emil steadfastly ignores the pang that sends through him. “That’s fair. Not everyone has time for a pet, I guess. Though I think most shelters might be closed tonight, and I’m not sure if they open on weekends?”

Emil closes his eyes and groans. Great. Just great. Now he has to deal with a little eyeball creep staring at him for potentially two days. How’s he going to make sure it doesn’t get sick or starve during that time? He’s not even sure he has food in for himself.

“I could send you some care instructions, if you like?” Lynn offers tentatively. “There are a few good websites online where I’ve got advice for caring for my Martin before, and I think their basic needs are similar—wide, shallow bowls for food and water, soft materials for nesting in, plenty of space and enrichment, that sort of thing. There might be some differences though, because I know my Martin loves poetry—”

As if on cue, the Jon hisses loudly at the word “poetry”, it’s fur standing on end and several glowing eyes (plus one tape recorder) popping into existence around it.

“Fucking—!” Emil rears back.

“Sorry! Sorry, I shouldn’t have said the p word!” Lynn apologizes. “Yeah, there are loads of videos online of people putting a book of K-E-A-T-S behind their Jon to make him jump or start mauling it. It’s really not nice for the little guys, but I suppose since it gets their owners views they think—”

“Lynn.” Emil interrupts, before his boss can go off on another tangent about ethical treatment of pets on social media. “Just, just send me the links. Please.”

“Alright!” Lynn chirps. “I’ve also got some old stuff I had that my Martin didn’t end up using, like a carrier and toys and stuff. Would you like me to give them a wash, bring them over to see if Jon likes them?”

“Sure.” Emil says, without thinking. “Why not. I’ll be in all weekend.”

“Great!” Lynn looks almost nervous, smiling at him. “I’ll send the links and see you tomorrow then?”

It finally clicks in Emil’s brain that he’s just invited his boss (his crush) over to his place to try and help him wrangle a weird eyeball creature.

Rather than say anything sensible to abort the situation, Emil instead chokes out. “Y-yeah. I’ll send you the address. See you.”

They beam at him, and then their picture vanishes with a small bloop.

Emil puts his phone down on the countertop.

Then he promptly sits on the floor, puts his head into his knees, and screams mentally.

What was he thinking?! Sure he can just about survive during the workday, when there’s a veil of professionalism between them, and Danny and Alexa besides, but coming around to his flat?! In casual clothes, with their glow-in-the-dark nail polish and their general personality in his space?! Alone?!

He’s done for. Doomed. He may as well quit now, he’s so sure he’s going to embarrass himself and make them hate him and screw everything up forever.

There’s a weird pitter-patter sound, interrupted by small vibrations.

When he looks up, he sees the Jon is staring meaningfully down at him.

He heaves a bigger sigh. “Can’t I have a crisis in peace?”

That only makes the Jon’s eyes grow bigger and wetter, almost hungry-looking. Apparently not.

He gets to his feet and unlocks his phone. Alongside all the links Lynn has texted, they’ve also sent a picture of a much rounder, more ascetically pleasing creature in glasses, blinking happily at the camera from a nest of shredded paper, wool and scraps of fabric, and teabags.

The caption under it says “Martin says to say hello! :D”

He holds the picture up to the Jon, ready to pull it away at the first sign of hissing or floating eyes. “See this? This is cute. What do you have to say for yourself, huh?”

The Jon leans towards the screen, nose twitching, eyes wet and huge and unblinking.

It reaches out a paw and rests it against the shoulder of the Martin-picture. Then it leans its head against it.

Emil ends up slowly letting go of his phone until it is lying flat on the table again for the Jon to curl up on it.

Its unblinking eyes slide closed. It begins to make a rusty sound, almost like a cat’s purr, if a bit more…mechanical maybe? A tape recorder running, perhaps.

Emil reaches out to try and pick the phone up.

The purring stops. One eye opens and stares at him.

“Or not.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Hell, you’re just as hopeless as me, aren’t you.”

The Jon’s eye closes and he begins purring again at a louder rate.

Emil huffs a breath of laughter. Still. If he’s not getting his phone back soon, he’d better try and get started on the things Lynn told him about so they don’t arrive tomorrow and find he’s somehow managed to kill the Jon.

Wide shallow bowls for water, for a start…

#johndead #the magnus archives #tma #tma au #creature au #??? #jon sims care #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #emil walpole #lynn stine #jonmartin

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 3.13

Beer Birthdays

John Taylor (1790)

Conrad George Oland (1851)

Charles Liebmann (1877)

William Lindsay Everard (1891)

Tim Webb

Joe Tucker (1968)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Akira Fubuki; Japanese model (1978)

Percival Lowell; astronomer (1855)

William H. Macy; actor (1950)

Joseph Priestly; English chemist (1733)

Uncle Sam; patriotic symbol (1852)

Famous Birthdays

Walter Annenberg; publisher, philanthropist (1908)

Adam Clayton; Irish bassist, "U2" (1960)

Common; rapper (1972)

Dana Delany; actor (1956)

Lorenzo Delmonico; steakhouse restauranteur (1813)

Donald Duck; cartoon character (1941)

Robin Duke; actor, comedian (1954)

Paul Fix; actor (1901)

Annabeth Gish; actor (1971)

William Glackens; artist (1870)

Charles Earl Grey; British PM, "tea lover" (1764)

Roy Haynes; jazz drummer (1925)

Glenne Headly; actor (1955)

Emile Hirsch; actor (1985)

L. Ron Hubbard; sci-fi writer, cult founder (1911)

Allan Jaffee; cartoonist (1921)

Dick Katz; pianist, composer (1934)

Sammy Kaye; bandleader (1910)

Charles Krauthammer; political writer (1950)

Maximilien Luce; French artist (1858)

Deborah Raffin; actor (1953)

Helen St. Aubin; AGPBL Baseball Player, "The Ted Williams of Women's Baseball" (1929)

Neil Sedaka; pop singer, songwriter (1939)

Mike Stoller; record producer, songwriter (1933)

Hugh Walpole; English writer (1884)

Hugo Wolf; composer (1860)

Donny York; pop singer (1949)

#Birthdays

[mirandamckenni1]

Daughter - How Official video for ’How’ by Daughter. ’How’ is taken from Daughter’s new album ‘Not To Disappear’, released via 4AD/Glassnote. Buy the album here: iTunes: http://smarturl.it/NTDi CD/LP: https://ift.tt/ulTg3hL https://ift.tt/cJiAmr1 http://www.twitter.com/ohdaughter https://ift.tt/4cWURVI Director: IAIN FORSYTH & JANE POLLARD Producer: VANESSA FARINHA Original Story: ‘5040’ BY STUART EVERS CAST (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE) Ava: Marama Corlett Landlord: Brian Croucher Girls in Red Dresses: Annette Lee, Emma True, Anna Hawkes and Maddison Eddy CREW: Director of Photography: CHLOË THOMSON Editor: RACHAEL SPANN Casting Director: LAYLA MERRICK-WOLF Art Director: CARA BARRY Production Stylist: SAL PITTMAN Hair & Make-up: MARTINA LUISETTI, PAULA VALENCIA Screenplay: CARA BARRY Focus Puller: Emil Davidov Steadicam Operator: Matthew Allsop 2nd Assistant Camera: Howard Mills DIT: Joe Lovelock Gaffer: Harry Gay Spark: Hugh Donnelly Grip: Ian Ogden Grip Assistant: Adam Zimmerman Art Assistant: Lucy Baker Runners: Maddison Eddy, Lucy McLeod and Callum Knauf Assistant Editor: Jamie Hodgson Edited at: Work Post Colourist: Tom Balkwill Online Editor: Gareth Bishop Confirmed at: Dirty Looks Production Assistants: Andrew Orr, Samantha Holmans With Thanks: Maddermarket Theatre Costume Department, Onsight, Panalux, Walpole Bay Hotel A PRODUCTION BY THE NOTHING COPYRIGHT: 4AD / GLASSNOTE 2016 http://vevo.ly/PdkNyS via YouTube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=63xjiLDRWBI

#IFTTT #YouTube #Youtube

[eserozetlerim]

İlk Natüralist Roman

New Post has been published on https://eserozetleri.com/ilk-naturalist-roman/

İlk Natüralist Roman

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İlk Natüralist Roman – 19. yüzyılda realizm ve romantizm akımlarına tepki olarak ortaya çıkan natüralizm akımı 1877 yılında Fransız yazar Emile Zola tarafından kaleme alınan natüralizm başlıklı makale içerisinde bu akıma ait tüm kurallar bildirilmiştir.

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Natüralizm bakımında öncü olarak kabul edilen Emile Zola realizmden farklı olarak bilimsel temele dayanan gerçekçiliği yani pozitivizm felsefesini ortaya koymuştur. Dünyada bilinen en ünlü naturalist yazarlar içerisinde Gerhart Hauptman – Sevgili Wendu, Stephen Carine – George’un Annesi, Adolphe Taine – Bir Kedinin Yaşamı ve Felsefi Görüşleri, Theodore Dreiser – İnsanlık Suçu, Fyodor Dostoyevski – Beyaz Geceler ve Guy De Maupassant – Hasırcı Kız yazarları ve eserleri bulunmaktadır.  Ancak ilk natüralist roman ve yazarı emile Zola- Germinal’dir.

Dünya edebiyatında ilk natüralist roman Emile Zola tarafından ortaya konulmuş olup Germinal ismine sahiptir. 591 sayfadan oluşan bu roman ilk kez 1891 yılında yayınlanmış olup 2 ciltten oluşmaktadır. Eser içerisinde madencilerin yaşadıkları zorluklar, yoksulluk, grev ve açlık gibi konular yer almaktadır. aynı yazara ait natüralist roman olarak kaleme alınan diğer eserler ise Meyhane, Nana ve Nasıl Ölünür? Romanlarıdır.

Natüralizm akımının Emile Zola’dan sonra en önemli temsilcileri arasında ise Joris Karls Huysmans, Edmond de Goncourt, Emilia Pardo Bazan ve Amo Hols’dur.

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Türkiye Edebiyatında İlk Natüralist Roman Hangisidir?

Türkiye’de fiyatında ilk natüralist roman servetifünun döneminde eserler kaleme almış olan Nabizade Nazım tarafından yazılan Zehra adlı romandır. Zehra romanı Türk edebiyatında ilk natüralist roman olarak kabul edilmekte olup didaktik bir üslupla kaleme alınmıştır. Bu eser 1894 yılında yayımlanmış olup dönemin edebiyat eleştirmenlerinden de tam not almıştır.

Romanın içerisinde Zehra karakteri eski eşinden intikam almak istemekte olup romanın genelinde Zehra’nın yaşadıkları konu edinmektedir. Eserde yer alan diğer karakterler ise Suphi, Sırrı Cemal, Şevket Bey, Ürani karakterleridir.

İlk Natüralist Roman

Dünya Edebiyatında İlkler

Edebiyat içerisinde yer alan türlerin dünya edebiyatında mutlaka bir çıkış noktası bulunmakta olup her akımın veya türün bir ilki bulunmaktadır. Kült eserleri olarak kabul edilen bu eserler daha sonra birçok millete ait eserlerin çıkış noktasını oluşturmaktadır. Dünya edebiyatında ilkler listemiz şöyledir;

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İlk Modern Roman: Servantes–Donkişot

Dünya edebiyatındaki ilk hikayeci ve eseri: Boccaio-Decameron

İlk psikolojik roman:  Madam Dö La Fayet’in-Prenses Dö Klev

Dünya edebiyatındaki ilk realist roman- Gustave Flaubert- Madama Bovary

İlk polisiye öykü: Edgar Allan Poe- Morgue Sokağı Cinayetleri

İlk bilim-kurgu Eseri: Samsatlı Lukianos- True History

İlk gotik roman: Horace Walpole- Otranto Şatosu

Dünyadaki ilk roman: Murasaki Shikibu- Genji’nin Hikayesi

Türkiye Edebiyatında İlkler

Türk edebiyatında ise ilk olarak ortaya konulan eserler ve genellikle roman türündeki eserler 19. yüzyılda Osmanlı toplumunda yer alan aydınların batı ile sıkı ilişkilere girmesi ve birçok aydının bu dönemde batıya giderek oradaki kültürü incelemesi ile ortaya çıkmıştır. Bu nedenle bizdeki roman türündeki ilk eserler batı edebiyatında ortaya çıkan eserlerden oldukça sonra görülmeye başlanmıştır. Türkiye edebiyatında ilkler ise şöyledir;

İlk edebî roman: Namık Kemal, İntibah, 1874

İlk tarihi roman: Namık Kemal, Cezmi, 1880; Ahmet Mithat Efendi, Yeniçeriler, 1871

İlk yerli roman: Şemsettin Sami, Taaşşuk-ı Talat ve Fitnat, 1873

Batılı tekniğe uygun ilk roman: Halit Ziya Uşaklıgil, Aşk-ı Memnu, 1899

İlk çeviri roman: Yusuf Kâmil Paşa, Fenelon’dan Telemak, 1859

İlk psikolojik roman: Mehmet Rauf, Eylül, 1901

İlk realist roman: Recaizade Mahmut Ekrem, Araba Sevdası, 1898

İlk resmi Türkçe gazete: Takvim–i Vakayi, 1831

İlk yerli tiyatro yapıtı: Şinasi, Şair Evlenmesi, 1859

İlk yarı resmi gazete: Ceride-i Havadis, 1840

İlk köy romanı: Nabizâde Nâzım, Karabibik, 1889

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[weirdletter]

No Ghosts Need Apply: Gothic influences in criminal science, the detective and Doyle’s Holmesian Canon, by Camilla Del Grazia, Edward Everett Root Publishers, 2020. Info: eerpublishing.com.

This innovative new work highlights how the presence of Gothic elements in the Holmesian Canon problematizes the normative action of the detective. It examines the anxieties which accompanied the changing universe of Victorian and Edwardian society in the context of the development of criminal science. Recently the figure of Sherlock Holmes has been the object of countless re-writings, re-interpretations, and adaptations in a vast array of media including literature, graphic novels, TV series, and cinematic renditions. The vast majority of these adaptations tend to present the detective and his adventures as the triumph of rationality and of the scientific method over the disruptive forces of crime, but neglecting to take into account the dreadful considerations that these forces bring to light. Sherlock Holmes is generally portrayed as a beacon of rationality, the scientific detective par excellence whose logic solutions actively safeguard late Victorian and Edwardian society and its collective unconscious. His empirical approach to the mysteries he is called to solve usually sparks comparisons with thinkers like Tyndall, Huxley or Spencer, thus firmly encapsulating him in the positivist milieu of the time. Buried just beneath this normalizing façade, however, lies a complex relationship with the Gothic tradition and its tropes, an intertext which Doyle knowingly plays upon while openly disavowing it. The problematic distinction between “serious” realistic literature and the supernatural dates back to the dialectic between novel and romance, and was brought to the forefront during the Romantic age, especially in the context of the rise of the Gothic novel. Yet Gothic literature and its later incarnations, the Sensation novel and the fin de siècle horror, allowed for an unparalleled degree of freedom in tackling repressed anxieties in a variety of issues, ranging from heredity in all its connotations, to social mobility, to space and colonization. A perceptive writer, Doyle immediately recognised the potential of Gothic echoes in articulating disquiets produced by a multiplicity of factors: from scientific and technologic development and the uncanny possibilities they engendered, to the Imperial enterprise and the fear of contagion and reverse colonization, to the emergence of disruptive forces within the Victorian family and society, the ultimate objects of the detective’s protection. To let the detective’s rational light shine, Doyle summoned a particularly deep darkness: one that even Holmes’ brilliant solutions struggle to dispel. Camilla Del Grazia provides a broad overview of the rise of the Gothic novel, introducing the debate around the realist novel and romances, with particular focus on the critical condemnation of “irrational” elements. Central features of classic Gothic novels are considered in relation to the works of Horace Walpole, Anne Radcliffe, Clara Reeve, and Matthew Lewis. Particular attention is paid to specific aspects of the Gothic novel. Specifically its uncanny use of the past and of remote spaces as instruments of suppression, and the characterization of its three main figures: the hero, the persecuted maiden, and the tyrannical villain. The work also investigates the evolution of the Gothic genre from its outset to its fin de siècle articulations. The author initially examines its reception after 1790 and the parodic adaptations that it engendered, and provides specific insight into Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey and Thomas Love Peacock’s Nightmare Abbey. Del Grazia considers the evolution of Gothic tropes in early Victorian literature, and their application in the novels of Charles Dickens and Charlotte and Emily Brontë. She then focuses on their reinterpretation in the short stories of Edgar Allan Poe. The work also offers a theoretical overview of the complex scenery of fin de siècle English literature, including an account of the Victorian Gothic novels of Robert Louis Stevenson, Oscar Wilde and Bram Stoker, and  their profound impact on the cultural milieu of the end of the century. Sensation novels are considered as the joining link between the Gothic genre and detective fiction, with specific reference to the novels of Wilkie Collins, and his depiction of female confinement as well as private detection. To provide an exhaustive introduction to the creation of the character of Sherlock Holmes, an examination of first instances of crime fiction is then provided, by comparing the works of Emile Gaboriau, Edgar Allan Poe, Wilkie Collins and Charles Dickens and the detective figures that they shaped. The second section of the present work is concerned with the identification of Gothic tropes in the Holmesian Canon, and their articulation in different categories according to their ramifications and sphere of action. The author specifically examines the uncanny consequences of the reception of new technologies and scientific discoveries on Victorian culture and social order, analyzing instances of degeneration, regression and atavism in Holmes’ cases, and delineating a Sherlockian “criminal type”. The concept of melancholy and its reinterpretation in light of the theorizations of criminal anthropology is then applied to the figure of the “great detective”, in order to demonstrate how his powerful normalizing influence is achieved at the cost of his exclusion from society. Lastly, Victorian society is analysed, with a focus on the climate of social tension that preceded the outbreak of the First World War. Specifically, the Gothic elements of intrigue and secret societies are analyzed in their Holmesian rewriting, while the strictly Victorian themes of the integrity of family and of the evolution of female identity are considered in their problematic development.

#book #essay #weird essay #gothic essay #weird studies #gothic studies #studies in supernatural fiction #occult detectives #supernatural detectives #sherlock holmes

[hillljoy]

@hesocialist

Joy had forgotten how crowded The Strand Bookstore could be. The entrance was the worst part. That was where the crowds of tourists congregated speaking a babel of languages that she couldn’t make head or tale of. It was easier once a person found themselves at the stacks themselves where the crowds were smaller, but there were still some disturbers of the peace. Like the man in his early forties who had his earbuds jammed so far in his ears and who played his opera so loudly that the other patrons in the music section had started giving him dirty looks.

Luckily, Joy was nowhere near that man anymore. She was standing in the rare book room looking for first editions. She skimmed the titles carefully, but there was nothing striking there. She had read most of Trollope and Hugh Walpole ages ago back in Malibu, the Germans didn’t give her any inspiration either.

The French… Ah, the French. She fixed her emerald gaze on their spines and read them one by one. Soon enough, she was standing in front of Emile Zola’s Les Rougons Macquart. All twenty hardbound volumes were sitting on a shelf waiting for her to take one of them in hand and leaf through it. Except she couldn’t.

There was a man not far from where she was standing. He was older than Joy, but that was no matter. She approached him. “Is this your first time at The Strand?” she asked.  

#hesocialist #th; blow the candle out #v; modern

[automaticheartprince-blog]

Daughter - Numbers

Official video for 19Numbers 19 by Daughter.

19Numbers 19 is taken from Daughter 19s new album 18Not To Disappear 19, released via 4AD/Glassnote.

Buy the album here:

iTunes: http://smarturl.it/NTDi

CD/LP: http://smarturl.it/NTDPhysical

http://www.ohdaughter.com

http://www.twitter.com/ohdaughter

http://www.facebook.com/ohdaughter

Director: Iain Forsyth & Jane Pollard

Producer: Vanessa Farinha

Original Story: 18Window 19 by Stuart Evers

CAST (IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE)

SAM: Natasha O 19Keeffe

Hen Party Girls: Anna Hawkes, Emma True

Street Preachers: Terry Perkins, Lucy Baker

Man On Bench: William Sebag-Montefiore

Woman On Bench: Charlotte Edmondson

First Victim: Orlando Brooke

Outdoor Drinkers: Steve Webbon, Will Tompsett

Pub Singer: Peter Barnett

Barman: Andrew Orr

Second Victim: Daniel Bacon

Man At Bar: William Sebag-Montefiore

Drinkers: Will Tompsett, Annette Lee

CREW:

Director of Photography: Chloë Thomson

Editor: Rachael Span

Casting Director: Layla Merrick-Wolf

Art Director: Cara Barry

Production Stylist: Sal Pittman

Hair & Make-up: Martina Luisetti, Paula Valencia

Screenplay: Cara Barry

Focus Puller: Emil Davidov

Steadicam Operator: Matthew Allsop

2nd Assistant Camera: Howard Mills

DIT: Joe Lovelock

Gaffer: Harry Gay

Spark: Hugh Donnelly

Grip: Ian Ogden

Grip Assistant:

Adam Zimmerman

Sound Recordist: Helen Miles

Art Assistant: Lucy Baker

Runners: Maddison Eddy, Lucy McLeod

Assistant Editor: Jamie Hodgson

Edited at: Work Post

Colourist: Tom Balkwill

Online Editor: Gareth Bishop

Confirmed At: Dirty Looks

Production Assistants: Andrew Orr, Samantha Holmans

With Thanks: The Belle Vue Tavern, The Lifeboat, Maddermarket Theatre Costume Department, Onsight, Panalux, Walpole Bay Hotel

A PRODUCTION BY THE NOTHING

COPYRIGHT: 4AD / GLASSNOTE 2015

#Music

[allbestnet]

Top Books from 1000 to 1800

Don Quixote (1605) by Miguel de Cervantes

Gulliver's Travels (1726) by Jonathan Swift

Candide (1759) by Voltaire

Robinson Crusoe (1719) by Daniel Defoe

Paradise Lost (1667) by John Milton

Les Liaisons Dangereuses (1782) by Pierre-Ambroise-Francois Choderlos de Laclos

Prince (1532) by Niccolo Machiavelli

Sorrows of Young Werther (1787) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Jacques the Fatalist (1796) by Denis Diderot

Pilgrim's Progress (1678) by John Bunyan

Tom Jones (1749) by Henry Fielding

Tristram Shandy (1767) by Laurence Sterne

Leviathan (1651) by Thomas Hobbes

Wealth of Nations (1776) by Adam Smith

The Castle of Otranto (1764) by Horace Walpole

Moll Flanders (1721) by Daniel Defoe

Clarissa (1748) by Samuel Richardson

Journey to the West (1592) by Wu Cheng'en

The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1767) by Laurence Sterne

Common Sense (1776) by Thomas Paine

Oroonoko, or The Royal Slave (1688) by Aphra Behn

The Monk (1796) by Matthew Lewis

Social Contract (1762) by Jean Jacques Rousseau

The Mysteries of Udolpho (1794) by Ann Radcliffe

History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (1776) by Edward Gibbon

Joseph Andrews (1742) by Henry Fielding

A Modest Proposal (1729) by Jonathan Swift

Critique of Pure Reason (1781) by Immanuel Kant

Travels of Marco Polo (1300) by Marco Polo

Shakespeare's sonnets (1609) by William Shakespeare

Imitation of Christ (1427) by Thomas a Kempis

Essay Concerning Human Understanding (1689) by John Locke

Spirit of the Laws (1748) by Charles de Secondat Baron de Montesquieu

Dictionary of the English Language (1755) by Samuel Johnson

Vathek (1787) by William Beckford

Utopia (1516) by Sir Thomas More

Lazarillo de Tormes (1554) by

A Sentimental Journey (1768) by Lawrence Sterne

Two Treatises of Government (1689) by John Locke

Celestina (1499) by Fernando de Rojas

Fanny Hill (1749) by John Cleland

Wieland (1798) by Charles Brockden Brown

Julie, ou la Nouvelle Heloise (1761) by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Castle Rackrent (1800) by Maria Edgeworth

Anatomy of Melancholy (1621) by Robert Burton

Pamela (1740) by Samuel Richardson

De revolutionibus orbium coelestium (1543) by Nicolaus Copernicus

Justine (1791) by Marquis de Sade

Encyclopedie (1751) by Jean le Rond d'Alembert

Life of Samuel Johnson (1791) by James Boswell

First Folio (1623) by William Shakespeare

Emile, or On Education (1762) by Jean-Jacques Rousseau

Rights of Man (1791) by Thomas Paine

The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (1791) by Benjamin Franklin

An Essay on the Principle of Population (1798) by Thomas Robert Malthus

The Theory of Moral Sentiments (1759) by Adam Smith

Pamela; or, Virtue Rewarded (1740) by Samuel Richardson

Confessions (1789) by Jean Jacques Rousseau

Prose Edda (1220) by Snorri Sturluson

The Adventures of Roderick Random (1748) by Tobias Smollett

Lives of the Most Eminent Painters and Sculptors (1568) by Giorgio Vasari

The Adventures of Peregrine Pickle (1751) by Tobias Smollett

The Book of the Courtier (1528) by

Hypnerotomachia Poliphili (1499) by Francesco Colonna

New Atlantis (1626) by Francis Bacon

The American Crisis (1783) by Thomas Paine

History of Gil Blas of Santillana (1735) by Alain Rene Le Sage

Juliette (1797) by Marquis de Sade

Shulchan Aruch (1565) by Joseph Karo

Strange Stories from a Chinese Studio (1740) by Pu Songling

Rasselas (1759) by Samuel Johnson

Book of Good Love (1330) by Juan Ruiz

Amadis de Gaula (1508) by Garci Rodriguez de Montalvo

A Journal of the Plague Year (1722) by Daniel Defoe

Zadig (1747) by Voltaire

Book of Concord (1580) by Martin Chemnitz

Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship (1796) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

A General History of the Pyrates (1724) by Captain Charles Johnson

Sidereus Nuncius (1610) by Galileo Galilei

Critique of Practical Reason (1788) by Immanuel Kant

Evelina (1778) by Fanny Burney

Pasyon (1704) by

The Coquette (1797) by Hannah Webster Foster

The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom (1753) by Tobias Smollett

Humphry Clinker (1771) by Tobias Smollett

The Interesting Narrative of the Life of Olaudah Equiano (1789) by Olaudah Equiano

A Treatise of Human Nature (1739) by David Hume

Roxana (1724) by Daniel Defoe

L'Histoire de Gil Blas de Santillane (1735) by Alain-Rene Lesage

#1000-1800 #best #best books #list #book recommendations

[staysaneathome]

Teach A Fish (Extremely Late Mermay 2022)

“And these are our prize specimens!”

Dr. Stoker is far too exuberant for Jon’s liking. In stark contrast to Director Bouchard and Jon himself, the man seems to embody what Hollywood likes to imagine marine biologists are like; too much energy, too many cheesy quips and one-liners, and far too good looks for the field.

Jon, with his greying hair, gaunt frame, and eyebags despite all his efforts to neaten up for his first day as a project head, feels he is a far better representation of the demographic, thank you very much.

Still, he can’t quite help the dawning sense of curiosity and wonder as the giant tanks come into view.

There are two; one slightly smaller than the other, with a more reasonable quantity of sand at the bottom compared to its neighbor.

This is the one Dr. Stoker leads him over to first. “This one in particular— came to us from one of our largest sponsors, and guy who found ‘em likes to pop by and see how his favorite catch is doing. Also I think he and Director Bouchard might have, like, a thing? So yeah, highest priority is keeping this one fed and well-cared for.”

It’s hard to see through the slightly cloudy water, but Jon adjusts his glasses and peers closer.

There, hovering towards the back of the tank, is a large figure, probably as tall as him on glance. It’s tail is dark blue, with pale silver speckles and translucent grey fins. Similar fins line the skin of it’s forearms and between the fingers, and the dorsal fin extends up to where he’d call it the mid-back on a human. Its hair is tightly coiled and floats in a cloud around its head.

“This mer is a variant of the gobiidae species, correct?” He asks Dr. Stoker. “Gobius niger, if I’m not mistaken.”

Dr. Stoker whistles. “You know your stuff! Yeah, this is FR3Y. There was some bickering between the Lukases over the designation before Director Bouchard declared that it was going to be that and shut them all up.”

Jon nods, making a mental note of how casually Dr. Stoker dropped the name of one of the largest contributors to marine life studies, and the fact that the head of the Magnus Institute for Marine Research apparently has the capacity to have the final say on disputes between them.

The mer’s head turns, as if it can hear them through the tank, before a flick of its tail sends it drifting disinterestedly off into the misty waters.

“The rest kept here are our ‘problem children’.” Dr. Stoker laughs as he guides Jon over to the largest tank in the room, which appears to be one third silt and sand. “That’s what me, Sasha and Gerry used to call them— all of them in here are adolescents. Too weird or unsociable to be sent off to nurseries or aquariums, too ‘special’ to leave to the interns or grad students to poke at.”

Jon’s about to ask what Dr. Stoker means by that, or whose bright idea it was to overfill the sediment, when sudden movement catches his eye.

A muscled hand, with dark brown webbing between its fingers, pulls a section of the silt near the bottom of the tank away, followed by another, gradually clawing away a small alcove before Jon’s eyes.

“Aaand there’s one of them now!” Dr. Stoker claps an unwanted hand on Jon’s shoulder. “P3TR4 here is functionally very similar to fish of the weever family! That means she likes to dig. And doesn’t like anything that isn’t digging. Which makes it very difficult when it comes time to do tests! Or introduce her to any new friends! This lot are about the only ones she’ll tolerate, and sometimes not even then.”

A pale face with dark eyes peers up at him, close enough to the glass that Jon’s almost certain it can make him out.

One side of its mouth curls up in what might be a half-hearted snarl or maybe a sneer, showing off rows of needle-sharp teeth. It turns and begins digging away.

“Yeah, she hates you, but try not to take it personally. She sort of hates everybody, and unless she gets a good grip on you, you’ll be fine.” Dr. Stoker begins climbing the stairway that’s been built around the tank. “You should’ve seen what she did to one of our old security guards! Come meet another member of the brat pack.”

Jon tentatively follows up the rickety metal scaffolding. “So… what did happen to one of the security guards…?”

“Oh, P3TR4 managed to pull her into the tank and down into her tunnels. Took us ages to ward her away enough that the guard could get out, and by then the poor thing’s nerves were shot to pieces. Could never work here again.” Dr. Stoker says, blithely. “Anyway, this is D3S, the cutest of the bunch.”

Jon has to tear his mind away from visions of a hapless victim getting dragged down to their watery doom to focus on what Dr. Stoker is pointing at.

This mer is much smaller than the other two, and much more lively as well. The proportions of its tail are similar to fish of the Chaetodon genus, while the more mammalian upper body resembles a small boy of…maybe five years?

Jon’s never had much interaction with children, so he’s only relatively confident in that assessment.

What’s odd is the fact that it is surrounded by what appears to be a particularly colorful swarm of sea lice, all fiery reds, oranges, and browns. Crawling through its short hair, over its gills, fins, and tail. The mer doesn’t seem bothered by them at all, chittering and chirping away with a wide grin as it carefully manipulates its passengers, cupping them in its palms close to its chest and dangling them from its fingers and tail to catch like it’s playing.

He turns to Dr. Stoker. “Aren’t those…?

“Hm? Oh, yeah, no, those things are parasites.” Dr. Stoker replies. “Nasty ones too. But D3S has somehow formed a symbiotic relationship with them—they get food and shelter from him and he somehow gets cleaning and vitamin supplements from them. Separating them turned out to be a bad time all round, he keeps them…docile, somehow. Plus D3S began getting sick without ‘em, so.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs, a what-can-you-do kind of gesture. “So long as you wear the proper protective gear, he’s a sweetheart. Sasha’s currently his favorite, but I’ve got a secret plan to make a comeback any day now. You’ll have stiff competition if you want to catch up!”

Jon can’t help the small scoff that escapes him at that. “It’s not a popularity contest. They’re research subjects in our care, not, not pets.”

The look Dr. Stoker gives him is indecipherable, before the lightbulb-bright beam is back and he’s leading Jon along the walkway again.

“Well now, where’s…a-ha!”

He comes to a stop after thundering down another staircase back to ground level, gesturing proudly to something at the base of the tall fronds of seaweed that block Jon’s view of D3S.

Jon obediently follows and looks where he’s being directed. He can’t help but do a double take at what he sees.

“This is R&D’s pride and joy. They designated it R0BB13.” Dr. Stoker’s voice washes over him as Jon takes in the newest mer. Overall, it wouldn’t be too impressive, a pale brown tail lighter than its skin, hands clutching a seaweed frond to anchor itself. There are small glows of green bioluminescence brightening and dimming along its tail and sides in rhythm with its sleep, the excess the only odd thing about what’s otherwise a standard mer of the Myctophidae family. Except.

Except it has clearly been fitted with a prothesis for the lower half of its face. One that appears to fit near seamlessly, advanced enough to have Jon torn between twin urges of getting closer to examine it or looking away out of ingrained politeness.

“Poor thing was half-dead when it was rescued and brought to Magnus. We think it ran afoul of Leitner and his poachers.” Dr. Stoker continues, grimacing with Jon at Leitner’s name. “Point is, R&D were hankering for a test subject to fit their newest gizmos to and nobody was going to let them lop anything off the mers already in custody. Then lo and behold, the perfect specimen dropped right into their laps. They were bringing in Prosecco for weeks after the initial success.”

“Initial?” Jon asks, his curiosity having won out over his manners. He is now mentally willing the mer’s loose curls to drift out of its face so he can have a better look. “But this is. It’s phenomenal. What this means for our understanding of medical treatment and rehabilitation of mers, particularly ones that would’ve been written off as lost causes, it just. It beggars belief.”

The mer lets out a stream of bubbles in sleep and turns its head into its far arm, much to his annoyance.

“Well, their attempts to restore R0BB13’s vocals weren’t as successful as other functions. Which on it’s own, y’know, wouldn’t be a problem, it’s amazing that this allows them to chew and swallow with no problems, even yawn and emote, as you said, revolutionary really, but. Even the most solitary mers rely heavily on vocal call-and-response to establish territory.”

Dr. Stoker’s hands are stuffed in his pockets, and when Jon glances back the other man’s staring at him, for some reason. “So here’s the rest of our problem children, getting along with mostly no issues, and then this weirdo is dumped into their neat little world. And no matter how many times they try to reach out, extend the olive branch, form a rapport, this stranger just won’t get it. Refuses to engage, no matter what they do. Even seems to be insulting them, in some cases, getting preferential treatment from their handlers. Is it any wonder there were some ruffled feathers in the beginning?”

Jon frowns, looking from Dr. Stoker to R0BB13. “Hardly. It wasn’t the mer’s fault it came in with this handicap. It didn’t ask to be put here, and it’s not at fault it can’t respond in the way the others are used to. It seems irresponsible to just—just dump it in the same tank as the others without some form of socialization beforehand. The Lukas family mer gets it’s own tank—surely providing one for this one isn’t out of the Institute’s budget?”

Dr. Stoker raises an eyebrow, but nods to him, turning his gaze back to the tank. “Yeah, me, Sasha and Gerry heavily advocated for that. Gerry especially, but Director Bouchard kept saying ‘oh but that will set back all the progress we’ve made on socialization so far’ as if that progress wasn’t D3S hiding in fear until he learned they just wanted to play too, or P3TR4 using R0BB13 as a nail file, and—”

Dr. Stoker cocks his head to the side, cutting himself off suddenly. A grin Jon is very sure he doesn’t like spreads over his face.

“And,” He continues, as though he hadn’t stopped, shifting so his stance is oddly set. “It’s long past time for them to be up and about. It’s important to maintain a regular schedule, you know. Not healthy to oversleep, right?”

“I-I’m sorry,” Jon starts, confused, watching as Dr. Stoker raises a hand, winding up like a pitcher. “But what on earth does that have to do with an—”

Before Jon’s befuddled and horrified gaze, Dr. Stoker throws his hand forward to slam on the glass of the tank, bellowing, “WAKEY-WAKEY!”

R0BB13 jolts as its eyes fly open at the BANG, bioluminescence bright with alarm. It releases both a copious amount of bubbles and its hold on the seaweed in shock, then panics as it begins to drift up and away on the current, grabbing futilely for its previous handhold like it’s forgotten it has a tail to swim with.

On the other side of the tank, there’s a flurry of activity as D3S presumably flees for cover. A little closer, Jon spots a plume of sand burst upwards as P3TR4 pokes her head out of the sediment, teeth bared in a irritable growl.

But all that’s soon forgotten when in a blur of bubbles and claws and teeth, something rockets out from the undergrowth and SLAMS right back into the glass.

It does so with such ferocity that Jon really can’t be held accountable for stumbling back, tripping, and landing quite painfully on his arse. “What, what the hell—?!”

Dr. Stoker is laughing uproariously, even as a mer seems to be trying its level best to peel away the glass between them to get at his face.

A door at the end of the room bangs open. “DAMN IT TIM, STOP!”

A tall woman in glasses, lab coat, and lanyard storms out.

“If my samples get contaminated because of you, Stoker, I swear—”

“Pay up Sash!” Dr. Stoker points one finger at who Jon can only assume is one of his new subordinates and another at the mer attempting to murder him. “That’s three times now! It’s a pattern, you can’t deny it!”

The woman referred to as “Sash” scoffs. “3M1L’s mad you’re tapping on his glass Tim, it’s a territorial response! Oldest trick in the book. You can’t possibly expect me to believe—”

“Then why doesn’t he go Kill Bill on me when R0BB13’s not near enough to get freaked out by it?” Dr. Stoker says, in the tone of someone who believes they’ve won an argument.

The woman begins spluttering. “Wh—I—this is why D3S loves me more than you! Because you keep bullying poor, innocent fish to further your, your shipping agenda!”

“It’s not an agenda if it’s happening, Sasha!” Dr. Stoker sing-songs. “Changing the subject is just admitting I’m right!”

“Could someone please tell me what on earth is going on?!” Jon bursts out, tired of the conversation going on literally and figuratively over his head.

The two freeze.

“Oh! Oh I’m sorry!” The woman reaches down and pulls him up, dusting him off with quick, efficient strokes, before pumping his hand up and down. “Jonathan Sims, right? Dr. Sasha James, at your service.”

“And that,” Dr. Stoker adds, directing Jon’s gaze towards the tank where the mer has tired of its attacks and settled for glaring daggers at the three of them, eyes dark blue and murderous. “Is 3M1L. He’s of the ghost knifefish genus, does his best to live up to that name, and loathes absolutely everything except R0BB13.”

“You.” Dr. James fires back. “He loathes you, you mean. Because you keep banging on the glass—”

“Irrelevant!” Dr. Stoker proclaims. “Thing is, if you want him to not try to have your guts for a necklace while doing tests on him, make sure R0BB13 is nearby. He’ll behave in front of them. Or he’ll act out for attention! Luck of the draw, really.”

“The latter more often than the former, recently.” Dr. James concedes with a grimace. “Still, just because you fancy yourself matchmaker—!”

“I am nothing so facile as a matchmaker, James.” Dr. Stoker sniffs, in a passable imitation of Jon’s accent. “I see true love, and I follow my sworn duty to—”

“You said they were adolescents.” Jon’s voice sounds accusing to his own ears. “So this is all, all academic. A waste of time and resources trying to theorize about!”

“I don’t know about that.” Jon feels his blood run cold at the sound of his new employer’s voice. He spins on his heel to see Director Elias Bouchard standing behind them, not a hair out of place. “Peter was sixteen when I met him for the first time, and that meeting eventually lead to a highly enjoyable first marriage. Maybe an equally enjoyable divorce.”

There’s a moment of profoundly uncomfortable silence.

“…and you were…?” Stoker finally ventures.

Director Bouchard shoots the man a sardonic look. “Fifteen, if you must know, Dr. Stoker.”

“Does that make it better or worse??” Dr. James whispers.

Jon…honestly doesn’t know.

“Still, I see you’ve met two of the researchers on your team, and the subjects who’ll be in your care.” Director Bouchard comes to stand besides Jon, briefly clasping a hand on his shoulder. “There are technically three, but the last is currently on the night monitoring shift, though I’m sure you’ll all be introduced soon enough.”

“Michael Shelley, right?” He hears Dr. James say, as he watches 3M1L give them all one last snarl, then turn tail to swim towards the top of the tank, where R0BB13 is still flailing in panic. “I met him a few times—he’s cool.”

He vaguely knows that Director Bouchard is shaking his head, saying something else, but Jon can’t help that his attention is caught by the farce going on in the tank. He watches as 3M1L bullies R0BB13 into remembering they have a tail to swim with, nudging and prodding them back down to sediment-level, snapping toothlessly when they threaten to drift off again, before abandoning his fellow mer at the base of the seaweed to vanish back into the large cluster of rocks from whence he came.

R0BB13 looks…oddly forlorn, left alone like that, before they too disappear into the vegetation in a flicker of pale brown scales.

Jon wonders if they’ve gone off to find 3M1L or D3S to play with, but then he notices that P3TR4’s tunneling has brought her close to the glass again, her face pressed against it and focusing intently on something. But her eyes aren’t watching any of the four humans who are moving and talking not two feet away from her head, so what…?

“…but yes, given Dr. Keay’s departure following this to help bring Jürgen Leitner to justice, we are tremendously grateful that you agreed to come head this program, Dr. Sims.” Director Bouchard pats him on the back again, forcing him to re-zone in on the conversation. “You came very highly recommended by Dr. Robinson, so we expect great things from you here.”

Yes, because that’s no pressure on him at all. Jon takes a moment to long for the days when his thesis supervisor brought him on as a research assistant, where he, Jack, and Emma only had to monitor the relatively sedate 4GN3S and 4NN4B3LL3. Back before Gertrude strode in one day and dropped the bombshell that maybe it was time for Jon to have a project and research assistants of his own.

But Director Bouchard is waiting for a reply, so Jon clears his throat and straightens his shoulders. “A-hem, y-yes, well, I’m. I look forward to working with you all, and with, ah. Such a unique group of mers.”

“That’s certainly a word to call them.” Dr. Stoker mutters, as Dr. James delivers a well-placed elbow to his side.

Weeks go by, and Jon almost feels like he might have some form of understanding about this new situation that’s been thrust upon him.

Still no idea what he’s actually meant to be doing, beyond making sure the mers in his care are relatively healthy and noting down anything they do that’s particularly odd, but some understanding nonetheless.

For instance, he understands now why the position of being D3S’ favorite is such a coveted one.

It means that D3S will actually behave while being examined and won’t, say, attempt to nervously shred the protective gear Jon’s wearing out of anxiety or boredom, exposing Jon to his “little friends” and the many, many unpleasant rashes they bring.

He also understands why Dr. James is and mostly likely always will be D3S’ favorite despite Dr. Stoker’s harebrained schemes to the contrary—she’s thoughtful and considerate enough to anticipate problems and provide the solutions with minimal judgement and much commiseration, such as an experimental cream she’s developed to counteract the rashes.

He understands that Dr. Stoker isn’t anyone’s favorite, except maybe FR3Y’s and that’s more down to the mer’s apparently endless well of patience for Dr. Stoker’s incessant chatter while he pokes and prods about than anything else.

Jon understands that Dr. Stoker and 3M1L should ideally be kept separate at all costs.

He also now thinks he understands what exactly P3TR4 is looking at when she’s staring out of the tank from her tunnels.

He’s conducted a few experiments, nothing major, and it turns out that her gaze is usually fixated on (and gets much moodier if it is in any way blocked from) FR3Y’s tank. And oddly enough, the occasions when Jon’s caught her staring usually line up with the occupant of said tank being close enough to the glass to be clearly visible.

There are still things Jon doesn’t understand, of course.

He doesn’t, for example, understand exactly why P3TR4 keeps staring at FR3Y’s tank. His hypotheses so far— that she’s either curious about a place that she doesn’t have access to or feels threatened by a potential intruder to her territory—don’t hold up when taking the sheer length of time she’s been doing it for into account. By all rights, she should’ve gotten bored or realized FR3Y is no threat to her territory by now.

He doesn’t understand why Dr. James and Dr. Stoker insist that he’s 3M1L’s favorite. The mer clearly dislikes him, and if he scratches less with Jon than with Dr. Stoker or Dr. James, it’s probably only because he’s realized that Jon just wants to get the examination over with as quickly as possible.

He also doesn’t understand why Michael Shelley’s handwriting has undergone such a drastic change when he flips through the entries in the Night Shift log, going from near-illegible curls that nonetheless includes all the pertinent information to neater, less flowing print that either fails to provide certain data or delves into subjects almost totally unrelated to the monitoring of the mers.

He suspects it may be a hazing thing, Shelley deliberately antagonizing him because he thinks that just because he doesn’t see his new boss thanks to their differing shifts, he can mess around however he likes.

He doesn’t understand where the tea comes from. It’s there at the start of every shift he’s had so far, three gently steaming cups at just the right temperature to drink. The tea’s flavor has also gradually been improved over the course of Jon’s employment, so now when he picks up the purple mug with white, grey and black kittens running across it, the drink inside is exactly to his tastes.

He’s tried asking where it comes from, but Dr. Stoker just keeps saying “maybe it’s the ghoooost~!” and that’s really not conducive to any information gathering.

And he doesn’t understand why, aside from instances when they are deliberately woken up, he’s never seen R0BB13 awake during the whole of the day shift. Occasionally they’ll wake up by the time Jon’s preparing to leave, but more often than not they’re asleep from early clock in to late clock out

“I just can’t understand it.” Dr. James sighs. “Their species is diurnal, and they never used to behave like this. But the weirdest thing is that we feed all the problem children during the day, right? And R0BB13 is missing all of these feedings, because they’re asleep, but they’ve not lost any weight. Even put some on if the last measurement was right.”

Dr. Stoker shrugs. “Maybe 3M1L hides food for them to find later? Or whatever is keeping them up at night is feeding them then.”

Dr. James shrugs and goes back to slurping her noodles, but Jon finds himself coming back to the conversation even as he munches on his prawn cocktail crisps.

He feels oddly disquieted by the idea of a—a stranger coming in and deliberately interfering with one of the mers under his care, intentions unknown and completely unnoticed by Shelley on the Night Shift, the useless ass.

The more he thinks about it, the more intensely he dislikes it. This is something Jon needs to get to the bottom of, pronto.

Jon watches the cameras, scrubs through hours upon hours upon hours of footage.

It’s as Dr. James said: R0BB13 used to be much more active during the day. But over the past few months, something appears to shift its sleep cycle later and later, until it’s almost completely nocturnal.

But in all this time, it doesn’t seem to be stressed by the change. On the contrary, the mer’s health has steadily improved over the course of this period, scales it has scratched off on rocks or the bottom of the tank or lost to 3M1L’s or P3TR4’s mood swings growing back strong. When it is awake, it’s animated and sociable, bioluminescence growing brighter with each passing week.

Bright enough that, on the most recent tapes the cameras have caught several strange objects and what looks like a distorted figure perched by the top of the tank.

“Got you.” Jon hisses at the interloper threatening the sanctity of his project.

Jon pretends to clock out a little early at the end of the next workday, and goes and hides in the mens’.

Aside from a hair-raising moment when a security guard strode up and down the room banging on all the toilet-stall doors, this somehow works like a charm.

Jon resolves to have a strong Word with Elias about increasing security measures when everything is sorted—what if this is how the intruder’s been getting in?

He stays curled up on top of the toilet seat for a while even as the hours tick on. He doesn’t want to run into Shelley by leaving too early and allow the intruder the chance to escape in all the confusion.

Eventually his alarm vibrates at 2:00 AM, startling him out of the half-doze he’d fallen into. Jon has to take a moment to stretch out his stiff limbs before entering the main observation area.

The large, blocky shapes of the tanks are profoundly eerie, but Jon can’t chance using his phone’s torch until he’s found and confronted the interloper.

He strains his ears and eyes, watching, listening for…

There.

At the top of the tank, there’s the green glow of R0BB13’s bioluminescence, oddly tinted by what appears to be a weak, orange light.

Under the rush of circulating water, there’s a low murmur, barely audible.

Jon toes off his hard-soled oxfords and creeps up the metal stairs of the walkway with socked feet.

As Jon sneaks closer, the murmur resolves itself into faintly recognizable sounds, then into legible words.

“‘It is the star nearest to ours.’” A soft, lilting male voice is saying, as though in recitation. “‘It is four light years away. If you were invited to tea on Alpha Centauri in four years’ time, you would have to set off now and travel at the speed of light if you wanted to get there before all the cake had been eaten. Fortunately, you are here today, and there is plenty of cake left.’ Abel Darkwater smiled. He was better at smiling than Mrs Rokabye, but Silver—”

“Ah-HA!”

“AAAAAAH!!” A large, soft-looking man screams, nearly losing his grip on a hardback book in his hands.

There’s a small splash as R0BB13 falls back under the water in a panic.

In the light of his phone torch, Jon can now make out that the man sitting cross-legged by a whole host of the Institute’s scientific equipment (does he need to add theft to the list of this man’s crimes?) has extremely curly hair, copious freckles dotting his face and neck, and large, liquid-looking eyes squinting against the bright light that’s being shone into his face.

“Who-wha-who are you?!” The large, soft-looking stranger has the audacity to demand from his cross-legged position next to the tank’s edge. “This, this is a, a private area, in, in fact the entire Institute is off-limits to the public at the moment, how—?!”

“I can go wherever I like within my own department.” Jon snaps, brandishing the lanyard with his company id like it’s a police badge in some fast-paced cop procedural.

“Oh.” The blood drains from the man’s face and then surges back into his cheeks as he glances between the unflattering photo and Jon himself. “Oh! Oh, you’re. You’re Dr. Jonathan. Sims. I. Nice to meet you?”

“What,” Jon seethes, incensed by this stranger’s apparent inanity. “Exactly are you doing?”

“Oh, it’s, uh.” The freckled man with large, liquid eyes closes the book so his fingers are trapped between the pages, holding up the cover for Jon’s perusal. “It’s called Tanglewreck? By, uh, by Jeanette Winterson. I’m reading it to them.”

“What?” Jon demands, “Why?”

“W-well, we got through Winnie the Pooh and, and Paddington pretty quickly, and they like learning BSL, but, it seemed like they were a bit disappointed when I stopped reading to them? And, and I wasn’t really sure if they’d enjoy Malorie Blackman or Neil Gaiman yet, and Jacqueline Wilson always seemed a bit heavy, to me, like great stuff but, but sad, and J.K. Rowling is just. No? But I know Oranges Are Not the Only Fruit was important to me when I was younger, really helped me figure some stuff out. But that’s still a bit old for them, so when I discovered Jeanette Winterson had done a children’s book, I thought why not, you know? And, and it’s pretty good so far! Very in-depth about some topics, like time and how it functions differently on different planets, and—”

“Why.” Jon grits out, determined to cut off this nonsensical jabbering. “Are you trying to read to them in the first place?!”

That appears to stymie the man for a moment. “I. Um?”

“Who are you?!” He barks.

“Mar-Martin! Martin, Martin Blackwood, sir, no, sorry, doctor, Dr. Sims!” The man, Martin Blackwood, stammers.

“And what, Mr. Blackwood, are you doing in this Institute after hours?”

Martin Blackwood actually has the audacity to blink quizzically at that. “Well, I, uh. I work here.”

There’s a moment of profound silence.

“No you don’t.” Jon says with unflinching confidence.

This, this charlatan actually has the audacity to look confused. “I, um? I, I do?”

“No you don’t.” Jon repeats, looming over him. “My department researchers include Dr. Timothy Stoker, Dr. Sasha James, and Dr. Michael Shelley. And you? Are not them.”

Jon settles back, proud of having won the argument. He tries to ignore the small splashes R0BB13 keeps making in the tank besides them.

For some reason, the man’s brow only creases further. “Wh-but-wh—what?! Dr. Shelley left the Institute months ago!”

There’s another, less profound moment of silence.

“…No he didn’t.”

“Yes he did.”

“No he didn’t.”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood’s getting up now, something fierce and burning in his liquid eyes, and good lord but how tall is the man? “He did. He left about a month ago to help this, this poacher-hunting investigative legal thing, and Gerry left to join him not two months later! I was transferred from the Records department to be his replacement!”

He gives a little decisive nod at the last part which makes his curls bounce.

Jon’s opening his mouth to retort when a wave of something freezing and wet hits his lower legs.

He can’t help giving a wordless holler, stumbling backwards til he hits the railing in an attempt to escape the deluge.

R0BB13’s eyes slit like a cat’s when his torch swings around to find them, the metal wiring that prevents them from crawling out of the tank casting criss-cross shadows over their face. Their bioluminescence is so bright it’s practically neon.

Their fins are spread wide in an obvious threat display, that’s only made more unnerving because Jon’s never seen R0BB13 perform one before. Though no sound comes out when they bare their sharp little teeth, Jon’s fairly certain they would be growling at him if they could.

Jon makes a wordless splutter, but is cut off from truly saying anything by Martin Blackwood sternly going, “No. No, Robbie, that’s not a nice thing to do to people, we do not do that. You know it’s very cold in there for us, it isn’t nice to splash if we’re not playing. There are better ways to ask for us to look at you, okay?”

“Robbie?” Jon sputters. “Wh—that’s not their designation, you—!”

And then he stops.

R0BB13 is repeatedly making a circular motion over their chest with one hand curled into a fist with an expression that mingles both regret and mutiny.

Beside him, Martin Blackwood huffs out a breath and continues in a softer, fonder tone. “Alright, I know you’re sorry, just don’t do it again, you hear?”

R0BB13 gives a small wiggle in response, obviously reacting to the positive tone of voice, because that’s all mers are intelligent enough to recognize, certain signals and sounds, they can’t actually understand human language or words, like dogs or corvids—

R0BB13 is using their hands to form more signs. Slightly crudely, webbing between their fingers impeding it somewhat, but still legible. And not repeating any of the phrases Martin’s just said. Responding, with new ones.

Martin gives a nervous laugh in reply, eyes darting to Jon. “Not, not right now, Robbie, we’ll continue the chapter later—”

“How are they doing that.” Jon demands.

Martin Blackwood and the mer give him identical strange looks. “Doing what?”

“That!” Jon gestures wildly with his torch to R0BB13, who’s begun sinking back down under the water like they can escape this. “The, the signing! There’s, there’s been studies, and, and tests, mers are nowhere near intelligent enough to—! How do they know how to do that?!”

“Be-because I taught them?” Quavers a man who clearly has no idea how many academic studies he’s just overturned. “I, I mean, it was just, Gerry mentioned how much trouble they were having socializing since they, you know, so I thought, well, I had to learn BSL for a retail position at the London Aquarium, and they’re a kid so it’ll be easier for them to learn a new language than an adult, right? I mean, all of them spend all day surrounded by us talking in English, and Robbie seemed to understand a bit of what was happening in Winnie the Pooh when I was trying to make them feel better and get settled down for the night, so I thought…?”

Jon has to take a moment to sit down, heavily. His wet socks squelch as he does so. “That isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. It’s like something that someone who’d only ever seen mers in, in Disney would think up. It can’t. All those studies, and not one of them using immature mers…?”

“Hey!” The man who has forced this total paradigm shift on Jon protests. “I, I do have a Masters!”

“Do you?!” Jon’s retort isn’t so much a retort as an anguished cry. “Do you really?!”

“Yes.” Martin Blackwood asserts, not quite meeting Jon’s eyes.

Jon sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Look. I came up here to find out what was interfering with R0BB1—ugh, with Robbie’s sleep schedule. They’ve obviously been up all night with you, so they’re sleeping during the day when they’re a diurnal species. Bad for them and their socialization in the long term.”

“Oh.” Martin Blackwood looks down, eyes shining and sad. “I didn’t…”

“But now.” Jon lets out a laugh that sounds only mildly hysterical. “Now I will need to go to Director Bouchard about this. This is… It’s...”

“Oh.”

Martin Blackwood fiddles with the book’s dustjacket, shifting it up and down the book proper.

“Am I going to get fired for this?”

Director Bouchard isn’t the only one waiting outside the tank room when Jon gets in the next morning, in thankfully dry socks.

Martin Blackwood isn’t a surprise, nervously fidgeting with the sleeves of his soft-looking jumper and desperately stifling yawns behind one hand. The way the light reflects off of his curls is much more distracting under the fluorescents than under Jon’s phone torch.

The bald gentlemen dressed like what a rich person must think a sea captain looks like is a surprise though.

“Jon, this is Captain Peter Lukas, FR3Y’s sponsor.” Director Bouchard oversees the introductions with a thin smile. “Peter, this is Dr. Jonathan Sims, head of the Rehabilitation department. He and Mr. Blackwood here apparently have something very interesting to share with us that could affect FR3Y’s development.”

“Nice to meet you.” Peter Lukas says airily, releasing the grip quickly. “Hopefully this isn’t a waste of our time!”

Martin gulps. Jon inclines his head but doesn’t answer, hoping his face doesn’t give away that he feels exactly how Martin sounds.

They enter the room to the sound of Tim shouting “All the animals have gone mad!” in the extremely poor Australian accent that means he’s quoting Finding Nemo again.

To be fair to him, it’s not a totally inaccurate assessment. All the mers in the main tank are clearly agitated to varying degrees, with 3M1L feint-charging at anything that comes close enough to the tank to be visible, D3S flitting from hiding place to hiding place in a swarm of sea lice, and P3TR4 digging deep into the sediment, with only flashes of tail and fins visible.

It’s even influenced FR3Y, who’s bobbing near the glass as if to see what’s going on.

And in the middle of it all, R0BB13, following Sasha and Tim around whenever they get close enough, floating aimlessly by the glass when they get too far away, expression exhausted and frantic, hands forming six letter signs over and over again.

M-A-R-T-I-N

To his credit, Martin Blackwood immediately goes up to the tank, gently tapping on the glass and cooing, “Hey, hey, easy there Robbie, easy duck, here I am, I’m here.”

R0BB13 darts down to press against the glass, hands splayed wide and relief evident in their body language. It’s enough to get 3M1L to swim over to investigate as Martin keeps soothing them, without any threatening overtures. Even D3S and P3TR4 venture slightly closer.

“My word.” Director Bouchard breathes behind him.

“…I’m sorry, what are we looking at?” Peter Lukas cuts in. “The fish makes a bunch of odd hand motions? Why do we care about this?”

Director Bouchard claps a hand over his eyes and releases a very tense breath. Jon would swear he hears his boss muttering, “…the wedding date wasn’t already arranged, I swear I’d divorce you again.”

“Jon!” Sasha practically collides with him on one side. “Did you know about this?? That, that R0BB13 can communicate using BSL? Do you understand what this means? All previous communicative studies originated back in the 50s and relied on adult mers brought in for temporary captivity or attempting to teach adolescents to pronounce human language words, but their vocal cords aren’t built for that, so people just assumed they were learning animals on par with corvids and no real steps were taken to test the results of those examinations, when actually they do have the capacity to understand, just not the means or inclination to communicate that to us!”

Tim leans against him from the other. “Do you think that means that every time we were talking about 3M1L’s crush on…you-know-who, he could understand us?”

“You.” Sasha quips. “He could understand you. Because you were the one blabbing about it all the time.”

“You helped.” Tim snarks back.

“I did not—!”

“At any rate.” Jon shrugs off two of his three research assistants and faces his boss. “I hope that this convinces you of the validity of my proposal?”

Director Bouchard visibly has to tear his gaze away from the mers and gives Jon what he thinks might actually be a more genuine smile. “Well, I’ll admit that I was…skeptical, at first. And it will be a bit awkward to find another night shift replacement on such short notice.”

Martin stiffens, turning back to them. “I-I’m sorry, but what, what are you talking about?”

Director Bouchard tilts his head to the side. “Your promotion to the day shift, of course. The work you’ve done so far is far too valuable not to be recognized, and Dr. Sims here was very insistent of the potential upsides of you help monitoring and potentially replicating its effects. I assure you the move will come with a pay raise, as Captain Lukas here has helpfully agreed to subsidize.”

Peter Lukas grumbles, “Oh, have I now.” under his breath, only to be met with what appears to be Director Bouchard’s elbow to his side.

Sasha is giggling to herself gleefully, muttering about the differences in sign language and whether what language the humans a mer first came into contact with spoke could in any way influence the ease of learning.

Tim is grinning easily, “It’ll be a shame to lose the tea, but how about it, Marto? Want to help out with the problem children during the day?”

The man still looks slightly lost, as if this is all some kind of practical joke he’s waiting for the punchline to.

Jon coughs, “I know we got off on the wrong foot, and I do apologize for my…behavior towards you, last night. But I do sincerely believe you would be an asset to the research we’re hoping to start with them here. If nothing else, your tastes in literature should be enriching enough to be its own reward.”

Martin Blackwood’s smile is even more distracting than any of his other features put together.

Jon feels an instant commiseration with 3M1L at the way Tim starts shooting him knowing glances and snickering.

#mermay #mermay 2022 #the magnus archives #tma #jon sims #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tim stoker #sasha james #elias bouchard #peter lukas #lonelyeyes #timsasha #if you squint #could be platonic or romantic #fear avatar oc #des fuentes macías #robbie #emil walpole #petra ito #frey lukas #gerrymichael #only mentioned but it’s there #mild body horror #what if we made a scientific breakthrough about mermaids using kindness and literature #and we were both boys #literally the last possible day

[staysaneathome]

Teach a Fish (And it Will Remember)

Robbie is very good at signs.

They know lots of them.

Index-middle-ring across mid-palm, index to thumb-tip, hooked index to mid-palm, index to middle-tip, index to lower-palm, middle-ring across palm.

M-A-R-T-I-N

(That means large, means soft, means blink, blink, blinking.)

(That means “H-hello! I’m, ah, I’m Martin. I’m the new night shift monitor. You’re, you’re Robbie, aren’t you?” Means “I’ve never seen a mer that could glow before…are there lots of others like you?” Means “No, you’ve almost got it! See, the index is just a bit lower here—ah, there you go! Now try them all together!” Means “‘Sometimes Winnie-the-Pooh likes a game when he comes downstairs. And sometimes he likes to sit quietly, and listen to a story,’ just like you Robbie, eh? Ah-fine, fine, we’ll get back to it.”)

(That means caring, means shoal, means can’t shouldn’t won’t be without.)

Index drawn down-middle-and-under-thumb, index to ring-tip, middle-ring across palm.

J-O-N

(That means small, means pointy, means hard stare-y)

(That means, “The way they help the others with sign comprehension…it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” Means “Do NOT splash me again, R0BB13. I’m warning you—GAH!” Means “Your adjustment back to a diurnal schedule is going well. Good job.” Means “I am a busy researcher, Robbie, even if I wanted to I don’t have time to read bedtime stories to mers because Martin’s off sick…alright, fine, but just this once, mind!”)

(That means silly, means safe, means reef to hide in for refuge)

Index to index-tip (or thumb, index, middle held up apart), index-middle-ring across mid-palm, index to middle tip (or index held up), index across mid-palm.

E(3)-M-I(1)-L

(That means sharp, means snappy, means gentle, gentle eyes)

(That means ‘don’t mess with me’. Means ‘I’m toughest, I can fight anyone, everyone’. Means ‘look at how well I’m doing, look at me, look, I am controlled, feared, strong’. Means ‘THAT BASTARD I’LL TEAR HIM TO SHREDS FUCK OFF STOKER’. Means ‘stop forgetting how to swim, your tail is strong and beautiful, use it’. Means ‘show me again, I want to learn’. Means ‘swim alongside me’. Means ‘you I trust, you I defend. I am the strongest. Let me be yours’.)

(That means webbed fingers, index to chest, hands crossed with spread fingers pressed, index pointing at Robbie)

Robbie knows many more signs than these. Signs for Des (small, many, bright), Petra (grumpy, sandy, protective), Tim (funny, loud, bold), Sasha (fast, shiny, clever), Frey (big, shy, sweet).

Even signs for those they don’t see every day, like Elias (dry) or Nikola (noisy) or Robinson (old) or Lukas (weird).

Robbie knows lots and lots of signs now.

These three are just their favorites.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #teach a fish #sequel #tma ocs #mermay #mermay 2023 #martin blackwood #jonathan sims #emil walpole #robbie #jonmartin #bsl

[staysaneathome]

The Self-Preservation Society (2)

Des is tired.

The Thing’s been carrying him on its back for ages since they got out of the Underground station.

Des would fall asleep against it, but all the flashing lights and loud people and the backpack jostling against him keep stopping him and the Not!Daddy and poofy teenager are still out there chasing them, and Des is so tired and he wants to go to bed.

The Thing shifts him slightly higher on its back as it hoists itself over a wall.

It puts a finger to its lips to hush him as it gently brings him around, running bent double with him clutched against its chest until it enters a large building with lots and lots of books, ducking in and out of rooms until it reaches one with a computer. Then it stops and lets him down, at long last.

Des yawns widely, plopping down onto the floor almost as an afterthought, his family crawling out of him with tired, slow-moving wings. “M tired. ‘N thirsty. Can I have a Fruit Shoot? Or a Freddo?”

The Thing pauses, then holds up both it’s hands in a “wait” gesture that Des recognizes from Mama whenever he’s trying to ask her something while she’s on the phone or cooking. It leaves the room.

He droops, head tilting forward ‘til it’s almost hit his chest and he jerks more upright again, eyes so heavy it’s hard to keep them open for more than a few seconds—

Then a thumping of disjointed footsteps startles him up, the fear helping to keep him awake as the Thing enters the room again, brandishing a purple Fruit Shoot and Cadbury’s chocolate bar victoriously in its hands with a wide smile.

Des prefers Freddo Frogs, or Fruit and Nut bars, but he remembers to not say so as he wolfs the chocolate bar down and pulls the nozzle of the Fruit Shoot out with his teeth so he can eagerly suck down the juice inside.

“Aa-a-ah.” He feels a lot better, afterwards.

His family look better too, crawling back in and out of him with growing energy, flapping prettily like they’re meant to. “That was suuuper tasty. Thank you…? I don’t know your name.”

The Thing, which has been sitting at the computer and clicking at things on it, jerks again. It glances at him, still smiling, then away.

It reaches for the backpack on the floor, unzipping it and pulling out a notepad like the ones Mama keeps around the house for shopping lists.

It’s now got a pencil and is writing something down.

Des hopes it’s not anything too difficult. He’s one of the level B readers in his class at school, but he still needs Mama’s help with the harder words in English books.

The Thing eventually holds the pad out for Des to read.

“I-don’t-ha-ve-a-name.” He sounds out carefully. “It-was-tay-ken-from-me-by-the-Cir-cus. The Circus? But the circus is fun, it, it has clowns and elephants and lions and things! How can a circus take your name?”

At Des’ confused stare, the Thing grabs the pad back and begins writing. Once it’s done, it presents the paper again.

“Not-a-hu-man-Cir-cus.” He reads. “A-Cir-cus-for-things-that-pre-tend-to-be. So-they-can-catch-and-eat-them.”

“Things that pretend?” Des asks. “Like, like the man who’s not my Daddy?”

The Thing nods, eyebrows furrowed, its smile still there, but…unhappy, somehow. It reaches out slowly and puts a hand on Des’ head again.

He lets it, something inside his throat feeling cold and hard.

His Daddy got eaten by the Circus that pretends to be human but isn’t. He’s not here anymore, and Des isn’t sure he will be ever again. He sort of wants to cry, but for some reason his eyes aren’t getting wet.

Mama is going to be so sad.

His family flutter around him, whispering it’s okay, we’re here, we love you, even as the Thing keeps patting his head. It feels weird, but it’s…it’s kinda nice? Like the Thing’s trying to say that it’s sorry, even if it doesn’t have any voice.

“Is that what he was going to do to me?” He has to sniff a bit so his question isn’t all croaky. “Steal my name and voice too?”

The Thing bobs its head from side to side a bit before shaking it, leaning over to write something new for Des to read.

“No. The-Yuh-ee-er-k?-wa-n-ts-to-eat-up-your-li-ife-may-ke-you-not-you.” Des squirms unhappily, feeling his family flutter around him with whispers of beloved, ours, won’t let it, protect, care, love. “That’s scary. Did he take away your mouth too? Is that why you’re all bendy?”

The Thing shakes its head again, propping the pad on its knees so it can write and Des can see.

“Some-bo-dy-else-did-that-to-me.” He reads as it writes. “Took-my-name-and-my-voice-and-my-mem-or-ees-and-ev-ry-thing. But-I-ran-a-way-from-the-Cir-cus-be-for-they-took-what-s-left-of-me. I-wan-ted-to-help-you-so-they-do-n-t-hurt-you-like-they-hurt-me.”

“Thank you.” Des says slowly, because Mama’s taught him it’s important to thank people when they help him. “But I still need something to call you. I don’t like calling you ‘The Thing’ in my head all the time. ‘S mean.”

The Thing fidgets, drumming its fingers against its neck, before scribbling something else in smaller writing that’s hard to read.

“I-m-so-ree-but-I-do-n-t-have-one. I-am-12-years-old-if-that-helps.” Des gasps. “You’re twelve?!”

Twelve is—that’s five years older than him, at least. You can do so many things when you’re twelve that you can’t when you’re eight. You can stay up late and go to the shops on your own and drive a car and do taxes, and, and—!

“You’re so old.” Des tells the Thing. “Like, super suuuper old.”

The Thing jerks upright, a funny look on its face as it points at itself.

Since it’s so old, Des reasons, it needs to have a proper name. A respectable one, like Abuelita always says.

“I’m gonna call you Benjamin.” He decides with a nod. “That can be your name now.”

The newly dubbed Benjamin looks around, as if searching for something. Des doesn’t think they find it, because they slump over a bit and give a shrug.

It begins writing out another message along the very top edge of the paper, where there’s still a bit of space.

“Do-you-k-now-your-home-add-dress?” Des reads. “Yeah! My house is 4 Little Newts, Bishop’s Stortford.”

Benjamin gives a little nod, turning to the computer, tapping on the keys with one finger on each hand.

Des cranes his head to watch the screen with interest. Two of his sisters and one of his brothers land on it and begin to wander around, dazzled by the bright light.

The computer ends up on a bright blue screen, and Benjamin flips to a fresh page in the notepad, copying down things on the screen, words and numbers and weird, sketchy lines, faster than Des can read them.

“I-am-go-ing-to-get-you-ho-me. The-se-are-di-rect-tions” Des reads. “Really? You will?”

Benjamin nods, drawing a small cross over its chest with a finger.

Des throws himself at it in a hug, his family filling the air with their pretty colors as they dance with the joy that’s filling Des up to bursting.

Home! Home with Mama, and his family, and Abuelita, and his bed and his toys and Mr. Easto and Diya and Kayleigh and Milo at school and Maisy and Hugo at the playground! “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!!”

Benjamin doesn’t seem to know what to do with a hug, because it’s arms are raised in the air.

Slowly, hesitantly it comes down to give Des another rub over the head. It’s smile seems a little smaller than before, but more…real? If that makes any sense?

There’s a crash that sounds like the time Des accidentally knocked Daddy’s favorite glass out of the dishwasher.

The Thi—Benjamin goes rigid, one arm locking around Des’ back and hoisting him up against its chest. The other arm slides the notepad back into the backpack and zips it up, slinging it over its back.

It’s smile has gotten big and scary again.

“Des~” Comes the voice of the thing that isn’t his Daddy. “I know you’re here, Des. Come out, come out, wherever you are~”

It feels like he can’t breathe.

His family cluster close, whispering intruder, predator, danger, watch out, be careful, protect beloved, protect, defend, protect.

“I know you’re here.” The Y-ee-rk that’s pretending to be his Daddy calls, it’s voice sounding echoey and wrong. “ I can feel how scared you are, Des. You are scared, aren’t you? So scared, to be stolen away by a Stranger. Taken faaar away from your Mama and Daddy. It is very scary, isn’t it?”

Benjamin is standing, clutching Des close as it edges out of the room and into the dark corridor on silent feet, despite how much Des very much doesn’t want them to, doesn’t want to leave the safety of the computer room even to get away from where the Not-Daddy-Yeerk is crooning, “But it’s alright, Des. I can feel your fear. I can taste it, on the back of my teeth. I’ll find you. I’ll always find you. And then we’ll fix you up, get all those nasty pests out of you. And you’ll be able to love your Mama, okay?”

Des can’t help it.

A small whimper escapes from him.

Benjamin stares down at him with wide eyes, even as he claps his hands over his mouth.

“There you are.” The Yeerk that ate his Daddy coos over Benjamin’s shoulder.

Des isn’t quite sure how Benjamin does it, but one moment they’re standing upright and the next one of their feet is slamming into the monster’s face, hard enough to send it spinning into the wall.

Then they’re running, going almost faster than a car as they tear down the corridor away from what isn’t Des’ Daddy.

The monster that, from his position looking over Benjamin’s shoulder, Des can see getting up, his body shifting and bubbling, face melting and limbs splitting and growing, chasing after them with too many faces, too many arms and legs and bodies, human and animal and toy and, and, and—!

One of Benjamin’s hands comes up to the back of Des’ head and pushes it down gently until all he can see is it’s shoulder.

Des doesn’t try to lift his head, burrowing closer to the nasty-smelling, scratchy fabric trying hard to forget what he saw, to not cry as the Yeerk-thing’s voice echoes around them as it howls, “GET BACK HERE, YOU TREACHEROUS LITTLE THIEF!!”

Des is beginning to feel sick with how scared he is when Benjamin shifts him around its body. He’s terrified for a moment that it’s decided to drop him to save itself.

Instead, Benjamin charges through the glass doors at the front of the building, head down and the backpack held up to act as an extra shield.

From his position practically on its back again, Des only feels small stings on his feet and hands. Benjamin shakes itself and the backpack, blood dripping down its head even as it shifts him back to the front, and keeps running.

The concrete garden area outside the front is pale in the moonlight. There are two big metal doors blocking them off from where Des can hear streets and cars and people.

Benjamin doesn’t even stop. Like a magic trick, it springs forward so Des thinks for a moment that they’re falling before it catches itself on one hand, flipping over and over and over, higher and higher until with a last push they’re flying, properly actually flying through the air, high above the gates and the cars and the people, and, and everything.

They land hard on the pavement, Benjamin rolling around Des like how he thinks Milo’s hamster must feel in its ball, rolling, rolling until it suddenly stops and Des is dizzy and terrified and tired with it all.

“H-hah!” Comes the voice of the poofy teenager in front of them. “I’ve, I’ve caught up with with you! Now, now let that little boy g—!”

Des promptly throws up.

His family pour out of his mouth onto the teenager’s shoes, almost all of them at once, so many that the floaty stuff goes away and he can feel his older brother again.

The one he’d thought was gone forever, crawling up his arm and inside his shirt to join all the others, leaving Des struggling not to cry with feelings of welcome back, you’re home, we’re home, together, all together, beloved—

The poofy teenager hops backwards as Benjamin scoops Des up again. “Urgh! Wait, what? But, I thought, you’re also—?”

The gates across the road SLAM open as the Yeer-not-his-Daddy-thing bursts through them with a roar that no one seems to notice.

“SWEET MOTHER OF CHRIST!!” The poofy teenager screams.

Des gasps even as Benjamin begins running again, his family following along with them. “NO! You can’t say La Virgen’s name like that! It’s rude!!”

The poofy teenager, running next to them, shoots Des a wide-eyed look. “IS THAT WHAT WE SHOULD BE WORRYING ABOUR RI-hff, riGHT NOW?!”

The poofy teenager doesn’t seem to be as fast as Benjamin, panting and sweating and slowing as the Yee-monster chases them all down the street and through several alleys.

Des thinks they should leave the poofy teenager behind, if they’re going to be so rude.

But Benjamin reaches out when the poofy teenager trips one more time, does a complicated catch-their-hand-spin-and-lift that ends up with the teenager sitting on Benjamin’s shoulder and clutching at their head.

It’s weird when they come to a stop outside of a big building with tall, big doors.

It’s not another train station which they can use to escape like last time, and the not Daddy is still chasing after them through all the winding streets and alleys, even if it is a bit farther away than before.

“A warehouse?” The poofy teenager asks, staring down. “Wh-why are we stopping outside a warehouse?! That thing’s still coming, we need to go.”

Benjamin raps four times on the door, then two times in rapid succession.

Des hears something shifting and moving behind the door, the rasp of brick on brick like when he, Hugo, Diya, and Maisy played at the abandoned building place behind the playground before Maisy’s mummy found out and yelled at them all to never do it again.

“Ready or not, Des~” The thing that isn’t his Daddy sing-songs, closer than Des wants him to be. “Ready or not,”

Benjamin knocks in the same way again, eyes wide and slightly wild.

“Ready or not,” And Des isn’t looking, hasn’t looked, has tried his best not to look since Benjamin pushed his head down, but the way the poofy teenager twists and gasps with big, frightened eyes tells Des he’s here, he’s here, he’s going to get him. “Here I COME!”

The doors in front of them BANG open.

Des jerks as Benjamin bursts into movement, racing inside.

His family cling to his nose and ears, whispering danger, danger, predator, enemy hive, blood, death, violence, predator, danger.

He doesn’t understand why they’re saying that, there’s nothing in here, just a big rubbishy room—

Something flies over Des’ head, past Benjamin’s ear.

There’s a yell of pain from the thing that isn’t his Daddy.

Des twists, trying to see what it was, where it came from, who threw it, when another flashes past the poofy teenager, making them yelp and lean away and almost fall off of Benjamin’s shoulder.

Des thinks that was, was a bit of metal?? A pipe or something, like when the radiator broke and the strange men had to come to the house and pull long metal things out of the walls.

Something else whistles on the other side of him and he twists in time to see his reflection in a bit of broken glass.

It’s shooting past him exactly straight, like an arrow in cartoons, not in the curvy way that the balls and frisbees thrown at the park do.

“Benjamin, what’s happening??” He yells. When Benjamin doesn’t answer, he frowns and slaps its chin. “Benji!!”

Benjamin still doesn’t answer.

But its eyes dart up to look at something behind Des, and leans forward, tucking Des and the poofy teenager as close as it can and going faster.

Des turns back around—

Glass and brick and pipes and metal and all the other rubbish on the floor of the large room are floating, lifting up and then flying through the air past them, at what’s not his Daddy.

In the air, there’s a boy hovering in place, sort of faded and see through.

His face looks so, so angry.

Worse even than Des’ Daddy when he was mad at him. The sort of angry that means someone’s definitely getting hit, instead of just yelled at.

The boy swells, sharp and hard things flying around him like the halo around La Virgen.

“GET the HELL OUT of MY GRAVE!!” He screams.

The lights explode, all the flying things shooting like arrows, all so, so, sharp and deadly and angry.

Des can’t help yelping, turning his face to hide in Benjamin as they run and run.

The poofy teenager’s screaming sounds silly.

The monster that ate his Daddy just sounds furious.

There’s the sound of doors slamming shut behind them, all the anger and hate muffled behind them as Benjamin keeps going, the sounds of the streets and the people almost quiet after everything in there.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #the self preservation society #fear avatar oc #des fuentes macías #the corruption #the stranger #the little stranger #not them #frey lukas #the lonely #the slaughter #emil walpole #tw child endangerment #tw vomit #lots of running #lots and lots of running

[brookstonalmanac]

Birthdays 3.13

Beer Birthdays

John Taylor (1790)

Conrad George Oland (1851)

Charles Liebmann (1877)

William Lindsay Everard (1891)

Tim Webb

Joe Tucker (1968)

Five Favorite Birthdays

Akira Fubuki; Japanese model (1978)

Percival Lowell; astronomer (1855)

William H. Macy; actor (1950)

Joseph Priestly; English chemist (1733)

Uncle Sam; patriotic symbol (1852)

Famous Birthdays

Walter Annenberg; publisher, philanthropist (1908)

Adam Clayton; Irish bassist, "U2" (1960)

Common; rapper (1972)

Dana Delany; actor (1956)

Lorenzo Delmonico; steakhouse restauranteur (1813)

Donald Duck; cartoon character (1941)

Robin Duke; actor, comedian (1954)

Paul Fix; actor (1901)

Annabeth Gish; actor (1971)

William Glackens; artist (1870)

Charles Earl Grey; British PM, "tea lover" (1764)

Roy Haynes; jazz drummer (1925)

Glenne Headly; actor (1955)

Emile Hirsch; actor (1985)

L. Ron Hubbard; sci-fi writer, cult founder (1911)

Allan Jaffee; cartoonist (1921)

Dick Katz; pianist, composer (1934)

Sammy Kaye; bandleader (1910)

Charles Krauthammer; political writer (1950)

Maximilien Luce; French artist (1858)

Deborah Raffin; actor (1953)

Helen St. Aubin; AGPBL Baseball Player, "The Ted Williams of Women's Baseball" (1929)

Neil Sedaka; pop singer, songwriter (1939)

Mike Stoller; record producer, songwriter (1933)

Hugh Walpole; English writer (1884)

Hugo Wolf; composer (1860)

Donny York; pop singer (1949)

#Birthdays

[staysaneathome]

It’s my birthday, so have a little snippet of the dramatic reunion in the last chapter of We Don’t Talk About Uncle Jon:

“Do you KNOW how LONG I MOURNED YOU?!”

“N-now, Martin, let’s not—”

“FIVE YEARS JON!!” Mr. Martin roars. “FIVE FU—” A glance at Robbie, Callum, Emil, and Des. “—FREAKING YEARS!! Where, where even WERE you, all this time, hm?!”

Uncle Jon darts a nervous gaze around. “Um—I, uh. Well, funny you should mention it, I—”

“He was in the walls!” Des pipes up helpfully.

Uncle Jon scrunches. Robbie can think of no other word to describe the contractions his body and face undergo.

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #encanto spoilers #encanto au #the family robinson #jon sims #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #fear avatar oc #callum brodie #robbie #emil walpole #des fuentes macías #lynn stine #ah yes the only thing worse than running away to live in the walls #having to own up to it afterwards

[staysaneathome]

Because my brain cannot switch off AUs, I am now thinking about what if S3 Archivist and Curator swapped universes alongside their younger counterparts.

(For added angst/hilarity this switch takes place between the Archivist/the Curator near the end of their month of captivity to the Circus/the Collection)

So you have an adult Jon who’s v confused about how he somehow escaped the Circus running around in Orsinov Institute London while a certain little Stranger is v confused about a park being where a warehouse should be.

And a Lynn Stine determined not to fall back into the Collection’s hands furtively darting around Magnus Institute London while young Jon is very confused and distressed by the way his and Martin’s park has vanished and a warehouse is in its place.

Each displaced pair eventually has to team up, alongside some familiar (if de-aged) faces and some new strange ones to get back to their original univserse, while avoiding the forces of the Stranger and the Beholding that seek to control/get rid of them.

But the BEST BIT comes when the respective love interests assistants confront the Archivist/the Curator. Because in this AU, each of them wake up in their month-of-captivity gear in their counterpart’s (rather dusty) apartment. And each immediately seized the nearest comfort clothes they could find in this strange place and escaped before their captors could come for them.

Unfortunately for the Archivist and the Curator, they did not realize they share the magpie-like tendency to steal the clothes of the people they’re interested in.

Martin Blackwood: Is that—that’s my jumper?!

The Curator: N-noo? I mean. Are, are you sure? That this is yours.

Martin Blackwood: Yes!!

The Curator: Oh. Um. Huh. Whoops?

Emil Walpole: How did you get my shirt and why are you wearing it?

The Archivist: I’m, uh, ah. I’m not.

Emil Walpole:…You’re not.

The Archivist: I’m not.

#the magnus archives #tma #jon sims #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #tma avatars #the little stranger #fear avatar oc #the stranger #emil walpole #lynn stine #the beholding #the orsinov institute #ageswap au #entity swap #universe swap #love language #clothes stealing #yeah jon denial will solve everything

[staysaneathome]

A Recording

[CUT TO BLACK.]

[A DATE FLASHES UP IN THE CORNER. 03/23/2016.]

[GRAINY FILM FOOTAGE. IT'S BEEN RECORDED ON AN OLD VCR CAMCORDER. A WOMAN IN A CARDIGAN WITH TOO MUCH MAKEUP TO BE VERY PRACTICED AT APPLYING IT SITS AT A DESK AND SHUFFLES SOME PAPERS IN FRONT OF HER IN A THEATRICAL MANNER. SHE SHOOTS A CONSPICUOUS GLANCE AT THE CAMERA AND CLEARS HER THROAT.]

“Statement of Anya Villette, regarding an encounter at the junction of Albany and Crwys Road, Cardiff. Original statement gi—“

[A LOUD CLATTER OFF CAMERA. THE WOMAN TWISTS AROUND, GLANCING BACK AT THE CAMERA FOR A MOMENT IN CONFUSION BEFORE TURNING HER BACK FULLY.]

“—Hello? Hello? Is someone there? I’m sorry, but the Registry is closed to the public right now! If you come back between 10 and 5 tomorrow though…”

[ANOTHER CLATTER, SLIGHTLY LOUDER THIS TIME. THE LOW LIGHT MAKES IT HARD TO MAKE OUT HER EXPRESSION, BUT WHAT IS VISIBLE IS TWISTED WITH FEAR AND TREPIDATION. THEN IT SMOOTHS OVER, AS REALIZATION AND PERFORMATIVE ANNOYANCE TAKES ITS PLACE.]

“Hello? Emil? Emil, is that you?”

[SHE STANDS, LEAVING THE CHAIR PULLED OUT AS SHE EXITS THE ROOM. HER PONYTAIL SWAYS AS SHE LOOKS LEFT, RIGHT, THEN EMBARKS OFF DOWN THE CORRIDOR WITH NOT SO RIGHTEOUS INDIGNATION.]

“Honestly, that…if that jerk starts lecturing me about that bloody cat again, I'm going to—to gouge his eyes out, I don’t know…”

[FADING FOOTSTEPS.]

̷͈̮̦̉̆̆̒̈́͜͜͜ ̷̧̻̞̖͛̂͊͘I̷̢͉̟̿g̷̢̦̈́͋̌ñ̵͇͖͇̘̉̾̾̈͘o̵̲̤̿̀̉̕t̷̛͖̯͉͑͐̋̽̅ͅu̵̠̠̽͗͠s̶̨̪̞̆͗̍̇͂͠ ̴̧̙͓̝̞̍̚i̵̞͇̭̱̒́͂͋ṉ̵̡̨̞̳̞̅̌̄̊ś̵̭͈̬̹̙̼́̅͠ŏ̵̠̻͍̀ḻ̴̇͒͝i̸̠͎̺̅͆͗͊̚ͅt̴̞͙̠̅̋͗̌u̴̢̨̩̇͗s̶͈͠ ̷̮̯̻͊̃̈́͐̅̅í̸̢̺̇̍̀̚n̷̬̔͂̈̊̏͠v̶̲͎͍̖́̿ͅi̴͕̭̯͋͒̈̕̕ś̵͎̾̊͑i̵̜͌̄b̵̜̼̟̋̌̾̀͐͝ị̴͓̱̳̻̤̒͠l̴̲̑͌̒͐͜͠͝í̷̧͈̙̗͍͂s̸̛̯̗͎͐̽ ̴̯̹̣͉͉̀̂̀̔͆[A FLICKER. IS IT STATIC IN THE VIDEO FEED?] ̷͈̮̦̉̆̆̒̈́͜͜͜ ̷̧̻̞̖͛̂͊͘I̷̢͉̟̿g̷̢̦̈́͋̌ñ̵͇͖͇̘̉̾̾̈͘o̵̲̤̿̀̉̕t̷̛͖̯͉͑͐̋̽̅ͅu̵̠̠̽͗͠s̶̨̪̞̆͗̍̇͂͠ ̴̧̙͓̝̞̍̚i̵̞͇̭̱̒́͂͋ṉ̵̡̨̞̳̞̅̌̄̊ś̵̭͈̬̹̙̼́̅͠ŏ̵̠̻͍̀ḻ̴̇͒͝i̸̠͎̺̅͆͗͊̚ͅt̴̞͙̠̅̋͗̌u̴̢̨̩̇͗s̶͈͠ ̷̮̯̻͊̃̈́͐̅̅í̸̢̺̇̍̀̚n̷̬̔͂̈̊̏͠v̶̲͎͍̖́̿ͅi̴͕̭̯͋͒̈̕̕ś̵͎̾̊͑i̵̜͌̄b̵̜̼̟̋̌̾̀͐͝ị̴͓̱̳̻̤̒͠l̴̲̑͌̒͐͜͠͝í̷̧͈̙̗͍͂s̸̛̯̗͎͐̽ ̴̯̹̣͉͉̀̂̀̔͆[FLICKER AGAIN. AS IF THE GRAINY, EMPTY FOOTAGE IS TRYING TO TAKE SHAPE.] ̷͈̮̦̉̆̆̒̈́͜͜͜ ̷̧̻̞̖͛̂͊͘I̷̢͉̟̿g̷̢̦̈́͋̌ñ̵͇͖͇̘̉̾̾̈͘o̵̲̤̿̀̉̕t̷̛͖̯͉͑͐̋̽̅ͅu̵̠̠̽͗͠s̶̨̪̞̆͗̍̇͂͠ ̴̧̙͓̝̞̍̚i̵̞͇̭̱̒́͂͋ṉ̵̡̨̞̳̞̅̌̄̊ś̵̭͈̬̹̙̼́̅͠ŏ̵̠̻͍̀ḻ̴̇͒͝i̸̠͎̺̅͆͗͊̚ͅt̴̞͙̠̅̋͗̌u̴̢̨̩̇͗s̶͈͠ ̷̮̯̻͊̃̈́͐̅̅í̸̢̺̇̍̀̚n̷̬̔͂̈̊̏͠v̶̲͎͍̖́̿ͅi̴͕̭̯͋͒̈̕̕ś̵͎̾̊͑i̵̜͌̄b̵̜̼̟̋̌̾̀͐͝ị̴͓̱̳̻̤̒͠l̴̲̑͌̒͐͜͠͝í̷̧͈̙̗͍͂s̸̛̯̗͎͐̽ ̴̯̹̣͉͉̀̂̀̔͆[BUT THERE IS A SHAPE.. IT HAS A HEAD, ARMS, A TORSO. IT IS INDISTINCT. IT IS REACHING FOR THE CAMERA.] ̷̧̻̞̖͛̂͊͘I̷̢͉̟̿g̷̢̦̈́͋̌ñ̵͇͖͇̘̉̾̾̈͘o̵̲̤̿̀̉̕t̷̛͖̯͉͑͐̋̽̅ͅu̵̠̠̽͗͠s̶̨̪̞̆͗̍̇͂͠ ̴̧̙͓̝̞̍̚i̵̞͇̭̱̒́͂͋ṉ̵̡̨̞̳̞̅̌̄̊ś̵̭͈̬̹̙̼́̅͠ŏ̵̠̻͍̀ḻ̴̇͒͝i̸̠͎̺̅͆͗͊̚ͅt̴̞͙̠̅̋͗̌u̴̢̨̩̇͗s̶͈͠ ̷̮̯̻͊̃̈́͐̅̅í̸̢̺̇̍̀̚n̷̬̔͂̈̊̏͠v̶̲͎͍̖́̿ͅi̴͕̭̯͋͒̈̕̕ś̵͎̾̊͑i̵̜͌̄b̵̜̼̟̋̌̾̀͐͝ị̴͓̱̳̻̤̒͠l̴̲̑͌̒͐͜͠͝í̷̧͈̙̗͍͂s̸̛̯̗͎͐̽ ̴̯̹̣͉͉̀̂̀̔͆[IT IS NOT HUMAN.] ̷͈̮̦̉̆̆̒̈́͜͜͜ ̷̧̻̞̖͛̂͊͘I̷̢͉̟̿g̷̢̦̈́͋̌ñ̵͇͖͇̘̉̾̾̈͘o̵̲̤̿̀̉̕t̷̛͖̯͉͑͐̋̽̅ͅu̵̠̠̽͗͠s̶̨̪̞̆͗̍̇͂͠ ̴̧̙͓̝̞̍̚i̵̞͇̭̱̒́͂͋ṉ̵̡̨̞̳̞̅̌̄̊ś̵̭͈̬̹̙̼́̅͠ŏ̵̠̻͍̀ḻ̴̇͒͝i̸̠͎̺̅͆͗͊̚ͅt̴̞͙̠̅̋͗̌u̴̢̨̩̇͗s̶͈͠ ̷̮̯̻͊̃̈́͐̅̅í̸̢̺̇̍̀̚n̷̬̔͂̈̊̏͠v̶̲͎͍̖́̿ͅi̴͕̭̯͋͒̈̕̕ś̵͎̾̊͑i̵̜͌̄b̵̜̼̟̋̌̾̀͐͝ị̴͓̱̳̻̤̒͠l̴̲̑͌̒͐͜͠͝í̷̧͈̙̗͍͂s̸̛̯̗͎͐̽ ̴̯̹̣͉͉̀̂̀̔͆

[THE SCREEN GLITCHES.]

[THE SOUND OF RETURNING FOOTSTEPS. THE YOUNG WOMAN REENTERS THE ROOM, EYES RED AND TIRED, FLYAWAYS SLIPPING FROM HER PONYTAIL. SHE SITS DOWN IN THE CHAIR AS IF COLLAPSING INTO IT, MUTTERING RECRIMINATIONS.]

“…I swear, this place is falling down around our ears, Nikky should spring for some… Oh hell, is this thing still on? Right, well. Time for Take Twelve then.”

[THE WOMAN REACHES FOR THE CAMERA.]

[CUT TO BLACK.]

#the magnus archives #tma #tma au #the stranger #fear avatar oc #tma avatars #the orsinov institute #lynn stine #entity swap #kid fic #emil walpole #nikola orsinov

[staysaneathome]

A Poor First Impression

(Another Entity Swap WIP— this time focusing on the first meeting of those who have taken the place of Jon and Martin in their world’s Institute…)

[EARLY MORNING, THE ORSINOV INSTITUTE REGISTRY. A YOUNG MAN WITH CURLY HAIR AND THE FASHION SENSE OF A PARTICULARLY GOTH SCARECROW IS CHECKING OVER HIS BRIEFCASE AND REARRANGING THINGS IN HIS NEW DESK. HE’S REMEMBERED HIS LAPTOP, HIS MEMO PAD, PENS, PENCILS, NOTEBOOK, POST-ITS…]

[A LOUD CLATTER HAS HIM LOOKING UP AND STANDING, SWALLOWING NERVOUSLY. HIS RESTING FACE DOESN'T GIVE IT AWAY, BUT THE CURATORIAL ASSISTANT NEEDS TO MAKE A GOOD IMPRESSION AS A VALUABLE WORKER IN THIS NEW, TENUOUS ENVIRONMENT. HE STRAIGHTENS UP AS IT GETS CLOSER…]

[A YOUNG WOMAN IN A CARDIGAN WITH TOO MUCH MAKEUP TO BE PRACTICED AT APPLYING IT CAREENS AROUND THE CORNER INTO THE BULLPEN, GLANCING AROUND NERVOUSLY, MESSENGER BAG BANGING AGAINST HER HIP. HER NAIL POLISH IS ODDLY FLUORESCENT, AND SEVERAL STRANDS OF HAIR HAVE ALREADY COME LOOSE FROM HER PONYTAIL.]

LYNN STINE: “Hi, uh, sorry. You haven’t seen a cat, have you?”

[A MOMENT OF PROFOUNDLY CONFUSED SILENCE. THE HEAD CURATOR CONTEMPLATES FLEEING THE BUILDING]

EMIL WALPOLE: “I. In general, or…?”

LYNN STINE: [NERVOUS LAUGHTER OF SOMEONE WHO KNOWS THEY'RE ABOUT TO BECOME A MEME ON THEIR FIRST DAY] “Uh-uh, no actually. I mean, um, around here somewhere? …In the Registry? Kinda big, very fluffy? Majestic?”

[A MOMENT OF MUCH MORE TENSE SILENCE. THE CURATORIAL ASSISTANT SQUINTS AT THE INTERLOPER, AS THOUGH SHE'D PLANNED THIS TO TRIP HIM UP PERSONALLY ON THE FIRST DAY OF HIS PROMOTION. THE HEAD CURATOR CONTEMPLATES FLEEING THE COUNTRY]

EMIL WALPOLE: [SLOWLY] “Why would there be a Cat in the Registry?”

LYNN STINE: [REGRETTING EVERY CHOICE SHE'S EVER MADE BUT ESPECIALLY THIS ONE] “Well, um, he was outside and he came up to me and started purring, so I gave him some pets because he was a very good boy, but then I had to come in by the Registry side door, which is really heavy, and my hands were full, so I had to use my foot, and he sort of…ran past me?”

EMIL WALPOLE: [IMPATIENT, INTERRUPTING] “Why were you coming into the Registry?”

LYNN STINE: [THROUGHLY CONFUSED] “Well, I. I work here.”

[A THIRD, MONUMENTAL SILENCE. AS IF AN UNCARING UNIVERSE IS WAITING FOR A PUNCHLINE.]

EMIL WALPOLE: [WITH UNSHAKEABLE CONFIDENCE] “No you don’t.”

[SILENCE AGAIN, AS THE HEAD CURATOR TAKES THE TIME TO SQUINT AT HIM. HALF OF HER IS CONVINCED THAT THIS GUY IS RIGHT, SHE'S HALLUCINATED THIS ENTIRE PROMOTION, AND SHE SHOULD JUST APOLOGIZE AND RIGHT WALK OUT]

LYNN STINE: “Ye-uh. Yes I do.”

EMIL WALPOLE: “No you don’t. I know I transferred down here with Danny, and I know I transferred down here with Alexa. And you? Are neither.”

[THE CURATORIAL ASSISTANT PUFFS HIS CHEST OUT, LIKE HE’S A DETECTIVE WHO'S JUST CRACKED THE CASE. THE HEAD CURATOR DOES SOME COMPLICATED MENTAL MATH]

LYNN STINE: “Oh. Oh! You’re, uh, you’re Emile, right? Emile Walpole?”

EMIL WALPOLE: “Emil.”

LYNN STINE: “Right, Emil, sorry, I’m sorry. Uh, Nikky told me we’d be, um. We’d be working together. I-I’m uh, I’m Ly—“

[A RATTLE OFF IN THE DISTANCE. THE FAINTEST MEOW COMES FROM THE DEPTHS OF THE REGISTRY'S FILING]

[THE CAT, WHO IN ANOTHER LIFE WOULD ANSWER TO THE NAME "THE ADMIRAL", HAS GOTTEN BORED OF HIS EXPLORATIONS AND IS WONDERING WHERE ALL THE NEW FRIENDS HE CAN SMELL ARE]

EMIL WALPOLE: [PLUMBING THE DEPTHS OF HIS PATIENCE. HE WILL SALVAGE THIS BEFORE HIS NEW BOSS (WHOEVER THAT IS) AND HIS COWORKERS COME IN] “Right. It sounds like it came from back there. I’ll take one end, you take the other, and we’ll meet in the middle so it can’t get by either of us. Shout if you’re having any trouble though.”

LYNN STINE: [EAGERLY ACCEPTING DIRECTION. MAYBE IF SHE COOPERATES WELL WITH HER NEW SUBORDINATE, SHE'LL BE ABLE TO SALVAGE SOME RESPECT?] “Right! Right, okay! Let’s—let’s get on that—! Yes.”

EMIL WALPOLE: [ABRUPT] “And then you and your cat will be on your way. You’ll need to ask Ms. Grimaldi if you’ll have permissions to come back in if you want to report an incident. Though, I warn you, my superior may not be as understanding about this as Ms. Grimaldi is, but getting your pet out as quickly as possible will probably be better for you.”

LYNN STINE: [UNABLE TO EXPLAIN THAT SHE IS HIS SUPERIOR WITHOUT A GREAT DEAL OF ARGUING AND EMBARRASSMENT THAT WILL TAKE FAR LONGER THAN RETRIEVING THE WAYWARD CAT WILL] “Y. Yup. I’ll, uh, I’ll keep that in mind.”

#the magnus archives #tma #lynn stine #emil walpole #fear avatar oc #the stranger #tma avatars #the orsinov institute #entity swap #kid fic #but with no kids in this one #ageswap au #the admiral #yes #that is who is loose in the registry #nikola orsinov #danny stoker #alexandra rhodes