Chapter Text
There once was a man called Martin Blackwood, and he was the only one left, now.
‘’
Martin Blackwood carried the body of someone he loved. He held the body like something holy, following his intuition through the tunnels with a torch balanced in his hand, tears falling from his eyes, not knowing nor caring what the future held, not knowing what he was going to do next.
The bodies of Elias Bouchard and Melanie King still laid in the Panopticon – Martin would have to come back for them eventually if only to get closure on the whole thing. He did not know what he was going to do with the bodies once they were retrieved, didn’t know how to explain any of this to the authorities, didn’t know if the authorities would even want to get involved with the bloody Magnus Institute.
He just… he didn’t know.
Martin came to a stop at a crossroads in the tunnels, his intuition momentarily giving way to grief and desperation as he cradled the body of a dead man in an unnavigable maze. He was ready to give up when footsteps sounded from the right tunnel.
There stood a man, older and intimidating, a book in one hand.
“Who are you?” Martin couldn’t summon the energy for fear in that moment, not with the day he had just had.
The man looked from Martin to the body – to the Archivist – to Jon, and sighed. “Leitner.”
Martin huffed out a humorless laugh. “Naturally.”
“Magnus is dead, then?” Leitner (bloody Jurgen Leitner of fucking course sure why not) asked, seemingly already knowing the answer.
“Yes.”
“Right,” Leitner nodded, fingers drumming on the cover of his book. “Well. Now seems to be a good time to return a favor. For Gertrude, that is.”
Martin clutched Jon a little tighter, unsure as of where this was going.
“What’s your name, then?” Leitner locked eyes with him.
“Martin. Martin Blackwood.”
Leitner smiled, the expression almost sinister in the torchlight. “Well, Martin, do you happen to have a lighter on you?”
''
The London evening crept into the early hours of the morning, and Martin Blackwood watched the Magnus Institute go up in flames. The only remains that would be found in the ashes would be that of Melanie King, Elias Bouchard, and Jonathan Sims as placed by Leitner and Martin not an hour earlier.
Somewhere below the burning mass, the Panopticon fell, flames licking at the tower and buckling its supports. Somewhere amidst the flames, a portrait of Timothy Stoker smiled into the smokey foyer as fire ate away at the canvas. Somewhere, somehow, an Eye closed itself against the light and the smoke, and those once under its domain were free.
Sirens filled the air as police and firetrucks blocked off the area, kept the few curious pedestrians at bay, kept the late-night traffic moving instead of gawking at the blaze. Martin stood in the shadows of a shop across the street, watching the wary police do their work to control the curious public as the firefighters seemed to deem the building a lost cause.
Martin watched as an officer traded words with her colleague, backlit by the fire, and looked around as though looking for a source of … something. For just a moment, the officer’s eyes landed on Martin – Martin, who lingered in shadows and hid from the world and for a few beautiful moments was seen by a man he loved but was now alone and –
Martin shook his head lightly at the officer. She startled, as though noticing him for the first time, and looked away.
Bzzzt. Bzzzzzzt.
Martin’s phone buzzed away in his pocket, somehow still charged and intact despite the day’s events. It had been doing so since the police arrived, but Martin had paid it no mind. Who was left to call him? To worry?
He pulled the device from his pocket, absently looking down at the texts and missed calls all from one number.
[[ MARCH 30th, 2016
[[ 2:34 am
[[ 6 Missed Calls from Unknown Number
[[ UNKNOWN: please pick up
[[ UNKNOWN: this is georgie, jon gave me your # a while back
[[ 2:40 am
[[ UNKNOWN: i was up and i saw the news please pick up
[[ UNKNOWN: are you ok? is jon or melanie with you?
[[ UNKNOWN: martin please pick up ]]
Martin considered replying, maybe breaking the news that no, they were not okay and never would be again, but he didn’t.
He turned off the phone, sliding the now useless device into his pocket, and took one last lingering glance at the fiery remnants of the Magnus Institute.
This moment, watching fire consume the horrors and wonders that had killed the man he loved, would be bookmarked in the story of Martin Blackwood until the end of his days.
This remarkable chapter of his life had ended, as all things must.
Time moved away from this moment now and every moment before it, rushing towards some new chapter’s start.
And so, Martin Blackwood turned and walked away, leaving the moment behind.
''
If you watch closely, it will become clear that even when we think it so, we are never truly the only ones left.
''
Time went on.
It was summer when Georgina Barker entered Oculus Books, the bell on the door jingling merrily as she stepped out of the July heat.
“Hi! Welcome in!” a merry voice called from behind the counter. A teen girl stamped old tombs with a rubber seal, a too-bright smile also stamped across her face. “Is there anything I can help you find?”
Georgie smiled back, casting her eyes about the dusty bookshop. It was a small locally owned shop specializing in books on the supernatural, although there were still signs over some shelves declaring a section “Young adult fiction” or “Graphic novels”, but what she was looking for was a bit different.
“I’m actually looking for someone,” Georgie approached the counter with a smile. “His name’s Martin Blackwood? I heard he works here?”
The girls’ face shifted just for a moment into something surprised before schooling back into a neutral expression. “And how do you know this Martin Blackwood?”
“We had a mutual friend a while back.”
“What’s your name, then?” the girl looked at her with calculating eyes, and Georgie couldn’t help but feel as though she were being tested somehow.
“Georgie Barker.”
“Oh, c’mon,” the girl crossed her arms, cocking an eyebrow at Georgie. “Like What the Ghost? Really?”
“That’s me,” Georgie shrugged.
The girl looked her up and down. “I’m not telling you who works here.”
“I understand,” Georgie deflated a bit. She wanted to be annoyed at the girl but honestly Georgie would’ve done the same thing. “If he does work here, can you take a message at least?”
“Say your message and go,” the girl drummed her fingers against her elbows, arms still crossed. “But I’m still not telling you if he works here or not.”
“Right, of course,” Georgie adjusted her purse strap nervously. “Just tell him to call me? I’m trying – I need to figure out what happened to M- to Jo- to our mutual friend.”
“Were you about to say Jon?”
Georgie blinked. The girl’s carefully neutral face was tinged with concern now. Georgie nodded.
“Jonathan Sims,” Georgie couldn’t deny that saying his name still hurt a little even months after the small memorial that Martin didn’t attend. Georgie didn’t blame him for that, but she worried after him all the same.
“Right,” the girl’s voice was resolved. “I’ll pass along your message. If he’s here. Have a good day, Georgie.”
Georgie smiled, retreating back outside with a small awkward wave.
The bell over the door jingled as Georgie disappeared from the shop.
''
[[JULY 12th, 2016
[[ 8:32 pm
[[Martin (Jon): you freaked out my favorite coworker
[[Martin (Jon): do you want to grab a coffee ]]
‘’
Georgie Barker was the only other person Jon had loved.
Martin sat with that knowledge as he watched her enter the little café, already looking for him amidst the tables. When her gaze fell upon him already set up in the corner with a cup of tea, she smiled and held up a finger in the universal sign of “one sec” before going to order her own beverage from the counter.
He watched her smile and make small talk with the barista, pulling a wallet from her purse and throwing some bills in the tip jar. She was bright, witty, kind in a way Martin once thought himself to be. He didn’t know if he was like that anymore. He didn’t know if he ever really was.
When Georgie sat before him, all put-together and proper, a cup of coffee in her hands and a smile on her face, Martin felt as though his little pocket of time he’d been living in for the past few months was about to burst. Time had stopped, and Georgie Barker was about to swing it back into motion whether he wanted it or not. That terrified him, really, but he thought of his small circle of coworkers he would almost call friends now, and he thought of Jon, and he decided to be brave.
“Emma thought you were a stalker, for a moment,” Martin said with no preamble, offering a pale imitation of a smile in place of a proper greeting as Georgie placed her purse next to her chair and got settled in her seat.
“Emma? Was she the girl at the bookshop?” Georgie took the conversation in stride.
Martin nodded. “She knows I was running from something a while ago and apparently thought that was you.”
Georgie laughed at that, a bright noise against the hubbub of the café. “I suppose I’ve been trying to get ahold of you, but I wouldn’t call my intentions stalker-y.”
“Right,” Martin felt his faux-cheery expression falter. “Sorry, right. I didn’t mean to ignor–“
“You don’t have to apologize,” Georgie curled her fingers around her coffee cup, frowning lightly at him. “You don’t know me, not really. You didn’t even have to meet me today, really, so thank you for that.”
“But you knew J– him, you were his friend and – and Melanie, too–“
“She recognized Jon’s name,” Georgie interrupted, and Martin’s mouth snapped shut. “Emma – I said something about Jon and she recognized his name.”
Martin stared down at his tea, feeling his face redden. “I, uh, I do talk about him. He was…” he cleared his throat. “He was scared of dying a mystery. I can’t- I mean, even if no one would believe what really happened there, at the institute, I can at least make sure Jon isn’t just – just lost.”
Silence ebbed between them for a long moment, Martin still stubbornly glaring down at his tea with a light flush on his cheeks. Thoughts of Jonathan Sims swam through his mind, soft moments in Scotland and half-secret glances in the institute and bloodied tears in the Panopticon. Martin coughed a little to clear his throat again, willing what could be sorrow back into his chest. He had shed his tears already.
Georgie had not responded yet, fingers drumming rhythmically against her coffee. Martin stole himself and glanced up to see a slightly pinched look on her face, although not an unkind one.
“How have you been? Really, I mean,” she asked, her eyes shining with a concern so genuine it made Martin ache.
He laughed, a cold, humorless thing. “Fine, I guess. As fine as I can, under the circumstances.” And something in him may have broken at that moment, because he continued: “I mean, I watched the man I love die, one of my friends killed himself, another got taken over by a monster, my boss’s boss turned out to be possessed by the creator of the institute who, by the way, trapped us all under some sort of all-seeing fear god, and now I work as a bloody shop manager and my best friend is a nineteen year old girl, but I’m fine. I’m still behind on my rent, I’m surviving off chips and instant noodles, and I kind of hate my job sometimes, but I’m just fine.”
Silence lulled between them again, Martin’s outburst luckily staying under enough control to not draw the attention of other café patrons. Georgie was looking at him now with something between pity and something marginally more complicated.
“I’ve been doing some research,” Georgie began, and it was such a sudden turn that Martin found himself straightening and looking at her directly, inviting her to continue. “Every paranormal-hobbyist in London knew about the Magnus Institute – what its mission was, what kind of information it housed. A place like that doesn’t burn to the ground without speculation.”
Martin blinked at her. “Right.”
“I want to do a special on the Institute.”
“Oh,” Martin continued to stare. “Okay.”
“And I need an expert,” Georgie raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.
“Okay?”
“Martin.”
“What?”
“I said,” she drew out the word. “That I need an expert.”
“Are – are you trying to hire me?”
Georgie leaned back in her chair, taking a sip of her coffee with a sly smile.
''
Time moved, and Martin Blackwood was suddenly not alone.
‘’
Martin looked around Georgie’s spare bedroom, the stiff mattress him and Jon had once slept on now replaced by something a little more substantial and the place tidier now that its intended task was more than a junk room.
“Well? What’s the verdict?” Georgie leaned in the doorway, the Admiral cradled in her arms.
For the first time since March, it felt as though Martin could breathe. It was closer to the bookshop – cheaper than his worn-down studio, too.
Martin laughed, turning towards Georgie with a smile on his lips. “Where do I sign?”
‘’
The days brought work in the bookstore and research on the Institute and rehashing of beats in the story of Jonah Magnus and Jonathan Sims, Timothy Stoker and Melanie King, Sasha James and Elias Bouchard. Martin got better at writing and storytelling; Georgie taught herself to cook Hungarian food. Martin tried and failed to find an old man with books and answers; Georgie tried and failed to contact families of the institutes’ victims. Martin went on more walks; Georgie rewatched old Ghost Hunt UK videos. Life went on.
Nights would be filled with nightmares and cups of tea and “Melanie called me before the end.” and “We didn’t have time.”
They fell into a rhythm, poking at half-healed wounds to find the blood of a story, bandaging it up with tea and rum, trading tales of people they just might have loved and the horrors that consumed them.
By late August they had the story, a periodical of sorts, ten episodes, about the creation and downfall of the institute and those within its walls.
“What do we call it?” Georgie’s face glowed in the light of her laptop screen as she finished typing up the first script.
Martin smiled, considering.
“How about ‘the Magnus Archives’?”
Georgie laughed, bright and clear and happy.
“Sorry, but that’s kind of a stupid name.”
‘’
“Ready?” Georgie tapped a few buttons on her computer, angling a mic towards Martin and smiling widely at him.
Martin grinned back nervously, fidgeting and clearing his throat. He nodded.
“Right!” Georgie clicked a final button. “Live in three, two … Hello haunts fans, welcome to today’s special episode of What the Ghost. My name is Georgie Barker, and I’m joined by my good friend and roommate Martin Blackwood. Today is part one of a series on one of the staple spooks of London: The Magnus Institute…”
‘’
Martin goes on walks quite often these days. He’d sometimes find himself wandering through the streets of downtown, watching tourists and locals alike bustle about and gawk at the sights. Other times he’d end up wandering through graveyards, pausing at the headstones of old friends and saying a few kind words.
Some days, though, like today, he’d end up in Chelsea, walking down familiar streets with his hands shoved in his pockets. He’d pop into the teashop where the owner still remembered his name, peruse the shelves of Tim’s favorite bookshop, sit in the park Sasha would drag him to on lunch breaks.
There is a plot of land in Chelsea where the Magnus Institute once stood. Police tape still surrounds the area despite it being little more than a pile of rubble for the past almost six months.
See, the tunnels were the first thing to draw the attention of the police post-fire, as boxes of files were apparently hidden there containing two centuries worth of buried scandals and crimes. (Martin wondered about Leitner and where the hell he’d been hiding all that, whether he’d been waiting for a moment just like this). With the board of directors under investigation and each ex-employee interviewed and cross-referenced, the ownership of the institute’s lot had come under question, and so it sat empty.
Sometimes, he’d pass that old pile of rubble that once was his whole world. He’d pause, watching the pedestrians and traffic move by unaware. Today, however, his eyes wander. He turns his eyes to the edge of that burnt out husk, and a figure stands waiting for him.
When pushed later on, all Martin would be able to say of the figure was this:
He was lovely and lithe, tragic and scared, and so, so fucking brave.
The figure raises its hand in greeting and smiles warmly, sorrowfully at Martin, unseen by the common bystander. Martin smiles back, nods, and breathes. A chapter ends with that breath, and perhaps the whole story with it.
He turns away from the rubble, getting lost in the flow of foot traffic once more. Time moved, and Martin did too, now, letting the ebb and flow of life take him where it saw fit, fulfilling promises to dead men and himself alike in this new world.
Martin takes one last glance back at the figure waiting in the rubble – that figure that watches over the remnants of the institute, worn and tired. The figure catches his gaze, and Martin feels his heart skip a beat, his breath catch in his throat because oh...
There's something about his eyes.