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Oh, this is bad. This is extremely bad. Martin is fairly certain he’s saying as much, or rather, babbling to himself, but in the space between his mouth and ears his own voice twists itself into something he barely recognizes, and this is really, really bad, oh god.
He’s running through impossible endless corridors with Tim, looking for an exit that for all they know might not even exist, and if they don’t find it they’ll die and so will John, probably, so that’s enough to have him panicking on its own, only- only he’s not with Tim. He hasn’t been with Tim for a while now, although he’s got no idea how long ago they lost each other, no memory of the exact moment he stopped hearing the protests of the tape recorder Tim is carrying. Or were they ever actually together- is any of this even real?
“Do you know, I’m not quite sure myself?”
Martin screams.
The man, the thing, the… Michael. The Michael thing who’d trapped them in this place is in front of him, and Martin would call his appearance sudden, except he can’t recall a moment where it actually appeared. Michael wasn’t there, before- or at least he doesn’t think so- and now, Michael is here. It laughs at his confused terror, the inherent wrongness of the sound amplified tenfold by the echoing corridors. Martin covers his ears instinctively, which does nothing, then slowly lowers his hands again as the terrifying stretched-out thing’s laughter fades. He waits for it to say or do something else, half expecting to be killed, but Michael just… stares back at him. Waiting, matching his fear with its amusement. It could be seconds or hours before Martin finds the courage to speak.
“Where’s Tim,” he tries to demand, only it comes out as more of a plea. He wishes he could blame the way every sound here is distorted, but really he’s just scared. “Is- if, if you’ve done anything to him, or-”
Michael shrugs and spreads its hands in an encompassing gesture, which is… upsetting to watch, then cuts him off with another migraine-inducing laugh before he can finish his sentence. “Are you going to threaten me?” It sounds a little delighted by the idea, and Martin wilts. “I haven’t hurt him. Well…” Another faint giggle. “Not physically, at least. Human minds can be so fragile.”
It’s waiting for him to say something again. “What do you want?” he finally manages.
“You.”
Martin flinches. “I’m… sorry?”
“Oh, don’t look so scared. I’m not going to do anything to you.” It pauses, considering. “Or maybe I will. But I’m not planning to, right now.”
He laughs nervously. “That’s… really not as reassuring as you might think…”
Michael shrugs again. Martin wishes it would stop doing that- it has too many bones, or what look like bones at least, and they’re somehow all in the wrong places. “I just want to talk to you, Martin.”
Okay, Michael knows his name somehow. That’s… fine. He’s obviously not getting out of this situation any time soon, so… “About?”
There is another pause. “I don’t think you understand how difficult that question is,” it says almost petulantly. “I suppose it’s about… your Archivist.”
“I- he’s, he’s not my archivist, I mean he’s not my anything, I don’t…”
Michael sighs, and Martin cuts off, chastising himself. Is he seriously pathetic enough to be blushing right now, with his actual life in danger? As if something like Michael is going to even care about his stupid crush. Meanwhile, Michael tilts its head to the side.
“Would you prefer I call him someone else’s Archivist? Elias Bouchard, perhaps, might be more-”
“No,” Martin snaps. He nearly dies on the spot a second later, of course, when Michael looks at him with something like surprise and his brain catches up to his mouth enough to realize who- what he just snapped at. His voice shakes as he tries to clarify, “I don’t see why he has to belong to anybody, or- it’s honestly a bit weird that you keep calling him the archivist, and not his name? Which is John by the way, if, uh, if you didn’t know and that was why you- sorry, I’m sure you did know, you know my name somehow, but I didn’t want to assume…”
Michael doesn’t do a thing to stop him rambling on. Just watches, like Martin carrying on an increasingly flustered one-person conversation is the most entertaining thing it’s ever encountered. The staring, somehow, feels like yet another perversion of itself, although Martin is pretty sure he doesn’t get creepily stared at enough in his daily life to know how it’s supposed to be. Would be pretty weird if he did, not that his life isn’t weird already. Michael smirks at this as if remembering some joke Martin’s not in on, and he finally manages to shut himself up at the jarring reminder that it may or may not be able to hear his thoughts, or else he’s just really bad at knowing whether he’s speaking them aloud or not.
“What was it you wanted to say,” he asks tiredly, “about John?” It gives him just enough silence to get uncomfortable again and he adds, “Because, um, speaking of him, he is still sort of about to get killed by whatever that monster was, and if you’re not planning to kill me or, or anything like that, I’d really prefer to be done here as soon as possible so I can help him not die? …Please?”
He feels something like relief when Michael speaks again. “Your… John,” it begins. Martin decides the semantics are not worth arguing over. “Do you think he needs your protection?”
It sounds like it’s making fun of him, as if the entire notion of him protecting John is ridiculous, and he answers a little defensively. “Well, not mine specifically, I guess, I’m not actually… much of a fighter. If you can’t tell.” He gives a little self-deprecating laugh in the general direction of his body. “But, you know, it’s not as if he can fight that thing off on his own- I mean, at least I move the occasional heavy box, I’m not sure he does anything other than filing and recording statements. I mean, that’s his job, I’m not saying- anyway. He needs someone, doesn’t he?” He looks at Michael pleadingly. “And I’m the only one here, even if I am a bit useless. Well- and Tim, but he’s not really… well.” He remembers, just in time to stop himself, that Tim would definitely not appreciate Martin telling anything about him or his motivations to Michael.
“You have to understand,” he says instead. “I can’t just leave him to, to deal with this alone.” To die down there, he very much doesn’t say.
Michael regards him again, as he takes deep breaths of air-that-isn’t-exactly-air and tries, for what feels like the millionth time, not to outright panic. It tilts its head just like before, but… if Martin felt at all confident in his ability to read its face, he would say it looks more… subdued. He’s no less scared than he started out, but it doesn’t seem to find that quite so amusing.
Martin looks at Michael. Any given part of it is easy to be mesmerised by, which is obviously no less upsetting than anything else here, but at least it might stop him blurting out anything else. So he looks at Michael- its infinitely curling hair, specifically, because it seems like the least dangerous bit- and in the process, nearly forgets he’s in the middle of a conversation at all as everything around him starts spinning.
“I think,” it hums, “Michael would have liked you.”
He blinks and returns from wherever he’s getting lost, still disoriented. “I’m… sorry? Just- aren’t you Michael?”
It sighs. “I am, and, at the same time, I am not. But I’m sure you won’t be satisfied with that, so… hm. You were a child at some point, weren’t you?” It waits for Martin to agree, as if it doesn’t want to assume such things. “And you aren’t him now, but you are Martin, nonetheless. You can think of me like that- it isn’t true, obviously, but you can, if it makes you feel better. There used to be Michael, but… he’s gone now, I’m afraid. There’s only me.”
Martin gives it the sort of slow, understanding nod universal to people who are really no less confused than they started out, but don’t want to say so.
“You have so much in common, it’s too bad you never met Michael. You might have even been friends.”
He feels, once again, like he’s missed some hidden joke, this time at his own expense. “…Thanks, I guess?”
Michael smiles at him, sharp and humorless, and reminds him: “Michael is gone.”
“R-right. You said.” He wonders if that’s supposed to be a threat- it does sound a bit angry, but the reason is as inscrutable to him as anything else about Michael.
There is yet another silence, and Martin fidgets, hoping desperately that the strange conversation is over. Michael exhales slowly. The vaguely disappointed sound echoes for what feels like about ten minutes and then simply ends, as if it were never there at all. Michael claps its distressing hands, and Martin jumps.
“I’ve decided to let you leave, after all,” it announces.
Martin nearly falls over in pure relief. (Although the persistent dizziness probably also has something to do with it.) “Wait, really? I mean- thanks, yes, I’ll just be going!” He shuts himself up before his voice can turn completely into a squeak and starts to leave.
He doesn’t get more than a few steps before Michael’s hand is on his shoulder. It feels, as it turns out, even more inhuman than it looks, and he does squeak, freezing in place for fear of cutting himself.
“You can do whatever you want, of course,” sighs Michael. The detached amusement in its voice is almost back to its usual level. “But if you want my advice… leave the Archivist to whatever fate he finds himself.”
“I don’t,” he tells it, a little sharper than intended. “Um- want your advice.”
It raises something that definitely is not an eyebrow at him. “In that case, I suppose I won’t tell you the way out is actually that way.” It starts laughing, yet again, at the look on his face as he turns in the direction it’s pointing. When he turns back, Michael is gone- nothing left behind but an echo that lasts far too long.
“…Okay,” Martin says to himself, as if speaking the word out loud will magically make it apply to his current situation. “Okay.”
Martin is walking through impossible, endless corridors, looking for Tim and for an exit he can only hope exists. There isn’t any point trying to move faster, because that would imply time and distance mean anything, so he walks, and devotes the rest of his energy to remembering what he’s doing: he needs to find Tim. He needs to get out of here.
He needs to help John.