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“Go on, Archivist,” and there was so much compulsion in that voice that it seemed to thicken the very air. Elias Bouchard, magnificent in the same way a de-horned rhino is magnificent, swept his hand down in a grand gesture over Mr Ellis in the chair. Presenting a meal.
John couldn’t decide what to do. Not because he had so many desirable choices (he wanted only one thing and that was out) but because he literally did not have the ability to make his own actions. He was the archivist, but Elias was… Something more. Something above him. Elias could do anything John could do and he could do it better, so good he didn’t even need to phrase the command as a question. The archivist felt himself swallow. Wet his lips. Ready to speak, to ask, to dig, to ruin almost a year’s worth of willpower and good deeds, all because Elias “Fucking” Bouchard wanted him at his A game, whatever the price.
He wrangled with it, fought against it, but Elias didn’t even break a sweat. The command was there. It was in his body now, in his brain, just waiting for this childish spurt of defiance to die down so it could make him do what good Archivists do. He knew without doubt that he was going to ask Mr Ellis for his statement, and that was it.
That was it, wasn’t it? It was all he had to do. Just ask.
He made eye contact with the beating heart of the institute, who was grinning with self-assured satisfaction. Then John reached out, picked up the tape recorder, and slowly, achingly, fighting every step- shoved it sideways into his mouth.
Through the soft click, whirr he asked Mr Ellis to tell his story. The result was too garbled to even be recognized as English, and Mr Ellis, predictably, did not feel particularly compelled.
Elias seemed too baffled to even be angry. He actually had to lean on the table for support.
“… John?”
“Mmf?”
“John, are you serious?”
“Mmh.”
“John, you can’t…” Elias squeezed the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes tight against the stupidity.
“You can’t seriously expect me to accept this. Your reluctance, sure. Your whining? Unnecessary, but sure. But this? Petulant, kindergarten rebellion? For god’s sake, John, I’m not even talking to you as an Archivist right now, I’m talking to you as a grown man. Take the damn recorder out of your mouth.”
“Mh-mh.”
“I cannot believe I am having this conversation with you. Take. The recorder. Out of your mouth!”
And it was a command again, so John knew he had to obey again, but before he did he could squeeze just a little bit of time out of his willpower, and he used those precious seconds to achieve (what was now) his life’s goal; piss off Elias Bouchard, and make his life very difficult. So he bit down.
The plastic casing cracked on his tongue and he had the very uncomfortable sensation of something spinning against his teeth, then the machinery went to pieces. It hurt, yes, but then again, that was kind of the point, wasn’t it? Elias actually had his mouth hanging open when John began to crunch the recorder into tiny bits, not unlike a dog chewing something desperately after being told to drop it. He didn’t swallow, but he didn’t feel he needed to. Blood was pouring from him. The blood could not entirely mask an extremely bitter taste, however, and John suddenly wondered what kind of chemicals he was putting into himself. He wasn’t exactly known for taking care of his body, but eating surveillance equipment was a lot. Even for him.
Elias had the look of a flabbergasted parent, somehow both annoyed, concerned and impressed with the sheer resistance being put up. Honestly the only redeemable person in the whole situation was Mr Ellis who, for his part, had been sitting perfectly still and staring into nothing this whole time.
“John.”
“Ah?”
“John. Spit the plastic out.”
“Ah-ah.”
“J-“ and Elias had to literally step back and turn around to keep his composure. John could hear him scream silently into the crook of his elbow. The really fun part of being an Archivist was that injuries healed supernaturally fast, yes, but only if there wasn’t something currently lodged in them. In the case of the shattered plastic/metal/wire/whatever else he had just chewed through, it was all very much in his mouthwounds. Now he couldn’t even ask the question any more, so… John 1, Elias 0.
“I have never-“ Elias hissed, walking back and forth next to the table, “-ever met someone so- so obstinate, so utterly incapable of accepting the reality of his situation- you are a tool, John! You serve! That is what you do- that is what we all do! Stunts like this are at best an absolutely embarrassing distraction, and at worst they kill people, John! Do you not see? Do you actually, literally not understand why your task is so important? You are the goddamn archivist and you- you can’t- for fucks sake, John, spit the plastic out!”
“Ah-ah.”
“God, I could just-“
He stormed off. Then he stormed back. John had never seen Elias this upset before, and honestly? It wasn’t too bad. When Elias sat stewing in his cold rage, that was when you had to look out. This stomping and yelling and flailing his arms act? It was nothing. And now that the ball was rolling, Elias was rapidly losing control over other things as well.
John no longer felt the compulsion to obey, and from the tiny plastic chair at the other end of the table came an equally tiny voice.
“Is that man okay?” Mr Ellis asked, eyes wide but still hazy.
Elias’ expression got wilder. There was a second where John was actually afraid Elias might just kill them both and have it over with, but instead he leaned in close to Mr Ellis and spoke into his ear. John couldn’t hear it, but he Knew.
You didn’t see this, and you were never here. When you get to the lobby you will ask the receptionist to call you a cab. Go home.
And so Mr Ellis took his tiny self off the chair and left the room, oblivious to the disaster he was leaving behind.
Elias sat down, and the two men just. Observed each other for a bit. John mentally counted the loss of Mr Ellis as a point for him, so… John 2, Elias 0.
“Did you have fun?” Elias asked, his voice back to a cold normal.
“Mwot- Mwot ah much ahs-“
“What? For- for heaven’s sake, John. Please, for the last time, remove the plastic from your mouth.”
“Ahm thwying!”
And he really was trying, for what it was worth. The bits and pieces had lodged themselves into strange areas and a lot of them seemed to have simply grown over, requiring him to reach in and pick at them until the blood flowed fresh again. Elias watched him. Quiet. Cold.
“I hope that hurts,” his boss whispered, more genuine than John could remember ever hearing him, “I hope that hurts for a long, long time. I hope you can’t speak properly for weeks. You hear me, Jonathan Sims? I hope you hurt.”
“Woth it.”
“What?”
John coughed and expelled a piece of his own inner cheek onto the table.
“Ah said, ‘twas wosh it. I’d do ith again. Honestly, Elias, ah don’t have mush to look fowash to these days-“ he coughed again and more flesh landed, “-ahnd if I chan wake up eveshy day knowing that I might piss you off, that’s enough.”
He was pretty sure he could feel a breeze on his teeth when his mouth was closed.
Tim would have been proud of him, then. Elias… Well, Elias almost looked proud as well, hidden by a sheen of offense. He just got up, told John to seek him out when he had “grown up”, and left.
He did not try to force John into taking a statement again.