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They find Michael Shelley standing only a few steps into the corridor.
His hair is less curled than Michael’s was, his eyes less glittering, but he is still unmistakable — his height would see to that, if nothing else. He has the aura of a man who has forgotten where he was meant to be going, confusion wrinkling his nose and furrowing his brows.
Jon coughs, and Michael Shelley’s expression brightens. Jon isn’t fully sure he understood the term ‘a smile like sunshine’ before this moment. Pure happiness, though Jon doubts it’ll last.
Beside Jon, the Distortion shifts, seeming almost as confused as poor Michael Shelley.
“Oh, uh, hello. I seem to be a little lost? I’m, ah, I’m Michael.” He holds out a hand, and against his own better judgement, Jon takes it. It’s normal, no painful fractals digging into Jon’s skin. Michael’s nails are neatly trimmed, with hints of chipped nail varnish gleaming at the edges.
The monster wearing Helen Richardson’s face remains silent, so Jon offers the most polite smile he can give under the circumstances — which is to say, not particularly — and braces himself for a very awkward conversation indeed.
“I’m Jon. I’m from the Magnus Institute.”
Michael laughs nervously, shaking his head and releasing Jon’s hand.
“No, you’re not. I know everyone in the Institute and, uh, I’m pretty sure I’d remember you.”
Jon bites back his instinctual what’s that supposed to mean, and sighs.
“I’m— I’m the head archivist,” he admits with a wince.
Michael’s mouth opens and closes. It’s clear he wants to protest, but whatever recollections he may have of his time as the ‘throat of delusion incarnate’ cancel out his instinctive denial.
“What happened to Miss Robinson? I remember—” He falls silent, then frowns, rubbing at his forehead. “I’m not sure what I remember.”
“Honestly, Mr Shelley? I think that might be for the best.”
“Right.” There’s another nervous laugh, a strained echo of that beaming smile. “Sorry, but I didn’t actually tell you my surname, did I? I-I mean, I know I’m a bit out of it, but—”
There’s a sudden sighing laugh from the Distortion. Michael flinches, terror making itself known through his attempts at cheerful composure. He backs up several steps, and the wary looks he gives them both make Jon feel nauseous.
“I, uh, I didn’t actually get your name, either?”
“You may call me Helen,” The Distortion says, full of false magnanimity. “I was Michael, for a time, and now I’m not. Perhaps you are.” It reaches out and places a sharp finger on Michael’s chest. His breath hitches, and Jon feels a surge of anger. He wants to help Michael like he couldn’t help Helen.
“Helen,” Jon says, the name like ashes on his tongue. “We were going to leave, remember?”
“Yes,” the Distortion agrees, tone airy. “But there’s no rush, is there, Archivist?”
“I need to get back to the Institute.” He tries to make his tone as firm as possible, though he suspects his voice is shaking with fear and exhaustion. “I have work to do.”
It stares at him for a long moment, blinking slowly, then smiles. It looks very nearly human.
“Don’t we all.”
As if that decided the matter, the Distortion pushes past Michael and begins walking down the corridors in long strides that don’t match up to the sound of its footsteps. Jon exhales in relief.
Michael is trembling, smoothing down his shirt with shaking hands. If Jon were a better person, he thinks he would offer a gentle touch of comfort and some kind words. But Jon is very aware that his demeanour is not a comforting one; he’d probably end up making the situation worse.
“Come on,” Jon says instead, following the Distortion’s path. “Before we get left behind.”