Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“We won’t get there in time.”

“Well, not with that negativity!”

The Archivist had decided on the fate of himself and his companions— Martin, forever at his side; Basira, lost now that Daisy was out of her reach; and Helen, a companion he often complained that he wanted gone but never brought himself to make leave— while they were in the last stretches of the Hunt’s domain. He brought the general mood down along with him despite Helen’s best attempts otherwise, turning every conversation to something regarding their imminent defeat and the world’s path toward complete and utter extinction. And was that not a fascinating concept? At times, before the Watcher’s Crown and what humanity called the apocalypse, the Distortion had been able to taste the paranoia of that which conspiracy theorists did not know, the fear of those that believed the truth was hidden beneath layers of lies by those in power. It had faded over time, like tastebuds grown and sloughed away, and looking back on it Helen realized that perhaps that was the first sign that something was coming. Something that they should have been worried about.

Now the Extinction lay waste on the world around them. The Slaughter’s war had ended, recruits on all sides dead, no one else there to be sacrificed. The Flesh rotted and wilted away without its caretaker. The Hunt ran out of prey, the curtains have fallen on the Web’s act, the Desolation’s fire sizzled out—

And the Eye had nothing more to Watch.

The Archivist knew that Jonah Magnus sat in the middle of a ruined world atop endless knowledge, and Knew that something in that tower might help them. But they also knew that Jonah was capable of moving his tower and did so regularly, never allowing them to get closer no matter how they attempted to mask themselves from his sight. It was such a simple problem, such a mundane way to… lose. Because that was what it all was, in the end. They had lost.

“I don’t think positivity can help us move faster, Helen.” Martin at least humors them, as they walked toward London; the city seemed farther with every passing day.

“No, but my hallways can.” They turned their head to the side to look to Martin and it continued to twist around, their neck bending until they have turned 270 degrees and are facing forward once again. It was a normal occurrence, but still elicited a small burst of surprise and fear as it turned farther than Martin had initially expected. He was able to keep his fear down well enough, pointing out with no hidden suspicion,

“I thought you said it was dangerous.”

“Oh, it most certainly is. I am not keen on the idea of being Known, especially not a second time— you remember the Circus, don’t you, Archivist?” They looked to him and he refused to meet their eyes, but gaze a nod of confirmation. His shoulders slouched with a guilt that he had not allowed himself to feel for a long time, and they wondered if he had come to this conclusion long before Helen did. With a clap that sounded ten feet to their left, Helen continued on, “but! if this works, the Spiral will continue on without me. Hopefully it will mourn, if only for a second.  Any longer and it might seem clingy.”

“So you’re saying, what, you’ll— you’ll die? That’s not—!” Martin’s voice had raised in both volume and octave as he walked beside them, and he turned to the Archivist for backup on his rejection of the plan. The other man stayed silent. A glance to Basira gave a similar reaction, though she had the kindness to look onto Helen with something that could roughly be translated to pity. Just another Hunt, they supposed would be the woman’s justifications; another ally to give up for the chase until she was able to sink her teeth into the throat of Jonah Magnus. But Martin refused. “That’s not an option.”

“It’s not the most pleasant, I know,” Helen relented, wrapping an arm around Martin’s shoulders despite both the Archivist and Basira standing between them, the latter two attempting to ignore the fact that their arm stretched around a meter long behind them. Their hand grew to an exaggerated size to block their mouth from the others, but they did not lower their voice to successfully hide what they were saying. “Promise me you’ll find a new best friend not as moody as the Archivist, Martin? I don’t want you surrounding yourself with bad influences.”

Martin stopped in his tracks, the others doing the same quickly after him. Helen nodded, smile unwavering as their legs stopped moving but their body continued on, “Good idea, good idea! You should all rest, save your energy for the big battle ahead. Kind of useless to walk if you’re never going to reach your destination, wouldn’t you say?”

“There has to be something else.” He did not want to consider the possibility that there wasn’t. At any other time, perhaps even in a different, less existence ending apocalypse, Helen would have appreciated his hope. But there simply was not enough time for silly things like morality and friendship to get in the way. So they turned to Martin, giving a sigh and responding,

“There isn’t.” Another voice had joined Helen’s in the rejection of Martin’s hope, and if they thought about it hard enough there was certainly something to be said about the matching confidence levels of It-Is-Not-What-It-Is and That-Which-Knows-All. They both knew that there was not another option. Helen laughed, continuing to speak and disappointed that they were speaking alone, “You will not get to Jonah without my corridors. And while I appreciate existing as much as the next person— don’t tell those End and Vast folks I said so— I can realize the importance of a bit of sacrifice here and there for the betterment of eternity.”

Martin stayed quiet, considering the words said beneath their joking tone, and Helen pouted. They stepped over the Archivist and Basira to stand beside him. “What happened to killing all the Avatars, eh? Kill Bill?”

What outrage and indignation once accompanied his words had now quieted down to a silent resignation. “That’s different. You know that’s different.”

“You’re right, they are different. Everyone else’s deaths changed absolutely nothing. At least mine has enough flare to be useful, wouldn’t you say?” A door has appeared in front of the Archivist, a faded yellow with its accompanying white trim; Helen had not even attempted to put it against a surface this time. They watched the way the Archivist’s eyes drank in the details of their door, and hid their worries behind an ever-twisting smile.

Is this what fear felt like? They wondered not for the first time, their gaze not moving as they watched him take a step forward. With the natural flourish and irregularity of their normal movements they got to the door first, grabbing the knob and opening it up for the other three with a slight feeling of relief at the fact that it was not locked. Once, fear had been an emotion they had felt. After that, a tall woman with long hair and glasses had tried to explain it as an inhibitor, an unpleasant feeling that flared up when someone believed themself to be in danger. Often times, it caused spontaneous reactions to get the body out of said danger. Other times, it froze, or simply moved along because it could not fathom an alternative decision. Helen… supposed that emotion was what they were feeling now, as much as they were able to feel anything. Something in their being twisted under the many-eyed gaze of the Archivist as he studied their interior, taking note of the table and flowers in the front entrance and the mirrors that lined their walls. Suddenly they were back on the island that did not exist, back in the house that had too many doors and hallways that did not connect to each other, back as a doorway to what there is not and what there always will be— 

Helen kept a steady hand on the doorknob, their other arm other swinging in a gesture to welcome them in. “After you.”

The three are quiet as Helen closed the door behind themself, and they took up the front of the group at the first sign that no one else wished to step forward and lead. They walked in silence, the Archivist and Helen in the front and the other two taking the back, and Helen could imagine the imaginary coffin lifted above their shoulders, four pallbearers taking a being to its final resting place.

“…it’s time.” There was a quiet strength to the Archivist’s voice and they are reminded of the Circus, of the brief weakness in the half of them that had not been a creation of the Spiral. They are reminded of the time they let themselves be Known, soft words explaining that which should have never been explained; the two of them were aware once that when the story ended, one of them was to meet their demise. Last time it had been the Archivist who was destined to die, and he had escaped relatively unscathed. This time there was no one else trapped in Helen’s halls to save them.

They did not suspect they would be as lucky as the Archivist.

Begin at what was once Edgware, and continue north down the ruins of Grange Hill.

The first words tear at them, wrenching their existence from an abstract concept to a physical being. They are Known to be a domain, an Avatar, and a victim of the Spiral all at once, overlapping parts like puzzle pieces put together to form a picture, but were glued after their creator had linked them up. They are Helen Richardson as much as she could still exist, but in the corner of the puzzle is the Distortion, as much as it can be anything. In some parts they are still Michael, his memories affecting that which might be Helen and that which could possible be the Distortion, changing color palette preferences from minimalistic to gaudy, forcing that which is not to be something that is. They are forced to go back farther than Michael Shelley and are reminded of a form they took only occasionally, one that was limiting, and weak. They are reminded of the colors yellow and blue and red that can all come together, constantly changing their shades the more you add to it until it is unrecognizable as any of the original colors. They are the color brown, they are on the path to black. They are not a color at all.

Turn left on Cloister Gardens.

“A map,” Helen pointed out, aware of how obvious it was, not trusting themself to use more than a few syllables at a time. “How… fitting.” 

The shape of the street will twist and curve but it will continue to be Cloister Gardens. Continue on Cloister Gardens.

“Helen?” It was Basira this time, face showing what little concern she could muster up for a monster. Face showing what little concern a monster could still muster up. No, that was unfair, they could imagine Martin saying. Basira might have pulled the trigger that ended countless lives, may be currently complicit in the murder of another, but she was just as human as anyone else in the apocalypse. Because despite any powers or longevity or body modifications, everyone involved was… still human. What were the fears if not simply creations of those who populated the planet? What was the extinction if not an end created by those who feared it? 

Ignore the way the Worker-of-Clay tries to make sense of your image. Ignore the way he succeeds. Turn left on Hale Road.

“It’s fine!” Their voice was pitched higher than necessary, and no longer echoed with the sounds of many others. They were alone now, a single droplet that had escaped the sea.

Continue on Hale Road. There is not a sign to look for, but there is a man with black hair and a cigarette whose smoke blows the proper direction. He opens a book titled Distortion not out of curiosity but out of boredom. Now all his bones are in his hands. Now you are nearing a roundabout.

“We can… we can take a break, if you need. I— I can stop Jon, give you time.” Martin was already moving forward to reach out to the Archivist but Helen reached him first, their arm too solid, no longer malleable, their hand around Martin’s wrist.

“Stopping the Archivist defeats the purpose of this whole thing, doesn’t it, Martin?” They tried to stay cheerful, but by the upturn of Martin’s brows and the way his bottom lip quivered, briefly, they know they are not appearing as put together as they wanted. Instead they let go of Martin continue to walk beside the Archivist, heels now clicking where they had never made sound before. One leg limped, lowering them an inch every time they stepped; the Archivist does not stop speaking, but offers out his cane— they reject it, not knowing if they would be able to give it back.

At the roundabout, take the third exit onto Broadfields Avenue. Do not miss the exit. Do not circle the roundabout, or there will never be another exit to take. Rerouting… You are allowed to circle the roundabout. There will always be another exit to take.

The directions of themself that Helen was once able to trap others in have become more solid, no longer anything other than left, right, and center. They were beginning to feel heavy, their movements sluggish, and where they once thought they were speeding through the corridors they had come to realize they were moving slowly, lethargic. Was this simply what gravity felt like? Or was it death? They did not have a strong enough memory of either. Helen’s hand reached out to steady themself against one of their walls, and Martin moved forward to help them, concerned. They waved off his worry. “Keep going, your Archivist Knows the way.”

Ignore the fact that the roundabout has taken you to the wrong street. Use the left lane to merge onto M1 via the ramp to Luton. The woman you trust will stare at you with cold eyes. At last, begin to be afraid.

“We aren’t going to leave you!” He argued. But Basira was already tugging on his arm, dragging him away else they get separated from their guide. Helen was allowed to take a moment to breathe— another curiosity, another thing they had never done, had not done in decades, had done only years ago— before pushing themself off the wall. They watched as the Archivist led his team to the left. They turned to the right.

The signs no longer say words. Merge onto M25 and continue for an undeterminable amount of time. Note the house that was not there before but now is. Note the way it has too many doors. Pick up the seller, out of curiosity. Be the seller, out of desperation.

This was a path that they had traveled only once before. A path that they had tried to hide in twists and turns that humanity should have never been able to comprehend. It was a path that Michael Shelley once walked, scared but aware of what he had to do; he had believed himself alone, but he had been accompanied by spiders that wove earmuffs of silk and a chiffon blindfold. It was a path that Helen Richardson once ran, no map to lead her; she had believed herself alone, but she had been guided by the warping corridors that wished to use her and claim her as its own.

Continue on A40. There is a café down the way. Remember maintaining physicality enough to go to a café, once. Remember the truths you once told to a woman who is no longer alive to doubt them.

They stumbled through their corridors, each hall they reach the end of becoming real; truth was no longer held back by a basic yellow door, and there was no unreality on the other side. Left was left and right was right and they were unable to move up or down. They were heaving, and their body slowly began to refuse to cooperate with their intentions. They were no longer themself, not in ability, not in body.

Continue on London Road. Continue on Headington Road. Continue on A40. The A40 is long, and has many names.

Their name was not Helen. Their name had never been Helen, not really. Their name was always Helen.

Turn left at Gipsy Lane, and turn right on Warneford Lane. 

One foot dragged in front of the other, each step harder than the last. They wondered if perhaps this was what caused their demise— not the Archivist’s words, not an understanding of the pain and fear they had put on others, but the way they fled from him. The way they returned to safety that would in turn only hurt them, make them Known not by the Archivist but by themself, reaching their center once again. They wondered if they minded. 

Do not be afraid as you take the first exit onto Divinity Road.

Their hands, shaky, reached for a round and silver door handle. They grasped at it as if it was the last thing to keep them afloat, realization and perception slowly finding its way to the center of the Distortion. If they looked to some of the photos that decorated the walls, they would notice all the eyes focusing on them. Helen reached for the last of their connection; it was faint, but they were able to sense the Archivist and his companions reaching the correct door, heading out into the wrecked city.

Turn left when you see the charred remains of the Smoke and Thyme Supper Club.

They whimpered beneath the eyes of Jonah Magnus, who attempted to gather as much information as he could about this unexpected development. Their sounds of pain turned louder, echoing throughout the halls that had once been them as they unravelled into a being of explainable truths and simplified answers. They were laid out like a book finally translated, and their reader was not gentle as they sought the information held from them for so long. Perhaps their reader was the Archivist, nearing the end of his journey. Perhaps it was Magnus, taking in the death of one of his enemies and savoring it like a fine wine. Perhaps it was It-Knows-You itself, finally able to Know that which was hidden from its understanding for so long.

Wonder if this is all worth it.

There was a pounding in their ears that they could not confirm the location of, a pulse beating that had not been able to do so for so long without a conscious decision to allow it. They were unsure if it came from Helen Richardson’s chest, or from the space behind the Distortion’s center. Another ragged gasp is torn from them as they realize the gazes of Magnus and the Archivist were stronger now, more focused, and the world pitied them enough to give an explanation— to Know that which should never be Known is to do the impossible; whoever got to the center of the Distortion first would win this upcoming battle. And Helen knew, coming to the conclusion on their own, that Jon would not be the one to achieve understanding. He would not bring himself to tear through Helen quick enough to win. So it was up to them to ensure it would not be Magnus, either.

Close your eyes and understand humanity’s necessity for spirituality and religion. Understand the fear that grows when you are unsure what comes next.

They shut their eyes, and turned the knob.

Open your eyes. 

Distantly, they registered the sound of a woman calling a name that had not been theirs for quite some time, and recognized the voice of a man that did the same with another title. A door sat in front of them, and they knew that on the other side was the piece of themself they were meant to destroy, and the other the piece of themself that was meant to be sacrificed. They stood in the jungles of an island that did not exist, and sat in a dorm building a continent away, and were called forward by those who wished to make the world anew. A cover of silk fell off of their first form’s face, his eyes no longer blinded. A mirror shattered, startling a roommate that had been brushing her teeth at the sink, making their second form get up and stare at the fractured reflected pieces that remained on the wall; every piece showed a different person, some not even showing a person at all.

A door swung open, inviting.

You have arrived at your destination.

Chapter Text

Gertrude Robinson had been called many things. Cold-hearted was the first to come to mind, thrown at her by human and monster alike. Scheming and treacherous were the most common adjectives used before someone went on a series of filthy insults directed at her. But out of everything, despicable seemed to encompass her the best, used to describe her by those who wished to judge on not only her emotions or her intelligence, but her character as a whole.

In a similar fashion there were some words never used to describe her. Selfless, as she spent year after year disrupting rituals for the betterment of the world; honorable, a woman you could depend on to get the job done. Kind… she couldn’t even imagine where that would come from. And yet those were all words that Michael Shelley had once used when speaking about her.

He had always called her Ms. Robinson, a last reminder amongst those who referred to her only by title or insult. Her assistant had never looked at her as anything but a competent yet sweet old woman, ignoring any logical presumptions that should have come with her list of missing assistants and longer list of enemies. Any concern that should have risen out of the first ritual she had destroyed with him never came up, and he still looked at her with such awe that he must have thought she had hung the moon herself; he had had a steadfast belief in her and her ability to do good, regardless of what the world threw at her. Despite the insults hurled and the curses spat in her direction, Gertrude was always considered worthy of Michael Shelley’s praise. It had been a reminder to her that everything she was doing had been worth it.

Now that reminder sat dead at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean, and Gertrude was alone.

Sarah had died before she got back, Elias had explained upon her arrival, not looking particularly disturbed that they had lost two assistants in as many days. Emma was burning up in her own house as Gertrude sat and sipped her whiskey— in the span of a week, she had not one assistant left. Perhaps it was for the best.

We always seem to have one more sacrifice for you, Archivist.

Michael’s last words to her. Despite any distraction she had turned to these last few days— be it work, drink, or Agnes— she had been unable to get them out of her head. What had he meant by that? Michael had never been the... most observant, always seeming to have a perfectly natural excuse for something that could only be described as supernatural, and for that she now knew she could blame the Web. Was it the proximity to the Spiral, pulling back the blindfold in his last moments? Taking the building fear that came out of years of deception and letting it wash over Michael, allowing it to feed the Great Twisting before his death? She had spoken with Elias only once about her assistant— the two had been close, when Elias had still worked in Storage, and he had made an offhanded comment about the Spiral having taken one of Michael’s friends from him when he was still a teenager. Gertrude figured that perhaps it had just been waiting for the right time to get Michael, too.

She knocked back the last of her glass, setting it down on the desk beside her files and picking up the next statement. Jedidiah Crane, and his pursuit of religion to hold back the Woman Who Lived in His House. Beside her chair was a box filled with similar statements, dealing with creatures that did not line up quite with reality and the physical world. She was not foolish enough to not expect retaliation from any of the Spiral’s followers, and figured statements from survivors was as good a place as any to start.

The lights flickered, and Gertrude glanced not at her lamp but at her door, reaching for the top drawer of her desk where a pistol sat loaded. Her eyes narrowed as she took note of her door, white wood, and the door right beside it, colored yellow and vibrant despite the darkness that should dull it.

Her finger rested on the trigger. Nothing else obvious happened. “You may as well come out.”

The doorknob turned and the hinges creaked, an exaggerated sound more likely to be heard in a B-list horror movie than in real life; it opened just a fraction, enough for too-long fingers to crawl out and latch themself onto the frame. The faintest signs of curling blond hair— not curly, but strands that moved in a barbershop illusion— slipped out from behind the door, too long to be hidden properly. Laughter sounded, and the creature provided its own companionship by echoing itself in different octaves.

“It’s been too long.”

She cocked the gun.

“I hope to bring a bit of discomfort in telling you that won’t work, Archivist.”

We always seem to have one more sacrifice for you, Archivist.

“You are not Michael Shelley, are you?” She questioned— demanded— to which the creature let out another series of varying laughs, and began to move.

“Not exactly.” Its legs were exaggeratedly long, bending at the knee to fit through the door yet fitting its body perfectly fine in the room that was the same height. But still, she could pick out parts of Michael in the creature’s appearance— his hair, now curlier than before; his height, distorted and elongated; parts of his clothes took the form of what Michael had been wearing last, a large orange coat now vibrant and still being worn regardless of the spring heat outside, thick boots that seemed to shift in height every time she looked too closely.

“You are not the creature from the ritual, either.”

“I am not.”

A bang. Another, and a third. The creature didn’t flinch at the sound of the gun going off.

“Never hurts to be sure.” Gertrude commented, watching as it dug its fingers into its chest and pulled out one of the bullets. “I don’t believe my Michael could withstand a bullet, much less three.”

“Your Michael? Oddly fond, considering you murdered him.” One more sacrifice for you, Archivist. It studied the bullet, spinning it between its fingers, “Can I keep this?”

“You can take it with you as you leave.”

It pocketed the bullet near its chest, but a breast pocket was nowhere to be seen. “I just got here. You really have nothing else to say to me, Archivist?”

“Do you expect an apology?”

“Even a brief look of guilt would have been nice.” It cocked its head to the side and smiled, “I know better, of course, but I’m always one for pleasant surprises.”

She thought back on the statements she had been able to read that night, on Jedidiah Crane and Paul McKenzie and Olivia Halloway— and the Distortion’s smile grew in front of her, as if able to tell what she was thinking. “And what, exactly, is funny now?”

“How you think you will be able to keep me out this time.” 

She let out a huff of laughter, unable to help herself, “In comparison to everything else I’ve faced, you hardly seem like the most difficult thing to manage.”

“Oh, it will take you about a week to find something in those statements.” It waved off the unspoken threat she brought up as if it knew the time as a fact, and from behind it its door disappeared. The yellow wood reappeared beneath the box of statements, hinges swinging to open the door up immediately after coming into existence. She didn’t bother reaching for any of the pages that flew up briefly in their rapid descent, keeping her eyes on the creature as it watched the collection fall. “Oops.”

“What will I tell Elias?” She asked dryly, “You know how much he hates me taking statements out of the Archives. Always concerned that I'll destroy them."

“Considering how Elias is dead, I don’t think he minds too much anymore.” Her eyes narrowed and she studied the creature, as if she would be able to make sense of the distortion and fractals to find out whether it was telling the truth or not. Nothing suggested it… wasn’t telling the truth, something supplied in her mind. She would have to check after the creature decided to leave.

“Are we done now?” Gertrude asked, setting the gun down as if to tell the creature it was free to leave. It pouted, the sides of its mouth twisting in on itself and reminding her a bit of a snail’s shell, coiled… spiraling. Its form changed, curls taming and hands appearing humanlike, but Gertrude knew better. Her expression remained stony on her face.

We always seem to have one more sacrifice for you, Archivist.

“Remarkable. Absolutely no remorse for getting Michael Shelley killed.” It studied her, tilting its head to the side in curiosity and confusion. But the creature inhaled and clapped its hands together, standing from the invisible chair it had been seated on. “Well, I know when I’m not wanted! I’ll be seeing you on Monday, then.”

“Excuse me?” The suddenness of the announcement surprised her enough that an eyebrow rose, unable to be schooled immediately. “You think you’re still an employee.”

“I have been told that my face matches that on Michael Shelley’s identification card.” Its image glitched, becoming a pale man with black hair and too many bones in his hands, becoming a black woman with dark curls and a blazer that did not decide on a color, before returning back to its facsimile of Michael Shelley. “A nice young man once pointed out that I cannot be fired, just as I could not quit. Told me I should have taken advantage of it. Hallways don’t decorate themselves for free, you know.”

“Elias will hardly agree to this.”

“He hardly has a choice in the matter.” Because the creature thought him dead, or because the contract was worded so that becoming this monster did not count as death? It had started to move toward its door, the yellow wood having taken residence on her ceiling and the monster finding no difficulty stretching its arm out to open the doorknob. Through the door Gertrude could make out light green walls and hardwood, a few nice planters and mirrors that… seemed to have people stuck in them, frantic and afraid. She turned her eyes back to the creature, studying it, almost warning it,

“I will not intervene if he tries to kill you.”

“Well, he can certainly try.” Michael laughed, stepping up to the ceiling and standing beside its door; its hair did not fall down above its head despite how it stood upside down. “Considering how you’re staring at me, I think he might have to get in line.”

The door closed and Gertrude was left alone, her lamp still flickering, the mirror above her fireplace cracked into complex fractals. She let out a sigh, allowing her shoulders to sag as she turned toward her desk once more. It did not take more than a minute before the distinct weight of being Watched settled on her back, making her straighten up and look around. She thought she had removed all the— two jiggly eyes remained where the door had last been on her ceiling, and she had no doubt that they were being taken advantage of thoroughly. Now that she thought about it, the feeling had been gone the entire time the Spiral’s creature had been in her house, despite the fact that Elias would have certainly watched through her own eyes if he found the whole thing interesting or important. She looked up and addressed the eyes that wiggled without any outside movement, tone firm.

“We need to have a talk.”