Chapter Text
“Sorry Elias, I can’t hear you. There’s a door in the way.”
“I think you can, Martin.”
The next statement burns. He drops it into the pile of flames, feeding it as it crackles. and slowly, he begins to feel it. the sweltering heat.
“I think there’s something I should tell you… if you’re still set on causing a disquiet.”
“A disquiet? Is that what you think i’m doing?”
“No. I know it’s what you’re doing.”
He can hear the smirk in Elias’s voice. He wants to walk over there and punch him through the glass.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he crumples statements and throws them, carefully, into the burning mass of ash.
“We all know you’re starved of attention, Martin, but this is hardly the solution.”
He breathes in. He breathes out. He trembles.
“Attention? You think I’m doing this for - goddamned - attention?”
“Actually, yeah. Do you think that someone will pat you on the shoulder and say “Good job Martin, we’re proud of you.” Do you miss your mother that much? Don’t worry, Martin, You won’t have to deal with anyone much anymore. Your mother's-”
“Stop it!”
“Everyone’s going to leave you. You know that, right?”
“I said stop.”
Martin’s voice goes quiet. shaky.
“Finally gotten some sense?”
He does not speak. Instead, he walks to the boxes of statements. He fills the contents of his backpack with them. Jon wouldn’t want them burned, would he?
“I swear, Martin, I’m going to get the key right now-”
Frantic, hurried footsteps become quieter and quieter.
The fire is catching, now. the walls and ground are filled with the scalding red, weaving up to the ceiling.
The books are alight, he thinks. The books are alight and they shouldn’t burn.
But he can’t. he can’t breathe anymore.
_
Nikola chuckles.
“It’s me, Jon, it’s Martin.”
“Martin?”
“Yes, I’m Martin. Your friend. What’s that in your hand, Jon?”
“A detonator, I think… be careful, Martin, there are people here you can’t trust.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be…. careful,” Nikola smiles, her head dropping to one side. Blood is everywhere, rivulets streaming and leaking into the old wood of the museum.
“This isn’t a detonator, Jon, you’ve-”
It starts slowly. Contained. The fire spreading through Jon's hands, flames winding up the walls.
They do not want to contain it. And even if they did, they couldn’t anyway.
They taste sleep - is it sleep? Or is it something else? The sharp tang of lighter fluid?
The walls blacken and crumble. The fire burns.
The archivist burns.