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“Jon? Jon!”
Smoke filled everything: his lungs, his mouth, his eyes, his nose. Every pore of his body seemed infected by the acrid grey and his ears rang with screams. A dull throb reverberated through his body and the distinct feeling of weakness spread throughout his bones. He looked up and saw…
What did he see?
The man didn’t know what he saw. He remembered faces, or did he? He looked at the grimey surface below him, and he didn’t know what it was. Looked at the debris around him, the desecrated concrete blowing up grey and brown and porcelain corpses, and bile began to crawl up his throat.
He didn’t know what any of it was, but it made him feel terrified.
“Jon, can you hear me?” the man - the one who must have been calling him Jon - had furrowed brows over round glass covering his… were eyes the word?
“Am I…” he jumped at the voice, before realizing it was his own. He continued: “Am I Jon?” The poor thing dropped to his knees, water spilling out of his eyes as the creature in front of him nodded his head furiously.
“Yes, yes you’re Jon. Do you know who I am?” Jon shook his head, wary. He didn’t know who anyone was, save for Tim. He knew what Tim looked like, with his red triangles on his cheeks and plastic face. That he knew.
“My name is Martin Blackwood. I’m your archival assistant, okay?” The man held out his hand, and some strange instinct within Jon compelled him to reach out and take it with his own, shaking it around a few. He did so, and the man named Martin Blackwood smiled. It shone like the sun, and every freckle on his face seemed to spill pure comfort and sunshine.
“Do you remember anything about me?”
“Remember, no.”
“Do you…” Martin paused, before pushing ahead with his question, “Do you know anything?” The way he asked the question, it seemed as if there was more to the question. But he didn’t know what the real question might be, so he answered as honestly as he could.
“Not… exactly.” He settled on the answer, but the other man just seemed more confused. Finally, Jon decided that he would push forward, that he would try to expand upon what little knowledge he still had.
“You’re strong,” Jon decided with a firm nod. Those brows furrowed again and Jon considered that he had given the wrong answer, although Martin’s voice pushed through his thoughts.
“Strong? How do you mean?” He considered the question.
“I don’t know anything,” he started, and he saw more liquid falling from Martin’s eyes. He believed it was called crying. “I don’t… I’m not sure why, but I don’t know much of anything besides speaking, and breathing. But I do know my feelings. I know that everything,” he gestured around at the destruction, “is making me feel scared. And helpless, I believe. I don’t know who you are, Martin, but I know the feeling I get when I hear Martin Blackwood.” He glanced up, afraid this man, who seemed to know where he was and who he was, wouldn’t be able to understand. But he saw a kind upturn of the lips and a gentle nod. So he continued.
“Martin Blackwood makes me feel protected, and safe. And if I remember… forgive me, I’m knowing a bit more now, but I think that things that make you feel protected and safe are strong. Ergo… you must be strong.”
More water dripped from Martin’s eyes and the figure suddenly lunged forward, but for some reason, Jon felt no fear. He had a vague… what was the term? ... memory of things lunging at him, screams ripping from his throat as he desperately struggled away from the figure before him, but now felt… so different. When Martin’s arms wrapped around him, for some reason it didn’t even occur to him that the larger man would harm him. He simply felt that the Martin person was safe.
“...Alright,” Martin nodded, his head buried in Jon’s shoulder. Instinct guided the smaller man once again as he hesitantly mirrored Martin’s actions, wrapping his arms around the man's torso. In return, his assistant hugged him tighter, before drawing away and clapping him on the shoulders with broad hands.
“Alright!” he repeated, “I can tell you’re not feeling well, and I need to go before the police realize I’ve… well, I’m not exactly supposed to be here. It’s okay, though, you’ll forgive me once you get your head back.” He moved to stand up, but a hand shot out and gripped his arm.
“Can I go, too?” Jon asked, eyes suddenly urgent. Martin chewed his lip, glancing around the area.
“I don’t think so, Jon, you have a lot of injuries and-”
“I’m… what?” he looked down and suddenly realized: the blood spilling from his head and body, the throbbing pain and slight fuzziness around the corners of his eyes, the sudden realization that no, this is not my normal state hit him all in the face.
“I feel weak,” he blurted. His assistant raised a brow in surprise, but even so recovered quickly turned back fully to face him.
“Oh! Well, um, that makes sense, I suppose,” he stuttered. Possessed by this new knowledge, Jon continued, overjoyed by this new feeling of certainty.
“So, that means I’m weak. And you’re strong. Therefore… therefore, we need to be together.” For some reason, Martin’s face changed color then, like a chameleon. A startling crimson washed over his face and he fiddled furiously with his fingers. He seemed transfixed like that for perhaps four or five seconds, before he let a slow breath out, clasping his hands together.
“No,” he spoke simply. “You’re hurt, Jon, and I’m not strong. Can you stand?”
“But-”
“Can you stand?” the archivist grudgingly stashed the issue for later, before considering the question. Standing… yes, he knew what that was. Perhaps.
“I… I’m sorry, I don’t know how.” Martin huffed.
“Of course not. Not sure if you could even if you did.”
“But you can,” Jon insisted, stubborn even in his Stranger-affected state, “so you’re strong.” To his surprise, Martin laughed, a lovely sound that cut through the ringing in Jon’s ears and instantly silenced the desolation around him.
“No, Jon,” the laughs were interspersed with a disbelieving tone, “No, you don’t need to be strong to stand .”
“Well what about your laugh, then?” the man argued, now entirely focused on the subject at hand. His thoughts, knowledge and fear were all muddled, and it seemed so much easier to focus on the man in front of him, the Martin Blackwood before him. And perhaps the only thing that transcended his limited knowledge was his stubbornness.
“My laugh?”
“Your laugh is strong, isn’t it? It’s like… it’s like…” a thought popped into his head, a bit of knowledge , and he immediately used the new object at his disposal.
“It’s like the Stranger, yes. Isn’t that what I’m affected by?” He saw Martin jump, hands flying to his face as the color drained his face and pupils contracted in shock.
“Stranger? Me? Wait, no I- how ?” he took a step back, and Jon nodded thoughtfully.
“Or perhaps… perhaps one of the others. It’s your laugh, Martin, that’s your power.”
“What power, Jon? You’re scaring me!”
“When I heard it, I felt like I couldn’t see the surroundings. It all fell away and your laugh made me feel… happy. Even though I am, at the moment, absolutely terrified. You can manipulate reality and emotions.”
For a long moment, Martin looked terrified. But then, his hands fell away, shaking as they hung loosely by his sides and he heaved desperate breaths. Small, nearly disturbed laughs made their ways through the breaths, and water - tears - welled in his eyes. He staggered, still laughing and crying all at the same time, before stumbling onto his knees until he kneeled face to face with Jon. His pants immediately became ruined in the surrounding dust, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You…” he blubbered, “you like my laugh? Are you trying to say you like my laugh?” Jon tilted his head slightly, humming in thought. After a moment, he nodded decisively.
“Yes, I think that’s a good word for it: like .” Another laugh bubbled up from Martin, not quite the lovely little laugh Jon heard at first, that featherlight chuckle that lifted the burden of his surroundings. Still, he was once again hearing his laugh, and the Archivist suddenly had the strongest urge to thank someone for it.
“I…” Martin beamed, stuttering in surprise for a moment before his eyes lit up and he questioned, “Didn’t you say I was strong?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Martin, I… I think I remember telling you, but if I didn’t-”
“You did tell me,” Martin cut in excitedly, “I just want to hear it again. I think I’m starting to make sense of it.” A great relief washed through Jon; Martin is also having trouble with his senses, I’m not alone .
“Well,” he started, eager to clarify as best he could, “I don’t know many facts right now, but I know my own feelings. And I know I feel safe when I am with you. That means you are strong.” Martin smiled.
“What else?”
“I am weak, because I cannot stand and I don’t know how to. So it would be safest for you to be around me. It would make me feel stronger.”
“Because… because I can walk?”
“No, I don’t believe so. I just- I can’t explain it, Martin. I feel like I can walk when I’m with you, that’s all I know.”
Just then, a scream rang out. A piercing, agonizing sound that erupted somewhere from a porcelain face and writhed in the air, sending birds flying from the trees. Then, retreated, swallowing up all other noise with it until an eerie silence filled the air. Around them, plastic clowns rolled their eyes back in their sockets and died, going limp and inanimate. Broken from a spell.
“Orsinov…” Martin murmured bitterly.
Jon’s mind felt itself released from the Stranger’s grip, no longer bound to the mortal plane, and his entire being imploded. Knowledge, understanding all flowed into his brain, yanking a hoarse shout from him as he clutched his head.
He was Jonathan Sims
Archivist of the Magnus Institute
Nikola Orsinov
Tim… Bassira… Daisy… Elias… Martin…
Pain. Blood loss.
“Good riddance,” he spat. The world went back and he hit the floor with a dull thump .
“Jon? Jon!”