Archive of Our Own

The intervention with Jon could have probably gone worse, but it also could have gone a whole lot better. Basira is left rubbing circles into her forehead, trying to regain her composure. 

Sometimes Jon just makes her so angry. She knows that it’s not just her that he pisses off, either. Melanie was going to kill him herself before Basira and Jon cut the Slaughter out of her.

Basira pauses. Melanie’s hatred of Jon might not be the best way to gauge whether or not her own feelings are rational, actually. Basira just lets out a frustrated little groan as she leans down on her cupped hands, stretching out a bit on the table in the archives common room.

Jon is huddled in his office, already droning on through another statement. Better another paper statement than him ripping it out of an unwilling person’s throat, she supposes.

Daisy leans against the wall by the exit, keeping a close eye on the door to Jon’s office, the door that leads to the rest of the Institute, and the makeshift trap door they created for a more communal entrance to the tunnels. She adjusts the way that she’s holding her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t seem keen to start speaking.

Melanie takes the seat beside Basira at the table, and asks, “Do you think he’ll actually try to stop?”

Basira takes a deep breath, then uses her hands to push herself to a sitting position. She looks over at Melanie, and wishes that she could ease her friend’s uncertainty. She can’t though.

“I don’t know,” Basira admits. Most of the time she likes Jon, but she almost never trusts him. Lately, she’s just been furious that the person he’s become is more compatible with the Daisy they have now than this Daisy is with Basira herself.  

Jon is sacrificing so much less than Daisy is, yet somehow, he’s getting her support and friendship, despite hunting for victims as Basira’s partner starves herself into a husk of a woman. Daisy won’t give an inch over to the Hunt, but Jon is gorging himself on every passing craving the Beholding sends his way.

“What about you, Daisy? Do you think he’ll try to stop?” Melanie asks. 

“Yes, I do,” Daisy says firmly. Basira feels something well up inside her at that: red hot and tinted in green: possessive of Daisy's trust that should be reserved for her. 

“Look,” Basira says, “I know that you feel… indebted to him, but that doesn’t mean-” 

“I’m not indebted to him,” Daisy says, rolling her eyes as she cuts Basira off. “I think that Jon’s… doing his best. He’s trying, you know?” 

Melanie lets out a bitter little chuckle. “If this is what Jon’s best looks like, I’d hate to see him at his worst.” 

“Doubt his worst is any worse than the rest of ours,” Daisy says. Basira lets out another frustrated sigh, trying to get her grips on the situation. Jon has sealed himself off in his office, probably creepy voicing his way through yet another statement, but that doesn’t mean that they’re unobserved in here.

Martin might have given them the tip about Jon’s behavior, but that doesn’t mean that he’ll support whatever course of action they choose to take. And he could be listening in wherever at this point with his whole fading into mist shtick. And that’s not even thinking of Elias and his all-seeing eyes. 

His voice comes, unbidden, into her mind: Detective. She shutters. If Elias hears even an inkling of this idea, he might break out of prison just to plant terrible visions directly into her head. 

“Let’s take this somewhere a bit more… private,” Basira says, jerking her head towards the tunnels. Daisy nods stiffly inn return, and Melanie doesn’t even acknowledge the words. She just follows Basira down into the familiar, winding bits underneath the Institute. 

“Can you both wait here a moment?” she says, “I have something I need to pick up.”

Daisy sends her a skeptical look. “Can you tell me why?”

“Just trust me,” she implores.

“Alright,” Daisy says, still sounding skeptical, “but how long do you think you’ll be gone.”

“Half an hour, maybe?” Basira says.

Daisy grins. “Enough time for Melanie and I to get in an Archers or two.”

Melanie grimaces. "I think I'd rather go deaf."

“Come off it,” Daisy says, “it’s not that bad.” Basira actually thinks that it is that bad, and that’s precisely why Daisy subjects other people to it: so that they can all suffer together. Basira finds that endearing.

“Please,” Melanie says, shaking her head, “anything but that. Don’t you have some true crime or something?” 

“Would you prefer What the Ghost?” Daisy asks, her grin toothy. 

“Yes, actually,” Melanie replies. Her blush is as red as her dyed hair. Daisy clicks a few buttons on her phone, and the theme music for What the Ghost starts. Then, Georgie Barker’s voice starts to fill the tunnel. Basira takes a step towards the exit, and hopes that she hasn’t already called too much attention to herself. 

She steels herself to make another journey through Artefact Storage to pick up the collar. Somehow, she makes it in and back without losing a limb or gaining a curse, and she even has the item tucked safely into her jacket pocket.

By the time Basira gets back, she hears the closing theme music of What the Ghost. 

“Where were you, anyway?” Melanie asks cautiously. 

“Artefact Storage,” Basira says evenly. Both Melanie and Daisy send her a concerned look. 

“Look,” Basira says, pulling the leather necklace out of her satchel. It’s a simple thing, really. It's made of dark brown leather with a hint of fringe down the sides with a little fake-silver clamp around the back. The only aspect that draws any interest is the embroidered closed eyes encircling the band.

“What is that?” Daisy demands, reaching into Basira’s hands and nearly ripping the bit of fabric out of them.

She holds it up to her face, inspecting every aspect. “This doesn’t look good,” Daisy says, tracing a finger across one of the closed eyes.

“I think that it is, actually,” Basira says, “It stifles a person’s connection to the Beholding.”

Melanie’s face lights up. “Really?” 

“Yes,” Basira confirms. Daisy’s look has hardened from her standard “resting bitch face” into a real glare. 

“Could it free us?” Melanie asks. Basira bites her lip for a moment as she considers the implications of telling her friend that freeing her isn’t why Basira’s gone through the trials of slinking carefully through a storage facility full of weapons of mass destruction for this item. 

“You don’t want to use it on us,” Daisy says, crossing her arms over her chest, “do you, Basira?” 

Melanie’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What do you mean? Don’t you want to be free of this place?” Basira lets out a frustrated sigh. 

“Again, it’s not about us,” Daisy says.

“I think you’ve been spending too much time with Jon,” Melanie says, “you’re sounding as cryptic as he does.” Daisy doesn’t lighten her glare.

Melanie lets out a frustrated breath as she raises a hand to her head, gently rubbing it. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on? Because I have no fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

Basira sends Daisy a frustrated look. “If you know exactly what I want, why don’t you tell us?”

“You want to use that thing on Jon. And I doubt you’re asking permission.”

“Jon?” Melanie asks.

Basira sighs. “Alright, yes." She holds up her hands in surrender. "You got me.”

“You’d use some volatile magic item on our friend," Daisy accuses. Basira feels herself frown in response to the wording, and Melanie pulls a face. It just feels a little trite for their relationship with the man. 

“Fine,” Daisy says, holding her own hands up in surrender, “on my friend.” Basira tries not to let that sting too much. She’s never heard her partner call anyone a friend before. It’s hard to imagine that the man who pried truths directly out of Daisy’s mouth- the man that she had stood over while she forced him to dig his own grave, is now the first person to hold that distinction. 

Friend means less than partner, but it still means something. It’s more ground in the battle for Daisy’s heart than Basira wants to cede to Jon of all people. 

Basira wants to open her mouth and let all those complicated, ugly emotions out- but she doesn’t want to release all that vitriol on two of the only people on earth whose opinions she cares about. 

Daisy looks frustrated by her in a way that Basira hasn’t seen in months. Melanie, at least, just looks like she’s toying with the idea in her head. It’s a little funny to see that Melanie is the level-headed one in a situation now that the Slaughter’s been cut out of her. 

“Basira,” Melanie says cautiously, “can you tell us why you want it to be Jon?” 

“What do you mean?” Basira asks. 

“It’s just- I doubt you’ll talk him into that,” Melanie says, “And you know I’d be first in line if you offered.” 

Basira pauses for a moment, deliberating over how she wants to word this. “It’s because he wouldn’t get in line for it. Daisy knows the Hunt is bad for her; that’s why she’s trying to cut it out.” Daisy’s look softens for a moment.

Basira keeps her focus on Melanie. “You know that you don’t want the Eye to influence you, which is why you’d do it in a heartbeat. But Jon… wouldn’t. This is bad for him, but I don’t think he’s going to stop.” As much as Jon pisses her off sometimes, Basira doesn’t want him to become the worst version of himself, and it’s not just for herself or even for everyone else. 

There’s a part of her that cares about Jon for his own sake- the strange man who thought he was somehow aiding her with a murder investigation by reading about monsters at a Soviet Circus- the scared, impulsive man who was able to talk her and Daisy into confronting a monster bigger than the three of them combined with no planning or prep. Basira doesn’t want to see him become something more like Elias than the Jon that she first met.

Daisy doesn’t look happy about the prospect, but Basira can see her nodding subtly. 

Melanie takes a deep breath. Her voice is hesitant and shaky as she asks, “So you think this is a way to… cut the Slaughter out of him?” Basira tries not to flinch. She and Melanie haven’t talked about Basira’s part in removing the ghost bullet from her friend's body. It was always an elephant that they agreed, collectively, they’d rather not talk about. They’d just let the elephant’s shit fester in the corner and pretend that it wasn’t taking up a big space in their lives. 

Apparently, though, today is the day to acknowledge the damn thing and hopefully start cleaning out its pen. 

“Yes,” Basira agrees, “I think it’s like that.” Basira really hopes that isn’t the wrong thing to say. 

Melanie’s eyes drift quickly to her bullet removal scar, and then they dart back to meet Basira’s. Melanie moves her hand to gently massage the spot, maintain eye contact.

“I’ve talked through this with my therapist quite a bit,” Melanie says, “I’ve, you know, I’ve felt… adrift, after you and Jon cut the Slaughter out of me. But not in a bad way. I think I’ve finally started to find myself again.” She moves her hand off the scar tissue and starts twiddling her thumbs instead. 

“If this can do that same thing for Jon, then.” She lets out an uncomfortable little laugh. “Well. I guess I don’t mind returning the favor. If it’s eating away at him, he deserves to get it out.” Basira manages a hesitant look in Daisy’s direction. 

“What do you think?” she asks cautiously. Daisy meets her eyes, and Basira is hit, once again, by what a startling shade of green they are. 

“I won’t stop you, but I won’t help you either,” Daisy says firmly. It’s not as bad as it could be, but it still stings that this is all the blessing she’s going to get on this from her own partner. 

“Fine,” Basira spits, “If you don’t want to help me, you don’t have to. But remember, this is to help him.” Help him, stop him: the lines get all blurry when they live in a world full of monsters. 

“I think it could seriously hurt him, Basira,” Daisy says. 

“Uh,” Melanie says, looking awkwardly between the two, “should I- should I leave?” Both Basira and Daisy ignore her; the conversation is no longer about her in the slightest. 

“He is seriously hurting other people,” Basira says, gesturing wildly, “innocent people.” People who don’t know anything about the eldritch powers that apparently control every aspect of their lives, that feed off innocent people and laugh about it behind their backs. 

“Not any worse than we used to,” Daisy says. 

Basira flinches. She opens her mouth quickly to defend herself. “We hurt monsters.”

“Not only monsters. And you know that.” Basira feels anger flash through her like a wildfire. She wants to stab back with something that will hurt Daisy the same way that she’s hurt Basira, but Basira doesn’t think that she has any ammo left to use. Daisy’s a much different person than she used to be, and Basira’s not entirely sure how she fits into that new life. She’s not even sure what words would hurt this version.

The change in her partner feels like there’s not any room for her there. Maybe that’s the biggest hurt of all of this: that Daisy’s made herself different and Basira’s stayed the same and been left behind. That Basira liked the old Daisy better, even if she knows that she was worse. 

Daisy lets out a shaky breath, so unlike the feral confidence she used to show back when things made sense. 

“I won’t fight with you over this,” Daisy says, “but I think you’re wrong about it.” Basira feels tears starting in her eyes, pricking gently at her eyelashes. 

Basira never used to cry. She used to be so sure of herself, but everything is so complicated. She wishes that she could go back to the world where she and Daisy hunted monsters and weren’t afraid of becoming them. 

Basira sleeps it off. When she wakes up, she feels surer of herself again. Maybe it’s just being free of Daisy’s gaze and judgement, but she feels more like her plan is something that can work again. 

This is right. It has to be. 

She finds Melanie across the room from her, curled up in her own bed, under the covers and watching an old episode of Ghost Hunt UK on her phone. 

“Vain, much?” Basira teases. 

“Oh, piss off,” Melanie mutters, quickly blackening her screen and pulling out her earbuds. She shoves them in her makeshift table beside her makeshift bed. 

“Are you ready?” Basira asks skeptically, sizing up Melanie’s outfit. She’s still wearing her ragged What the Ghost t-shirt, her fuzzy Wonder Woman pajama pants, and her rainbow “Queer as in Fuck You” socks. 

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Melanie says. Basira finds herself laughing as she thinks about the contrast between the two of them: Melanie’s dyed red hair frizzy and unkempt all across her head, no bra, in her pajamas and her bright, aggressive socks- Basira in the sort of well-kept, professional wear that she used to wear as a police officer, the only “fuck you” in her attire the simple green hijab covering her own hair: less for religious reasons than to remind the people around her that she’s proud of her culture, no matter how little she keeps to it compared to how her late parents did.

“Alright then,” Basira says, letting a smile slip onto her face. She’s excited again. It feels like the anticipation of going on a big chase with Daisy again. “Let’s do this.” 

Melanie flashes her a smile in return with just a hint of teeth in it. 

“It’s more fun to be on this side of the ambush,” Melanie confides. On the side of the hunter is left implied, if Melanie even realizes the implication is there. Basira tries not to let those words settle too heavy on her shoulders. 

The door to Jon’s office is closed but unlocked. Basira only needs to turn the knob and open the door to find the man curled up in his chair. 

Statements cover his desk in what appears to be no sensible order. It almost looks like an episode of Hoarders. Basira thinks back to how clean the room was the first time that she saw it. The Jon of then would have had so many reasons to hate the Jon of now.

His eyes peak up from the pile of papers. He looks confused but cautiously pleased to see her.

“Uh, hello Basira,” he says, “is this about, uh, the Dark ritual?” His look sours as he remembers the other possibility. “Or is this still about the intervention?” 

“The first one,” Basira assures, gently touching the leather of the collar in her jacket pocket. She needs to be ready to put it on in a moment. 

“Melanie! Come on in!” Basira calls out. Melanie comes through the door, sending Jon a look that’s almost warm, coming from her at least.

“Can I… help you look?” Jon asks, looking cautiously between the two of them. 

“I just need to look through a few statements,” Basira says. Melanie catches onto the distraction within a moment. She reaches into the stack of statements and grabs one that looks like it’s been stained. 

“Ew,” Melanie says, “did you spill coffee all over this?”  

“I didn’t,” Jon says, “the statement giver did. They were… jumpy… after their encounter with the corruption.” He sighs, holding out his hand expectantly. When Melanie doesn’t move to hand it over, Jon’s look turns to a glare.

“Now can I please have that back?” Jon asks, territorial as ever.

“I don’t know, can you?” Melanie asks.

Jon rolls his eyes. “You’re not a Year Six teacher, so don’t pull the “may I” trick on me. You know what I meant.” Instead of handing the statement back, Melanie rips it.

Well. That’s one way to distract him. 

“Melanie!” Jon shouts. He looks ready to fly forward and try to salvage the remnants of the statement, but Basira is quicker.

Basira slips behind him, quickly sliding the collar around his neck. She hasn’t gotten the clamp down yet, but she’s encircled his whole throat now. 

Jon lets out a startle laugh. “Is that-” She can’t see his eyes, but Basira knows they’ve gone wide in recognition.

The static crackles in his voice as he demands, “What is this?” Basira can’t clamp down her voice, but she can start clamping down the collar. 

“An artefact that blocks out the Beholding,” Basira says. She feels her voice gear up for an additional explanation, the compulsion still humming through her veins, but then she hears the buckle of the choker snap shut. The hum of compulsion within her veins dies down. There’s nothing forcing her to speak, so she doesn’t. Instead, she works her way around Jon’s rolling chair and gets a view of the way the closed eyes dotting the leather enclosing his throat. 

“Fuck,” Melanie says, looking over to Basira in surprise, “I think it worked.”

“Basira,” Jon whispers, “I- I can’t see.” He holds his hand in front of his face, and his face contorts in fear. He looks as scared as he did when she found him that night in the clearing with Daisy. His eyes, which were a dark brown when she met him but have shifted to nearly iridescent green as he’s become more monster than man, shift in color again- until the black of his pupil has taken over the entire iris.

Melanie looks over at Basira in concern. “Is this supposed to happen?” 

“I can’t say that it doesn’t make sense,” Basira says, “cutting off the Eye cutting off eyesight? That tracks, you know?” She tries to sound confident, despite the nerves creeping up onto her.

“You meant to blind me?” Jon demands. His voice has that cadence he gets when he’s compelling someone, but there’s no power or static behind it- just an angry demand from a frustrated but powerless person. Without his compulsion, his words have about as much effect as the words from people she and Daisy interrogated. 

“No,” Melanie says quickly, then her eyes dart back to Basira, “we didn’t, right?” 

“We didn’t,” Basira confirms. When she decided to do this, she wasn’t sure what, exactly, this artefact was going to do to achieve its ends. She did not expect it to turn his eyes, including sclera, pitch black and useless for sight. The idea of it makes her feel a little sick.

It doesn’t make her feel sick enough to want to remove it, though.

“So take it off,” Jon demands. Melanie’s eyes jerk from Jon over to Basira. Well? She asks Basira with a concerned and confused look. 

Basira shakes her head “no”. She doesn’t need Jon to know her intentions, but she needs Melanie to know that she does not, in any way, intend to take the collar off him. 

“Fuck?” Melanie asks, “Should we really do that to him?” Basira’s eyes jolt back over to Jon, and she wonders if he’s trying to look at them. With the state of his eyes, she doesn’t think that they’d be able to tell either way.

“No!” Jon hisses, starting to rip at the back of his neck himself, “just help me get it off!”

“We’re not going to do that,” Basira says firmly, “look. If it’s just your eyesight, isn’t that a price you’re willing to pay? If you can be free of all this?” While she might feel guilty about it, Basira’s certainly willing to pay this price to know Jon isn’t hunting down innocents and forcing them to spill their guts to him. Jon shakes his head back almost violently.

“Why not?” Basira demands. If Daisy’s willing to starve herself to keep the Hunt at bay, shouldn’t he be willing to lose something as well?

“It’s not just my eyesight.”

“What do you mean?” Melanie asks. 

“The Beholding isn’t just eyesight,” Jon says, “it’s- it’s all of perception.” 

“What does that mean?” Basira asks. She thinks that he’s just at the bargaining stage of grief, but. She’s never exactly not used that to her advantage before in an interrogation. 

“It’s the fear of being noticed and judged. I could still feed the Eye if I could still hear statements. But to cut me off entirely… I think it has to take all my senses.” Basira takes in a hesitant breath.

She hears Melanie whisper, “fuck.” As if to confirm Jon’s words, Basira spots a drop of blood start trailing down his nostrils and onto his philtrum. He reaches up to wipe it off, blood trickling down his wrist.

“Can you see now? Even though I can’t?” he demands. Melanie starts laughing nervously.

“Ah, finally cracking jokes?” she deflects, “must not be that bad.” Jon looks ready to rip into her, but Basira’s heart is racing so quickly that she almost can’t think.

“How bad can this get?” Basira demands.

“How “bad” can it get? Is this not enough for you?” Jon nearly snarls. Basira glares at him, but considering that his eyesight is already gone, she doesn’t think it makes much of a difference to him.

“I just-,” Basira takes a moment to try to clamp down the frustration, the fear, the interest. She lets out a frustrated little noise as she tries to clear her head.

“What happens then, Jon? If it takes all your senses, what happens afterwards?”

“What does it matter?” Melanie demands, “we’re getting this thing off of him.” Jon opens his mouth, and the blood inside seems to indicate damage to his taste buds as well.

“I can’t even taste the blood anymore,” he says sardonically.

Melanie grabs the back of the collar, trying to undo the clamp. She works at it gently, then forcefully.

“It won’t work,” Melanie hisses.

“Ow," Jon growls, reminding Basira acutely of when she was a little girl and her mother used to brush her hair just a little too harshly. Melanie reaches into Jon’s desk and grabs a pair of scissors. She closes the scissors around the leather. It still doesn’t work.

“It won’t cut either,” she mutters, pushing down on the scissors with all of her body weight. Instead, the two halves of the scissors break apart, each dull blade falling into one of Melanie’s hands. 

“They broke, didn’t they?” Jon asks. 

Instead of answering his question, Melanie growls, “Do I have to rip this thing off with my teeth?” 

Jon reaches up to his own throat and starts trying to claw at the clamp again, and Melanie looks ready to actually rip it off with her teeth. Basira suspects that will just pull the teeth out of her head and leave the collar solidly in place. 

“Wait,” Melanie says, “maybe it has to be you, Basira?”

“What do you mean?” Basira asks. 

“Because you put it on him. Maybe you have to take it off,” she clarifies. 

“Melanie,” Jon says, voice very small and scared, “I can’t feel it anymore. I know that's in my hands, but I- I can’t feel it. In my hands or- or on my throat or-” He pauses and takes a nervous breath. 

She can see him trying to hit his foot against something, trying to slam his thigh down onto the chair, swinging his arm wildly, slamming it into the corner of his table and drawing blood. He doesn’t stop, either, swinging just about every limb in some attempt to feel something. 

Melanie reaches out and grabs his arm, holding it as steady as she can to make sure he doesn’t damage it any further. He tries to move it in her grasp, but Melanie hods it tightly in place.

“Are you holding my arm? Is that why I can’t move it?” Jon asks nervously. 

“Yes,” she mutters, “now hold it still, you bastard, you’re already bleeding.” 

“I am?”

“Yes,” Melanie says emphatically, “you’re going to get it all over me.” 

Jon starts laughing. “I guess I lost my sense of pain, at least.” 

“Jon,” Melanie warns. 

“If I live through this, maybe Georgie and I can start her second podcast: No Fear, No Pain.”

He laughs at his own terrible joke. “Don’t worry, though,” he says, sounding dazed, “I won’t live through this. That won’t be your problem.”  

“Basira, get this off of him- now,” Melanie orders. Basira finds herself frozen in place. She can't move. She's not entirely sure that she wants to.

Melanie’s eyes widen. “Basira- you have to-“ Melanie’s breathing speeds up nervously.

“If I killed-“ Melanie shakes her head, “I mean, if Jon dies… Georgie will kill me. Do you get that, Basira?” There’s fear in her eyes. Maybe even fear for Jon, who she claims to hate. There’s something a little fascinating about watching such a strange, intense reaction from a woman with such complicated feelings. Maybe that's what pulls her out of the trance.

“I don’t think that Georgie would kill you,” Basira tells her. 

“Fine,” Melanie says, “she’ll never speak to me again, which might be worse.”

Basira sighs. “Melanie.”

“Just come help me,” Melanie demands. Basira isn’t entirely sure that she wants to do that, but Melanie’s glare could melt steel right now and Basira isn’t about to piss her off. Jon holds his hands up to his throat, tracing along the line of the leather, ripping into his skin so deeply that he draws blood. Apparently, that’s what desperation and an inability to feel pain will do to a person. 

Basira comes closer, moving her hand along Jon's bleeding neck to try to find the clasp. Jon is bleeding from just about everywhere right now: nose, mouth, bits of his neck, most of his appendages, and now- Basira feels a droplet of blood drip down on the hand nestled on the clasp of the necklace, right by his ear. There’s blood coming out of his ears, now. 

Can he hear anymore? Is this… total sensory deprivation? If it isn’t yet, it’s going to be there very, very soon. Basira wonders how it feels. She feels the metal of the clasp right beneath her fingers, but.. That can wait for a moment, can't it? There's not exactly going to be another chance to find out something like this. She can just- just ask. If he doesn't answer, then that means that he can't hear her. And that it is total sensory deprivation. If he does, that means that it isn't. Either way, it answers her question, right? It's worth trying.

She clears her throat, and there’s something strange about the sound. It sounds… crackly. Like it’s coming in through an old radio that’s only half picking up the frequency. 

Basira tests the sound once again, coughing methodically. The cough crackles with static. Her mouth has a strange feeling, one that reminds her of being a small child, bits of audio tape rolling around on her tongue and gently through her teeth so that she can just see how it feels. 

She feels words bubble up in her throat, unbidden but not entirely unwanted.

"Tell me how it feels."

The static echoes around her, and she feels powerful, like she’s in an interrogation where she knows they can’t refuse.

Melanie’s eyes widen, “Basira, did you just-” 

She can see Jon clenching his teeth, trying his hardest not to open his mouth and let out the words she knows are about to be torn out of him.

"Statement of Jonathan Sims, regarding the experience of being cut off from the Eye."

She hears him make a noise, but his teeth are still clenched.

“Statement begins,” she booms. Jon’s first word comes out pained, then. After that, though, the words start pouring out. She hears Melanie saying something- voice startled and angry. Basira feels Melanie’s hands on her shoulders, shaking her wildly. But the only thing that she can focus on is the swirling fear in Jon’s voice.

The hazy pleasure starts to clear, and she can understand exactly what Jon is saying.

“I think I’m going to die,” Jon’s voice says, sounding terrified yet defeated, “are you happy now?”

And then, Jon goes limp- words stopping and eyes finally, mercifully, closing. The fog seems to clear completely, then, and Basira’s left with a complete awareness of what’s going on. She just pulled a statement from Jon’s lips, just like he did. A bit of guilt settles in her stomach when Basira realizes the difference here.

Jon never manufactured the materials for the statements that he pulled.

She grabs at the necklace once again, undoing the clasp as quickly as she can. Maybe if she can pull it off him quickly enough she can reverse the effects- claw back what’s left of his life from The End and let the Eye pour right back into him. She places the collar back into her pocket and takes a deep breath. He has to wake up now, right? He has to.

Jon's chest remains terrifyingly static, and his eyelash don’t so much as flutter.When she moves her hand to his right wrist, his left, she can’t feel a pulse.

But was there a pulse to start with? How does she check for proof of life with a man powered solely by the grace of the Eye?

But Basira already knows: by his closed eyes, his lifeless body, and by the knowledge already planted deep inside her like an unwanted tree, that Jon is already dead.

She squeezes the collar tightly in her hand.

Effects may vary, the artefact description had read. Understatement of the millennia, it seems.

“He’s dead,” Basira says hollowly.

"Are you sure?" Melanie asks.

"Does he look like he's waking up?" Basira asks, her voice cracking.

“Fuck, Basira,” Melanie says. Basira just finds herself staring forward, feeling tears in her eyes and guilt in her throat. She can't believe that things went this wrong.

“I don’t even- what do we do?” Melanie demands, panic tinting her tone, “Do we call the police? A funeral home?” Melanie raises a hand to her face and starts rubbing nervous circles into her eyebrow.

“I don’t even know what to do with a corpse. My father didn’t have a body left to bury.” Melanie looks over at her, waiting for some kind of response. Basira's throat feels sealed shut, her brain feels foggy; she doesn't think she could answer if she tried.

“A little advice from the police officer might be nice,” Melanie snaps, “shouldn’t you know how to handle this!” Basira does not want to rake through her brain, trying to figure out how to deal with Jon’s dead body. Or how to talk to Daisy.

Or try to work through what this means for any of them, or her feelings or- well.

She isn’t given that choice.

Basira hears the door slam open. Elias Bouchard stares at her, his eyes hard and cold. 

Oh fuck. She never even considered that Elias might end up in this equation. Their spooky boss was in prison a moment ago, but now he’s out.

And angry.

“Detective,” he hisses. Maybe it's just the natural anger that she feels at Elias- maybe it's the adrenaline, but Basira finally put together enough again to put together a coherent thought. And speak a coherent word. “Again. I’m not a Detective."

“You’re right. You aren’t. And you never were.” Elias looks ready to rip her throat out. Basira takes a step away from Jon's body, hedging her way towards the trap door towards the tunnels. She suspects that she might need an exit strategy. 

"Why are you here?" Basira asks.

“You know why. I was trying to save Jon from your idiocy."

There are a million things that Basira could have said, but what she settles on is, "I'm not sure how much I trust you with Jon's welfare."

"That's rich, coming from you," Elias says, glaring, "seeing as you murdered him."

"I didn't," Basira says.

"Oh yes, because murder implies intent. Is manslaughter more to your liking?" Elias smiles a bloody smile. "Suppose that would work, with Miss King's share of the blood."

"Oh fuck off," Melanie says, "it's not- we didn't-"

"You both killed him," Elias says, murder in his eyes, "Habeus Corpus isn’t necessary when the murderer is right by the corpse, fingerprints all over the weapon.” He gestures to Jon’s body still splayed out in the chair, blood still dripping into the floorboards. Elias walks towards her, pointing a menacing finger right in her face.

“I should show you every hideous thing that I can think of, Ms. Hussain,” Elias threatens, sending her a steely glare. It certainly does nothing to warm his cold, grey eyes. 

Melanie lets out an angry little puff of air. "Leave her alone."

Elias does not even turn from Basira to face her. “You may leave, Ms. King."

"I-" Melanie's face contorts in confusion, "what do you mean?" 

"You participated, but we both know who the mastermind was," he says, never breaking his eye contact with Basira, "I absolve you of your part in this."

"Absolve me?" Melanie asks, a hysterical laugh escaping from her lips, "like some bloody priest?"

Elias manages a laugh then. "Am I not the closest thing you have?"

Melanie lets out an angry noise. "I don't need your- your condescension."

"I think that you do. You let Ms. Hussain talk you into a plan that ended in a death that you didn't want. And we both know that if you wanted Jon dead, then you would have mucked it up."

"I- are you goading me by saying that I couldn't have killed Jon on purpose?" Melanie asks. Her lip is curled up in some mix of confusion and anger.

Elias grins. "Of course. You're far too incompetent for that." 

Melanie digs her nails into her palms and lets out a scream.

Basira feels something coming off Elias- something like a high pitched screeching.

“Thank you for your time. You may leave now.

“I don’t think that I should,” Melanie hisses.

“I have so many memories I could give you,” Elias says, “more of your father? How it just felt for Jon to die? Or would you like Miss Barker’s worst memories, perhaps?” Melanie sends a hesitant look to Jon’s body, and right back to Basira. She still seems angry, but it's fearful now too. She remembers that Elias isn't just their pompous asshole of a boss. He has hurt her deeply in the past, and he has the capacity to do far worse.

Melanie sends Basira a scared, but questioning look. She doesn't want to leave her friend alone if Basira can't handle it.

"I'll be okay," Basira assures her, "now go." Melanie sends her another hesitant look. Apparently, that's long enough for Elias to grow tired of the interaction.

“Now, Ms. King,” Elias demands. Melanie looks ashamed, but she nearly runs out of the room. 

Basira is glad to see her go, knowing that Melanie won't have to live through something worse than she's already gone through. Basira thinks she might run with her tail between her legs too if that man threatened to put her father’s final, agonizing moments into her head. 

She doesn’t let this fear show, though. Basira is nothing if not practical. She crosses her arms over her chest and looks at Elias the same way that she did in prison, like she can walk away at any moment, and he needs her. 

“What do you want, Elias?” Basira demands. 

“I want my Archivist back,” Elias says, throwing out a frustrated hand to his side, “but it seems that you made that rather impossible.”

Basira meets his glare dead on. "You're a bad guy. I try my best to be a pain in your ass."

Elias laughs again, bitter and harsh. “You love to pretend to be the hero- a practical policewoman willing to do whatever is necessary to protect people. But you are nothing but a killer. Just like your partner.” Basira feels anger flare within her: a desire to defend both her and Daisy’s honor. But it’s not worth it with Elias. Nothing she says will change anything, and it certainly won’t bring Jon back from the dead.

“I’m sorry that Jon is dead,” Basira says, sincerely, “but I’m not sorry about your precious Archivist.” Whatever Elias has been grooming Jon for isn’t good, and everyone affiliated with the archives knows it. They’ve just never quite been able to figure out what it is. 

Elias laughs then. It's a little softer, actually. More... sincere.

"Why are you laughing?" Basira demands.

Elias smiles a predatory smile. “At least you didn’t leave me without a replacement." His eyes are cold and steely and all too knowing stare back at her with an intensity that she’s become far too familiar with.

“What do you mean?” Basira asks. She knows that Elias speaks in subtleties and ghosts of implications. She has no time to sort through whatever the fuck he’s alluding to. 

“Don’t you feel it?” he prompts, “how you’ve changed? Slowly- then all at once.” The static that took over her voice- the way that the words kept tumbling out of Jon’s mouth until the words stopped altogether- the way that it had almost felt… nice, standing around and listening to his terrified, dying words. 

“No,” Basira says firmly, “that- you can’t mean that.”

“The archives chose you. I’m not happy about it, but neither of us can do anything about it.” 

“No,” Basira says, shaking her head, “You have to be joking.” 

Elias sends her a level look: intense, angry, but a little bit resigned. There’s not even a hint of humor in it, “Do I look like I’m joking?” Basira hears herself take a quick breath. Then another- and another, faster and faster until she digs her thumb into her hand and forces her breathing to slow. 

“You are the Archivist now, whether you like it or not.” Basira feels the certainty of the statement settle on her, just like the knowledge of Jon's death did earlier today. She remembers something Jon told her about "knowing" things- how it felt like there was a river full of thoughts outside his head, and sometimes the dam just let things slip through. Basira's not sure that this feels like that, but it feels a bit like raindrops seeping into her skull.

Basira is the Archivist now. She doesn't like it, but that doesn't make it any less true. She's going to have to figure out how to deal with it. She can't let it defeat her. If Basira lived through the unmaking of the world all by herself, she’ll certainly live through this. 

If there’s one thing that Basira is good at, it’s surviving. She’s lived through harassment and shitty superiors and becoming a supernatural hostage. If something as small as some guilt and accidental acquisition of superpowers powers was enough to get her down, then she never would have made it this far in the first place.

“Fine,” Basira finds herself saying, “this is just- it’s the way things are now. Guess I’ll make the most of it.” To be entirely honest, Basira has no idea what “making the most of it” even looks like at this point. Sure, she’ll go to Ny-Alessund and stop the Dark’s ritual… Then aftewards, she'll continue on.

But what does continuing even look like in a world like this? In a world where she’s now the Archivist? With all that baggage that comes with it?

Elias smirks. That bastard probably just rifled through every doubt in her mind.

“You ought to get to work,” Elias says, turning around to leave, “now that you’re the Archivist, just showing up to the building won’t sustain you.” He stops halfway out of the room and turns back around, smirking right at her.

“After a first statement like that, I wonder if written statements will ever sustain you?”

“Fuck off,” Basira tells him.

Elias, if anything, seems encouraged by that. He grins that manic grin that he sometimes got back at the prison.

“Happy Hunting,” he says, waving teasingly at her. Then, he finally leaves the room. She doesn’t know what to make of that interaction- not in the least. Is he actually going to make the most of it, or is he going to plot her demise for throwing a wrench in whatever plans that he had for Jon? Or is he going to try to transfer those plans to her now?

Jon’s really dead, and she finds herself thinking about the paranoid but ultimately harmless stranger that she met years before: ripping her encounter with the Desolation out of her in such an insidious way that neither of them even knew it was coerced. He certainly started as Archivist in a more innocent place than she did.

But sometimes innocent doesn’t mean “good”; it just means “clueless”. Jon did nothing but stumble around in incompetence for most of the time that she knew him.

She feels her throat start to constrict- a heavy feeling on her chest. Guilt? Loss? Dread? Maybe all of the above coming down on her as the implications really settle on her shoulders. Jon is dead, and she is the Archivist- her life was already in pieces, but now those pieces have been ground down into even smaller, sharper pieces that she has to figure out how to pick up.

But how do you pick up the pieces when those “pieces” are a corpse you created? A corpse who was once a person that you half hoped would get better and half hoped would get worse? And now you hold his hated mantle and the power and terror that comes with it. 

Basira has grown used to the feeling of being watched that permeates the institute, but she feels it grow, until it’s against her so hard that it’s like a baton digging into her back, just like she used to feel during training sessions where one of the other officers got a bit too rough.

She takes in a heavy breath, the stench of aging statements and blood filling her nostrils. Jon couldn’t smell his own blood, by the time it started pouring.

Thinking of blood- fuck. She’ll have to make some calls to deal with his body, just like Melanie was saying. There's so much to be done, and so much of it unpleasant (and so much of it her fault). She knows she has to keep going, but- 

Where does she even go from here? She doesn’t know yet, and she is certain that she won’t like it. There aren’t any happy endings waiting for her here in the Magnus Archives. There never were.