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Jon couldn’t leave.
The institute, specifically. There was this.. Manic feeling of inadequacy that prohibited him from doing so. He had to get more done, he had to organize this veritable shitshow of an Archive, because the answers to the worm attach were right here, dammit, and he needs to find them before it’s too late-
This all culminated in him sitting silent, still as a corpse in his office and staring at the pile of statements and paperwork he’d handed himself.
He couldn’t do it.
The thought almost made him want to cry, but it was true. Jon couldn’t stomach reading another statement, or worse, one that wouldn’t record digitally. He couldn’t stomach any more of this, full stop.
Maybe some coffee would help.
It’s not like coffee had solved any of his plights before, but it was a nice thought. So, Jon stood up and walked mechanically to the breakroom, acting for an audience of ghosts as if he wasn’t on the edge of tears moments before. The paranoia really didn’t help, either. The need to act normal, act as if someone wasn’t watching when Jon felt eyes on the back of his neck. Act as if someone hadn’t killed Gertrude and they probably worked in the Archives and they were probably after Jon and-
-And Jon just forgot his goddamn cane. Again.
Jon should stop thinking. Right now.
What he wouldn’t do for Martin’s tea. And Martin himself. Despite Jon’s.. Distaste for his assistant, he would admit in the comfort of the lonesome Archive, and only to himself, that Martin had a soothing effect on him. Even if he wouldn’t say anything, it would do wonders for Jon if Martin would just.. Sit by him.
But Martin wasn’t here.
He was probably at the pub with Tim and Sasha, and not thinking about the frail, bitter man who hardly leaves the Archives since it was attacked.
Jon wished he could do the same. And now he was standing at the counter in the breakroom, staring at the stupid electric kettle as he felt the back of his head growing fuzzier and fuzzier until he couldn’t think correctly. It was an easy sort of detachment, the kind that Jon was sure wasn’t healthy, but he’d grown up with it. He’d grown into the cloud of static that followed him like this, and it was normal to sink into it when he was alone.
Perhaps that’s why the next scene goes the way it does.
He sighed, a shaky, pathetic sound that came out as loud as a shout in the overwhelming silence of the Archive. Just a goddamn basement. Tim and Sasha were right about that, he thought bitterly as he stared at the kettle, waiting for the water to boil.
“Still haven’t gone home yet, Archivist?”
Jon was too tired to be fully afraid as his dulled senses were assaulted with wrong wrong wrong and the coffee grains he’d pulled out smelled like rotting meat and mustard-soaked soil, and the kettle wasn’t that color a moment ago.
All telltale signs of the Distortion walking into the breakroom.
Jon sighed, and slumped where he stood at the counter. “Micheal.” he greeted tiredly. “What do you want, now?”
He knew such rude words would likely get him stabbed again, but he couldn’t quite find it in himself to care.
Micheal laughed breathily, if the resulting echoing and doubling and incomprehensible sound could be called that. “Only to talk, Archivist. Only to talk.”
Jon finally turned around to see the twisting, turning undulating form that had taken on the name Micheal sitting at the breakroom table tamely. His smile was small and jagged, all broken glass arranged neatly to form a mosaic of a peaceful expression. His hair twisted and turned like curious snakes, Micheal the gorgon that the golden strands heralded from.
If he looked less like the visual form of a psychotic break or seizure, Jon could almost describe the way he sat as serene.
Jon sat across from them, the thought of coffee put out of his mind.
“Talk about what, exactly?” Jon asked, his voice belying how exhausted he was.
Micheal twisted their head a little too far clockwise in what could be described as a curious gesture. “Gertrude’s corpse was found in the Tunnels underneath the Archives.”
Jon nearly groaned at the reminder, his shoulders stiffening with a strike of anxiety that cleared the fog about his head, just a bit. “Your point?”
Micheal hummed a discordant tune, examining Jon with fractals for eyes. “You fear the killer now works in the Archives, yes?”
“So what if I do?” Jon says sharply, quickly. It was easy to forget the static, now. “It’s a perfectly logical conclusion to make, for someone in my pos-”
“Yes, for someone in the exact position Gertrude was in.” Micheal interrupted, tapping grotesquely long fingers against the table. Jon had the urge to count exactly how many joints the being had taken on, but he repressed it. “Humour me, Archivist.”
Jon kept silent, his lack of response an invitation to continue.
Micheal did so, his grin curling further into itself. “Why would you think it could be any of your assistants?...” They ask simply, their voice trailing off into deceptive echo.
Jon narrowed his eyes. “It’s the logical step to take.”
Micheal shook its head. “No, no no no, Archivist. Even I can see that, and I’m known for my lies. No. Think of who you’re working with.”
Jon sighed irritably, running a shaking hand through his hair. “Why are you telling me this? Why are you trying to help me?” he asked in a feverish, scorning question.
Micheal looked.. Thoughtful. Or, Jon thought they did, at least.
“I’ve found some… pressing information about the head of the institute, and his..” Micheal let out a dark chuckle, “plans… Well, They do not align with my own.” The being hesitated for a minute, before draping himself over the chair and giving Jon what appeared to be a hesitant, curious smile. “And you.. Intrigue me. You are different than Gertrude was. For that… I suppose I should like to keep both you and yours alive.” He answers, as vague as ever.
Jon stared at Micheal for a second.
“You.. You’re not kidding.” He says.
Micheal hummed. “No, Archivist, for once I tell no lie.”
The statement rang true to Jon, and the astonishing thing is, he believed him.
“So.. Who did kill Gertrude?” He asks. “If not any of the assistants, then who?”
Micheal just laughed, and leaned over the table, his hair snaking and exploring Jon’s space.
“Who else, but her dear, dear friend Charm?”