Chapter Text
London this time of year was cold. Although, London was always cold, never really the type of place to get hot. Unlike countries, and even cities, further south. A chilled breeze rustled the dying trees, knocking the frail, brown leaves off their stems, and blowing them down the busy streets. Well, busy at least for mid autumn, and near a place such as this.
The Magnus Institute. The old, yet minimalist grey brick walls stretched upwards slightly warped from its time encompassing the Panopticon, and tinted green from something he both hated deeply, and loved too much. Windows, vaguely reminiscent of eyes, lined some of the higher walls, further up where they were less visible, lest someone tormented by the Eye, or anyone really, recognizes what this place is, or used to be. Its roof was sharper, the shingles curved slightly, now a dark green, nearly black in the dark. At the top, was Elias’s-
Or, Jonah’s, old office. The place he’d sat for centuries, while creating his grand scheme. It sounded silly, but, that is what it was. It spanned decades, through many possessed bodies, and the imprisonment of its owner. Of which now, was very dead.
The steps up the entrance seemed higher than before, a change Martin generally disliked, both because he wasn’t the most cardio-oriented person, and because it reminded him of his walk up the Panopticon to find... he… didn’t like to think about it.
The sectioned, concrete stairs seemed to pull crowds in; younger people rested at the bottom, generally after school, because The Institute was right across from a Starbucks, and a popular library, neither of which, unfortunately, had much space inside. It made him happy to see people coming by, even though many who may remember, associated the building with a sense of fear. A lot had changed after he, Melanie, Georgie, and Basira took ownership of the building, that in itself a very large, and somewhat uncomfortable change. Many of the staff there had quit, now disconnected from the Eye, and Jonah, after the Eyepocalypse, but a select few had stayed despite their experiences, Martin being one of them. He, wasn’t entirely sure why he stayed, he just, couldn’t let the building go, not really. Sure, the majority of the memories he had of that place were horrid, and only reminded him of what he’d lost. But he held on anyway.
He shivered as the wind brushed by, gently pulling his scarf up from his chest, and around his face. Scratchy thing it was, green and used, but it was from.. him. Vapor fogged up his glasses, the round spectacles pinched at the bridge of his nose, a small drop of condensation rolled off the glass, and melted into the scarf. He limped up the stairs, his knee wobbled, and clutching the newly installed railings for support.
Ever since, the end of the apocalypse, he’d been damaged. He landed in the Panopticon, in the tunnels running under the Institute, which had begun to collapse just as the world returned to normal. Melanie and Georgie had found him in the rubble of the place, and hadn’t found him unharmed. He spent a good chunk of time in the hospital, waiting for his leg to heal, but he got impatient, and left before it was fully healed, and it’s just hurt ever since. Probably his fault, but he chose not to dwell on it. It’s just a leg.
When he’d returned to his flat after everything, it was just as he left it. Messy, but his. It was only missing one thing. Something he belonged to just as it did him.
He still lived there, but it felt, more lifeless, empty, he spent most of his time at the Institute anyway, a place he tried to give more life than its predecessor. He’d taken to decorating the halls, a picture here, and plant there, the occasional string of lights, or LEDs if he was in the mood. He tried to make the place more homey, more welcoming, or at least more like an actual office space, rather than the depressing cold rooms of the old building. Basira had successfully helped him forge documents, and Elias Bouchard’s will, to help them gain control of his money, and properties so they had access to a salary that would actually be useful. Same with Peter Lucas. He felt somewhat satisfied with himself, as it felt like an act that would make Jonah roll in his grave. He didn’t actually have one, his dead body was crushed in the collapse of the Penoptogon, and he had no tombstone, so maybe just make his destroyed soul roll around in the endless void of the afterlife. Decorating the Institute to his liking was his final act of revenge on the man, and he took great pleasure in doing so
He pushed the double doors open, the name of the building painted on the glass. The People’s Institute of the Preternatural. In honor of Jonah Magnus, they’ve ever so kindly removed his namesake from the building. Not from the Archi-um, Records, of course, just anything available to the public, or anywhere his name could be seen. A nice fuck you to the bastard.
His shoes clicked softly on the tiled floor, the sound which used to echo through the open room, was now drowned out by the gentle hum of music over the loudspeakers, the playlists and songs chosen by the resident ghost hunter turned prophet, and now the Director of Publicity and Human Resources. A warm air enveloped him as he stepped into the building, brushing the chilled morning from his mind as he walked.
“Good morning Mr. Blackwood.” A pleasant voice chirped.
He blinked wearily, eyes somewhat dry from the cold, outside air, his body shifted around so he could see who was speaking to him. A small, black haired woman, with a bun tied tight, greeted him warmly. Her eyes smiled at him from behind her own, red framed glasses. She was perched on her chair, behind the reception desk, diligently working on her computer, and waiting to receive calls, he knew most her job consisted of her reading, or playing Mahjong on that computer, as they don’t get many calls to management, or walk-in’s anymore, but he didn’t care. He knew of the old receptionist, Rosie, and what she’d been through, her own deception, and her working for Jonah when he was connected to the Eye. Not much her fault, and he understood her decision to leave, even if it was due to…His, persuasion. He didn’t want a repeat of that, and as long as she did the work that came to her, he didn’t care what she did in her free time.
“Ah! Um, good morning Cecilia,” he replied, shifting the weight of his cross-body bag more evenly across his shoulder, his voice stumbled a bit, a touch scratchy from not speaking for a while, but also from the cold weather, which for the rest of the world, wasn’t terribly bad. “How was your weekend?”
He asked politely, smiling as she grinned, seeking interest/notice from her employer. They had chatted for a bit, catching up since Martin had last seen her, but the phone rang, an abrupt chiming that momentarily interrupted the overhead music.
“Sorry, that’s me. Duty calls, nice seeing you sir.” She popped back over to her desk, falling to her seat, and smoothing out her dress.
“Please,” he chuckled quietly, scratching apprehensively at the slight stubble growing on his cheek, he really needed to shave soon, he kind of missed the baby faced Martin he used to be, when he couldn’t grow a beard at all, stress made him grow it. He had Peter Lucas to thank for that. Glad he was gone. “Just call me Martin.”