Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1. storm

Arthur.

Arthur!

ARTHUR!

Arthur jolted up. He lay on the cold street somewhere, rain pouring down on him. He could feel the concrete under his hand. “What…”

ARTHUR! Get the FUCK up. You’re lying in the middle of the road in front of two oncoming cars. People are staring at you, get up!

Arthur clambered out of the street, feeling his way to a nearby bench. “John, where…where are we?”

We’re in a park. Luckily, it’s the middle of the night. The street is lined with closed stores and coffee shops. 

The air froze Arthur to his core, his teeth clattering. The rain drenched him, soaking through his clothes.

The people staring at you, John continued, seemed to have gone on with their business. I suppose they think you’re drunk, because a pub sits on the square next to us.

“Why were we on the road? A pub? Are we still in America?”

John fell silent, examining the area, London.

“Kayne,” Arthur concluded.

That bastard. Why would the Blackstone be in London? Where exactly is London?

It occurred to Arthur how lackluster John’s knowledge of geography, outside of America, must be. Also, the fact that Kayne sent them here, the geography could be completely different. But he told John what he knew, “We’re in England.”

What does this England have to do with the Blackstone?

“Look, John. I have no idea. But if I don’t get out of this rain, I’ll die of hypothermia before we get the chance to find out.” He was shaking uncontrollably, hugging his body for any semblance of heat.

John grunted in response, There’s a cab approaching.

He waved it down, and it pulled over. The cab is sleek, nothing like the cars where we come from. The seats are made of…

“Leather.” Arthur finished as he climbed into the cab, “Odd.”

He shut the door behind him, adjusting in the small car.

“Where to?” The driver asked.

Arthur thought for a second.

Ask him where the nearest inn is. We can recuperate there.

“Can you take me to the nearest inn?” Arthur asked, feeling the warmth of the cab in his bones.

“Sure,” he responded, his accent thick with an Irish accent, reminding him strangely of the Butcher. The driver was balding, but too thin to be him. Arthur’s mind begins to process everything that happened previously, not even thirty minutes before. 

The ride was mostly silent, John not talking about anything at all. 

He thinks about Kayne, all the information that deranged bastard had fed to the two of them. He tried to live in the present, but it was hard.

John had been lying. 

It wasn’t unusual for him to lie, especially about his own personal things. He lied about having no memories of the Dark World, no memories of being part of the King again. And now he was avoiding it.

“Anything entertaining out there, John?”

No answer.

“John?”

Hm?

“Is there anything out there?” He repeated.

No. Just stone buildings, weird cars, and drunk people on the streets. I’ve yet to see a single tree. John made a gruff noise. It’s still raining, but the intensity of it is letting up. The moon must be hidden behind the clouds, because the only thing illuminating the dark streets is street lamps.

“Where do you think the Blackstone could be?” Arthur asked, keeping his voice low.

John began to speak, but paused, Arthur. There has been a figure following our cab.

“What? What does it look like?” Why was he not surprised?

Hard to tell. It keeps moving in and out of streetlamps. Small, maybe with fur.

“Could be a dog. Or a cat,” Arthur added, “Don’t overthink it.”

Maybe.

John was quiet, thinking.

Are cats those small things they would sometimes bring to the hospital while you were in a coma?

“I…no. er. They don’t bring cats to the hospital. Allergies, and they urinate on everything. Though I think they bring small dogs occasionally.” Arthur informed, not remembering being brought a dog. That was more for the children occupants.

Wait. Cats are orange. I saw one eating a bird on the side of the road when we were in New York. They have those…eh…spikes on their face?

“Those are called whiskers, John.” Arthur chuckled.

Ah. Say, did you ever have any pets?

“I believe my mother owned a small dog when I was smaller, but I’ve never liked pets. Bella tried to convince me to take in a kitten that she and Faroe had once found. I told them no, I just didn’t have time to tend to a third life.” Arthur sighed, “I remember Faroe begged and begged. If I had the foresight, I would’ve given her that cat in a heartbeat. Hell, I would’ve given her the world if I could.”

Arthur picked at his skin, “But if we get the Blackstone, I can have her back. We can be a family, I’ll finally get her that cat.”

Arthur… 

John’s voice was sympathetic, pitying him. But Arthur didn’t need it; he was processing his grief. The last thing he wanted was to start bawling in the back of a cab.

“Six pounds, sir,” the driver informed Arthur as he fished out twenty-five cents from his bag.

Jesus, how much?

He gave the man all of his money, pretty much. 

As Arthur began to crawl from the cab, the driver stopped him, “Hey.”

He turned to look at him again.

“Look, lad. You’re American, correct?” The driver looks paranoid, Arthur. He looks as if someone is going to hear him say what he’s going to say. We should probably hurry up.

“Yeah,” Arthur responded, ignoring John and gathering his satchel.

“I want to share with you a piece of advice, lad. If you see or hear about those ‘Magnus Institute’ folk, don’t listen. That place is a cult. The only way that place is still up is from the curses they be laying upon the innocent mentally ill.”

Cult? Order of the Fallen Star? John murmured.

“I happen to be one of those people. I was just mindin’ my own business during a religious psychosis, and I went to that institution to try to get clarity. When I went home, there were doors in places in my house. Doors that were never there.”

“Doors?” That was a new one.

“Aye. More doors, fewer doors, a man who seemed to be everywhere I looked. The blonde curls, straight uncanny. His fingers are too long for his nails; he seems to blend. He doesn’t have lips and his eyes…seem to be upside down.”

Sounds like hallucinogens.

“That sounds…rough.” Arthur knew there was something wrong with him, but this? This was crazy.

The man nods to your statement.

 “There’s this man. Darker skin, black long hair, and a scruffy stubble. He wears glasses in a way that feels like he doesn’t even look through them. He came up to me and asked for my statement. I-he made me…speak. Against my will and about things I’d never even say to my wife. Don’t talk to him…don’t tell him anything.”

This man isn’t sober; he can’t be. John examined. But this could be the answer to the Blackstone question you had.

With that, Arthur grabbed his bag and made his way towards the tall hotel. 

The way the hotel is built feels old, but as if it’s something from the future. I don’t even know if that makes sense. John examined the surroundings as they stepped inside the doors.

The hotel is dingy with clean, pale yellow carpet. The light is electric, casting a fluorescent yellow light on the lobby.

On the front of the reception desk is the name:

Umber Inn: Since 1963.

“1963? John.” Arthur nearly stopped in his tracks, but a woman spoke.

“Sir. Welcome, do you have a room?”

A woman sits at the desk, just across from you. She… John’s voice dimmed, shifting from deadpan to admiration… She looks like… Lilly.

Arthur approaches the desk, “No.”

Arthur. She uses a box, typing into it.

“A typewriter?” Arthur whispers.

“Mmm…no. It glows! Arthur, it’s…it’s making noises!”

The item made a sound. It was indescribable. The typing didn’t sound like that of a typewriter, but something quicker and quieter.

“What’s your name, sir?” The woman asked, ceasing her typing.

Arthur spoke, clearing his throat, “A-”

Be smart. John’s stern voice reminded him.

“I mean–John. John Lester,” he slipped his hands into his pocket.

The woman began to type again, “Floor three. Room 204.”

A sound of screeching came from the box.

Arthur…it…made a slip of paper from…nowhere! It just- just came out of the box! John sounded more astonished than Arthur felt.

“Here, sir.”

John took the piece of paper. Arthur paused, “How much?”

“Fifty pounds a night, sir.” She must’ve seen how lost Arthur was, because she clarified, “Roughly 65-70 U.S dollars.”

It wasn’t the currency Arthur was confused about; it was how much everything was. A cab was most of their money, and this room…how could he pay for it?

“Yes. I know. I grew up here,” he added, digging in his knapsack.

There’s bread, our tools, the lighter, and something from the Dreamlands. There’s a wallet in there, with a note.

Arthur pulled the leather wallet out, pulled the piece of paper off, and fished through the wallet for money.

Don’t spend it all in one place, darlin’ 

-Kayne

John read as he helped Arthur pull out the correct amount. He gave us money.

They did happen to spend most of it in one place.

“Thank you, John.” The woman thanked, “Have a good stay.”

John audibly smiled as they moved toward the elevator.

The room is cold. The bed is neatly made with red bed sheets. The carpet is yellowish, like the one in the lobby with an argyle pattern. There’s an…well. A box emitting cold air.

“Air conditioning. It wasn’t common where we come from, but I suppose someone made it popular.” Arthur felt his way around the room, placing his bag in a chair, “If we’re in the future…I wonder where.”

London. 1963.

“No. Well, yes to the London part. No to the 1963 part. The sign had said since 1963.” Arthur corrected, feeling his way to the closet. “Anything in here?”

A white button-up, a black dress, and black slacks. I wonder if someone left them here.

“They could just be provided, which is odd and uncommon, so lucky us.” Arthur smiled, chuckling.

Could it be Kayne's doing? John inquired as Arthur staggered toward a washroom. 

“I highly doubt it.” Arthur shrugged, peeling off his wet clothes. “He’s not that nice.”

He tossed his clothes on a counter, “Where’s the wash basin?” 

There’s a tub to your left. It isn’t filled with water and seems to be made of porcelain with a shower curtain drawn to the side.

Arthur filled the tub up after fighting with the handle for about five minutes. He burned himself twice and turned the shower on once, scaring the daylights out of him.

By the time he was settled in the tub, John had to say something.

Do you think this “Magnus Institute” has something to do with the Blackstone?

“John, I think the driver was not all there. Don’t overthink it.” Arthur sighed. The water was warm and positioned right under the base of his neck, covering his shoulders. He shut his eyes, but it didn’t matter; he couldn’t see anyway.

But what if he was? You’re being very adamant about “not overthinking”. Arthur, we need to take a look at that place. You know why we’re here, right? Not to get cozied up in some fucking hotel.

Arthur, did you not hear the stick Kayne told us?

Arthur groaned, “We’ll check it out in the morning. John, we have a chance to breathe, even just briefly.”

John huffed, You’re letting your guard down because we’re back in your homeland. Kayne-

“Look, John. I don’t want to talk about this right now. If you really want to talk about Kayne, how about we talk about your deals you’re making with him?” Arthur snapped, shifting in the bath.

I didn’t…Arthur. I fucked up. The deal…I was desperate. If I didn’t do that, Arthur, I would be in the Dark World again. Arthur, you have no idea how that feels. I’m sorry.

John’s voice was soft, not angry.

Arthur slipped under the water, scrubbing his hair out. It was long, he estimated it hung just above his shoulders. When he surfaced again, he responded, “I forgive you.”

What?

“I forgive you, John. You were right about the stick Kayne told us. If we don’t do this, it’s not just our lives on trial. It’s everyone we love, and have loved. It’s people we don’t even know.”

John sounded almost perplexed. You forgive me, like that? No silent treatment or bitter words?

“We don’t have time to be angry at each other, John. Yes, you seriously fucked up, but for what it’s worth, it’s a pretty human fuck up.” Arthur exhaled, draining the water from the basin.

I guess you’re right. When we find the Blackstone and give it to Kayne, what then? We’ll have our own bodies, you’ll have… John chose his words. Her back.

Arthur chewed on the words for a bit while he got dressed. He wore a pair of sleep pants he found folded up in the closet. 

After, he stood in the mirror, wiping fog from it.

“We could stay friends. We could all three live together, John. I could live out the rest of my days with my daughter…with you.” Arthur exhaled, “Is there a razor in the drawers?”

With a hesitation, John responded, Yes, here. He handed the razor to Arthur’s other hand, With me?

“Mhm. Now help me shave.” Arthur commanded.

When they were finished, he looked less like a scruffy wet cat and more like a clean-shaven wet cat. Arthur decided to keep the mustache, claiming it made him look older.

Do you believe those scars will ever go away? John gingerly touched the one under his eye, especially this one.

“I doubt it, but who would I be without them?” Arthur put the razor up and cleaned his mess.

He crawled under the sheet of the tightly made hotel bed. 

The next morning, he would wake up and have to survive again.

But not now.

Now he was comfortable in his bed, his thoughts put on pause. His subconscious wandering.

With nobody definitely trying to watch him.

Chapter Text

2. beholding

Jon doesn’t like to pull statements out of people. He’s a good listener, but now he’s doing more than listening. Every time someone dumps to him, he drinks every word, pulling more and more out until the other party in the conversation passes out or Jon is satisfied.

He feels like an awful person for doing it, but the paper statements in the Archives don't cut it since he woke up from his coma. He had interviewed two people, since he had woken up, a victim of The Spiral and one of The Slaughter.

Now he sat at his desk, poring through everything to find anything of substance. A lot of them were from teenagers pranking the institute with statements like “Ghost in my house” or “Old man in the woods.”

None of which aligns with any Fear.

The archives were quiet; they always were, but now especially. Now that Elias was behind bars, Tim and Sasha were dead, and on top of that, their boss had to be an Entity of the Lonely. Martin hadn’t spoken to Jon; they never even saw each other.

Jon missed his company. 

Of course, there was still Basira and Melanie, but they didn’t really want anything to do with him right now. Melanie was off somewhere, and Basira was taking a lunch break.

Melanie was out of the Archives as much as she could, sometimes with Georgie. Jon didn’t ask what their relationship was; it wasn’t his business.

This Saturday was dreary, rain dripping lazily outside. Since last night, Jon had felt uneasy. He felt as if someone was watching him, which wasn’t uncommon. For what Jon knew, Elias could be watching him right now. But it didn’t feel like the Beholding’s power. It didn't feel…human, but godlike. It wasn’t normal, and it made the hair on his arms rise just thinking about it.

He closed every window of his flat, barred his door, and his bedroom window had a shelf in front of it; the crack under his door was stuffed with clothes. But he couldn’t make the feeling go away.

Jon had been on edge all day. He thought about getting tea from the cafe downtown, but then the thought of tea made him think of Martin.

A man entered the archive. He was gruff with snow white hair and beard. 

“Peter Lukas.” Jon addressed.

He approached the desk, a billowing fog following him and clinging to his boots. “Jonathan Sims! I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m your boss.”

“Elias hired you?” Jon asked, looking up at the man. His presence was cold, like a wintry.

Peter grit his teeth, “Hired? No, no, no. I took over after he got…y’know.”

“Where’s Martin?”

Peter Lukas sighed, fog emptying from his lips like he was outside in the cold, “Nowhere you should worry about. He doesn’t want to see you, right now.”

Jon folded his hands, swallowing that information, “I... What do you need?”

Peter took a seat in the padded chair before the desk, the fog now filling the room. “There’s something…Elias has been pestering me about. He won’t stop trying to call me, or reach out to me through The Eye.”

“You’re still on a direct contact basis with Elias?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow.

“That’s not important.” Peter shifted uncomfortably. “Do you have a statement with the name Lester?”

Jon stood up and grabbed his cane, moving towards the large shelves. “First name? Last name?” 

“Last name Lester. Elias informed me that The Eye didn’t…know his first name.” Peter spoke cautiously.

The shelves filled the archive. Tall and organized like a library. Off to the side was a filing cabinet with the completed tapes Jon had recorded.

Jon snorted, looking through the L section, “How does it not know a name?”

“Elias says this Lester man has…multiple names. Aliases maybe. John, Parker, Arthur, Laurence, William, just to name a few.” Peter took his hat off, rubbing his temples. The glass jarred plant Martin gave him on Jon's desk began to fill with condensation.

“Sounds like a smart man.” Jon looked through the Lester statements.

There were only three, none of which were any of this man’s aliases. 

Edward Lester, Brooklyn Lester, Lester Redd. All three of them were unrecorded and did not give off any substance to Jon like Peter had told him.

“Anything?” Peter asked.

Jon shook his head, closing the filing cabinet, staggering back to his desk. “Why does Elias want this man in particular?”

“The Eye can’t…see him. Elias…well…why don’t you look for yourself, Archivist?” Peter stood up and pushed his chair into the desk. 

Jon cleared his throat, “I don’t…want to use The Eye.”

Peter shrugged, “Then don’t.”

He exited the room through the mahogany doors that led downstairs.

Jon sat in the middle of the room, where he found The Eye’s influence the strongest. Half of him wondered if Elias had finally lost his touch with The Eye, but his other half knew that wasn’t right.

“Alright, Beholding, show me this Lester man.”

The man stood in a hotel room, packing his clothes. He could make out his skin and his features. Dirty blond hair, clean-shaven with a mustache, and covered with scars where his skin was visible. Most remarkably, a large white scar under his eye and one on his neck just peeking out of his button-up collar. 

He was mostly silent. “Where is the lighter, John?”

Jonathan’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest. Has this Lester man spotted him?

A loud, fuzzy ringing pierced the air suddenly, sounding faintly like a voice. It sounded like a wave of static poured over him.

Jon grabbed his ears, groaning.

When it passed, Lester grabbed a Zippo lighter from the nightstand, not unlike the one in his own desk, and put it in his pocket. “Thank you.”

Jon removed himself from the vision, but The Eye begged for more information. The man was odd. Recently, if Jon looked into someone personally like that, he would see all of them. But there were two people with a block like Lester’s, Martin and Elias.

He had to admit, he tried to find out what was wrong with Martin. But when he tried to view him, it was like peering through a thick fog on a fall morning, a chill that used to be warm.

Elias, on the other hand, didn't work. He succeeded in viewing Elias once, and Elias just simply spoke to him as if he were visiting his cell. He had a block, preventing John from knowing anything. The Eye hated when Jon tried to spectate Elias; it was like The Eye eating itself.

Similarly, he couldn’t see anything in this Lester man: his backstory, his life, where his scars came from, what his name was. No age, no height, no weight, nothing below the skin. And the surge of static that occurred. Was this man a powerful avatar?

He figured this man might’ve been blind, immune to The Eye’s influence, but that didn’t explain the static. Maybe the man had a power; he had said Jon's name after all.

Another Beholding avatar, Jon concluded, leaning on his cane for support as he stood up.

Jon looked at himself in the mirror on the floor. His hair had grown too long, and he hadn’t had the chance to shave or get a haircut since he woke up.

He finished cleaning up his area silently and slipped from the Archives, the information he’d gathered pooling in his brain.

The halls had been filled with suffocating fog, as it had been since he arrived. Sometimes he’d hear footsteps in the fog or voices, but he never followed them. It could be Martin, or Lukas, or something malevolent, but Jon had to tend to other things.

The once polished wood creaked under his feet and clacked as he walked down the hall. Melanie hated the fog; it made her feel damp and depressed. Basira was often out to avoid it.

Jon wondered if that was Peter’s plan, to isolate him. Or maybe...

A still figure stood in the breakroom to Jon’s left. He wore a hand-knit sweater and fogged-up glasses. Except he was quieter, less frantic and jumpy, more…sad. Fog poured from his coffee cup that sat in his hands.

Martin.

His once-upkept short hair was now longer, slipping past his ears and grazing his neck.

Martin turned to Jon, his eyes distant and tired. He used to keep himself shaved, but his facial hair had grown out. He didn't say anything; the only sound was his own breathing.

Jon approached him as one would a scared animal, “Martin.” He said with admiration in his voice. Jon didn't even know where it came from.

Part of the fog in the room dispersed, and Martin’s cold eyes lit up briefly—but only briefly.

“Martin…! I haven’t…are you alright?” Jon reached to touch him, but he recoiled as Martin jerked.

“I can’t, Jon.” Martin pushed past him, nearly knocking him off his feet; he felt strangely misty. He didn’t feel solid.

He disappeared into the fog of the hall.

When Jon peeked out the door, Martin was gone with nothing but a sad mist behind him.

Jon wanted nothing but to say something; he was angry at Martin, angry at Peter Lukas, angry at Elias.

Martin's appearance had stirred up the fog, but it began to settle back down by Jon's ankles. The fog made him feel depressed, desperate to reach out to Martin. Had Peter been right? What was wrong with him? He couldn't...what? He decided he needed to leave, to clear his head. He couldn't focus on the statements with a head full of condensation. He needed to find this Lester character.

Luckily for him, he was excellent at finding things.

                   -------------------

Turns out, when the person you’re trying to find with the help of The Eye just so happens to not be affected by The Eye, it’s sort of difficult.

The Watcher was unable to pinpoint Lester’s exact location, but it could figure he was in the main uptown area. In order to even gather a bit of information, he needed to focus hard. So much, it made his head hurt.

Every time Jon tried to focus on him, the static washed over not only his sense of hearing, but a yellow flash covered him. The man was practically impenetrable by The Eye, searing his eyes every time he gazed upon him.

He didn’t like being blinded.

The Beholder also didn’t like Jon being blinded.

He gave up his search at St. James Park as the sun set. He had swung by a cafe, grabbing a tea and a piece of bread.

The sun dipped across the lake, making the pale green water blend with the orange setting sun.

Jon tossed a piece of bread to a small brown Mallard duck. The crumb hit it on the beak and sank below the surface. The duck honked angrily at Jon.

“They like frozen peas. Did you know that?” A voice spoke next to him as someone approached.

Jon turned, and it was Lester, clear as day. From his shaggy blond hair to his scars, “Bread makes them get bloated and fat.”

The man had a calm demeanor; he looked tired, but his scarred appearance gave off the vibes of a man Jon didn’t want on his bad side.

“I didn’t know that. I’ve always just given them bread.” Jon responded as the duck flapped off to find someone else to take food from.

Lester stood in silence, a slight fuzz buzzing in the air. It wasn’t loud enough to be annoying, but Jon could make out a voice, but not the words.

“I’ve heard of you,” Lester told him, sitting on a bench next to Jon. Lester’s eyes were unfocused; they didn’t feel right. They watched, but they didn’t process. His pupils looked almost grey, like cataracts.

Every time a surge of static buzzed, his pupils seemed to turn yellowish.

“Heard of me?” Jon raised an eyebrow, adjusting his glasses.

Lester nodded, “Do you work for the Magnus Institute?”

Jon’s face went pale. A cold breeze blew through the air, rippling the water and chilling Jon to the bone. He tugged a curl in his hair, “I…I do. Why?”

“You force people into conversations, hm?” Lester remained cool, reading him. He gave off the vibes of another Eye avatar. 

Jon fixed his expression, wiping the shock off his face. He cleared his throat and fixed his posture, “I don’t do it for fun. How do you know me? Have we met?” 

The man had a slight grin on his face, “No. My name is Arthur. Arthur Lester.”

Jon felt The Eye tug at his soul for this man’s statement. “I…Jon." Arthur raised an eyebrow, "I mean…Jonathan, Jonathan Sims.”

Arthur held out his hand to shake it, but Jon hesitated. Arthur must’ve noticed the burn mark on his hand, because he retracted his hand.

“You seem as though you’ve been through the wringer,” he said, crossing his arms in front of him.

Jon swallowed, sliding a hand in his pocket. Arthur’s posture was straight and almost intimidating compared to Jon’s slumped posture.

“I could say the same for you.” Jon deflected, “How’d you get that neck scar?”

“I shoved a knife into my neck,” he said calmly, as if it were an average Tuesday. “How about you?”

Jon gingerly touched his neck. The scar Daisy had given him right before the Unknowing ritual, “A friend gave it to me.”

They stood in silence for a while, watching the sun set over the lake. The static rang, and he made out two words from the sound, Arthur and lake.

Jon let out a sigh.

“Why are you scaring innocent folk?” Arthur spoke, his voice low and intimidating.

“I’m not sure I follow…” Jon choked up. 

Arthur stood up, and Jon gripped his cane with two hands, picking at the rubber handle. Arthur stared into him, making him feel uncomfortable.

The static rose again, and this time he made out three words: Parker, intimidation, and aggressive.

“You know more than you let on, Mr. Sims. What do you know of gods?” Arthur sized him up.

Jon sputtered, “I…I don’t believe. I’m an Atheist.”

“Fine. Do you believe in greater beings?” He raised an eyebrow.

“No! No.” Jon tried to regain his composure, “I don’t.”

Arthur flipped a lighter in his hand. “Then inform me about the Magnus Institute.”

Jon cleared his throat, “It…it has nothing to do with entities…” Jon paused, ‘...or gods.”

The static was loud, and with only one word, LIES.

He choked on his own bile. He coughed. 

“Then why take statements. Cursing people? The Eye?” Arthur had caught him in a lie. This man was good.

Jon swallowed, “How do…look…” Jon had been outplayed, caught off guard.

“Tell me what you know,” Arthur commanded.

Luckily for Jon, he had an upper hand, too. He had The Eye.

“No. Arthur Lester, tell me your story,” he straightened his posture and stared into Arthur’s eyes sharply.

He called upon The Eye. The man’s yellow eyes shifted to a green hue as he commanded.

Arthur shut his eyes, groaning, “N-no. I don’t want to.”

“Tell me,” Jon growled.

Arthur began to open his mouth, but the loudest shriek of static burst out. Jon’s abilities faltered, and he covered his ears.

Arthur! Don’t listen to him!  That motherfucker is pulling something on you.

Jon gasped slightly; he could decipher the static. A man’s voice.

“You asshole!” Arthur snapped, drawing a dagger from his bag.

Jon backed up, “Wait. Wait. Arthur. Put the knife down."

“You tried to use something on me,” Arthur growled, moving forward. He stiffened his posture.

Push him in the lake, Arthur.

Jon swallowed, “Hear me out, both of you.”

Arthur stopped in his tracks. He positioned his knife lower, but not sheathing it, “Both?”

Can you hear me? The static buzzed.

Jon nodded. “There’s something off about you, Mr. Lester. You…you don’t give off the feeling of a human. You…there’s something weird. You feel almost…godlike.”

The static hissed, like laughter.

“Far off. I’m as human as they come,” he responded.

His yellow eyes caught in the sunlight. It suddenly occurred to Jon that it was dark enough now that Arthur could kill him and probably get away with it.

There’s something about you, Jonathan Sims. You’re also not human. The voice told him.

Power. You know something, tell us.

“There are two souls in you.” Jon’s breath hitched. "You...you have a connection to some entity."

Arthur raised his knife out again, “The Eye. What is The Eye, Jonathan?” He poked it against Jon's neck.

Jon yelped, “Okay! Okay. Just…just put the knife down. I…you don’t…you wouldn’t understand. You’d think I’m crazy…” He stuttered.

Arthur punched the bench, “Tell me, or so help me I’ll reopen that godamn cut on your neck.” He pressed the knife into his flesh, not drawing blood, but applying pressure.

The wind blew softly, ruffling Arthur's hair. Jon exhaled a shaky breath, “Fine! Fine. It’s a Fear entity…of being watched…and stuff like that.”

That’s…

“Make it make sense!” Arthur growled.

Jon shrugged helplessly, “I don’t…It’s not just something to make sense of! There are fourteen of these entities: The Eye, The Lonely, The Slaughter, The Hunt, The Flesh, The Slaughter, The Vast, The Buried, The Corruption, The Dark, The Spiral, The Stranger, The Web, and The Desolation. They’re like…like little categories of human fear. I can’t explain it…it’s weird.”

Arthur’s face looked lost. “What if you don’t fall into any of these?”

“Everyone does," Jon thought of Georgie, "mostly everyone. Anyway, they are all fighting to make an appearance and…to take control of the people. Each entity feeds on Fear. For example, the Vast eats the fear of heights or underwater.”

Jon felt as if he had just thrown up he hated giving information to people. More specifically, The Eye hated it.

“The Buried?” Arthur asked.

Jon gagged, and Arthur lowered the knife, “It’s…it’s the Fear of being…buried. Claustrophobia…just…caves and pits…”

Sounds familiar. The voice sounded deadpan.

"The Fears...I don't understand them. There's something that's been tugging at me. I..." Jon stared at him. “Now it’s your turn. What are you after, Arthur? Why are you here?”

He went silent.

"I think we can help each other, Jonathan Sims." He said, finally.