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ARCHIVIST
It's okay, Martin. They can't light it without this.
[THERE'S THE DISTINCT METALLIC CLICK OF THE LIGHTER.]
MARTIN
Wh— I thought Georgie had it?
ARCHIVIST
She did. I took it back.
MARTIN
(overlapping) Oh no...
ARCHIVIST
I realized it'd slipped my mind before, so I took it out of the tool bag before I came up here.
MARTIN
Jon...
ARCHIVIST
It's okay, Martin. We can still be together here. Until the end.
MARTIN
No. It's not okay. You're...
ARCHIVIST
I'm where I'm meant to be. Where I was always meant to be.
MARTIN
(through sobs) No, no, I— I-I can't...
[MARTIN WALKS AWAY. THE ARCHIVIST MAKES NO ATTEMPT TO STOP HIM. THE DOORS ARE OPENED FOR HIM, THEN SHUT QUIETLY.]
[ONCE MARTIN IS GONE, THE ARCHIVIST LETS OUT A DEEP SIGH. IT IS EQUAL PARTS CONTENTMENT AND SORROW.]
ARCHIVIST
I guess your plan failed, Spider. Goodbye.
[THE LIGHTER IN THE ARCHIVIST'S HAND SUDDENLY BURSTS WITH A SCREECH OF TORN METAL AND A PUFF OF FLAME, THEN CLATTERS USELESSLY TO THE GROUND.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE QUIET, WHISPERING AMBIANCE OF THE TOP OF THE PANOPTICON IS CUT THROUGH BY THE SOUND OF THE DOORS CREAKING OPEN. THREE SETS OF FOOTSTEPS ENTER]
MELANIE
(enraged) What the hell did you do?
ARCHIVIST
(eternally calm) Hello, Melanie. Georgie. Basira.
GEORGIE
(sorrowful) Jon...
BASIRA
(angry) I thought we had a plan!
ARCHIVIST
You did.
BASIRA
Oh, we did, did we? So you were never going to follow it?
ARCHIVIST
No. I can't let them out, Basira. I'm sorry.
MELANIE
Sorry? That's it? That's all you have to say after stabbing us in the back and crowning yourself the god of everything?!
ARCHIVIST
There's nothing I could say would make you happy, Melanie. Shout as much as you want, it won't change anything. It's over.
MELANIE
Ugh, you—!
GEORGIE
Melanie, please. I told you this wouldn't help.
[MELANIE HUFFS IN INDESCRIBABLE FRUSTRATION AND STOMPS OUT, CANE CLACKING. GEORGIE SIGHS.]
GEORGIE
I wish things could've turned out different.
ARCHIVIST
Me too.
GEORGIE
You're not going to let us reach the gas main again, are you?
ARCHIVIST
No.
GEORGIE
(resigned) Yeah. Goodbye, Jon.
ARCHIVIST
Take care of Melanie.
[MELANIE LEAVES. WHISPERING SILENCE HANGS IN THE AIR.]
BASIRA
So that's it, then? You sit here at the top of the world, sending people to the End until no one's left?
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
BASIRA
And you're okay with that?
ARCHIVIST
(through a bitter chuckle) No. I'm not happy to be the executioner of the world, Basira. But I hate the other options more.
BASIRA
What if I grabbed that knife off the floor and stabbed you right now?
ARCHIVIST
It would hurt. I would bleed. But you can't kill me. Nothing can anymore.
[SILENCE, AS BASIRA GLARES AT THE ARCHIVIST. HER BREATHING GETS FASTER.]
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
Basira, you know it won't—
[SHE SUDDENLY DASHES FORWARD, SNATCHES THE KNIFE OFF THE GROUND AND BURIES IT IN THE ARCHIVIST'S CHEST WITH A NOISE ALMOST LIKE A GROWL. THE ARCHIVIST GRUNTS IN PAIN.]
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
(still calm, faintly apologetic) It's too late.
BASIRA
(through bared teeth) Fuck you.
ARCHIVIST
Don't follow in Daisy's footsteps.
BASIRA
Or what? You'll put me down?
ARCHIVIST
No. You can't hurt me in any way that matters. I just don't want to see you... give in.
BASIRA
(almost laughing) Oh, give in? Like you just did?
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
BASIRA
(scoff) Go to hell, Jon.
[SHE WALKS AWAY. THE DOORS SHUT. THE QUIET MURMUR OF THE PANOPTICON FILLS THE AIR.]
[THE ARCHIVIST REMOVES THE KNIFE FROM HIS CHEST AND DROPS IT NOISILY. A QUIET FLESHY SOUND MARKS THE ALMOST INSTANTANEOUS HEALING OF THE WOUND. HE SIGHS.]
ARCHIVIST
(quietly) I already have.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[PANOPTICON AMBIANCE. FOOTSTEPS ENTER.]
ARCHIVIST
(smiling) Martin.
[MARTIN IS SILENT FOR SEVERAL SECONDS. WHEN HE SPEAKS, HIS VOICE IS CAREFULLY CONTROLLED.]
MARTIN
I see Elias is gone.
ARCHIVIST
Yes. I had the servitors clean up the mess.
How are you?
MARTIN
Bad, Jon. I'm doing bad. I—
[HE CUTS HIMSELF OFF BEFORE TOO MUCH EMOTION CREEPS INTO HIS VOICE. HE TAKES A DEEP BREATH AND LETS IT OUT SLOWLY.]
MARTIN (CONT'D)
Is there anything, anything, that could undo this now? I know Annabelle's plan is shot, but—
ARCHIVIST
No. Nothing can touch me anymore.
MARTIN
Right.
ARCHIVIST
I'm sorry you feel bad. You can stay here with me, if you want. It's quiet. I don't need to do Statements anymore.
[MARTIN DRAWS IN A HARSH BREATH OF BOTH RESIGNATION AND DETERMINATION.]
MARTIN
No. No, I don't think I can, Jon. In fact, I think you should kill me.
[THE PANOPTICON'S WHISPERED AMBIANCE SUDDENLY CUTS OUT. IN THAT SPLIT SECOND BEFORE THE ARCHIVIST SPEAKS, THE SILENCE IS PALPABLE. WHEN HE DOES SPEAK, EVEN THE UNDERCURRENT OF STATIC HAS FLED HIS VOICE.]
ARCHIVIST
(shocked) What?
MARTIN
I did a lot of thinking when I was in my Domain. I know people are going to suffer no matter what I do, okay? But I can't be sustained by people's fear, Jon. I refuse.
ARCHIVIST
I—
MARTIN
So. Either kill me, or tell me how I can do it myself.
ARCHIVIST
But— Martin, I— I-I don't understand. You said—
MARTIN
I know! I know what I said. But I didn't think— I never thought you'd actually end up here, that we'd be stuck watching the world die. I can't go where you are, Jon, I can't be a Pupil. You know that.
ARCHIVIST
(panicked, eager) Yes you can! I can make you one! The Eye is fond of you, it could accept two Pupils at once. Or you could just... (softer) be here. With me.
[THE ARCHIVIST DRIFTS CLOSER. MARTIN STEPS BACK.]
MARTIN
No, Jon. I'm sorry. I can't follow you on this one. I made the decision while you were with Helen. If this is the rest of eternity, I'm not going to be a part of it.
ARCHIVIST
Martin, please. I can't do this without you.
MARTIN
Jon.
[THERE'S A HEAVY SILENCE. THE ARCHIVIST SUCKS IN A STUTTERING BREATH, JUST ON THE EDGE OF A SOB.]
ARCHIVIST
Is this really what you want?
MARTIN
Yes.
ARCHIVIST
(defeated) Okay.
[THE ARCHIVIST RETURNS TO THE CENTER OF THE ROOM. THE WHISPERING BACKGROUND FADES BACK IN. STATIC RUNS THROUGH HIS WORDS ONCE MORE.]
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
I can't kill you like I did the other Avatars, you're not as... dependent as they were. If I filled you with fear without purpose, you'd just be trapped in that first Lonely Domain we passed through, lost in forgotten memory. But, I can make you a sufferer in an End Domain. That will kill you eventually.
MARTIN
Will you be able to see me there?
ARCHIVIST
Yes. I'll be watching for as long as I can.
MARTIN
Okay. (deep breath) Okay. Do it.
ARCHIVIST
Alright.
MARTIN
I love you, Jon. I'm sorry.
ARCHIVIST
(gentle) I love you too.
[STATIC RISES AS THE ARCHIVIST COMMANDS.]
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
Ceaseless Watcher, see this servant of your gaze. See his binds to the One Alone and the Spinner Of Schemes. Release him of them, and let him feel the fear of the End Of All Things. Release him into the embrace of Death.
[THE STATIC CRESCENDOS INTO A SINGLE MOMENTARY GLITCH IN THE TAPE AS MARTIN DISAPPEARS, THEN FADES. THE WHISPERING OF THE PANOPTICON IS ALL WE CAN HEAR FOR SEVERAL SECONDS.]
[THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS TO QUIETLY SOB, THEN WEEP. OUTSIDE, A MOURNFUL WAIL ROILS LIKE THUNDER AS THE SKY WEEPS WITH HIM.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE PANOPTICON'S WHISPERING HAS GROWN TO THE SHIFTING BABBLE OF A CROWD, TOO MANY VOICES TO MAKE OUT ANYTHING MORE THAN THE OCCASIONAL WORD. THE ARCHIVIST IS SILENT. WE LINGER FOR A LONG TIME.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE PANOPTICON AMBIANCE IS BACK TO THE USUAL BACKGROUND MURMUR. THE ARCHIVIST INHALES SHARPLY, AS THOUGH COMING TO A DECISION.]
[WIND BEGINS TO RUSH THROUGH. IT GROWS LOUDER, THEN ABRUPTLY ENDS WHEN SOMETHING IMPACTS THE FLOOR. DEBRIS CLATTERS AS THE FIGURE STANDS UP FROM THE RESULTING CRATER.]
SIMON
Oh, goodness me, this is most definitely not where I was aiming. Where— Oh.
(cautious) Archivist. I didn't know you could divert my path like this.
ARCHIVIST
(heavy with static) I couldn't. I can now.
SIMON
And to what do I owe the pleasure of your invitation?
ARCHIVIST
Martin wanted me to kill you.
SIMON
I see. You decided to do as he asks, did you?
ARCHIVIST
Yes.
SIMON
And there's nothing I can do to change your mind again?
ARCHIVIST
There isn't.
SIMON
How unfortunate. I suppose nothing is forever, is it?
Where is he, anyhow? I rather thought he'd want to be here to—
ARCHIVIST
Enough.
SIMON
Oh, fine, if you just want to get straight to business. Let it never be said I didn't face my judgement with dignity.
Go on then, Archivist. Send me off to the great beyond.
ARCHIVIST
Ceaseless Watcher, turn your gaze upon this man who delights in dooming all to the Eternal Fall. See their fear of the unfathomable scale of existence. Take it, and fill him with it, until his meagre shell of humanity is obliterated.
[STATIC BUILDS AS THE ARCHIVIST SPEAKS. SIMON FAIRCHILD BREATHES HEAVILY AT FIRST, THEN WHIMPERS, THEN SCREAMS AS HE IS SCATTERED INTO NOTHING. THE STATIC FADES.]
[AFTER A BEAT, THE ARCHIVIST LETS OUT A HEAVY SIGH. THE MURMUR OF THE PANOPTICON RISES INTO THE NUMBING BABBLE OF A CROWD ONCE MORE, FILLING THE OTHERWISE EMPTY AIR.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE ARCHIVIST'S BREATHING IS AUDIBLE AMIDST THE WHIPERED BACKGROUND OF THE PANOPTICON.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
(hesitant) Martin... i-is about to die.
He shouldn't be aware of this. Death, even here under the sway of the End, shouldn't be something you can see coming, not like this. Even before the Change, death could only be scheduled when it had been bypassed previously, when the body or brain or both were already dead and the only thing keeping you alive were medical machines full of tubes and pumps.
No, this is different. For the entire time he's been walking his own corpse root, Martin has been acutely aware of its end. Every step brings him closer, no matter which way he turns. He can walk over grass or concrete or tarmac or carpet of tile, and yet his feet always feel the truth, the rounded uneven texture of the root upon which he treads.
The world around him is a mere façade. The streets are all but empty, and what few cars roll by have tinted windows that conceal their lack of drivers. The people on the TV are dead-eyed, their speech always slightly off, with words and turns of phrase that don't quite make sense. The brands in the supermarket are all misspelled. The stories in books, at least those he is familiar with, don't go quite as he remembers.
Even here, in the pretension of normalcy the End grants him, he cannot escape being alone. But Martin knows even that is a farce. He is never alone, not really. He is always watched. He can feel it. It's comforting, most of the time. He talks to himself, knowing his watcher will be there to listen.
He has wandered through this empty, quiet world for a long time. He could keep track of it, but what would be the point? The only thing that matters is how long he still has left, not how long he's been here.
It's close now. Even if he didn't know the moment of his death down to the second, he'd feel it coming. His joints have grown stiff. His eyesight is worse. His back and knees pain him. He can only be thankful that his mind is still his own. Martin couldn't bear forgetting, not again.
Every second is another irretrievable grain of sand in the hourglass of his life. He has weeks left, as he travels to all his favorite spots. He has days left as he enjoys his favorite foods. He has hours left, as he tidies everything in his home. He has—
[FOR THE FIRST TIME, THE ARCHIVIST'S VOICE BREAKS MID-STATEMENT. HE DRAWS IN A SHAKY BREATH.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT, CONT'D)
Martin has m-minutes left, as he sinks into the comfiest chair he has and sighs deeply, and he... H-He calls to me.
He says... that he's sorry. He wishes I could be there with him now, that I could... h-hold his hand one last time. He hopes that maybe, m-maybe whatever's on the other side, maybe it'll be a place where we can be together again, a-away from the Eye, the Fears, everything.
He h-has... seconds left, as he rests his head and closes his eyes and mourns not his imminent End, but... m-me. How I used to be. The last thing he sees in his mind's eye is my face, before...
B-Before his heart seizes up. The pressure builds in his chest, then ripples outward, a needling ache that spreads up into his shoulder and down along his spine. His breath grows short. His skin breaks into a cold sweat. Nausea makes the whole world sway. The pain grows sharper, deeper, it crawls up his neck and into his throat, it fills his ribcage with lead.
Martin gasps. His eyes snap open, but his vision is already full of too many flashing stars to see anything. A reedy whine is forced from his lungs, the last choked exhale of a dying man. He feels every desperate pulse of his heart as it withers in his chest.
Until he doesn't. His heart spasms one last time, and grows still. His awareness fades. Martin... M-Martin is dead.
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
Goodbye.
[THE ARCHIVIST'S BREATH SHAKES. HE SOBS QUIETLY INTO HIS HANDS. TEARS FALL OUTSIDE, A SILENT RAIN OF GRIEF THAT BLANKETS EVERYTHING BETWEEN THE PANOPTICON AND THE CENTER OF THE CORPSE ROOTS.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE TYPICAL PANOPTICON AMBIANCE IS CUT THROUGH WITH DISTANT, MUFFLED THUMPS AND GROWLS. A STRANGE PEAL OF THUNDER ROLLS ACROSS THE SKY. THE RUMBLE OF AN EARTHQUAKE CAUSES THE WALLS TO GROAN.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
The Fears sense their dwindling supply. They send their fragments to beat themselves upon the feet of my throne. They break through layer after layer, glass shards filling their misbegotten forms, but the glass is endless. They will never reach the top. They will never pierce the Pupil of the Eye.
How does a thing of Fear feel afraid? How does a thing without mind, without thought, without direction or life, feel about the inevitable end of its existence? How does reality exist, when the things that weave its fabric are afraid and at odds?
The Fearscape is splitting. Lines are being drawn, like ragged cuts upon blistered skin. The Flesh raises living palisades of bone, teeth and claw. The Slaughter digs in its trenches, as many weapons pointed outward as inward. The edges of the Dark fill with unseen, shapeless guardians. The Vast expands and the Buried sinks, both cradling their victims deep within.
The Eye revels in the terrible knowledge plaguing its fellows. The Eye watches the futile attempts of the other Fears to hold onto their victims. The Eye is not afraid, because the Eye is fed by all, while the others must subsist only on those trapped under their sway.
And the End... The End waits. The End's roots grow slowly and inexorably across the Fearscape. They snap through bone and snake through trenches and burrow through dirt and drift in the wind, reaching out to all those who must fill the spaces the dead have left behind.
The End does not pluck its chosen out of their nightmares, but rather puts a timer on their existence. The Domain remains the same. The torture is unchanged. But the chosen of the End begin to age again, or are afflicted by starvation, or thirst, or simply cannot be put back together after being ripped apart. They die, once and forever.
Nothing can stop it. Even a desperate change in the torment cannot prevent it. A Hunt may end with scratches instead of a killing bite, but the wounds turn septic. The cold of the Lonely may abate, but the hypothermia has already set in. The simple reality of living flesh and time draws all toward the End.
[THE MUFFLED SOUNDS OF CREATURES CONTINUE IN THE BACKGROUND. THE ARCHIVIST GIVES A SINGLE BREATH OF A CHUCKLE.]
ARCHIVIST
And soon, the Eye will also be afraid.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE PANOPTICON IS ONCE AGAIN LOUD LIKE A CROWD. THE BABBLE OF VOICES REMAINS UNINTELLIGIBLE, BUT THEIR NUMBER HAS NOTICEABLY DECREASED. THE ARCHIVIST IS, ONCE AGAIN, SILENT IN THE NUMBING WHITE NOISE.]
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE WHISPERING AMBIANCE IS QUIETER, BARELY NOTICEABLE. THERE ARE CREATURES OUTSIDE THE PANPTICON AGAIN. THEY SOUND CLOSER, ANGRIER. THEIR HOWLS AND SHRIEKS RATTLE THE WALLS.]
[THE ARCHIVIST LAUGHS MIRTHLESSLY. HIS TONE IS DESOLATE.]
ARCHIVIST
There's nothing you can do. There's nothing anyone can do. The End is coming for all of us.
[CLICK]
[CLICK]
[THE PANOPTICON IS ALL BUT SILENT. THERE ARE NO WHISPERS. NO CREATURES OF FEAR CLAW USELESSLY AT THE WALLS. IN FACT, NO WALLS SEEM TO BE PRESENT AT ALL AS WIND BLOWS THROUGH LIKE QUIET BREATHS.]
[FOOTSTEPS APPROACH.]
OLIVER
Hello, Jon. Can I... Can I call you Jon?
ARCHIVIST
Oliver.
[THE ARCHIVIST'S VOICE IS WEAK. IT REMAINS SO THROUGHOUT.]
ARCHIVIST (CONT'D)
I haven't heard that name in so long. Yes, I... I think I'd like that.
What are you doing here?
OLIVER
Well, it's the end of the world, isn't it? I figured I ought to be here to see the last person who's going to die before I do.
ARCHIVIST
I appreciate the company. Do you see the corpse roots on me?
OLIVER
Of course. They're pouring out of your eyes and tangling into a knot over your heart.
ARCHIVIST
Hm. Fitting, I suppose.
OLIVER
Are you scared?
ARCHIVIST
(light chuckle) I'm terrified. The Eye is terrified. We can see the edges of reality slowly shrinking around us. Every death upon your roots shears away another layer of existence. We've been able to see everything for so long, but now the everything that's left is so small.
(frightened whisper) We have nowhere to go.
OLIVER
No, I guess you don't. But that's okay, yeah? It's what you wanted.
ARCHIVIST
Yes. That doesn't make not knowing what comes after any less terrifying.
OLIVER
I understand. I'm scared too.
Do you... want to talk? Maybe make a Statement of the last few people walking my roots?
ARCHIVIST
No. I've talked enough. And she is still listening.
OLIVER
Who?
ARCHIVIST
The Spider. The Web. The tapes.
OLIVER
Tapes? What— Oh! This?
[HE WALKS OVER TO THE TAPE RECORDER AND PICKS IT UP.]
ARCHIVIST
Jonah Magnus used me to usher in the end of the world. The Web was going to use me to escape it. But I didn't let it. Now it just sits there and listens.
OLIVER
Huh. We'll, I can't say I really understand all that, but... I guess that's not going to matter for too much longer.
ARCHIVIST
No, it won't.
[OLIVER SETS THE RECORDER ASIDE AND SITS ON THE FLOOR.]
OLIVER
Do you want to sit? Talking to you while you're ominously floating there is a bit awkward, to be honest.
ARCHIVIST
...Okay.
[THEY SIT TOGETHER. IN THE SILENCE, THE WIND IS NOTICEABLY QUIETER. THERE IS A HOLLOWNESS TO THE SOUND, LIKE STANDING IN AN IMPOSSIBLY LARGE ROOM. THE TWO ARE SILENT FOR A LONG MOMENT.]
[WHEN THE ARCHIVIST JONATHAN SIMS SPEAKS AGAIN, THE LAYERED UNDERCURRENT OF STATIC IS GONE FROM HIS VOICE.]
JON
You don't know what comes after death, do you?
OLIVER
I don't. I'm sorry.
JON
No, it's okay. I already knew you didn't, I just...
OLIVER
Yeah, I get it.
JON
Sometimes I wonder what would've happened if you'd never come to talk to me in the hospital. Would I have stayed in that twilight of death forever?
OLIVER
Maybe. But if this was all a plan by the Spider, I'm sure She would've found a way to wake you, with or without me.
JON
Probably.
[SILENCE. THE WIND IS ALL BUT GONE. THERE IS ONLY THE HOLLOW ECHO OF NOTHINGNESS CLOSING IN.
[SUDDENLY, JON GASPS.]
OLIVER
Only one left.
JON
(scared whisper) Yes.
Did I make the right choice?
OLIVER
What choice?
JON
This. Dooming the world. Trapping the Fears. Watching it all die.
OLIVER
I don't know, Jon. And at this point, it doesn't matter anymore. We've all made our choices. There's no turning back.
[JON LETS OUT A BREATH, TRYING AND FAILING TO QUELL HIS MOUNTING DREAD.]
JON
Can I hold your hand?
OLIVER
I mean, I don't know how much comfort it's going to be. I run pretty cold.
JON
So did Martin after the Lonely.
OLIVER
Then sure.
JON
Thanks.
[CLOTHING RUSTLES AS THEY DRAW CLOSER. WHEN THEY SETTLE, THE SILENCE IS DEAFENING. THE WIND HAS STOPPED. THEY AND WHAT'S LEFT OF THE WORLD ARE SILENT FOR A FULL MINUTE.]
[EVENTUALLY, JON LETS OUT A SHAKY BREATH.]
OLIVER
It's time.
JON
I'm scared.
OLIVER
That's okay. Most people are when they die. Maybe you'll get to be with Martin again?
JON
Maybe.
OLIVER
Go on. Lie down.
[CLOTHING RUSTLES.]
JON
Thank you, Oliver. For everything.
OLIVER
Of course. Now just... let go.
[AIR DRAINS OUT OF JON'S LUNGS IN A LONG EXHALE THAT DISSIPATES INTO NOTHING. FOR A FEW SECONDS, THERE IS ONLY PURE, UNBROKEN SILENCE.]
OLIVER (CONT'D)
Well... That's it then.
The End.
[CLICK]