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“Hello, Jon.”
A tremor ran through the archivist’s hand. He clenched his fists, trying to hide it.
“Jonah,” he said, the one word tasting of bitter hatred on his tongue. He expected to find Jonah Magnus in the same state he had last seen him in hours earlier, standing ramrod inside the panopticon as all the knowledge of the universe coursed through him and back to The Watcher in an endless loop. The pupil of The Eye, a place that was never his.
The Watcher knew that. It would have eagerly released him to welcome Jon in his place. Apparently, it’s done so unrequested, and there was Jonah Magnus in the body of Elias Bouchard, standing at just enough distance, waiting for Jon’s return.
“I can’t see the others from here, you know that, but I'm assuming Martin doesn’t know you’re here,” he said, infuriatingly collected as he had always been.
“No, he doesn’t. But he will soon,” Jon answered.
“Well, I believe you wouldn’t appreciate the interruption in what you’ve come to do. Seeing as he must not approve of it.”
“You know why I’m here.”
“Of course,” he smiled, nodding his chin towards the knife on the floor between them.
“It was left here in my last encounter with Martin and Peter. I believe it would serve your purpose. They also left this,” he held up a familiar book. A Leitner. The very one he had seen with the man himself in the only time they met. Jonah opened it, eyes lingering on the page for a moment.
“There. Should give you enough time to carry out your plan uninterrupted.”
Jon knew he shifted the tunnels; what he didn’t understand was why. Jonah saw the question in his mind and continued smiling.
He wouldn’t fall for the temptation. He had a mission. He will make things right, or as right as they could possibly be, compared to the alternative.
He closed the distance, picking up the knife and barreling towards the other man, his mind set.
“The last statement of Jonah Magnus, regarding his Archive.”
Jon froze, nearly stumbling with the sudden halt. It wasn’t an external force that controlled him, but his own instinct, and in a way, it was the same thing.
He squeezed the hilt tighter.
“No. You will not do this again. I’ve already heard enough.”
“And yet, you feel compelled to listen, more than you have in all your journey here. I’m impressed with the willpower you have to fight it, especially in this place. I can understand that your resolve to take my place here is more powerful than any need you have ever experienced.”
“Only to end the hell you’ve created.”
“Come now, Jon,” he said knowingly, “No need to lie when it’s only the two of us here. If there’s one person who can truly understand you, it’s me. I know you. I created you.”
Jon gritted his teeth. He wasn’t wrong. He couldn’t resist the statement in Jonah’s mind. The last words of Jonah Magnus, and the final statement he would receive, before bringing about the end of the world. One last meal.
“Where shall I begin?” Jonah mused, “You already know my history, my plan, the steps I’ve taken, and everything that led us here, so where should I really begin to talk about you, Jon?
Well, I suppose first impressions are as good a place as any.
I can’t say I was much impressed with you when you first came in for an interview. There really had been nothing remarkable about you but the mark of the web, that, and how impressed you had been with me.”
Jon was transfixed, having given up the fight, he lost himself in the statement, the sound of the other man, and the images that flashed through his mind. He let them, let Jonah Magnus take control of him once more.
“You had been starting to pick your life up, still aimless but trying to pretend you weren’t. Then we met that day, and I hired you. While we haven’t met many times after, I could see it in the times we had, how impressionable you were. You needed a superior, you craved the validation they could give you, the nod of acknowledgment on a job well done. You looked up to me, sought to prove yourself, worked harder than any task demanded. I must say, I rather enjoyed it. There’s a difference between being respected and being revered, and I confess to being egotistical enough to crave the second.
So when I decided that Gertrude had served her tenure and my plans must resume with another, more fitting Archivist, no one seemed fitter for the role. More than just bearing a mark, I knew how much you’d be willing to push yourself to prove that you were worthy of it. And it would be easy to manipulate a mind like yours, so unlike your predecessor.
And I was right. You took to your new role better than I imagined.
It was truly amusing, listening to your notes on each statement, hearing your skepticism and effort to deny any paranormal explanation when there simply couldn’t be any other explanations for the events you recorded. You knew that. Deep down, you felt the dim spark of fear seeping into your mind with every statement, but you so desperately wanted to maintain the air of logic and professionalism that you dismissed it.
I have listened to every tape you recorded, Jon. every statement. I spent hours replaying them, compelled by your voice and how your tone changed to fit the subject, how your accent sometimes slipped into theirs, how you, unaware, said certain foreign words in perfect pronunciation, even when you didn’t speak the language.
I have watched the development of every archivist before you, but I found none truly as compelling as you.
It was then that I starting believing that you might really be the perfect candidate for the role I chose for you. And perhaps there was the beginning of my real fixation on you.
I watched you. Through the eyes of my painting in the archives, placed in a perfect position to have its gaze fixed on the seat where you recorded your statements. I watched every change of expression, the way your eyes grew distant as you spoke words you didn’t realize you weren’t even reading, they were pouring from your own mind through your lips. It was such a sight!
Occasionally, I would indulge myself and visit you in person, interrupting you while you read a statement with an inane comment or to warn you about a complaint we received regarding your attitude toward one of the subjects. Watching your eyes refocus, your face contort in offense at the accusation, and beneath it, poorly hidden, the worry of how a complaint reflects on my opinion of you and your fit in the new position.
I didn’t care for the complaint, Jon. I found it amusing the way you judged and dismissed the subjects you deemed unworthy of your time. I just wanted to see you.”
The knife trembled in Jon’s grip as Jonah circled him like a hyena. Jon’s eyes followed him, unable to break contact even if he wanted to. The current pupil of the eye was laying himself bare for it, and it eagerly wanted to see him. It was disorientating, reading Jonah’s statement when they both were almost one and the same for The Watcher. Like trying to see an image reflected in a hundred mirrors within each other, Jon no longer sure if he was seeing Jonah’s memories or his own.
He knew he should be afraid of this realization. But not at the moment. Not as the statement went on.
Jonah stood before him, fingers reaching to touch his cheek softly. If Jon was able to move freely, he would’ve flinched away from the gentle touch. He knew it was a lie.
“You know of the events that followed,” Jonah said, tracing the pokemarks littering his face, “I’ve already told you of how I let Jane Printess in to test your ability to survive her. You resent me for that, for letting you face the fear and pain, not only you, but Tim and Martin as well. You believe that if the attack hadn't happened, Sasha wouldn’t have faced that creature.
All these are facts I won’t bother denying. I had a purpose, and you were all serving your parts as I planned it, quite successfully, too.
But do you know how it was for me, sitting in my office, one hand on the trigger, waiting to see if you’ll live or fail me?
I was honestly surprised with myself then, because in that moment, I felt something that I hadn't felt for another being in as long as i can remember. I was worried, Jon.
I had led myself to believe in your compatibility. That you were the perfect archivist. That The Web, the only entity I held respect for beside our patron, had sent you to me. Even though I was testing you, I held my breath in hopes that you would pass. Because I couldn't think of any one else who may fit this role other than you. The wait for the worms to burrow deep enough into you was torturous, but I forced myself still until I tasted your fear.
I had been the first to reach you, getting these things out of you, hating how they dared to try and claim you.
But it was fine, because you succeeded and came out bearing your third mark. More than any human had ever survived. I was sure then that you were perfect. I was so proud of you from that moment, then every step of the way. Even now, Jon. I'm so proud of the thing you’ve become.”
He cupped Jon’s darker cheek tenderly. Jon knew he should hate it. He knew that if he had a choice, he would’ve slapped his hand away.
He was sure that the ache in his chest was Jonah’s feelings seeping through. That the need to rest his face against that cold touch was not his own.
It couldn’t be.
Jonah smiled, seeing through Jon in the way that only he could. The mirrors between them were two-way. He rubbed his thumb beneath Jon’s eye comfortingly.
“You know of my plans after, or my one plan of sending you into The Unknowing. I’m not a spider; I cannot weave multiple paths and directions in a way that is impossible to predict, yet never fail. I imagined that getting you marked by all the fears would take many years, and yet, you seemed to be doing all the work for me. All I had to do was provide you with a statement, and you would jump headfirst into an encounter with another monster.
I had to sit and plan how to get you to meet those who wouldn’t straight-up kill you. And at some point, I stopped worrying. With every new mark, I trusted that you wouldn’t fail. You wouldn’t get yourself killed and waste our progress.
The only time I was truly worried, infuriated in a way I hadn't been in years, was when you found that old bastard, Jurgan Leitner.
I’m not a violent man, Jon. Two centuries of learning to outlive all those who succumb to their patrons and lose every semblance of self have taught me a thing or two about patience and restraint.
But I am a very possessive man.
Seeing Leitner, hearing him feed you all that untimely knowledge, threatening the meticulous process of your cultivation.
I could have eliminated him in a much more civil and discreet manner, as I did with Gertrude. But he dared to try and influence what was mine. Infect your brain and change your course, which I had ever so delicately planned for you.
I felt nothing for him but rage and blind hatred. That old fool, scuttling like a rat under my institute, talking to my archivist.
I simply couldn’t help myself.”
He breathed, loosening his grip around the darker man’s jaw, where his fingers were digging into in his anger. Rubbing soothing circles there with his thumb in apology.
“It led to more unplanned events, such as you having to leave the institute. I didn’t like that. Not that you were out of my sight in any capacity, but you belonged in my institute, where I can find you at all times. But I trusted you and gave you what you needed to find your way.
You managed to collect some strays, but they all served their purpose.
There is something especially fascinating in watching your relationships with others.
How did you manage to get nearly everyone to distrust and hate you, while doing absolutely nothing to deserve that?
Melanie said it was your fault she was trapped in the institute, but she signed the contract of her own free will, just another job after her silly project failed.
Tim said that he wouldn’t forgive you, but I never understood for what. I don’t believe you ever did either, but you just accepted that you deserved it.
They blamed you because they needed someone to antagonize. To pin the responsibility of their poor life choices and bad luck on. They could hate me, but they also feared me. You? You were just Jon, exhausted, scarred, and already carrying the guilt of everything that wasn’t your fault. A perfect punching bag.
It served me well. If they all left, you would have no one to turn to but me. They all kept pushing you towards me, and I knew it was only a matter of time before you surrendered yourself to me willingly. I wouldn’t have had to manipulate or misguide you anymore. You would’ve served me anyway.
And in that state, Jon. In your most tired, shunned, and broken. I would have held your fragile body and told you all about how beautiful you are. How you’re nearly complete. I would’ve taken you by the hand to receive the remaining marks, and you would’ve endured the pain and fear because you would know that I would be there afterwards to comfort you and take care of you. Keep you in the best shape an Archive could ever reach.
It would’ve been so much easier. If only I hadn’t been complacent enough to miss one element.
Martin.
Why had I added Martin to your team? Simple, he was disposable. Just like Michael Shelly was to Gertrude. Someone unremarkable. Unimportant. She used Michael to unnecessarily stop a ritual, and it affected her even if she didn’t show it. I wanted you to have someone like that at your disposal in case you needed it as well.
A stammering, incompetent fool who lied on his resume to get a job, practically offering himself to be sacrificed.
Perhaps I should've taken the fake resume and his ability to lie almost flawlessly through the interview more seriously.
I must admit it was rather amusing, watching how you treated him while he recorded poems about you. No matter how much I think about it in hindsight, I can't see a way I could've predicted him. But once I’d realized his cunning nature and how well it was hidden, I took no risks.
The archives had staff affiliated with The Web before, and I wasn’t keen on that happening again. While I appreciated her support thus far, I much prefer she stayed out of my direct path. So I offered Peter Lukas to choose one of my employees, knowing full well he would choose Martin, effectively switching his orientation from The Web to The Lonely, or so I thought.
What I hadn’t anticipated was you, Jon. I was confident that upon your return to the living, with no friends, purpose, or any kind of support, you would only have me.
I planned on keeping myself out of your reach and letting the watcher consume you, let it break what was left of you until it was the perfect time for me to return and collect your shattered pieces, marked and ready. I felt rather betrayed when you chose another emotional pillar. The very man you deemed incompetent before.
I suppose it was understandable. You turned to the only one who still showed you kindness and affection when no one else did. I thought his affiliation with The Lonely would keep him at a distance so as not to disrupt my plans, but it seems that it only made you worry for him. After all, followers of that specific entity tended to inspire... sympathy.
So you used him as an emotional pillar. Whenever things got too dreary, whenever Detective Basira regarded you with distrust, and Milanie refused to see you without attempting to murder you, you sought him out, telling yourself that you needed to make sure he was alright, when you actually needed him to comfort you. To look at you with kindness and talk to you as if you were still human, even when everything and everyone suggested otherwise.
And the more he evaded you, the more you needed him. It’s sort of a dance between the two of you, isn't it?
You say you love him, he says he loves you, yet until you had been forced to stick together, you two did everything in your power to avoid the other when they tried to get close.
It’s part of The Lonely mindset, actually. I’ve experienced it with Peter for a while. They need their love interest to be unreachable. They feed off the misery of loving someone who would never love them back. That’s what Martin did, even before he was associated with the fear. He started his job as your assistant and almost immediately fell head over heels for you when you hadn’t shown him so much as a workplace courtesy. Because that’s what he needed. Someone he can pine for. Lament about.
He fancied Tim for a short while, did you know that? No, I believe you deliberately, if not consciously, tried avoiding learning too much about what he thought in those early days, out of guilt for how you treated him. But he did. Tim was handsome and confident, everything he was not.
It didn’t last long, though. Because Tim would’ve been willing to go along with it, if only for a bit of fun. It would’ve been easy with Tim to have an ill-advised affair, then bounce right back as friends. And that’s not what Martin needed. A man like him, who had known nothing but rejection and desertion from his own family, his only concept of love is the unattainable. Before you, every relationship he’s been in failed to last and left him a little but more broken, because he always chose the people who were guaranteed to break his heart.
He loved you, Jon, because he could paint an imaginary version of you in his mind and write poetry about, and you would never get close enough to destroy it.
Which begs the question, did he love you at all? Does Martin, right now, trying to get through the tunnels and make his way here to stop you, actually love the thing that you are?
And if you only loved him because you needed him. Because you needed someone who could force you to remain human, then do you, Jon, really love him?
Or is it just the circumstances that forced the two of you to depend on each other?
If, hypothetically, the two of you somehow survived all this and ended up, I don’t know, somewhere else, where nothing was haunting you, and you could have a normal, mundane life, do you think your love would withstand that?
I serve a voyeuristic god, Jon, so you will understand if I watched you keenly after you escaped the institute with him. All your efforts to cling to each other and keep the other human. Your shared intimacy.
It angered me, at first, seeing another claiming what was mine. But the deeper I looked, the more confident I became that I had nothing to worry about because Martin doesn’t understand.
You try not to look, yet you still can’t help but glimpse into his mind, and then you see how wary he is of you sometimes. How his lips thin when you locate an object around the cabin that you’re not supposed to know was there. He acts playful and interested in your infinite knowledge, quizzing and pushing for harmless fun, but you know that he’s actually testing you, gauging how unnatural you’ve become.
He loves you. You know that he loves you, but you also know that he hates what you’re becoming. He hates every inhuman aspect of you, and with those aspects growing stronger and talking over, you know that at some point soon, there will be more of you to hate than love.
So you hide to the best of your abilities, but The Watcher is demanding, and no matter how hard you fight it, you have to feed it. You have to narrate and archive the fears, explain to it what it's gazing upon incomprehensibly. So Martin lets go of your hand and leaves you to face it alone.
Your left hand, of course. He never holds your right hand; the mutilated skin there makes him wince, as do all your scars.
The first time you allowed yourself the vulnerability of showing him your bare torso, hoping for comfort and acceptance of a body you avoid looking at, his wide eyes traced the damage on your skin, and you could never erase the look of dismay and pity he had from your memory, no matter how hard you wished otherwise. He looked at you and saw you weak, damaged, broken. He held and comforted you, whispered apologies over a pain he could never understand, because you know that the mark of The Lonely have always felt the kindest. You made sure to never show him your body after, and if he noticed, he didn’t push; if anything, he might have been relieved.
He could never understand.
I will shamelessly admit to the countless hours I’ve spent letting my mind drift to the knowledge of your every scar. I know exactly how many poke marks there are on your skin. I can perfectly paint a picture of you with the exact shape and proportions of every wound from memory alone.
And when learning wasn't enough, I looked through every eye around you to see them. Those old posters on your bedroom wall. The figurines on your desk. Georgie’s cat. Through Martin’s eyes as he gazed upon you in bed with pity and concern. I watched you until I could see nothing but you, and I wanted you.
You must understand that this want isn’t the basic, animalistic lust. No, you're above that. You should never be regarded in such a mundane, human manner. Your body is too valuable, and you know it, don't you? All along, you knew your body wasn't made to be desecrated with human desires. You felt repulsed by the very thought. Not even Martin. For all your love confessions, you wouldn’t have let him cross that line, but you would let me, Jon. You would let me run my fingers over your feverish skin, reading the intricate map which I designed. You would want me to see how perfect you are. Revealing all the marks for my eyes to devour. And oh, how I would devour.
I would worship your body with devoted lips. Every poke where a silver worm burrowed itself into your face. The gash on your throat where you have experienced a fear more acute than any you've known before. The divots in your ribcage that are too visible with how malnourished you are.
The scratch that the doctor didn't know how to stitch, as it just didn’t seem to decide on a shape or width. And even if the nerves had burned thouroughly enough to feel anything, I would kiss your hand all the same. Allow you the gentle, accepting, devoted touch you need until it overwhelms you.
I would kiss your lips, deep and merciless, until your lungs burn with the need for air as they always do when you’re once again falling endlessly. I would trap you under my weight, restraining and suffocating until you squirmed in that familiar panic of claustrophobia. I would even dare to defy our patron and cover your eyes, plunging you into darkness and the fear of not knowing what I would do to you next.
The thing about the marks is that they aren't just scars. You already know that, don't you?
The wounds clot and scab, the skin nets, and the lines fade with time. But they never heal. You can always feel the worms burrowing into your skin, you can always feel the stinging pressure on your neck, and the agonizing intrusion into your shoulder. You walk and talk and eat, all while feeling the touch of rubber-like skin violating your body as it massages sticky lotions onto yours.
And sometimes you cover your mouth with your left hand, digging your nails into your jaw so hard to keep from screaming the agony of your skin melting.
Because being marked by a fear meant that you were cursed to live that fear all the time as all they feed off you relentlessly. Your body is a banquet where the gods feast equally, all under The Eye’s watchful gaze.
Do you realize how special you are? How unique? You are a thing that unites the gods. You are their shared conduit. They all crave you insatiably, but you truly belong to The Eye. To me. My magnificent archive.
You wouldn’t fight me. Not really. You could try freeing yourself. I am but a man, after all. But you would stay and let me taste every fear I planted in you instead. You want to be seen. So desperate to prove your worth to our God. You want to preen under its all-consuming gaze. To prostrate yourself at its altar and let it, let me drink it all in.
And I would gorge myself on all you had to offer, the fear in your mind, the saltness of your tears, the metal of your blood, the heat of your skin, and the sound of your broken pleas.
I would get lost in my archive. And believe me, it would be a true struggle to find my way out.
And here we are now, Jon. In the world I’ve created for us. You stand before me with a knife, ready to take your revenge for your friends and colleagues, for every single human out there who’s suffering endlessly because of me. But not for yourself.
You think you hate me, and I believe you, but you’re also as euphoric about all this as I am. You’re afraid of allowing yourself to think about how similar we are, how intoxicating it is to have someone who recognizes you. Understands you. You’re afraid of letting yourself embrace the power that sings to you. Fighting your very nature just to prove that you’re still something you’re not. You have ascended, Jon. You’re no longer human, no longer an archivist; you are the archive of all that is in this world under our God’s gaze. I have created you to be a tool for my ascension, but I see you now, and I know that you are so much more than what I have planned for you.
Yes, I can't be the pupil of the eye, because I'm not enough. I need you beside me. It wants you there, both of us, feeding it and feeding on it, two faces of a coin finally meeting; we are incomplete without each other, Jon.
You can kill me now, you can take my place and lie to yourself that you’re doing it to save the world and not because of the hunger that’s gnawing on your mind. It would work. You would fit almost perfectly. But only so, because The Archive is a mindless thing. It collects and categorizes incomprehensibly. But I can read you, Jon. I can be there with you, seeing all that you are, and appreciate you. Worship you as you deserve to be worshipped. You only have meaning if I was there to give you one. Otherwise, what are you but the unlucky human who doomed the world and then ended it?
You have the knife, Jon. Make your choice.
Statement ends.”
Jon gasped, finally released from The Watcher’s trance and regaining control of his body, or not. His knees buckled under his weight, and he almost fell if it wasn’t for Jonah Magnus catching him. Arms placed under Jon’s own. Leaning his weight against the older man’s chest, Jon heaved, then started sobbing.
Because it was true. Everything Jonah said was true. He felt exposed. Raw. worthless.
Make your choice. Has he ever had a choice? Between The Web and Jonah Magnus, and hiding and altering everything that he was or had no control over becoming, Had there been any moment in his life when he chose? Had there been any choice he made that wasn’t out of sheer desperation with his back against the wall?
There was a choice now. Possibly the first time in all his life he’s been granted the mercy of one.
Long fingers buried themselves into his heir as he was held in reverence worthy of only the most important object in a universe where nothing mattered anymore.
He could choose not to die alone.
The knife clattered to the floor, and Jonah held him tighter. He could hear the pleased smile over his shoulder.
“Open the door, Jon. Let us in.”
And so Jon did, at last releasing the desperate grip he had on that part of his mind. On his humanity, and letting the power flood. And he drowned.
He was no longer Jonathan Sims. No longer The Archivist. He became The Archive. The greatest and most powerful force in this universe. The parts of him that are human were devoured like film frames burning one by one. It was agonizing yet euphoric. To finally be.
Arms still held him until they felt as if they were part of him. The Archive and its Curator. The Eye welcomed its new pupil eagerly, almost lovingly. It was perfect. Complete.
“Jon?” A voice came, and it was distantly familiar. Something within the creature moved at the sound of it, a part that hasn’t yet been burnt, but is about to be. It felt like both regret and triumph.
“What have you done?” The voice sounded betrayed. Wide, glassy eyes looked up at the creature, and it could see itself through them; it felt both horror and adoration at its own horrendous sight.
“What had to be done,” it said in a voice that was the culmination of billions.
“No,” the human spat, tears leaking from his eyes even as they filled with anger, “You did what you wanted to do, you bastard. It was never about saving the world, it was about you. About becoming this.”
“Perhaps,” it answered, “But it doesn’t matter anymore. I am what we are.”
“We. You didn’t kill him, you joined him, just as he wanted for you all along. After everything he’s done to you. To everyone!”
The creature didn’t reply. It wanted to apologize and gloat. It felt shame and pride and nothing at all.
“What about me?” The human said, his anger breaking into grief.
“You will survive until there’s no longer a world to survive. You will be safe, Martin.”
“You fucking idiot. I knew you couldn’t help yourself. I knew you would come here where you truly wanted to be, so I sent the others to light this fucking place on fire.”
The creature would’ve argued, but it knew immediately that there was no argument. The Web has seen right through The Archivist's plans and made sure to take precautions.
If the creature knew how, it would’ve smiled and snarled.
“You can walk out,” it said, “They can destroy the building, but The Archive will endure. You will survive outside as well. You already have a place in this world.”
“I‘ve already chosen my place,” the human said, picking up the knife from the floor and looking at the creature with resolve, “Even if it didn’t choose me back.”