Chapter Text
“…This is not the first time Mikaele Salesa’s name has come to the attention of the Institute. Even discounting the incidental role he played in case #0112905, he appears to have something of a knack for locating objects displaying more… disconcerting phenomena. I believe some of the more bizarre things in the Artefact Storage area were purchased from him. It has been something of a –
Urgh! Urgh…”
Jumping up from his chair with a lurch and sending it scraping backwards along the floor, Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, graduate of Oxford, and resident skeptic, exerted his great and mighty willpower for the arduous task of not simply throwing his tape recorder at the nearby shelf and screaming bloody murder. Another god damned spider. How they kept slipping into the archives was anyone’s guess but Jon had to assume that it was the same way those silvery worms kept wriggling through uninvited. Perhaps it was too much to hope for the worms and arachnids to see each other as prey and reduce the burden on his already fraying patience.
Rolling up a stack of ridiculous and laughably false statements that Tim had graciously prepared for him to sign off on, Jon prepared to strike the spider as hard as he could and end its miserable life once and for all. Slowly, ever so slowly, the archivist encroached, a bead of sweat trailing down his brow for reasons he could not define.
“I see you…” Sims uttered as he raised his arm in preparation for a strike before he froze dead in his tracks. Despite his recent claim, he had only truly traced the outline of the offending creature but now, unshielded from the gloom of dusty books and files, Jon finally truly beheld his prey. It was a fat, lumpy thing, no larger than a 20p coin and yet the oily black of its distended abdomen almost seemed to bulge and writhe in an unnatural way. It was still, far too still for any spider outside of its web, sitting comfortably on the shelf in the light of his office, in defiance of gods and man. In defiance of him. Distantly, Jon was reminded of the statement of Carlos Vittery and his encounter with a spider of similarly spiteful disposition, and the retribution that followed, a body encased in webbing…
His hand shook.
Clearly Martin was getting to him, insisting that there was something more to the statement than natural decay over a week could explain. And… and if Jon went through with killing the spider he’d be due for another lecture any moment from the man on their importance to the ecosystem or some such rot. Really, he had been trying to be kinder and more forgiving to Martin after all he went through just to impress him, perhaps this would be another gesture of goodwill. His employees couldn’t blame him for requesting their help when it was simply fulfilling another coworker’s earnest plea right? Really, it might be best to just spare the damn pest. But one thing was absolutely clear, it could not remain in his office. But what to do…
“Sasha!”
Jon swallowed heavily, his throat suddenly dry after calling out to one of his assistants. This was a mistake; he was being unprofessional and setting a bad example for the rest of his team. Deep down, Jon knew that Sasha and Tim had much preferred working in Research rather than the archives but he had so desperately wanted their familiarity, their competence. What would they think now that their fearless leader couldn’t handle a single spider?
Sure, his arachnophobia was well known around the Institute at this point but that was hardly a matter to make such a fuss over. It was always humiliating when his old fear surfaced, the undignified yelp he let out after finding a spider crawling through the loose binding of a book he had pulled from the library would haunt him for years to come. It was during that first year with Sasha as his desk neighbor, in the early months when she hadn’t yet dragged him on B&E adventures as her lookout or nagged him about lunch. He would never forget the stares as the entire research department seemed to go silent at his outburst, all turning to him at once to bear witness to his humiliation. It was too many eyes on him all at once and he had simply fled. Too many eyes…
Why was the spider still there? Why was it just staring at him as he stood frozen mid swing? It seemed judgmental and yet perplexed by his inaction if Jon was feeling generous enough to ascribe human emotions beyond sheer malice to the wretched thing. It wasn’t right. No matter how many eyes they had, spiders didn’t just… stare like this. Why was it staring? Why-
“Jon? You called?” Sasha inquired as she peaked her head around the cracked open door to his office. Without waiting for confirmation, Sasha pushed the door open further and walked in, eyeing his stance strangely. “You alright?”
“Yes, uhm, fine…” Jon stammered out, swallowing heavily around the lump in his throat. He did not take his eyes off of the spider. He did not lower his hand. “Just a, uhm, only a spider. I, well you know how I am about spiders but I didn’t want to suffer through another of Martin’s lectures. Perhaps, well, perhaps I should listen to him more as well. Would you…” he cleared his throat again, “would you help me take it outside? Or just, far away from my office.”
Sasha chuckled in a way that might sound judgmental to an outsider but only brought slight relief to Jon, “Sure Jon. It’s surprisingly sweet of you actually.”
“Well, I would still appreciate if you did not mention this to anyone…”
“God forbid the rest of the archives finally learn that Jonathan Sims has a conscience,” Sasha teased. “But sure, mum’s the word. Do you mind if I use the empty glass on your desk?”
Jon tilted his head in confusion, “For what?” He still did not look away from the spider.
The spider still did not look away from him. He could have sworn it tilted its head too.
“To scoop up the spider of course,” Sasha rolled her eyes. Or, at least Jon assumed she did. His attention was preoccupied…
“Oh! Yes, that would probably be helpful, uh…” Jon trailed off. He felt several sharp tugs on the papers rolled up in his hand and with effort that almost sent Jon staggering they finally came free. The Archivist did not look away until Sasha’s body had completely blocked his line of sight to the offending creature. With a deep exhale, Jon finally relaxed his stance, lowering his hand and flexing his fingers in an attempt to coax blood flow back into the strained digits, knuckles still white from his rigid grip.
“I cannot believe you used Tim’s statements to try to kill it. He worked hard on those you know! Even if they were going to end up in the “disproven” category,” Sasha admonished as she adjusted the glass over the paper.
Sheepishly, Jon fixed his glasses, pushing them back up the bridge of his nose, “Yes, well… that’s another thing I would, uhm, appreciate your discretion on.”
“Hmm, alright, but you owe me lunch, both for the spider and keeping quiet on your casual vandalism of valuable paranoid ramblings.”
Jon sighed, “Yes that seems more than fair, I-“
“And I’m not talking about a pastry from a cafe or something, I mean sandwiches from the expensive Deli two blocks down,” Sasha continued with a smirk. “It’s only fair after all.”
“Sandwiches, plural?” Jon asked incredulously. “It’s Chelsea, Sasha. Those sandwiches must be twenty quid a pop.”
With a snort that she somehow made sound elegant, Sasha turned around, offending creature in hand and safely contained within paper and glass, “try twenty-five actually. But it’s alright, Tim and I usually split one. The mortadella one? To die for. The sandwiches, plural, are for you and Martin. You’re treating the team to lunch.”
Against his own better judgment, Jon let out an amused sigh, the familiar banter of research returning with practiced ease despite the distance Jon had tried to create, “You drive a hard bargain Sasha James. Culinary expenses are one thing but cajoling social interaction out of me? I must admit, I did not think you had it in you to stoop so low.”
“Oh, I stooped alright.” Sasha teased, cocking a hip out. “Now come on, I need you to hold the access door open for me or it’ll lock me out.”
Shaking his head, Jon followed Sasha out of his office as she walked towards the archives exit, a creaky old side door supposedly reserved for emergency egress but who’s alarm had long since ceased to function. Every so often, Jon would catch a glimpse of the spider now safely imprisoned in Sasha’s capable hands and Jon would feel a stab of anxiety and resentment both. It’s not Sasha’s fault that everything she does tends to remind Jon that she would be far better suited for the head archivist role, even ridiculously minor things like removing a pest from the archives. Still, he should be grateful she chose to stand by him when he accepted the offer, she didn’t have to, but her support meant the world to Jon despite his own issues. She did everything she could to help without complaints like Tim or mistakes like Martin, even aiding in spider removal.
“It’s an ugly little thing isn’t it?” Sasha chimed in as if sensing the direction of his thoughts. “I can see why your first instinct was to smush first and ask questions later.”
“Yes it was quite, unnerving… to say the least,” Jon confessed. “I don’t know how to explain it but the spider itself just felt…”
“Spooky?” Sasha grinned.
With a long-suffering sigh, Jon rubbed his eyes under his glasses, “Something like that.”
“Even forgiving the S-word today? I must have caught you in a good mood. Perfect for extortion.”
“Ah, yes. Extorting your manager’s phobia for free sandwiches. Mastermind thy name is Sasha James,” Jon countered before a smile overtook his features. “And yet it would seem you need my assistance with the door. Perhaps you should not so viciously bite the hand that feeds.”
Rolling her eyes, Sasha turned back to Jon, “I believe the opening of said door was actually established in our initial contract and failure to provide the outlined service could see you liable for procuring me an extra sandwich to-go for dinner tonight. I think I’m craving smoked salmon…”
“Outplayed once again by your impeccable wit and negotiating skills,” Jon commented dryly. Seeing the door in sight, he accelerated his pace to get ahead of Sasha, jogging with as much dignity as could be achieved in an academic institution, and shoved against the rusty push-bar, holding the door open.
Stepping outside, Sasha located a nearby bush on the verdant Institute grounds and carefully raised the drinking glass with a grimace. From a short distance, Jon leaned against the open door watching as his assistant seemed to be attempting to nudge the spider on to a waiting leaf. “Problems?” Jon intoned.
“You were right about this one being proper weird,” Sasha answered. “It’s kind of just… staring at me? That sounds bizarre, right? But it seems just as confused as we are.”
“Well scrape it off the papers and be done with it,” Jon dismissed. “If the wretched thing doesn’t like the bushes I’m sure it’s more than capable of finding its own home, just so long as it’s not in my archives.”
With one final nudge, Sasha seems to successfully deposit the spider on a waiting leaf, its inky black body stark against the vibrant color of the Institute grounds. “Well, that’s that,” she called back towards Jon.
Remaining silent, Jon continued to hold the door open for Sasha before standing fully and following her inside. He did not turn back to look at the bush once more, for if he did, he was sure he would see that same spider unmoving upon the leaf.
A few moments of silence passed between them as they navigated around document storage and back to the main office before Jon cleared his throat, eyes fixed to his drinking glass in Sasha’s hand, “You, uhm, you are going to wash that, aren’t you?”
Letting out a little amused scoff, Sasha turned back to Jon, one dark eyebrow raised questioningly, “I think that can be arranged but you’re entering extra sandwich territory, Head Archivist Sims.”
“Right,” Jon said with a light chuckle, “And Sasha?... Thank you.”
“Well don’t thank me yet,” Sasha commented with a smirk. “Gather round team!” she called into the office, startling Tim from something on his computer that Jon could swear was a solitaire game and coaxing Martin into peering around one of the newly organized filing shelves. Everybody’s attention on her, Sasha clapped her hands together and gestured towards Jon, “Our archivist has kindly volunteered to buy us all lunch today as a team bonding exercise.”
Cursing Sasha in his mind, as her smirk only grew wider, Jon sighed in apprehension, “Yes, well. It has been a while since we all became part of the archival department here at the Magnus Institute and I thought it was only fitting to reward all of you for your hard work these passed few months.” Jon cringed internally at how disingenuous his impromptu speech ended up sounding but if either Tim or Martin cared neither showed it as both looked excited at the prospect of getting out of the basement for a few hours.
“Does bossman 2 know about this, bossman?” Tim asked as he twisted side to side in his office chair.
“What Elias doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Jon commented stiffly and staring intently at his shoes, “besides, I’m not using Institute funds for this outing so he hardly has the right to complain. With all of the tension lately surrounding Jane Prentiss I figure it might do us some good to get out and,” shifting his foot a little, Jon spied a shriveled pale husk of a worm crumpled under the pattern of his sole and grimaced, “and, uhm, get some ‘grub’ as it were.”
His assistants gaped at him for a moment before Tim threw an arm around his bony shoulder, “Why Head Archivist Sims, was that an actual joke in the workplace?”
“Not a very good one apparently,” Jon remarked scathingly as his hackles rose.
“Hardly, I’d say it’s an excellent sign of progress,” Tim decided with a grin. “Proper cheesy. I was beginning to think the Archivist ate my old pal Jon. Speaking of eating, where are we dining this fine afternoon?”
“Carmella’s Delicatessen,” Sasha replied with a smug smile as Martin stared apprehensively.
“Are you sure Jon? That place is… well it’s the kind of place you have to budget for,” Martin asked, wringing his hands slightly as he fully stepped out from behind the shelves.
“I’m sure,” Jon confirmed while mentally tallying how much this would set him back. Sure, his new job included a rather hefty bump in salary but he still had to watch his budget with how much rent was escalating lately. Never let it be said that Jonathan Sims wasn’t a man of his word.
“Alright everyone grab your coats, today is going to be a good day after all,” Tim cheered. Turning to Sasha, Tim adopted a roguish smile, “Mortadella?”
Rolling her eyes indulgently, Sasha let out an exaggerated sigh before confirming, “Mortadella.”
“Fuck yeah,” Tim muttered reverently, throwing on his jacket and bounding up the steps to the rest of the Institute without another word.
“Come on boys, we’d better catch him,” Sasha said, herding the remaining two archival staff up and out of the Institute and into the warm but breezy July air, Sasha taking the lead and Jon walking next to Martin.
“So, uhm,” Martin began awkwardly, “have you been to Carmella’s before?”
“I can’t say that I have,” Jon answered honestly. “It always seemed a bit posh for my tastes. Have you?”
“Oh! Oh, um, no I haven’t,” Martin answered shyly as if he wasn’t expecting a response. Perhaps Jon still had to work on how he approached the shy man. “It was always a bit out of my price range for library staff and I didn’t want to get used to indulging after the transfer since I still have to send money for my mom’s care and-“
“It’s alright Martin, I understand,” Jon reassured. “Sometimes things have a habit of sneaking up on you and it’s best to be prepared.”
“Right!” Martin answered quickly, too quickly, before lapsing into silence again. After a while of opening his mouth slightly and closing it, looking for the right words, he began again, “right. Uhm, thank you by the way.”
“For what?” Jon said, startled.
“For lots of things,” Martin said hurriedly and with a slightly hysterical chuckle, “I mean, I constantly make mistakes on statements but you only ever correct me and show me the right way to do things instead of writing me up. You ignored things like the dog incident, you offered me your cot in the archives when I felt unsafe, and, even though it was really Prentiss, when you thought I was sick for two weeks straight you didn’t try to fire me or get me sent back to the library even though you had grounds to do so. So… thank you.”
Jon winced slightly at the reminder of his behavior during Martin’s imprisonment. Truthfully, at the time, Jon was simply happy that Martin was out of the archives and no longer there to disturb him or bungle any cases. In retrospect, it was an incredibly callous approach to the situation, causing guilt to swell in Jon’s chest, and the loss of Martin did slow the team’s progress significantly from a practical standpoint as well.
“In that case, I would like to apologize Martin for how I treated you,” Jon started hesitantly not noticing the shocked expression on Martin’s face. “You were new to the position and it was a large departure from your former work in library sciences. You’ve adapted relatively well, even with me breathing down your neck, and you rarely make the same mistake twice. I’m also sorry for… for not checking in more diligently during your… siege by Prentiss. It was dismissive and unprofessional of me. It’s my duty as both your boss and as a self-respecting human being to ensure your wellbeing so… I am sorry.”
Jon stared straight ahead through his impromptu speech, the words tumbling out, swept away in the strangely cool wind of the summer afternoon. All the while Martin stayed stoically quiet for the remainder of their walk up until the very moment the Deli came into view where he took a deep breath.
“I won’t say it didn’t hurt,” Martin began. “It did. But talking to you afterwards helped and… I… you’ve been better lately. I know this is all new to you too.”
Swallowing hard, Jon took the olive branch for what it was – a peace offering but not wholesale forgiveness – and nodded, still studiously avoiding looking at Martin until the spell between the two seemed to snap as Sasha called them both over to a table as Tim was chatting up the woman at the counter. The rest of the lunch seemed to pass in jovial conversation through which Jon mostly stayed quiet aside from a few barbs towards statement givers and bitchy colleagues interjected here and there between bites of his monstrous sandwich, one that would last him several meals at least.
Satisfied and grinning madly, Tim leaned back in his seat, “Fwhoo! I gotta say bossman this was a great idea. We should do team lunches every week.”
“As… enticing as that sounds, I don’t think my wallet would survive the first month,” Jon groused, letting himself relax around his staff for this first time since his promotion, head resting on his folded arms and stomach pleasantly full.
“Well no one says that you have to pay all the time, Jon,” Sasha soothed before adopting a more conspiratorial tone. “After all, I mayyy have memorized the digits on one of the Institute cards. Sonya used to treat us all to lunch in Artifact Storage and more often than not, as the new girl, I was the one putting everyone’s orders in.”
Jon adopted a light scowl with no real heat behind it, “Appropriating Institute funds is exactly the kind of thing we should be avoiding while our department is still young.”
“Oh, relax Jon,” Tim dismissed, “didn’t you just say earlier ‘what Elias doesn’t know won’t hurt him’ or was that some other ambiguously aged archivist?”
“I suppose…”
“Team lunches sound like a great idea,” Martin chimed in, a soft smile on his features and a few crumbs occupying the dimples of his left cheek that Jon found vexingly charming, “besides, it would be good to get out from the basement and make sure you’re eating every once in a w-“
Without warning the ground shook violently, sending some of their cutlery and Jon’s half eaten sandwich to the floor. Disoriented and confused, Jon made to stand only to collapse with an aborted soundless scream as something foreign and violent felt like it was ripping its way through his brain. His bones still felt rattled, foreign and jagged as the ringing in his head made it impossible to tell whether or not the ground had stopped shaking. Distantly, he could make out the voices of his team calling to him as he slumped out of his chair, droplets of blood streaming from his nose as he crumpled unceremoniously to the ground.
When he could think again, it took every ounce of his concentration. Everything stopped, all movement save for the rise and fall of his chest, all noise save for the rushing of blood in his ears. Questions raced through his mind all vying for his attention. What happened? What had gone wrong? Why did it affect him so strongly? He knew not the answer to any of his questions as panic began to claw at his chest. There were too many unknowns, too many variables to consider all at once, but one thing was suddenly very very clear:
Something had gone horribly wrong.
The tunnels were not carved by her children but by man, designed by a man, but soon they would be made new again by something that could fully appreciate the aimless corkscrew twists and arterial branching of Robert Smirke’s masterpiece. There would be no witnesses in this deep darkness, but not Darkness, to capture her writhing apotheosis. The Eye could not see within itself after all, could not peer within the twisting structures that pumped Fear to its humors and focused its lens. It was almost a shame. Almost.
Wordlessly, for there were no words left to speak from her ruined throat but the song, - and what words could even capture the magnanimity of what she, no, they would soon accomplish – the woman who had once been known as Jane Prentiss followed the crescendo of the deep trilling music that had defined her existence for the passed two years. Her beloved children rose to her command, and did what they did best. They twisted, and writhed, and burrowed through the tender flesh of The Eye itself, through its musculature and capillaries, through its conjunctiva and sclera. They swam deep into its vitreous body, carving a hole in its retina.
Glimpses of events in the world above began to fill Jane’s mind now, drowning out the song with the feverish panic of fearful screams. Her children were swarming so wonderfully, so perfectly, burrowing into each little cell that helped The Eye function in its seat of power. Researchers, curators, librarians, even The Watcher himself was not immune to a moment or two of sheer terror as he became locked in his office, a deluge of the sweetest beings crashing against his door and begging to be invited in. To his office. To his body. To his eyes.
Deeper and more discordant the song grew as her children bore a hole directly into The Corruption itself, glutted and empowered on the terror of The Eye above. The slick writhing Jane had become accustomed to from her worms had begun to shift and change into a cacophonous loud buzzing as one by one her worms began to shift, sprouting wings and taking flight, a swarm of pale wasps biting and chewing and mashing what remained of her flesh, the institute staff, and the tunnels alike. Bit by bit she could feel more of her body returning to her, as her diligent children began to reconstruct the ligaments holding her jaw in place, frayed tissue replaced with hexagonal pulp.
It hurt.
It hurt more than anything she could name for she had no voice with which to articulate the pain. Devoured and unmade, reconstructed and rebuilt. She was a home. She was a victim. The abscess was complete, a pitted hole of rot in the wall before her, sickly miasma flooding the tunnels and drowning out all reason and coherence with its cloying vomitous stench. The song was so loud. All around her, the foundations of the Institute began to liquefy and sink, the tunnels beginning to collapse in places under their own putrefaction and burying the stronghold of The Beholding in one riotous finale. A crescendo of vermin and filth sacrificing a god upon its altar, the culmination of everything Jane had been seeking her entire life, worship of something more, something beyond. Was this what she wanted? She found it hard to remember. The song was so loud.
It was strange, being rebuilt, pieces of an Eye that was not her but was now chewed up and repurposed into something more, a part of her. The Institute was gone, collapsed, defeated, infested. Phthisis Bulbi. So why did everything still hurt? Why was she still so afraid? Hadn’t she done well? She thought she had done well in the past too but it was never enough for her family, always demanding more, always hungry. Was she talking about her old family? Or the writhing buzzing creatures that now called her a home? She wasn’t quite certain. The song was so loud. The song…
The song was quiet.
All at once, the woman known as Jane Prentiss fell to her knees with a gasp. Lungs that had not worked for years drew breath once more as tangled stringy locks fell in front of her face and obscured her vision. She loved her hair, it was a gorgeous silky black and she always took good care of it, how did it get into such an awful state? She stared down at her hands, perfectly visible despite the darkness, and the intricate swirling patterns that now composed her papery flesh. Bringing a hand to her face, she felt that same dry papery-smooth substance and almost recoiled at how pliable it was as her finger dared to sink in, nothing like the springy texture of human flesh, and the swift admonishing buzz that followed stopped her in her tracks.
Looking around her, Jane could see little but ruined tunnels, rubble from the Institute above having collapsed some passages and unbarred others that seemed to have been sealed unnaturally. Another Dread Power at work perhaps? Jane didn’t know. Everything seemed so confusing now; as if the passed few years were a dream she had finally woken up from. She had done well hadn’t she? She thought she had. She was loved wasn’t she? Why couldn’t she hear the song anymore…
Staggering to her feet, Jane approached the wall where her children had begun their great work and admired the twisting melted stone that seemed soft enough to push through with minimal effort. It had a spongy texture that solid stone should never possess, a texture Jane could remember so vividly as being identical to her own hollowed out and rotted carcass. She knew if she pushed with any force, even the gentlest shove, the stone would give way and envelop her, a close and cloying burrow and would spirit her away to a place beyond her imagining that she was no longer sure that she wanted. She could not hear the song anymore, and she was not sure that she wanted to. Whatever the cause of her current dilemma, despite her jarring and confused return to consciousness, Jane knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Something had gone horribly wrong.