Chapter Text
Michael Shelly stumbled through a door that had not been there before and into a grimy alleyway.
Heart catching in his throat, he scooted away on his hands and knees, panickedly looking behind him just in time to see the chipped yellow door swing back into nothing. A glimpse of the thing, the Woman Who Was And Was Not, the spiraling, nauseating neon illusions of her almost-face breaking into what would have been a grin if not for the tiny, screaming versions of herself in place of teeth was visible for a split second as it shut. The creaking noise that shouldn’t have been coming from the hingeless door and that sickly, final thud echoed through the cramped vein of sidewalk that ran off a backstreet.
Micheal had just enough sense left to keep his sweaty, clenched hand tight around the map he held as he stood up, legs trembling, and began his breathless run back to the only thing still solid in his mind: The Institute.
0-0-0-0
The Institute was quiet in the midday sun, but it was a content stillness, like a lounging cat basking in the warmth. The short, squat dark building seemed to close in on itself, as if it was glaring at the passers-by who eyed it with such curious incredulously, eyes not staring as they should but flickering away as if looking too long hurt the eyes. A sullen echo of annoyance filled the rooms with sticky heat, as if grumbling about the rubbed off effect of the Spiral.
Of course, few inside the building noticed the changes, or if they did, complained about the faulty air conditioning and swearing that they would get on Elias’s ass about it just as soon as they were done. (They were never done, the papers rustling filling the small hollow in their chest, the stale coffee somehow still delicious, the smell of dust feeling them with joy, making their eyes bright. Their complaints died as soon as they were voiced).
The Watcher and the Archives saw Michael long before he came into view.
Just barely lurching out of the way of an angry, honking taxi, he crossed the final crosswalk that separated him from his destination. Exhaustion had sunk deep into the marrow of his bones, muscles unused to movement ached and trembled. Weakly pushing open the front doors, he ignored the bored welcome of the attendant at the front desk asking if he was here for a statement and walked as briskly as he could manage without falling over to the door that lead to the Archives.
Even as his hand alighted on the doorknob, he whimpered, suddenly seized with the fear that the smooth oak would become chipped paint and the hallway beyond would be that damned peeling wallpaper and waiting for him would be the Woman Who Was And Was Not And she would laugh her horrible, twisted, stolen laugh and-
“Sir?”
There was a hand on his shoulder and he flinched away, wide panicked eyes meeting the worried gaze of the receptionist. He realized, finally, that he was crying, sobs threatening to overtake him. His hands flapped uncontrollably, and he gestured weakly at the door, a small whine escaping him as panic threatens to swallow him again. Confused and concerned, the receptionist asked him a question, but Michael couldn’t hear, the static in his mind growing loud. He gestured again, more desperately, and the woman hesitantly opened the door for him. The second the plain, beige walls of the Archives beyond were visible, he scampered through, fleeing from the questions of the receptionist, losing himself in the comforting halls of the Archives. They weren’t like the halls of the Place That Never Was, no mocking painted daffodils or mirrors that showed glimpses of his ragged, bitten fingernails or watery colorless eyes that bled into spiraling pits, nothing like the prison he had been in for… for how long? Thinking about time hurt his head, and so he abandoned the idea as soon as he had grasped it.
By the time he came out of his head, he was at the entrance to the working area where Gertrude and his fellow assistants- why couldn’t he remember their faces, or their names?- had spent so many hours. Muscle memory took over and the door opened, a silent motion that sent a shiver of relief through him.
But the place inside wasn't as he had remembered. Had he remembered? Or was it all just a dream, clips from his imagination? But his gut screamed Wrong, screamed Off.
There were people, in the open area with desks and boxes of statements. That, at least, was the same, but wrong too. Their positions were different, the boxes too neat, the people strangers.
They stared at him, and he stared back. He didn’t even know if he could speak.
“Michael.” It was a man who spoke first, tall and dark-skinned with wild dark hair. He was defensive, arms crossed over his chest. -fearful? Afraid, maybe? There was an edge to his voice that was odd. And- of course. Michael. That was his name. But the man was a stranger, someone Michael had never met. So how…?
The others in the room, he noticed as he finally broke his stock still position to turn his head, were equally as nervous, or confused. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He bit his lip, hands slowly resuming their frantic motion.
“This isn’t funny,” a different man said, voice trembling a bit. He was short, stocky, soft looking with round glasses and mousy hair. He reminded Michael of someone, someone important- but the memory slid away as soon as he tried to look for it. “Stop playing tricks.”
He whimpered a little. He didn’t like their stares, their watching, judging eyes. He wanted to put his hands to his ears, but to do that would mean he would have to still them, and that was unbearable.
“Melanie, get Jon,” one of the women said. The other woman- Melanie she had said- scurried into the adjoining office. The woman who spoke was stern looking, brown skin with a hijab on. Her voice, so confident and stern, reminded him of Gertrude.
Gertrude. She could help. She would know what to do, she would help.
Even as he thought her name, his hands flickered out the letters in ASL, old instincts from when his non-verbal fits lasted hours. A small glimmer of recognition sparked in the short man’s eyes.
“Tim, he was signing.”
“Martin, come on. Don’t tell me you’re fooled by this,” Tim said, momentarily breaking his glare at Michael to glare at Martin, who was suitably cowed.
Michael signed it again, and again, hopeful. G E R T R U D E.
“Gertrude?” Martin said slowly. Tim and the other woman turned to glare at him.
“That’s what he said! Well, signed,” Martin said quickly, pointing at Michael, still in the doorway.
N E E D H E R, Michael signed, eyes wide, staring at Martin, hoping for help.
“What did he say?” Tim asked quickly.
“He said he needs her,” Martin said, a small frown crossing his face.
At last the door to the side office opened, revealing a tired looking man with dark skin and grey in his otherwise pitch black hair, a tape recorder cradled in his arms. The woman who had gone in to get him stood behind him, as if he could protect her from whatever was happening.
“Jon,” The woman with the hijab snapped. “Deal with- with- this thing.”
“Basira, I- Oh. Michael.” Jon’s eyes narrowed as he finally caught sight of the doorway. Michael turned back to Martin, desperately signing N E E D G over and over.
“Jeez- slow down, I’m not exactly fluent,” Martin said, biting his lip. Jon glances over at him.
“Is it sign language?” He asked, brows furrowed.
“Fingerspelling,” Martin said distractedly, focusing on Michaels still moving hands. “He- He said he needs to see Gertrude.”
“It’s some sick joke,” Tim snarled. “It’s toying with us.”
“What is your name?” Jon said, turning his dark stare onto Michael.
He signed without even thinking, entranced and terrified of the man with the greying hair.
“He said Michael,” Martin said, a bit helplessly.
“Exactly,” Basira said. “We know. So get it out, Jon.”
“What about your last name?” Jon asked, not breaking eye contact, ignoring Basira. Michael was reminded of when Gertrude used to ask him questions, and how he’d find himself readily offering up the answer whether he wanted to or not.
“Sh- Shelly? I think I’m saying that right,” Martin said hesitantly. Jon’s eyes widened a little, something the others didn’t notice but Michael, still transfixed by the man, did.
T I R E D H U R T N E E D H E R, he signed, and Martin translated word for word.
“...it can’t be,” Jon murmured, still staring transfixed at Michael. “It’s impossible. You can’t have gotten out of the door.”
Y O U K N O W O F D O O R ? he spelled quickly, unable to contain his surprise. S P I R A L D O O R ?
“He wants to know if you’re talking about the Spiral’s do- wait. Jon… do you think this is the real Michael? Michael Shelly?”
“It might.”
“This is ridiculous. You’re falling for its illusion,” Basira said, and Tim nodded vehemently.
“We have to be sure,” Jon said. “We can’t turn him away if he’s really him.”
P L E A S E W H E R E G E R T R U D E ?
“Gone. We- we’ll help. What do you need?”
Michael thought for a moment. It was odd, all the feelings inside him now that he had escaped the halls. He could barely recognize some of them. His eyes felt heavy, though, and his stomach- was that what it was called?- ached.
R E S T , he signed. H E R E? He added, unsure.
Martin nodded.
“There’s a cot in the back. Here, I’ll show you.”
Numbly, the tremors back in his sore legs, Michael followed Martin through the open area and down a short hall to a small room that Martin opened, revealing a cot covered in rumpled blankets surrounded by boxes. A few other possessions were scattered around the room, including some loose articles of clothing
“Sorry it’s a bit messy, I crash here sometimes,” Martin said with a slight flush. “Sorry, can you hear me? Oh, that’s rude, I’m so sorry-“
C A N H E A R. A N D T A L K W H E N C A L M.
“Oh,” Martin said, a bit surprised. “That’s good to know.” He walked back over to the door, and Michael couldn’t help but whine a little. Martin turned back.
“What is it?”
N O G O. P L E A S E.
“Oh. Alright.”
He walked back over and hesitantly sat down on the ground, shoving some boxes aside to do so. Michael didn’t even bother to take any of his clothes off, not even his sweatshirt or shoes, though the metal zipper dug into his chest a little. As if as many layers as possible would keep him safe, he pulled the blankets on top of him, then curled up tightly on his side, arms hugging his knees to his chest. It was like this, with the steady sound of Martin’s breathing next to him, that he drifted to a restless but deep sleep.