Chapter Text
It starts, as many things have, with Daisy.
It starts with the moment Basira’s bullet lodges itself in her skull. Right between her two eyes.
Two is such a small number of eyes to have.
Uncaring of his bleeding leg, bitten through by her teeth, Jon stands. Steps forward. Toward her dying body.
She’s smaller now. More human now. Staring up at Jon in this moment of frozen time. (And it is frozen. Despite the bullet hole in her head, she’s not dying, not yet. None of the others are moving, are witnessing this. Just Jon. Just Daisy. Just the Eye.)
“Give her my thanks,” Daisy grits out, “for following through.”
“Of course,” he whispers, kneeling by her. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more for you.”
“Heh, ‘s not your fault I’m like this.” She’s coughing, blood on her lips despite the fact that the wound was nowhere near her lungs.
“No, but… I did hope, on the off chance that I could fix that, that it’d… It’d save you, too. But I–” It can’t hurt to tell a dying friend this. She won’t judge. “I don’t think it can be fixed.”
“Wouldn’ be you if you didn’t try anyway, though. Good luck.”
That gets half a laugh from him, and he nods. “Don’t think Martin’d let me give up either way.”
Silence hangs heavy for a moment, her grinning through the pain and–the fear of dying, of being prey perishing–”So, what’s your spooky eye waiting for, then? Can’t let me die?”
It wants her.
“I–” the Eye is loud, pounding in his veins. As he stares her in the eyes. The eyes. “Can I– It wants me to keep your eyes.”
She laughs. “Sure. Why not. You can have one. S’not like I’m going to be using it.”
Jon hadn’t expected such easy acceptance, but–
The Archivist kneels by Daisy, Eyes opening all around the scene. Gazing into her.
Gazing out of her.
His eye meets hers, gaze doubling, tripling, recursive, feedback loop–
Staring into itself–
“Rest, Daisy.”
She has two eyes.
She has one eye. One Eye.
The Archivist preens, presenting its prize to itself, to the Archive.
Theirs to keep.
Jon’s injury makes itself known as he stumbles and falls to her side. Martin jerks forward, going to catch him. He’s too far, but it’s a valiant effort. In the end, Jon finds himself resting against Martin, as the other frets over his leg.
Murmurs of, “I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine,” do nothing to dissuade Martin from wrapping the wound.
Basira, for her part, stares. Always perceptive, she’s noticed.
“Ah– Daisy says– She says thank you, for following through on your promise, Basira.” He doesn’t look at her. (Well, he does, he Looks everywhere. Those eyes just tend to be unseen by most, currently.) Instead, he looks at where Daisy lays. Eyes open.
It doesn’t escape his notice–nothing escapes his notice–that the eye he took has been replaced. With one of his own. It looks almost exactly the same as hers, but he Knows that it was not there before.
Well, he has plenty to spare, if that’s the price he must pay to keep those who are his with him.
(He shudders at the thought, from what he has dubbed The Archivist, as it floats in his brain. He knows it is him, in the end. The monstrous cannot be removed or separated from the essence of who he is, but it helps. If he delineates those desires from himself, he can keep the pieces of humanity he is clinging to so desperately).
(At least, that’s what he tells himself).
Basira doesn’t look at him (Can’t look at him). “You got to speak with her?”
“Yes.” He sighs. “The… The Eye deemed it fit that its Archivist hear her last words.”
It’s not quite a lie. She doesn’t need to know about the eye exchange.
“She say anything else?”
“She said good luck. That she hopes we can fix this.” Again, technically correct. The taste of it on his tongue isn’t even too bitter. “I’ll… Give you as much privacy as I can manage.”
Martin still frets when he stands and tries to walk, immediately insisting on helping him. Basira deserves to mourn in as much peace as she can have, in this world.
…
He Knows the exact moment she realizes that one of the eyes is his.
(All eyes are his. Some are just more his than others.)
Jon can only hope she isn’t too angry with him for something Daisy said was okay.
After the Upton house. After London and the tunnels. After Annabelle and her web and rescuing Martin.
After Jonah falls to Jon’s knife.
After it all.
(All but the burning flames that lick at the edges of his throne, easily extinguished with a glance.)
The Pupil knows what it must do.
There are things that the Web, for all its strings and plans, cannot know. The Eye itself does not know, because it cannot understand.
But Jonathan Sims. Archivist. Archive. Pupil to the Eye.
That’s his job.
It is his job to be the monster. Nobody else has to shoulder that weight. Nobody else has to be Atlus, bear the weight of the world, the responsibility of decisions that should never have been theirs to make.
It’s his job to understand.
His job, to find the correct path. The one no being of fear would dare to share. Save the world, so others never have to suffer this nightmare.
The Archivist has many eyes.
The Pupil could stand to make a trade or two, in a world made unmoving.
The Archive wishes to expand its collection.
It is not the Archivist that asks.
Nor Asks.
Jonathan Sims visits people.
Jonathan Sims offers a deal: An eye for an eye.
(Most of the visits are done by the offered eye, floating there, making its reason Known).
Jonathan Sims offers this:
Give up a piece of yourself to him. Give away an eye. A piece of your essence, imbued with all your memories. In exchange, be granted a connection to the Eye. Plugged into the heart of this world.
(Maybe, they think as they agree, it will protect them from the all-consuming terror. Maybe they’re right.)
Avatars, one at a time, are summoned before his throne. The seat of power in his Panopticon.
They, too, are offered this deal. Be Known. Be spared. Be allowed to connect with the god that sits above all.
(They take it. They would be fool, not to.)
(Even Annabelle takes the trade, and he can see her strings now. How to keep them from pulling at him.)
The most important people, Jon wills himself to visit in his entirety. They do not deserve a disembodied floating eye. They do not deserve the weight of the throne hanging heavy in the air.
In this frozen world, no one moves unless the Pupil allows them to.
Martin, of course, is first.
Martin blinks, and the world blurs.
He’s too late, he’s too late, he can’t be too late he needs to stop Jon, he needs to–
Hands meet his shoulders, and he flinches back–no one should be here no one should be in this lobby not even Rosie, she’s already gone, where is Jon–
The thing in front of him is tall, so very tall. Burning green eyes are the only distinguishable feature from the ink dripping black from the body, and they are everywhere. Paper wings, moth-like, stretch out behind it, adorned with even more fucking eyes.
The– The hair is tape.
There is no mouth.
“What the fuck.” He takes more steps back. Curling in on himself as the thing approaches.
Its steps stutter at his exclamation. It flinches, as if struck.
“No seriously, what the fuck are you? Are you here to stop me from–from getting to Jon? From seeing whatever’s going on in there? What–”
Tape recorders appear, clattering to the ground.
“I’m sorry–I’m sorry–I’m sorry–”
It’s Jon’s voice.
“Christ.”
Okay. Okay. His boyfriend is some sort of moth/ink/eye monster.
His boyfriend has just gone and done something so incredibly stupid and not what they agreed to, but sure! That’s why he set off up here anyway! He had a feeling this would happen. Just, not—
Not this.
Still. Damage control. They’re about to light the fire. They need to make sure he won’t be hurt. Together, or not at all.
Martin steps forward, hands held up placatingly even as the feeling of being Seen rests on his skin.
(Honestly, with the apocalypse the way it is, the feeling of Jon’s eyes Seeing him has been more comfort than terror, by this point. Knowing that he won’t fade away, that Jon won’t let him disappear or be hurt.)
“Jon?” he asks, trying (and failing) to keep the waver out of his voice.
“Martin,” five tape recorders say, and he has to clap his hands to his ears to dull the pain of being Known in that one word. His name.
Deep breaths. “Jon– We need to get out of here. The others have already gone to burn the place down, We can deal with this,” he gestures, “once we’re safe.”
The tape recorders mostly click off. The being that is Jon waves a hand, and suddenly it hangs around his neck. A faint whirring still there as he speaks. “This place won’t burn. I have a plan, Martin. We don’t need to free the fears, nor do we need to condemn this world to death. I figured it out.”
He’s about to ask what when the knowledge presses into his brain. So, so gentle, compared to the other times he has felt the presence of the Eye in his mind. The question in his mind asking without pulling.
Oh.
He reaches up to cup Jon’s cheek, uncaring of the ink that runs over his skin. (It is a bit odd to reach up, now, but… Only for now).
“Oh Jon, of course. Wherever you go, I go. That’s the deal, yeah?”
“That’s the deal. Thank you, Martin. I love you.”
Jon leans down, and presses his forehead against Martin’s.
He is Seen, he is Known. He is not Lonely, never going to be Lonely again.
Martin smiles, even as his eye screams at the pain of being removed. Even as the weight of an Eye finds its resting place in his skull. Threaded into that which Watches and Knows and Sees and does not Understand.
But Jon understands. He is part of Jon now. Nestled in his heart, maybe. Somewhere. Martin’s not entirely sure, actually, where Jon is keeping all the eyes.
His feels like it’s being held in a different place than the bulk of them, though.
Secure. Precious.
He would never allow any piece of Martin to come to harm. Martin Knows this so deeply that it is a Truth in his bones. Just like how he Knows this is Jon. His Jon. Not swayed by the force of the Eye flowing through him. Still utterly devoted to Martin. To saving this world.
“I’ll see you soon, yeah?” Martin asks, and looking up at Jon is a bit like looking into the Sun. So bright, so brilliantly glowing, his Jon. He can See every ounce of who Jon is.
I see you, Jon.
And Martin loves him.
Soon, Martin, the Truth of Jon’s thoughts echo in his mind, as he combs threads of fear from Martin, coaxes him to sleep.
As Martin fades into the soft embrace of rest, he is safe.
His only worry is Jon not letting him See as soon as he would like.
But that’s okay. Jon promised he would.
Georgie is fairly easy to convince. She wouldn’t be afraid, she says. If she agrees at the time, he can give it back.
Melanie is… More complicated.
In the end, it takes finding the remnant cells of her eyes and growing them anew. Not wholly. Not well. The eye he takes will still be blind, but it will be, if it is wanted.
The Eye he gifts in exchange can See, but not see. It will have to be good enough, if this fails.
(It will not fail. He will not allow it).
“Just don’t lose it,” Basira says. “And make sure Daisy is okay.”
Of course, he answers.
Jon blinks back into existence in the center of his existence. In his throne.
He walks the steps, circling, to the roof.
He looks up.
He Looks up.
The Archivist stares into its Eye.
The Pupil looks into itself.
The Archive records all the while, what this is like.
It is–
It is Everything.
Every single person plugged into the optic nerves.
Connected.
Connected.
And The Archivist has so many eyes.
So much Fear, so much Power traded to him.
Buried: the squeeze of the world creates tunnels.
Corruption: singing and pleading with the world, love us, be our home.
Dark: that which hides all the others, still with potential avenues, if he thinks they work.
Desolation: loss, what was once so valued now ash on the tongue. This world has so much ash. But what now is valued?
Flesh: all is meat. What is now can be what it was before.
Hunt: the neverending chase. Follow that goal, do not let up, and maybe, maybe–
Slaughter–It will be caught.
Lonely: forgotten.
Stranger: masks and dances and being Unknown. This world could be.
Spiral: fractals and truths that are not true. What is time, when it is not real?
Vast. Infinitesimal. A tiny speck in the world. This universe has rules that work. Rules that bend.
Web—bend them. Make them dance to your own strings. Grab what you need as you fall through time. Do not leave them behind.
End. all things one day will. The shape of the path does not matter.
Eye.
It
Sees
All.
It Knows all.
The Pupil drinks it in.
Archives it.
The Pupil finds the pieces of each it needs.
And the world
Bends
Jonathan Sims, newly appointed Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, is dreaming.
He must be.
A creature–not a spider, but this is still a nightmare–approaches him in this dreamy space where nothing exists.
(Everything exists).
It is all eyes.
Eyes and ink and tape and paper wings.
Eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes and eyes and–
“I am sorry for this,” the tape recorder against its chest says, in a voice which distorts his own.
Before he can react, the spindly too-many-fingered hand meets his chest, and plunges in.
The ink flows. Pouring from whatever that monster is into his veins. Into his heart.
Into his eyes.
These eyes are not his eyes that are his eyes.
Jon–
Blinks.
And this–
Is not a dream.
The first thing Jonathan Sims—Archivist, Archive, Pupil—does when he wakes up is stumble to his bathroom in order to empty whatever he managed to get into his stomach the day before.
His body is screaming, his head pounds, but even as he lays against the cold tile floor, he can feel his patron soothing away the pain.
That’s new.
He lets out a mirthless laugh, and then a more joyful noise when it isn’t accompanied by tape recorder static.
The second thing Jon does is check the eyes.
Tucked away, nice and safe.
Billions archived within his depths.
Tied to a future that no longer exists, except for the space within the Eye itself.
Tucked into the Vitreous Chamber, a sleeping apocalypse contained.
Only The Pupil’s optic nerves can access this piece of the Eye.
Only the Archivist that made it can access this Archive it has created.
The Other eyes, of course, are safe as well.
He bound them with Web, protected them with all the other Fears, intertwined so tight that nothing would be able to pull them from him.
The skin above his heart. At the back of his neck. The front of his neck. Along his spine. Eyes placed against his body, hidden from view (and View) until he may need them.
Jonathan Sims is a monster in human skin. Ink still runs in his veins. His vocal cords might be tape. Looking in the mirror, despite the fresh face and lack of scars, one eye is brown with speckles of green.
The other burns with the Beholding. With the future self now tucked within this body.
(People think heterochromia is cool, right?)
(Sasha is definitely going to notice–)
He remembers Sasha.
Pain lances through his skull as the images of Not!Sasha are so forcefully disconnected from who he knows now to be his friend. Too curious for her own good, just as ready as Tim to bully him into a meal, impulsive and kind.
She would have been the Archivist Gertrude wanted.
(He is glad she never got the chance.)
(It’s his job to be the monster.)
Jonathan Sims, newly appointed Head Archivist, is about to have an interesting first day.
