Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
“I am Michael. I was not always Michael. I do not want to be Michael. Being Michael stole the only purpose I have ever known.” Michael remembered following the map, growing more terrified as the world around him fell into spirals and delusions that should not exist. Except that had been Michael , not Michael.
It also remembered the moment that that tiny, fragile human had opened its door. He had a map. How could there be a map to the Spiral? That shouldn’t have been possible. Even more so than the things that the human saw while following the map. Lies and delusion incarnate can’t be navigated. But they had been. This was the last thing that the Distortion thought before being Michael…
Michael tried its very best to explain that it was Michael, but it wasn’t Michael, and that Michael wasn’t him any longer but he also wasn’t it . Michael wasn’t very good at straight answers. The Archivist finally asked a simple “What happened?” the most straightforward question that could be asked.
“Ah, a Statement. Of course. Is your recorder running?” it muttered to itself as it checked the recorder. “Yes. Say it Archivist.”
“Statement of… Michael. Taken from subject. Date…” He tried to calculate how long it had been since Nikola Orsinov had taken him.
“The last day of The Archivist's life” Michael suggested helpfully. That made The Archivist frown. Why? Michael wasn’t entirely sure.
“Statement begins” He finally mustered.
“How far back should it go? To the beginning of me? Centuries? Millennia? How do you define the start of your being when in some ways you have always been? Time is difficult to form. Michael Shelley, though, he is easier to keep track of.”
It was Michael’s first day of primary school, and he was terrified. Terrified that he wouldn’t make any friends. Terrified that his strange behavior, his tendency to go nonverbal, or fidget, would drive the other children away from him. But then he met Ryan, who had a hearing aid and had to use BSL too sometimes. They both liked the color yellow best, which was everything to a small child, so they quickly became inseparable.
Other children often made fun of the pair. With Michael’s gangly figure and long hair, and Ryan's hearing aid and facial scar, they were constant victims of teasing. But Michael didn’t mind it too much, because they had each other. Michael made him a bracelet with pink and yellow beads once.
A few years later, Ryan told Michael a secret. The kind he didn’t tell adults because he knew they would never believe him. He told Michael how he’d gotten his scar; when he was very little his face was badly electrocuted, and it left a mark that looked like roots growing down his ear and onto his neck. It was also why Ryan needed a hearing aid. But that part wasn’t the secret. Ever since, Ryan always saw a twisted figure that looked like his scar in the distance. It scared him, and he knew it was coming for him.
Later, Michael accidentally mentioned this to his mother, who went pale as he described the figure haunting his best friend. She told Ryan’s parents immediately, and then he was diagnosed with early-onset schizophrenia. Everyone thought Ryan was crazy, except for Michael. Ryan was terrified that nothing around him was real, and that everyone was either lying or a hallucination, except for Michael.
“Michael was there when he was taken; he never got over what he saw. Or didn’t see,” Michael continued, almost mournfully, “After much searching and despair, it drove him into the waiting arms of the Institute, where he met Gertrude Robinson. The Archivist .”
When they were 16, Ryan started seeing holes everywhere. Not pitch black endless holes, no. These holes had endless fractals and spirals, but more than anything, Lichtenberg patterns, like he’d learned his scar was called. And he started hearing static whenever he saw the twisted figure walking toward him. Even when he took out his hearing aid.
One day, Michael and Ryan were walking home from school together, when Ryan stopped suddenly, staring at the asphalt in front of them.
“It’s coming from the hole.” he whispered, pure terror forming on his face.
“What-?” Michael barely managed to get out, before Ryan started screaming. An unseen force pushed Michael away as the hole appeared. Not appeared, but became visible to Michael. For it to appear, it would have to be real in a way that this hole could not be. The swirling fractals couldn’t be real, and yet they engrained themselves into Michael's mind.
And then the spindly, root-like arm reached out and grabbed Ryan, Michael tried to call out, or grab his arm, or anything, but he simply couldn’t move until the hole closed up, and there was nothing left of Ryan, save for the bracelet that had fallen off his wrist when he was grabbed.
Michael Shelley was never quite the same. Although he remained a sunny and kind person, he couldn’t quite mask the sorrow lurking behind his smile as he hunted for anything related to the Thing that took Ryan. He applied for a job at the notorious Magnus Institute as soon as he graduated from secondary school to try and find answers. But instead of answers, he found 3 things; more questions, Gerard Keay, and Gertrude Robinson.
“Hello, I’m Michael Shelley. Mr.Bouchard said I’d be one of your Archival Assistants?” Michael said politely, extending a hand.
“Yes, I’m aware” the shrewd old woman replied dryly, not shaking his hand. “My other assistant, Gerard, is at the desk outside my office, he’ll give you instructions for your job here.”
“Oh. Okay” Michael answered dejectedly, putting his hand back in his pocket. “Um, nice to meet you.” That was a disaster. Why was Michael so awkward, and why did the Head Archivist already seem to hate him? His thoughts were cut off as he ran into someone. Knocking him, and the files he was holding, to the floor.
“Oh goodness, I’m so- I’m sorry, I need to watch where I’m going!” He stuttered, helping the man up and collecting those files.
“No problem mate,” the man replied. “Are you here to give a statement?” He gave him an inquisitive look. The man was very strange looking, but beautiful. With thick eyeliner and icy blue eyes, topped off with long black hair. Michael stared for a moment before replying.
“A wha- oh! Oh, no I’m um-” he cleared his throat. “I’m Michael, the new Archival Assistant?” He handed him the files back, before holding out a hand to shake.
“Ohhh. Fresh meat,” the man said with a snort of laughter, shaking his hand, “I’m Gerard, Gertrude mentioned I’d be showing you the ropes. But I gotta say, Michael, you don’t seem the sort to take a job here.”
“What makes you say that?” Michael asked defensively, feeling his ears turning red
“I dunno, you just seem too… Mellow, to want a corporate job researching ghosts and paranormal crap.” he answered, looking Michael up and down.
“Looks can be deceiving.” Michael responded lightly. Gerard raised an eyebrow in surprise, his ears turning a bit red this time.
“Alright then, let's get to it!” he finally managed with a grin towards Michael…
“ Poor Michael. He had been on trips for the Institute before. Conferences, investigations, Gertrude had made sure that all her assistants were ready. That none of them would be suspicious if they were told they were going abroad for work.” Michael continued, almost seeming to pity Michael Shelley. “So there was no doubt in his mind, no concern, when she told him that they were traveling to Russia. Perhaps if he’d have stopped to look up their destination, he might have discovered there was no such place as Zemlya Sannikova ,” It almost shuddered as it said that name. “But he did not. He trusted her.”
Michael had been working in the Archives for years now, and although he’d read countless statements that were similar to what happened to Ryan, none of them brought him closer to finding answers. He closed his eyes for a moment, those horrific fractals from so long ago still swam across his eyelids. He opened them again to continue reviewing a file, when Gertrude exited her office.
“Michael,” she announced briskly, “we’ll be leaving for another trip in 3 days, it will be fairly cold, so pack warm clothes.”
“Oh, sure, Gertrude. Where are we headed this time?” He replied with a smile. Despite her prickly disposition, Michael couldn’t help but like the frail old woman. She was getting rather old for this kind of work, so Michael tried to take care of her however he could, always helping her carry things or making her a cup of tea.
“Zemlya Sannikova, also known as Sannikov Land. It’s in Russia.”
“Huh.” That would be the furthest from London Michael had ever travelled, “what’s in Russia?”
Gertrude pressed her lips into a thin smile. “You’ll see.”
Once Michael was packed, 3 days later, he met Gertrude at the docks where they’d be departing. Gerard came to see them off. He gave Michael a hug and whispered, “Good luck!” in his ear, which made Michael blush. He decided he was going to tell Gerard how he really felt about him when he got back, and little did he know, Gerard was planning on doing the same.
“ He… worried about Gertrude Robinson. About how this poor old woman might cope with the chill. But now she was like iron, and walked with a purpose that Michael had never before seen in her. The water turned to ice as the Arctic approached, and Gertrude’s eyes turned cold,” Michael spat bitterly.
“Do you need an extra scarf, Gertrude?” He asked, hovering around her like an anxious hummingbird.
“I am perfectly fine, Michael. You do not need to concern yourself with my wellbeing.” she answered shortly. Michael frowned. He was freezing, and he was much more bundled up than the old woman was. She seemed more energized out here in the middle of nowhere, though. It almost made her seem younger, but also… Something else, something darker.
“Where are we going again?” He asked the Head Archivist again, uncertain.
“Zemlya Sannikova, Sannikov Land,” she explained impatiently. “There is a great evil, and you are going to help me fight it, Michael.” He went pale at this. How was Michael Shelley of all people supposed to ‘fight a great evil’? “An evil similar to the Lichtenberg Figure,” she added after a pause.
“Wait, you mean the Thing that-”
“Yes, do try to keep up, Michael” But Michael didn’t catch that last part. He had started breathing heavily as his ears filled with buzzing, and his eyes filled with tears and memories of fractals. So Gertrude had brought him so he could find answers. He shouldn’t have doubted her for a second.
Finally, they made it to the island, and began their trek through the blizzard. Soon, though, the cold and ice ceased to exist, and the terrain became an impossible, but beautiful jungle. Michael ended up removing all of his winter gear, leaving him with just his blue sweater and yellow sweater vest.
They made their way up one of the mountains of Sannikov Land to their final destination, where Michael would face the Thing that had haunted his youth, and destory it. At least, that was what Gertrude had said, and he believed everything Gertrude told him.
At the peak, Michael heard the sound of horrid, twisted laughter, and saw so many shapes and colors and fractals that couldn’t be real. He fingerspelled W-H-A-T-N-O-W? To Gertrude. His mind was so overwhelmed that he couldn’t even attempt to speak.
“But Gertrude Robinson did not waver. She did not… hesitate. She gave no indication that she saw anything more or less than was expected. Hers was not a mind that left room for doubt. She stared into us carefully, her eyes scanning for something that was my heart. Looking for my door. And she found it.”
Gertrude simply pointed into the spirals, at a pale yellow door. “You have to go in there in order to stop it.”
H-O-W-D-O-I-F-I-N-D? He asked back to her, terrified. She simply shrugged off her backpack and produced a map from the pockets.
“I couldn’t say how she would have gotten such a thing, or if she somehow made it. And yet it was a map.” Michael continued, perplexed, “A map to me. It made no sense, lines overlapping and inverting, but once within, Michael knew which turns to make, which doors to open, which mirrors to shatter. Until he became me. ”
Once he was inside, he just followed the map. It made no sense, but it didn’t need to. He followed the twisted corridors and went through the right doors, until he arrived at the right one. He didn’t know why it was right, but his mind was so overloaded by the impossible that the fact that this was the correct door seemed easy. He opened it, and then he was in pain, and then he was Twisted, and then he was Michael.
Gertrude knew that the ritual had been broken, that the sacrifice had worked. And then she just… Left.
“ And all that was left was me. Michael. My very existence tied to my pointlessness. Wearing my failure as the very fabric of my being. Reduced once again to feeding on the unsuspecting and confused. That is who I am.” It concluded, feeling nothing but rage.
The Archivist looked horrified by Michael’s tale. Even though it wasn’t Its tale, it was Michael Shelley’s.
“But you… You never tried to take revenge on Gertrude?” He stated inquisitively.
“She knew how to protect herself. She knew what she was creating. And killing her was not as important. She wasn’t as good an Archivist as you are.” Michael very helpfully explained. It remembered how disorganized the Archives were under Gertrude Robinson’s care, it was part of the reason why Michael Shelley had seen her as so frail.
“So why not kill me before?” The Archivist reasoned.
“I had hoped that you would stop the Unknowing first, destroy the workings of I-Do-Not-Know-You. But instead you are here, and may bring it about faster. So better your death happens now.”
“ I-is there anything I can do to stop you from killing me?” He pleaded, trying to force the words out of Michael. But Michael simply laughed.
“If you scream loud enough the Circus may take notice of me, but… I promise you will die far more pleasantly with me than with them.” Michael wouldn’t skin The Archivist alive, he would just split him into fractals and absorb him, or what one might call ‘eating him’. He seemed to be weighing his options.
“Okay” The Archivist finally exhaled, resigning himself to his fate. Good, Michael really didn’t want I-Do-Not-Know-You to be able to use The Archivist’s skin in the Dance. It seemed to be far too dry to peel properly anyways.
“Good, right this way!” Michael replied pleasantly, twisting the door back into existence. “Open it. Open it and all this will be over” it smiled it's twisted smile at him, waiting.
He took a deep breath, and turned the handle. “Er, it's…” he tried turning it again.
“What?”
“It’s locked,” The Archivist mumbled.
You can’t lie to a lie itself, but The Archivist really thought he could, without even twisting together a remotely convincing one. Michael giggled at the pure absurdity. “No it isn’t”
But The Archivist simply asked “why is it locked?”
What? “It can’t be.”
“You try it then!” The Archivist argued back. Michael did try it then, and it did not work. it sputtered in confusion until: “Oh. Oh no .”
Michael screamed. Its scream was horrible and distorted and it echoed and fizzled as it writhed in pain as it was torn apart by the fabric of reality. And it hurt . Michael had forgotten pain, a Distortion does not feel pain. But now it was overcome by it as it was split into the fractals it had loved so much.
The door opened and the new Distortion stepped out…
Chapter Text
“This is-” Jon took a deep breath, he was so tired, “This is written in French, all of it” he’d been kidnapped for a month, was charged with preventing the apocalypse, had to stop Melanie from assassinating Elias, and now this? Jon was so tired. Yet he continued speaking into the tape recorder, “I don’t- I don’t speak French, I don’t read- I’ve never-” another sigh before he concluded “I wish I could find it in myself to be surpri- Good lord!” He was interrupted by a banging sound as the door to his office opened and a man tumbled through, falling to the floor, trembling and panting. He had tangled blond hair and looked vaguely familiar, but Jon couldn’t pinpoint where he recognized the man from.
He quickly stood up and walked around the desk, as the man sat up slightly and stared at his shaking hands. He was obviously confused and distressed. It sort of reminded him of Helen Rich- No. Jon didn’t want to think about her.
“Hello?” he called down to the man. “Are- are you alright? Can I help you?” Jon wasn’t very good at this sort of thing. The man looked up at Jon confusedly with glazed hazel eyes, then slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Suddenly, the door swung open again, startling Jon. There stood Tim and Martin. “What’s going on?” Tim demanded, “we heard banging and yelling and-” he noticed the man on the floor and jumped back. “What the hell?”
“You didn’t see him run in through the Archives?” Jon asked. Not aware of what he was doing.
“I- no, I didn’t. I wasn’t paying attention to the door. It’s not like I’ve bothered actually doing my job for the past month and-” he stopped, rage creeping into his face, the stranger on the floor all but forgotten. “How did you do that? Stop it!”
“I- I’m sorry I don’t know how to control it yet? I mean, it only started happening recently,” Jon admitted. He was turning into a monster. He hated himself for it, but he had to stop the Unknowing, and for that, he needed to Know.
“Oh great, you’re turning into a proper monster!” Tim spat, “care to tell us where you’ve been for the past month?”
“Er- tied to a chair in a wax museum?”
“What?”
“Guys! Shouldn’t we do something about, y’know, him?” Martin interrupted, pointing at the unconscious man on the floor. Right, him. Jon was sure he knew the man from somewhere, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. It was uncanny, not the Stranger variety, but still very off putting. Something seemed... inhuman about the unconscious figure.
“Oh I- yes. I think we should move him to the cot in the storage room and wait for him to wake up. Tim, I promise I’ll explain everything later, but can you please help?”
Tim let out a frustrated sigh. “fine.”
As it turned out, Jon couldn’t lift the man at all whatsoever, so he mostly held doors open while Tim and Martin carried the unconscious figure.
“So, who exactly is he?” Martin asked tentatively once they had settled him onto the bed, which had been left there after Martin moved out of the Archives, following Jane Prentiss’ attack.
“I’m not sure, he just ran in.” Jon replied, scratching absentmindedly one of the larger scars on his arm. “He seems familiar, though.”
Martin frowned, “But I was carrying a box of statements past your office a few minutes ago, I would’ve seen someone run in.”
“So he came through a door he never entered? That doesn’t make any sense,” Tim remarked, “wait, d’you think it could’ve been one of those spooky doors? Like that Michael thing?”
Biting back a remark about his disapproval of the word ‘spooky’, Jon sighed, “no, Michael was- it was destroyed.”
“What? How do you know? And what does that even mean?” Tim interrogated.
“Right,” Jon muttered, “I guess I do owe an explanation.” He sat down on one of the chairs left in the room. “I was kidnapped by The Circus because they um- wanted my skin.” Martin and Tim looked horrified as Jon continued, “that is where I’ve been for the past month. And then Michael found me and was going to kill me, because it used to be one of Gertrude’s assistants, Michael Shelley, but she sacrificed him to stop a ritual, and he became Michael.”
“So, it wanted revenge?” Martin clarified, sitting down in another chair, while Tim leaned against the wall, still frowning moodily.
“Yes Martin, revenge. But then Helen- well she was Helen Richardson, but she destroyed Michael and replaced it, so now she’s the Distortion, and she didn’t have a reason to kill me, so she brought me back here, and I don’t really think she would already be trapping people in the hallways.” Jon concluded.
“Oh. That’s… Messed up,” Tim noted awkwardly, not used to being at a loss for words.
Martin’s lip quivered. He looked like he was going to cry. “I’m so sorry Jon, Elias didn’t even tell us you were kidnapped and- are you okay?”
“It’s alright Martin,” Jon said in what he hoped was a soothing voice, awkwardly patting Martin on the shoulder. “Elias didn’t tell anyone, and I’m fine, really. I mean, my skin’s in better condition than ever!” God, why did he say that? Why was he so bad at this?
“Was… that supposed to be a joke?” Tim asked.
“Uh, y-yes?”
Tim snorted, “wow, Boss. I thought you lost your sense of humor when we moved to the Archives.”
“He had a sense of humor while you were in Research?” Martin asked in awe.
Tim shrugged. “Not as good as mine, but yeah. Also did a ton of breaking and entering while we did follow up.” At that, Martin looked both amazed and scandalized, while Jon groaned in embarrassment. He had been terribly unprofessional before his promotion, and he would have preferred if Tim didn’t remind him of that fact.
But still, Tim and Jon had been relatively close during their time in Research, and Jon missed that friendship.
Martin’s eyes drifted toward something behind Jon. “Oh, I think he’s waking up.”
Notes:
Hey guys! Sorry for not updating for 2 months *insert crying emoji*. This chapter was a struggle to write because it's mostly dialogue, which isn't my biggest strong suit, and I was super busy with school. Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who left comments and gave me kudos, it's really encouraging to see how many people are interested in my writing. Let me know if you have any ideas or feedback! :) I'll try to finish Chapter 3 in a more timely manner.
Chapter 3: To Be Untwisted
Summary:
Michael had lost Gertrude’s map, his only hope of finding the exit of this awful, godforsaken maze.
He vaguely remembered entering, hearing the click of the lock behind him, rattling the knob, before turning back around with a huff, steeling himself for what lay ahead.After all, the only way out was through.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“You try it then!” The Archivist scowled up at Michael, as he gestured towards the door. Michael felt the inane, human desire to roll its eyes at him, but refrained as it twisted the doorknob. Wait . It wouldn’t open. No. No , that wasn’t—
Pain. Michael had forgotten about that particular sensation. Well, not forgotten, as it had never felt such things, but it no longer possessed Michael Shelley’s memories of pain. Can you forget someone else’s memories? Food for thought.
It didn’t know what pain was, and yet that was all it felt as it was ripped away from itself. It screamed. The sound echoed into its ears and split its mind open like a geode of fractals twisted together with raw human fear. And then it felt itself untwist .
When it woke, it was slumped over in a hallway. It tilted its head up. God, was a head supposed to be this heavy? It examined its surroundings and then scrambled up. It was wrong , and not the right kind of wrong. The first thing it noticed was that there were left turns, but there weren’t any right turns. It was backwards, and Michael didn’t like that. Michael was supposed to be confusing, not confused.
It heard a laugh behind it, the kind that sounded like it came from two throats and echoed with static and ate fear. Was that what its own laugh sounded like? It made the hairs on Michael's neck stand up, as its muscles tensed uneasily. Suddenly, the Wanderer appeared from a door behind Michael. It could see her in a warped mirror, but she was twisted. It realized in horror what exactly she had stolen from it, and ran.
Michael didn’t know how long he’d been running. He really ought to have worked harder in gym class, that would make this so much easier. Maybe he’d be less out of breath for the past… however long he’d been here, in these awful corridors with their left turns and magenta doors. And her. Helen, who seemed hell bent on catching up with Michael, in tearing him open with her spindly, needle-like fingers, as she dissolved him into fractals and consumed him. He knew that feeling all too well, he thought as he opened a warped window and climbed through to another section of the corridors, desperate to escape Helen’s wrath.
Michael decided that when it managed to get its domain back, it would make the Wanderer’s first trek through the corridors look like a holiday, a reprieve. Michael was going to tear her apart limb from limb and then watch her try to crawl away from it. It was going to appear in front of her whenever she thought she’d gotten away, over and over again until each thread of sanity was tangled into swirling fractals of madness. And then it would destroy her.
Michael was ripped from its vengeful thoughts as it heard the Wanderer calling its name, gleefully singing “Come out come out wherever you are, Michael. I only want to talk!” It had found a temporary hiding place in an alcove behind a two-way mirror, which really shouldn’t exist here but Michael was glad for it all the same. That told Michael that it still had some power over this place, even if it was the Wanderer’s now. She approached the mirror, tilting her head curiously as her amber eyes studied it. She softly cooed “ Hello , Michael,” mouth stretching into a grin as her hand shot out, breaking the glass. Michael ducked past her and ran.
He seemed to have a lot of experience running from things. His legs staggered and gave out every so often, forcing him to crawl until he could feel them once more, used a doorknob or windowsill to drag himself back up, and kept running. “Gertrude,” he sobbed as he collapsed into a corner, legs shaking from overuse, “why am I here? Where even is here? I- I can’t-“ Michael had lost Gertrude’s map, his only hope of finding the exit of this awful, godforsaken maze. He vaguely remembered entering, hearing the click of the lock behind him, rattling the knob, before turning back around with a huff, steeling himself for what lay ahead. After all, the only way out was through.
Or was it? Michael had a sinking feeling that perhaps Gertrude didn’t intend for Michael to find his way out, perhaps the map was meant to lead him in . And Michael Shelley had followed along, like the stupid, naive, sacrificial fucking lamb he had been, before Michael had eaten his pathetic little life. Its eyes burned with anger. Oh, it would find the exit, and it would make Gertrude suffer when it got ahold of her. With newfound purpose in its rage, Michael clawed its way back up once more, and willed a way out of here to exist, just one door, right to her office so it could snuff out her life once and for all. Please , he begged mentally, just one way out. He saw a slight right turn, with a yellow door. The exit . He hadn’t needed the map after all! He staggered towards it, but that spiraling figure manifested itself in front of him.
“Well well well! Looks like you’re still a little bit distorted after all!” She grinned darkly, blocking his path. “But it’s time to stop running, Michael.”
He curled his fists and hissed, “what do you want from me?” which made Helen’s grin melt away.
“Revenge, Michael. It’s what gives us Distortions some semblance of humanity, isn’t it? You really shouldn’t have eaten me.”
Michael narrowed its eyes at her, then glanced discreetly to its own, yellow door. The only remains of power it had left. It looked back at the Wanderer, and darted under her arm, bursting through the door. It narrowly avoided her fingers after she realized what Michael was doing and reached to grab it.
Michael tumbled onto solid, real ground, and looked up dizzily. It was on the floor of some kind of office now, with ringing ears. It ached deep in its bones. Wait … bones? That wasn’t right.. It glanced apprehensively down at its hands. They were… normal. With the twenty-something bones that a human hand should have. That wasn’t right . It looked at these soft, rounded, human hands. It watched them as a slight tremor became violent shaking. It wrapped its arms around itself to stave off the drafty chill as it felt very real lungs inside of itself, expanding and contracting rapidly. Someone else was here, Michael peered up through tangled hair at… whoever it was,, before slumping over unconscious.
It awoke to see three blurry figures hovering above, and struggled to sit up, nausea spiraling through it. It blinked repeatedly, squinting through the yellowish fluorescent light. It felt like the sun was burning a hole in Michaels eyes. Was this what happened when people were bothered by light? Strange. One of the figures asked “are you alright? Can you tell us what happened?”
“I-“ its voice broke as it dissolved into a coughing fit. Michael’s voice tasted sour in its mouth, and grated against a singular throat.
“Tim, can you get him some water?” asked another voice. This one sounded somewhat familiar, and Michael wanted to tell the voice that the throat of delusion incarnate does not need such things, but it wasn’t sure it could croak out the words.
Someone pressed a mug into Michael's not-sharp hands, and it attempted to take a sip, not quite sure exactly how swallowing worked. It ended up choking on the water, turning into a sputtering mess.
“Oh, take it easy,” the first voice uttered kindly, taking the cup from Michael, and helping it sit up properly. It squinted at the figures, trying to make out details to no avail, before attempting to speak again. Michael only managed to make a strangled noise in its throat before having another coughing fit.
Some dim memory entered Michael’s mind at this point, from before Michael Shelly’s hands had grown twisted. Instinctively, Michael lifted its palms upward, creating a circling motion, before pointing to itself. ‘ Where am I ?’ it signed, somewhat shakily.
“Oh,” the familiar voice remarked, recognizing the BSL, “er- we’re in the Archives of The Magnus Institute, in London.”
Great. The institute. The ivory tower of knowledge . Or betrayal if you were Michael. If Gertrude was alive, it would’ve hunted her down and throttled her. At least, it would if he could see. Oh! If they were in the Archives, his spare glasses were probably in a desk drawer somewhere, though he had no idea where his regular pair had gone. He’d been on a trip of some sort, but it was all fuzzy.
He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t hold his weight. It was strange, his legs felt like they’d just run a marathon, but also felt like he hadn’t used them in ages. The figure who’d given him that cup of water caught him as he fell forward, and set him gingerly back on the small bed. “Woah, buddy! I don’t like the Institute either, but we can’t have you running off until you’re less dehydrated and we know how you got in here,”
Did the figure think he was afraid of The Magnus Institute? Sure, you felt Watched there, but it wasn’t that bad. Michael just needed his glasses, but he supposed that if he couldn’t walk, he could ask one of these strange people to grab them for him. He signed where his glasses were to the familiar seeming one. .
“Uh, he says he has glasses in a desk drawer in the Archives. There’s a key under the desk? Did you- did you work here at some point?” Michael nodded, as one of the figures, ‘Tim’ he thought vaguely, went to find his glasses. Were these people new Archival Assistants? How long had he been away?
“How did you quit?” That voice asked again. He just frowned at that. Michael didn’t think he could bring himself to quit even if he wanted to.
“They were in the bottom drawer of Sa-” the man stuttered when he got back, taking a breath before continuing, “Sasha’s desk. The one we could never open no matter how many times we tried to pick the lock.” He handed Michael his glasses
“ Archivist ?” It exclaimed croakily, finally recognizing the spindly man after putting them on. The Archivist jumped back, along with his two assistants. Shock and Knowing appeared in his bright green eyes, as he gestured for the two others to stay behind him. Michael supposed that his desire to protect his assistants made him better than Gertrude Robinson had been, but he was still an Archivist.
“Michael?” he sputtered, “but you- Helen - Oh.” The Archivist stalked forward a few steps, his head tilted slightly to the side, looking Michael up and down. His eyes turned unnervingly green. He simply stated, “you aren’t Michael, you’re Michael Shelley .”
Notes:
"I'll try to finish Chapter 3 in a more timely manner." -Er1sCha0s October 29th, 2024
Little did they know...
Hey guys I'm SO SO sorry for taking forever with this chapter. Since my last update I've been in four theatre productions, discovered that I probably have some kind of anxiety disorder, and have been dealing with a mountain of schoolwork. So, y'know, stupid busy. Even in my free time, building the motivation and creativity to write has been very difficult to conjure, so I've been adding a very sentences here and there for the past few months but haven't been satisfied with my work until now.
I'd really like to thank my commenters StarsDisaster, Luxury_Nightmare, chill_dude, avianavion, and Soupshort for giving me the motivation I needed in order to fill in the gaps and revise the shitty draft that was plaguing my google docs account. Thank you all so much for your kindness and support.
I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, it look me a long time to figure out exactly how to write Michael, but I think I've found his voice in a way that I'm happy with! I was originally planning on switching perspectives halfway through, but decided that it would be better to split into another chapter, so I already have another 1000ish words done. My summer holiday is about to start, so I'll be blissfully free from responsibility, and should hopefully be able to update again much sooner this time.
Follow me on Tumblr @spiraling-p0et for shit posts, poems, and occasional rants!
K.J. OUT (for now)
StarsDisaster on Chapter 1 Tue 27 Aug 2024 11:19PM UTC
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Er1sCha0s on Chapter 1 Tue 27 Aug 2024 11:23PM UTC
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StarsDisaster on Chapter 1 Wed 28 Aug 2024 06:06PM UTC
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Luxury_Nightmare on Chapter 1 Fri 25 Oct 2024 12:19PM UTC
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Luxury_Nightmare on Chapter 2 Sat 02 Nov 2024 06:24PM UTC
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Er1sCha0s on Chapter 2 Sun 03 Nov 2024 02:04AM UTC
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chill_dude (Guest) on Chapter 2 Wed 18 Dec 2024 04:39PM UTC
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avianavion on Chapter 2 Thu 19 Dec 2024 07:55AM UTC
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Soupshort on Chapter 2 Thu 08 May 2025 07:25AM UTC
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Er1sCha0s on Chapter 2 Thu 08 May 2025 12:18PM UTC
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Bronzeeagle3795 on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 06:41AM UTC
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Travel_r on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 07:37AM UTC
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Er1sCha0s on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 02:09PM UTC
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PrairieDawn on Chapter 3 Sun 18 May 2025 04:51PM UTC
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Crazy1201 on Chapter 3 Sun 22 Jun 2025 10:25AM UTC
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