Chapter Text
It’s mid February at the Institute, and Sasha and Tim are the sole occupants of the Archives; Martin is off catering to the public, and Jon is holed up in his office. The weeks blur together, making each day seem like a week’s worth of monotonous paper shuffling. It’s still the early days of their transfer yet, but certain factors (Elias, London winter, tight deadlines, and tighter shelves to navigate through) contribute to the universal feeling of burnout among their team.
Sasha is on the opposite side of the bullpen from Tim, closing the basement’s window (which was open for some unfathomable reason). She whines, “Tiiiiiiiiiiim, I’m bored. Fix it?” Crossing the room, she rubs the sleeves of her cardigan to restore her warmth.
“Well, the bossman can fix that right up for you.” He spins around in his swivel chair to face her, sitting the wrong way. “What's the ... er ... box thing for? Looks ... messy.”
“That’s the work I’m trying to avoid. Jon’s been getting frustrated with all the loose statement sheets around. I’m apparently going to go box by box, collating and stapling them. And now, so are you!”
Tim sighs long and hard; facetiously, of course. “If you say so.”
“I do,” she retorts, smiling audibly. “Not very excited for this one, though. It’s from,” — she checks the date on the side — “the 60s, apparently. For some reason there’s several from the early 30s and one from last year in it too?”
“Yeah, Gertrude really left this place a war zone, hey?”
She nods and begins stapling the statements’ respective followup documents together. Or, at least, she tries to. No staples come out; and, upon further inspection, the magazine is empty. What?
No big problem though, right? Sasha’s confident she has a backup pack somewhere around. After checking and rechecking her drawers (to no avail), Sasha exclaimed, “Who keeps stealing my staples?!”
Tim looks very suspicious, peeking over a steaming cup of Martin’s tea. He’s definitely first on her suspect list.
Upon recognizing her conspiracy face, he has the audacity to act offended. “You think I’d steal them? I have my own, and staples aren’t good for old paper anyway. They rust!”
“What? Jon uses them all the time, I doubt he’d allow us to use materials that were” — she drops into a posh impression of Jon — “damaging to the institute’s precious fragile documents.”
Tim fails to stifle his laughter, shooting conspiratorial looks at Jon’s office. “Ha! Oh that’s so much worse – pfft!”
“Dodging your crimes?” Sasha raises an eyebrow.
“I actually have a question: what do you think of my earrings?” Tim deflects. Two concentric silver circles hold up a clear crescent-shaped gem, ornamented with a glistening star and more metal dangling beneath.
Sasha has to admit, they’re quite nice. “Wait, don’t you divert this conversation, Mr Stoker!” she says, after snapping out of her daze.
He dons a wolfish grin, “I am completely innocent. there is no reason I’d ta–”
“Th-there’s a-a statement giver here. T-to give a statement? They ... erm.” Martin trails off once he reads the room, “Oh! Sorry. Right, sorry, sorry.”
The interruption takes Sasha off guard, but she’s grateful for Martin’s warning. The newcomer is ... beautiful in a terrifying way. It’s like they suck the air out of the bullpen, the gravity of the room tilting towards them. The innumerable stars on their nebula tattoos look at everything.
The assistants have astronomical headaches for the rest of the day.
[CLICK]
ARCHIVIST
Statement of ‘Moonstone’, Last name unknown, regarding ...
MOONSTONE
...
[shocked gasp] Oh! You’re talking to me?
Uhhh ... My amnesia.
ARCHIVIST
Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.
Statement taken direct from subject 11th February, 2016.
[static] Statement begins.
MOONSTONE
Well, my friend, where do I even start?
There’s so much to say, so much that I need to tell you ...
Never enough time to recount my ... expansive tale.
ARCHIVIST
[sigh] How about you start at the beginning?
[BEAT]
MOONSTONE
Well, the part that always bothered me was how I don’t remember Becoming, all those years ago.
The sensation’s still vivid enough, but it exists in my mind completely detached from any actual memory.
I remember the feeling, but not the event ...
[TAPE SKIPS AHEAD, WHIRRING FURIOUSLY]
MOONSTONE
... Though, what good’s the height, the terrifying draw of gravity, unless you know the scale of what you’re facing?
A fascinating concept, really.
ARCHIVIST
[audibly shaken] Statement ends.
Their statement is going in the discredited section, for certain. It has all the hallmarks of inebriation, not to mention Moonstone’s admission to being amnesiac. (Jon does not admit to being afraid of what he’d have to accept as true by admitting the veracity of their account.)
He ignores his short-circuiting computer. It nearly caught on fire when he tried using the digital software for their statement, so he was forced to use the tape recorder. Again. At least Moonstone didn’t blink an eye at it, unlike Mrs Herne.
Even though this was only Jon’s second live statement; he can tell Moonstone is a strange ... person? Hovering just above their shoulders, Moonstone’s salt and pepper hair glitters under the Archives’ harsh fluorescent lighting; similar to Jon’s own, but longer. Then, there are their incessantly watching eyes. Their eyes and their eyes and their eyes and there are so many eyes. Moonstone’s presence is a black hole, and Jon feels like he’s being sucked ever closer to the event horizon. Put simply, they’re out of this world.
Per Martin’s very apparent headache, Jon's guess is the effects aren't simply symptoms of his constant dehydration. (Martin drinks tea enough to drown several people, there’s no chance he’s dehydrated.)
Either unaware of or indifferent to Jon’s scrutiny, Moonstone stands up and floats out of the statement room, into the assistants’ bullpen. They seem to have little regard for him at all, giving him nothing more than a spaced-out nod after their recount is complete; like they’re lost in their own world, nearly on cloud nine.
A tad bit airheaded, Jon thought in their direction.
Martin offers them a mug of tea, which Moonstone happily accepts. Then, as if they could sense his thought, frowns at Jon.
Jon is taken aback. Both at the possible mind reading (to this thought, Moonstone smirks into their cup), and the surprisingly positive countenance of his … employees? My assistants act much warmer around Moonstone than myself, despite their malaise. Also, why can’t I have some of Martin’s tea? Instead of this ... interloper? After a pause (in which he no doubt realised the ramifications of that thought) Jon mentally admonished himself.
After a noticeable delay, he returns Moonstone’s scowl and shuts his door. This has the unintended consequence of creating a flurry of files, dispersing what was once an organised stack into another item on his “To do (or else):” list. Guess he’d have to stay overnight to fix that.
Pushing open the heavy wooden doors to the Institute, Moonstone begins walking (floating, levitating) down the sidewalk, towards the horizon. A haunting melody graces the ozonated air nearby, like a not-so-angelic choir of birdsong. Their thoughts flow through their consciousness like the constant whirl of galaxies, interrupted solely by the input of their patrons.
Moonstone resolves to return to the Institute. After all, kindness is a rare sight indeed. Those archive people are so cordial! Especially the one who gave her the cuppa. The tall, curious one, Sasha, (Let her Know) was quite the company. And the tall, rambunctious one also has some very nice-looking earrings (So shiny, can’t resist). Yep, they’d definitely have to come back for those, at the very least .
Well, the humans were pleasant except for the Archivist; who largely discounted their story as being the ramblings of an intoxicated amnesiac. Did he think they were high on helium or something? They Knew the extreme denial he’s going through, in any case. If their fractured memory (scattered to the Wind) serves them right, he’s not unlike them in that matter.
The poor thing, they don’t envy the Archivist for the horrors Elias has in store for him. On that note, maybe they’d reject Elias’ offer after all? He doesn’t need them for Beholding’s mark (Mine, mine, mine to keep), but Moonstone highly doubts he’d be able to survive a brush with The Void. (The fear would be so delicious when he realises he can’t.) After all, the Eye’s “special little boy” is just a pretentious and slightly offensive stick of a human (I resent that).
That comment though! “Airheaded, my goodness,” they mutter, mostly unbothered. (Let him feel the unerring cold of Space–) No. They would not. Harming the Archivist is out of the picture, they decided… maybe they could mess with the humans a bit more though (Yes yes chaos fear we hunger)? Not enough to mark any, just to get their fun.
Worst case scenario, they’d get a few trinkets to add to their Collection, and bother Elias while doing so. Their Hunger could be satiated somewhere else, they reason (FEED US).
(Look, that pedestrian right there is scared of the Abyss.) Immediately, Moonstone veers off the path, lost to their encapsulating dual desires once more.
The connection severs when Moonstone cuts open the sky, taking their victim into some spacey domain. Elias frowns from his office on the top floor. This is not going to plan.
Friday and the two weeks after are a blur, mostly cross-checking information and locations. It reminds Tim of the research days before their collective transfer. Dull, with a few notable exceptions. One of which is case #0150409, or ‘the stalking spider one’. The other exception is when a strange black bird starts making visits. Jon is not pleased about the development, especially when its speckled feathers linger in the stacks, posing a ‘biological hazard and a not insignificant danger of document deterioration’. Tim briefly wonders if the little bird and the surrounding drama are the only things keeping him sane at this point.
The week after that is also long and gruelling. What makes matters worse is the sudden lack of Martin’s tea. The caffeine deprivation hit Jon the worst, forcing him to exit his office. Truly a once-in-a-lifetime event, Tim can’t remember the last time he took a voluntary lunch break. The whole thing would be hilarious, if not for Jon’s utter uselessness in a kitchen. I mean, who microwaves cold water with a tea bag in it and calls the abomination ‘tea’? Tim would understand if he was American, but from Jon’s hyperbolic posh accent, he’s probably never been to the United States. The whole situation is almost depressing, honestly.
Needless to say, Tim is very disappointed Sasha hadn’t seen the incident, she’d never believe him. Speaking of which, she’s squirrelier by the day, and in the stacks more often than not. Probably made a blanket nest somewhere in there. Tim would go looking for her, if she isn’t near impossible to find.
Honestly, you could hide a body down here between the piles of unrelated statements and it might not get found until twenty or so years later. The Archives remind him of those bogs where you’d find thousand-year-old mummies. The climate control might mean the body would stay preserved, at the very least.
Speaking of which, Tim is absolutely freezing his butt off out here. The other three archival staff are doing their own things somewhere else. Leaving Tim cold and lonely. (Figures Jonah Magnus would’ve been cheap enough to not insulate the basement properly. He does blame Elias for not fixing it in his time as Institute head, though.) He’s just miffed Jon won’t allow him to bring a space heater down here, something about not having a “source of ignition in the Archives.”
The bird is back though! Tim would make a joke about how its presence only lowers the temperature, or something to that degree (heh), but there’s no audience for his antics. Not like the bird would care, anyway. It has an air of separation from the world, as if it is aware that everyone’s insignificant; especially when considering what we know about our places in the universe. (Woah, where did that thought come from?) Annyway. The bird has this stunning speckled, starry, pattern on its wings, maybe partially albino> Since Tim doesn’t technically have to do any work right now, he scours the web for raven facts. Most of that time is spent waiting for the 90s era computers and abysmal internet to work. For once. (Turns out, the raven is likely leucistic!)
And another thing, his earrings are missing. He’d retrace his steps, or what-have-you, but he last remembers hanging them up at his desk. In a very clear spot. Huh.
His cheerful façade, these distractions, only last until the end of the first week. He just wishes he had something to dispel this permeating fog.
On the 10th, Sasha and Tim go to Staples; under the guise of an office supply run. (The store name is ironic, she’s fully aware). Though, Sasha doesn’t want to simply replace her staples, no, it’s about the principle of the matter! Besides, if the thief returns the stolen goods, Sasha would be left with two opened boxes, and that simply wouldn’t do.
Tim snapped Sasha out of her reverie, “Ugh, I miss Martin’s tea. Do you think he’s coming back anytime soon? His last text was on the third, it’s almost been a week.”
“I don’t think so? Here, see.” She angled her phone towards him.
He winced. “‘Might be a parasite’. Oh, that’s no fun. Just hope he’s okay, y’know? I’d make soup or something, but he’s made it pretty clear he doesn’t want anyone dropping by.”
“He’s probably recovering from a trip to Dover; Martin always needs a break after visiting his mother.”
She surreptitiously stows a polaroid camera, a pack of index cards, a skein of red string, and one of those large packs of push pins in their shopping basket, stuffing them beneath their motley acquisitions. Ultimately, this makes her look much more suspicious than the real thief between the two of them: Tim.
“More supplies for your conspiracy corner?” He chuckles.
She swats Tim’s arm. “It’s warranted if you’ve been spying on me, innit?”
“Uh, wow. You are vicious today.”
“Sorry, Tim! I can’t hear you over all this shopping.”
After checking out and getting back to the Archives, Sasha gets back to business. Everyone else is preoccupied during their lunch break, and she figures her investigation could count as research, so she can do that now. If Jon asks, she can just say she’s doing Martin’s work. After all, he’s been “sick” since last week.
In any case, finding the shiny things takes precedence over the follow up on Mr North’s statement. Her new obsession is more about the principle than her lack of staples. Jon’s too absorbed in whatever web the statements have caught him in, so she’ll focus on the more important questions.
First, when did they go missing? (She used them on Wednesday, for the Carlyle case.) Who would steal them in the first place? (Probably Tim, he likes shiny things.) Motive? (To delay her work?) Why not give them back? (He was also stapling, did he need them?) Was she spiralling? (Probably, but it was better than focusing on her dead end job.)
Hours must have passed by the time Tim intrudes upon her fugue state. Sasha instinctively presses up against the bulletin board in a futile attempt to cover up her investigation.
He eyes the mess of papers and red string behind her. “Heyyyy Sash. Uhh just thought you’d like to leave here at a reasonable time tonight?”
“Trying to pry me away from my work? I see how it is,” she scoffs.
“Sorry, what? I just wanted to make sure–”
“Make sure I didn’t suspect you, hmm? No. I know what you did, Tim. You stole my staples, which isn’t that big of a deal in retrospect, and then you lie to me.” Her tone cut worse than a knife. “I’m getting nowhere by being here. I’m hitting my head against the glass ceiling, and I can’t trust anyone, and I don’t know what to do, Tim!” Her voice broke, and with it, Tim’s heart.
Tim raises his arms in a placating gesture. “Hey hey hey, how about we check the CCTV? Then we can know for sure who took them. Worst case scenario, it was actually me and I owe you a lifetime of grateful servitude.”
Sasha looks at him through coalescing tears, pulling down the photos of Tim’s flat, which– Wait, what? The sound of Sasha’s dusty old laptop struggling to start up draws his attention to her, after which Sasha tentatively pats the beanbag chair.
“Y’know, I’d pin Jon for the ‘stalking coworkers’ type more than you,” he jokes, rubbing his now empty piercings as he walks over.
If they accidentally spend that night in the Archives, giggling and conspiring, that’s between the two of them. At some late and indeterminable time, Tim pulls up the CCTV footage at Sasha’s insistence.
Neither of their bets could have accounted for what they saw on the monitor.
