The Magnus Archives - MAG 178 - The Processing Line

Episode Date: September 10, 2020

Case ########-18An examination of industrial meat processes.Audio recorded by the Archivist, in situ.Content warnings:- Dehumanisation- Helplessness / Existential dread- Devaluation of human life- Reduction of people based on 'usefulness'- Futility / Inconsequence- Body horror & torture- Body image issues- Medical horror- Paralysis- Arguments- Police brutality (discussion of)- Claustrophobia- Explicit language- Mentions of: enclosed spaces, needles/sharp objects, substance abuse, head trauma- SFX: persistent droning, high pitched tones, repetitive mechanical noises, sudden cracking sound, meat processing, insectsThanks to this week's Patrons: Rudy Urroz, Stacy Falcon, Ariana, Eleanor Smith-Dufresne, Ken Yuen, Bruna R. Scheuer, Ben Nothing, Sandro Ortega, Quinn, cecil with a cool sword, Elf Sternberg, Aster, Sam Zisk, Jay, Ally, Hearth of the Fae, Andrew Thomas, The Octopus Gallery, nell wood-prince what if you were defenseless, Penny Veline, Spark, Adam, Clara, Ksenia Martynova, Bloodsbane, Sarah Elert, Ari Gonzalez, Jake Samuels, Jack Beckwith, Maika Cartwright, Luke, John Earl, Alain Leo, Aynjel Kaye, K.McQueen, Daria Tkocz, Liz Wooten, Elizabeth Wynn, September Brogan, Kyndall Holland, Tom Lackow, Landon Kade, Claire C, Alexa West, Andrea R Larson, Angel Dellamore, Ray Thomas, T, caitlin! Edited this week by Katie Seaton, Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead & Alexander J NewallWritten by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J NewallProduced by Lowri Ann DaviesPerformances:- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall- "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims  - "Basira Hussain" - Frank VossSound effects this week by florianreichelt, pagancow, duckduckpony, InspectorJ, viertelnachvier, alexmol, vollkornbrot, SpliceSound, yadronoff, CastIronCarousel, bruce965, jamesgilsenan, tutenchwimse, pfranzen, cassssi, LudwigMueller, ecfike, kyles, kolczok, TiesWijnen, Soundkrampf, johanwestling, toxicwafflezz, nicktermer, dersuperanton, sacredblack, suncord, jaredi, glock102020202, LamaMakesMusic, msantoro11, gerainsan, groupe1bts, semccab, Cell31_Sound_Productions, pfranzen , JasonElrod, Bastianhallo, MWLANDI, vibe_crc, Breviceps, UOregonCinemaStudies, Aris621, gubodup, ancorapazzo, derjuli & previously credited artists via freesound.orgCheck out our merchandise at https://www.redbubble.com/people/rustyquill/collections/708982-the-magnus-archives-s1You can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice, or by visiting www.rustyquill.com/subscribePlease rate and review on your software of choice, it really helps us to spread the podcast to new listeners, so share the fear.Join our community:WEBSITE: rustyquill.comFACEBOOK: facebook.com/therustyquillTWITTER: @therustyquillREDDIT: reddit.com/r/RustyQuill Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

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Created and produced by Weyland Production, and executive produced by us here at Rusty Quill, We're Alive Descendants premieres April 5th. Search for We're Alive wherever you listen to your podcasts, or visit www.we'realive.com or www.rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives Episode 178 The Processing Line You're sure she came through here? Have I steered you wrong so far? I don't know, do I?

We haven't actually found her yet. We're getting closer. Great. Would you both just keep it down, please? They're not aware of us, Martin. I keep telling you. Yeah, I know, but it's not okay to talk as though they're not there. They're still people.

Uh, technically a lot of them actually aren't people. Come again? A lot of them are created by this place as, uh, set dressing, I suppose. This domain, the fear of it requires these cues, these intricate, hateful bureaucracy of hundreds of thousands of doomed souls. It needs far more than the number of people who actually ended up here. Wait, wait, wait. So it just makes the rest of them up? Maybe one in a hundred or so are actually real.

The rest are there to make those people's fears more acute. That's... Well, that's somehow more disturbing. How do you tell which is which? I mean, you could ask me, I suppose. But I don't really see the point. Would it help you to know whose suffering is real and whose is just a grim reflection?

No. Well, there you go, then. Why are they queuing? I mean, I've been keeping us away from those rooms, but... Well, it's a factory of the flesh, Martin. Use your imagination. No. No, I don't think I will. Wise.

So who's in charge here? Not anyone you're familiar with. We won't be meeting them. You're not going to you know no even if I wanted to he's in the main processing room and believe me when I say that's not somewhere you want to be yeah I guess God I hate all of these loose ends. I'm sorry. It's fine.

We'll just have to tie them all up in one go. Hmm? Around Elias's neck. Which way? Left. Just up ahead. Although, actually, you might want to head through that door and wait. Again? Already? There's a lot of fear in this place.

What's in there? Tool cupboard. Safe enough place to wait? Fine. No. What the hell sort of tools are those? Flesh factory, remember? New plan. We wait in the corridor. You go in the spike cupboard and tell your story to all the hooks and stuff. Fine. Just don't wander off. Hmm. Could be worse. At least they're clean.

Time has no meaning in this place. But that does nothing to lessen the certainty that Tyler has been in this line for years. A steady stream of sweat flows down his neck, staining his rough-weaved jumpsuit and sticking the itchy material to the skin of his back. The heat of this place is intense, but more than that, it is the apprehension, the waiting, the inching step by step towards his own consumption. He wants to turn and run, to push past the endless row of desperate weeping people and flee this place. But where would he go? There is nowhere else. Only the processing plant, and he's heard the stories of what happens if you don't get processed

through the official channels. It's messy, and more than that, they just throw the remains away. Nothing is used, and deep down Tyler knows that's what he's for. He's there to be useful, and the thought of running from that scares him as much as whatever is waiting for him at the end of the line. Another person processed, another step forward on the snaking line of bodies. Tyler tries for a moment to remember how he got here, where he was before this room of noise and heat and patient waiting figures. It's faded now. He remembers aches and worries and sometimes something that might have been joy.

But it's far away now, like something seen projected on a distant wall. Another step forward and he's standing at a desk. The person, is that a person? Behind it, wears a loose hood of coarse black leather. Below it they wear a featureless mask of the same material, without a gap for eyes or mouth or even the shape of a nose. They wordlessly slide a form across to Tyler. His eyes travel down it.

Name, age, ethnicity, blood type, eye colour, body mass index. The list stretches on and on and on, and he can feel the stares of the thousands behind him burrowing into the back of his skull. He looks around, unable to find a pen, a pencil, anything. The thing sat behind the desk does not respond to his questions. Finally, Tyler takes his fingernail, now long and ragged from his time in the queue, and painstakingly scores the words into the paper.

When one nail breaks, he uses another, until finally the information is carved into the thick white form. The thing behind the desk nods just once, and points him to another line as long or longer than the first. Tyler feels his stomach drop as he walks slowly over to join it. This gradual procession of the doomed leads not to a desk, but to a small room, partitioned off from the wider floor of the facility. What happens within it is not clear, but the looks of apprehension and despair on the faces around him are even more pronounced than they were before. Once again, Tyler considers briefly trying to run. But there's nothing for it. Whatever the management

has prepared for him at the end is what's coming for him. All he can do is wait for the axe to drop. And wait he does, as the minutes turn into hours, turn into days, turn into years, which mean nothing in the thick torpor of congealed time. Once or twice Tyler tries to engage those in front or behind him in conversation, but gets only panicked weeping in response. He is silent, his only companion the heavy dread that is gradually expanding through his gut. Another step and he is at the door to the small room. It is riveted iron, not rusty, but clean and polished to a sterile shine. The only smell is the smell of cleaning products.

The door finally opens and another thing stands there. It is dressed like the one behind the desk, but stood to its full height it towers over Tyler in its leather apron. It grips him firmly by the shoulder and hands with the weight and texture of granite and leads him into the room of clean and burnished metal. He tries not to stare at the implements that hang on the wall as he is placed on a wide metal plate in the center. He feels it yield slightly under his feet and a weight appears on a screen set back into the wall. One of the things adjusting the equipment seems to become aware of this,

though how it could have seen the measurement Tyler does not know, and it snatches the forms he still carries from his hand. The noises that come from behind the mask seem to indicate the weight does not match what he has put down on his paperwork, and despite everything, Tyler is suddenly gripped with a panic that he might somehow be in trouble. The disruption passes quickly, and the things move on to other tests. Poking, lifting, stretching his limbs and assessing them with strange metal tools. Even if he had the will to, Tyler could not have struggled. The movements of the things

scrutinizing him are as gently unstoppable as a piston. Finally, he is led over to a grate on the floor. He barely even has time to register the red-hot wire cutter before it is in and out of his left arm with practiced professional ease, neatly removing a small wedge of muscle. There is almost a full second of numb confusion before the pain finally hits, and Tyler begins to scream. The figures surrounding him do not seem to notice, instead fussing over the sample they have taken, examining it in minute detail and silently conferring about it. Then they all nod at once, and the tiny chunk of meat is tossed away down a nearby disposal.

One of them moves to the wall and picks up a long metal rod connected to an intricate arrangement of looping metal. Tyler is so preoccupied with the pain in his arm, he doesn't notice the switch turn on, or the metal begin to glow red with heat. When the brand hits him in the small of his back, he has no idea what is happening. The sensation is so overwhelming that Sonya,

if they push him out down a long metal chute and he finds himself at the back of another queue, he realises what has happened. As he sees the stamp of this place scorched into every back that stretches off into the distance. This is the last processing line. Tyler can feel that truth deep inside himself. There is no longer the wide open space surrounding them.

Instead, the head height dividers lock them into single file, snaking back and forth in a zigzag as their path approaches the shining metal gate at the end. The ground is angled ever so slightly down, making it uncomfortable to stand still, and always gently urging them to move forward. At last the prospect of seeing what might happen if he runs from the line seems worth it to Tyler, but the realisation sets in that it is far, far too late for that. One step, then another, then another. The production balance of this place means it must be impossible for this line to be moving quicker than the ones before it, but it seems to press on with a determination that makes Tyler feel faint. The interminable dread of the wait

has dissipated into a very present panic of reaching the end of this line, but with every scream it seems to accelerate, and all too soon he is through the gate. In the room before the killing floor, there are three things. A mirror, a diagram, and a thick black permanent marker. Tyler stares at himself, a hundred thoughts running through his head as he waits his turn on the floor. He could refuse. A final petty act of rebellion against a system it feels like he's run through a hundred times. But what would be the point of that? It won't save him. A wasted pile of discarded tissue is all that would be left.

Is it not better, at least, to be useful? Tyler picks up the pen and begins marking the cuts of meat upon his body. When he is done, he walks through the door. The bolt goes to the back of his neck with a crack and Tyler feels himself fall paralysed to the floor. It does not kill him though and he watches as his limp body is hoisted off the butcher's frame. They take their time as they disassemble him, making sure to let him see exactly what is about

to happen at each step of the way. The last thing he sees before returning to the processing line is everything going into the garbage. There wasn't a single suitable cut. There wasn't a single suitable cut. Useless, one of the butchers says, and Tyler is gone. I know, I know you find it hard with... Done already? Yes. Talking about me? I assume that's a rhetorical question. I am trying to keep my powers to myself.

Sure. I was just giving Basira some advice. Avatars are from Mars and humans are from Venus, that sort of thing. I mean, yeah, sort of. Well, we were pretty much done anyway. Great. Well, in that case, shall we move on? After you. Right.

Excuse me. Martin, they can't hear you. I know, John. It's not the point. All right. Next one's through here. Next one? Her latest victim. Oh.

Recognise her. No. I don't think I do That wasn't a question It was an instruction We can't move on until you do John, what are you getting at? This isn't just a journey through spaces Fine, I recognise her

I don't know her name though Isabelle Moran Shoplifter, drug addict Daisy was certain she was dealing as well. Derailed her recovery twice. Fine. Noted. Can we just move on, please? I'm afraid not. Why not? We aren't finished here.

Is that a threat? Guys, come on. Don't do this. Not here. I told you before, we can't hunt a monster you refuse to see. Don't give me that patronising ominous oracle bullshit, John. I'm not an idiot. I never said you were. Guys. Look, I need you to lead the way.

I don't need your advice, and certainly don't need you stood there judging me. Enough! Enough! Someone has died. Show some respect. Or don't you care? Of course I fucking care. What's the problem. I... I don't understand.

I just... I don't need him laying everything out for me like I'm some kind of idiot. I know, alright? Daisy's the only person I could ever rely on, and... she... she did things.

Terrible things. And I... I refused to see it. Or said it was my duty. Or whatever. I don't know. Sarah. I care.

I just... I don't need to wallow in it. I need to end it. All of it. We're here for you. No. She was there for me. Cops versus robbers and monsters.

I thought we were doing good. I really did. I knew there was some bad shit. I knew Daisy was into a lot of it, but... I thought it balanced out. I thought we were good. I thought we were good. I know how that feels. I wanted to help people, you know? When I first joined, protect people. But then I saw

some of those same people were capable of it. Something changed. I wanted to hurt them. The ones that deserved it. It felt good. It felt righteous. I thought I could feel the line, but I really did. Eventually, though, it was too much.

I was going to quit. I couldn't take what I saw myself becoming, but then I got sectioned and suddenly, suddenly it turned out there were real monsters out there and well that just made the power feel better. So things kept slipping. But Daisy was always there for me. All those innocent people. Were they innocent? Some. And if not, what crime warrants what was done to them? Theft? Violence? Disrespect? You knew her. She was trying to be better. She was. But she never asked me to forgive her. Forgive her?

I've been scared. Terrified for my life so many times these last few years, but I've never, not once, felt so horribly, abjectly powerless as when she took me into that forest to kill me. I'll never forget it. You never said. It's not forest to kill me. I'll never forget it. You never said. It's not easy to talk about. Oh, John.

And would you have? Forgiving her? No. But she never asked me. She knew she had no right. I really am going to have to kill her, aren't I? There's no way to bring her back. Not anymore.

At this point, if I tried to take away her fear, it would destroy her anyway. Am I even going to be able to? Yes. And she stays dead? In this case, yes. What about the powers? Dream logic, remember?

She won't come back. Trust me. Does she want me to kill her? She asked you to, didn't she? No, I mean right now. Is she suffering? No. Right now, she's...

She's happy. I can't go and undo any of it, but... That's not the point. No one gets what they deserve. Not in this place. They just get whatever hurts them the most. Even me. Can we move on now? Yes. I believe we can. This way. Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License.

Today's episode was written by Jonathan Sims, produced by Laurie-Anne Davis, and directed by Alexander J. Newell. It featured Jonathan Sims as the Archivist, Alexander J. Newell as Martin Blackwood, and Frank Voss as Becerra Hussain. To subscribe, buy merchandise, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us via mail at RustyQuill.com.

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