The Magnus Archives - MAG 194 - Parting

Episode Date: February 11, 2021

Case ########-34Considerations of observation.Recorded by The Archivist in Situ.Content warnings:ArgumentsBody horror (inc flesh & gore SFX)Self-inflicted wounds & body modification (inc SFX)Explicit languagePanic & emotional distressMentions of: alcohol, knives, death, funerals, mass suffering, suicidal ideation, emotional abuse, second person POV, scopophobia, breathing difficulties SFX, physical violence, gaslighting, tumours/cancerTranscripts:PDF - https://cutt.ly/VkPB7T8DOC - https://cutt.ly/ikPNcARThanks to this week's Patrons: Laura Berry, Serena DeRosa, Dalia Quiroz, Vaughn S, Hannah Aroni, Sydni Zastre, Maia Montenegro, Ash, Jamy Eun, Faustina Pauwels, Ryan Mulgrew, Sarah Houghton, Sabrina B., Tristen, Just a girl, Gretal McCurdy, Eddie Sourboy, Jean, Ash Craig, mandabot, Lindsay Woodcock, Nick Ball, Emily Lalande, SternStundenSpirale, Max Sellers, Gale Love, C W, desiderius, Samantha Grant, Michael Lynn, Chani Mores, Paperweight Jellyfish, Kate, jasper, Ayu, Djorkus Day, CJ Craig, Norea Besman, iota, Gwen S., R. L Moses, Roggepan, Adrian Gergler, Agneskissme, Oliver Loupe, Katie Collins, Mika Stavropoulos, Lucas Bear, WhoopsieDaisy.If you'd like to join them visit www.patreon.com/rustyquillEdited this week by Annie Fitch, Elizabeth Moffatt, Brock Winstead, Jeffrey Nils Gardner & Alexander J NewallWritten by Jonathan Sims and directed by Alexander J NewallProduced by Lowri Ann DaviesSensitivity consultation by Alexander Linde NielsenPerformances:- "The Archivist" - Jonathan Sims- "Martin Blackwood" - Alexander J. Newall- "Melanie King" - Lydia Nicholas- "Celia" - Lowri Ann DaviesSound effects this week by 13F_Panska_Koprivikova_Klara, 13GPanska_Langerova_Lucie, aarom, acc71000, ahubbar1, AlaskaRobotics, applesandpears50, bhlokvva, bmcken, BockelSound, Breviceps, brkdwnb3njo, bsmacbride, bulbastre, cjosephwalker, cmusounddesign, CosmicEmbers, CUeckermann, draftcraft, Drkvixn91, EchoCinematics, florianreichelt, Fugeni, Gammelsmurfen778, georgisound, gggtrew, giddster, Glaneur de sons, harilatron, harleto, IndianaParkWars, InspectorJ, jaimage, JavierZumer, Julien Matthey, jvdicke, klangfabrik, kyles, leonelmail, leonsptvx, letsmakemuffins, Lightnessko, MaestroALF, magnus589, melack, mitchanary, Mivori, muses212, neilsher, NWSP, o_ciz, ondrosik, patchytherat, phenoxyethanol, PhilStrahl, PMBROWNE, Podcapocalipsis, unkleceeg, RaspberryTickle, Rebecca_f, Relenzo2, RHumphries, sethlind, sforsman, SoundsForHim, SpliceSound, squeakyballoon, SteveMannella, sturmankin, subtletransmissions, TheFilmLook, tiptoe84, ultradust, unfa, zolopher, zrrion_the_insect & previously credited artists via freesound.orgAdditional sound effects from https://www.zapsplat.com.Music: A Night Alone – TrackTribe, from Youtube Audio LibraryCheck out our merchandise available at https://www.redbubble.com/people/RustyQuill/shop & https://www.teepublic.com/stores/rusty-quill.You can subscribe to this podcast using your podcast software of choice, or by... Hosted on Acast. See acast.com/privacy for more information.

This is the first radio ad you can smell. The new Cinnabon Pull-Apart, only at Wendy's. It's ooey, gooey, and just five bucks for the small coffee, all day long. Tax is extra at participating Wendy's until May 5th. Terms and conditions apply. Rusty Quill Presents The Magnus Archives Episode 194 Parting John, wait. Hey, just wait. Hey, just wait!

Will you please talk to me? I just... I need some air. In the tunnels? Yes. No, I... I don't know. Just somewhere. Anywhere without that thing droning horrors and Rosie staring at us like we're gonna bite her. I just... I need to think. Alright.

Alright, well, we'll go back to the tunnels and regroup. Figure out what our next move is. See what other options there are. Yeah. Yeah. John? John? John? I just need a moment to properly consider things.

Consider what, exactly? It might be our only option. What are you talking about? How is it an option? Okay, setting aside the fact that it's a suicidal idea, it's just completely stupid. What actual good would it do? Right now, as far as I can see, we'd just be swapping one self-important, floating, hollowed-out terror zombie for another. It's not like that. Really? Then please, enlighten me. Go on, I'm all ears.

It's not like that. Really? Then please, enlighten me. Go on, I'm all ears. Look, when I said I would replace Jonah in there, that's not... I mean, that place, the centre of the eye, it wasn't made for him. That's why he's like that. It's too much. It's overwhelmed him. His whole being just destroyed. Oh yeah, but let me guess, it was made for you? Yes. Oh, of course it is. Of course it is! Because how could this journey possibly end

with anything less than the final supreme destiny of the Archivist plugged into the Great Fear Machine for all eternity and abandoning humanity? Breaking his promise? That's not fair. Isn't it? Would you just listen, please?

I think that I could control it to a degree. I could channel the energies, remake things, like I've been doing on our journey, but on a grand scale. And how's that going to help? You've always said you can't make less

fear in the world. You'd just be moving it around. But that might still help. I could rebalance things, destroy the avatars, make it so that the people suffering most are the ones who deserve it. And what? Replace them with new avatars from the people who don't want to? I mean, that has to be better than those that chose it, right? Sure, I can't make it go away, but I could at least make it fairer. The eye doesn't care. As long as it gets its fear, it's happy either way. Christ, can you hear yourself? Make it fairer. It's not enough that you're the all-powerful archivist. You also have to appoint yourself the literal judge of everyone as well. Don't. I know what it's like to be powerless.

And I know you do too. And I also know what it's like once you get a taste of... When you're finally able to... That's not what this is. I've been out there with you. I saw the kick you got out of making them scream for once. What happened to Kill Bill? You weren't meant to enjoy it this much.

Why won't you believe me when I say that this isn't something I want to do? Because I saw your face when we walked into that room. That wasn't fear. It wasn't even anger. It was envy. And it scared me more than anything else I've seen. Martin... We're here to stop this, not take it over.

What other choice do we have? I don't know, right? But there is one. Because there has to be. But what if there isn't? How long are we going to wander around hopelessly searching before we end up back here anyway? You were the one that wanted to take some time to think things over. We can't just dismiss this. It might be our only option. No. No?

No. I forbid it. You forbid it? Don't laugh at me. Why not? You're being ridiculous. I refuse to accept that this type... The world doesn't care what you accept.

It just is. It just is. I'm going out. Outside. I'll see you back in the tunnels. Stupid arrogance. Stupid arrogance. John? John? Shit.

Get out of here. All of you. I said leave me alone. Of course. What what you want. But maybe you're right. No, that's... Martin's right. It's not worth it. Why am I even talking to you? You don't even have a mind, not really. That's what you want, isn't it? Something to be your focus, your will. Keeping you fed and placated and content. You've got something to say? Then say it.

Of course. The old man was dead. The old man was dead and Malcolm could feel nothing but ice-cold relief washing over him. Every step he took seemed lighter, every breath seemed cleaner, as though he were walking through a bracing autumn evening. He knew he should be devastated, should be shattered by the loss of what had been the one constant in his life for as long as he could remember.

But when his eyes passed over the stained and sagging armchair where the old man had sat, unmoving for the last decade. The absence of that angular, judging face brought a smile to his lips. A smile of freedom. At last he could do what he liked. No prying questions when he walked in the door, no more knowing sneers, demanding to be told where he had been. No more tiptoeing around his home in a desperate, futile attempt to avoid the sight of someone who, despite never seeming to move from that spot, seemed all too aware of Malcolm's every private thought, his every dark impulse. What was the old man's name again? Malcolm

could barely recall. It didn't matter, though. No more than it mattered whether he had been a father, grandfather, elderly friend, or even some sort of landlord. What mattered was that for as long as he could remember – how long was that? – the old man had sat on his threadbare throne and held court over Malcolm's life. And now he was dead. The morticians had taken the body away, or at least someone had, and he had been the only one at the sad, overcast funeral. Now he was free to live his life.

To live his life? What did that even mean anymore? What was there for him that wasn't simply avoiding the cruel barbs and snide judgments of the old man? Perhaps love? Yes, perhaps now, without the wrinkled threat that chuckled from his armchair at any thought of his happiness, perhaps now he could find someone to spend his life with. Malcolm fired up his old computer, which groaned to life with a sputter, the monitor cracked and broken and the keyboard stiff to the touch. For a terrifying moment it seemed as though it might not work at all, but finally the screened it up in a dull, sickly green.

Malcolm clicked through until he found what he was looking for. A dating site. The name of the website was distorted beyond recognition, but he seemed to still be logged in from all those years ago, and he began to click through profiles. Mary. She seemed nice, but somehow too long. Jenny seemed to have a good sense of humour, but half of her was backwards. Hannah didn't seem to have anything wrong with her at first glance, but her profile smelt of rotten meat. Then he found Antonia, and he gasped. Her smile was so wide and so open

that all at once he felt a wave of warm infatuation pass down and over his body, permeating everywhere, except for his right shoulder, which remained ice-cold. Something was wrong. Malcolm moved his fingers across and over the area, feeling the space between his neck and arm. There was a lump there, hard and round and smooth to the touch. He pressed it gently and winced as pain radiated through him.

Gingerly, he unbuttoned his shirt, sliding the rough fabric down his torso, and examined the shining protrusion. Some sort of callus, maybe? A tumour? Malcolm's mind began running frantically through all the worst-case possibilities. And then it opened. The iris was dull grey, surrounded by yellowed, bloodshot tissue, and the pupil was dull, almost cloudy. But the eye that stared out from his shoulder seemed to focus well enough.

It swivelled wildly, looking all around the room as Malcolm desperately tried to hold back a scream. Then it settled on the dull glow of the computer monitor. On Antonia. And the icy shock of bitter disapproval shot through his veins like lightning. His hand lunged out almost on reflex, snatching the power cable from the computer and pulling it free. The screen went dark with a small pop,

and Malcolm was left sitting there, shaking. The eye turned once towards his pale and terrified face, then closed in satisfaction. The waiting room was almost empty when he got to accident and emergency. The nurse sat at the desk, gave him a weird look, and told him to take his seat. He tried to settle down on one of the smooth orange chairs, bolted to a long iron bar to form a crude bench, but he couldn't get comfortable. From underneath his coat he could hear it, the tiny, whispering mouth that had opened up on a long tube ride over. They're going to laugh at you, it hissed. And they won't. They're going to tell you you're a freak, a deviant. They're going to

put you away. They're going to cut you out of me. So you can kill me again. If I didn't kill you, you might as well have. With your insolence, with your disrespect. Shut up. I'll tell them. I'll tell them all the horrible thoughts you keep deep inside. Malcolm's leg wouldn't stop shaking. Somewhere from deeper within the hospital, Malcolm's leg wouldn't stop shaking.

Somewhere from deeper within the hospital, a laugh echoed, cold, and tinged with the judgmental cruelty that he recognised so keenly. He pulled his coat tighter and got up, stepping out through the automatic doors and out into the cold night. He was going to have to do it himself. That was all there was to it. If a professional, medical option wasn't on the cards, then what other choice did he have? He hurried into the supermarket, the dull throb of his shoulder causing his right arm to hang stiffly by his side. There were no trolleys left, nor any baskets, so he grabbed what he could and held them to his chest,

dreading the possibility they all might fall tumbling to the ground at any moment. Kitchen knife, paper towels, disinfectant, vodka, ibuprofen. As he walked through the huge aisles that seemed so much longer than he remembered, he tried to ignore the looks of curiosity and disgust he saw on the faces of the other shoppers. By now his shoulder was clearly swollen, lumpy, and bulging under his coat. One woman simply stood there and pointed silently as Malcolm felt the tiny, stick-thin arm creep out from under his collar, trying to push the thick coat out of the way. Let me see, Malcolm.

Let me see! Malcolm ran out of the store, dropping his items as he went. All except the kitchen knife. The flat was dark and silent when Malcolm flung the door open and fell inside in a heap. The pain in his shoulder was now unbearable as he clawed his way over the grimy, matted carpet, hands sticky from the decades of unnoticed dirt. The only light in the room spilled out from the static of the old television screen, casting his agonies in a pale, washed-out cathode ray glow.

His coat and the shirt beneath it were rags now, torn by the sharp, flailing fingers that reached out from his shoulder. Malcolm tried to breathe, to concentrate or centre himself to find any way to carve out a moment in the chaos and think. But there was none. He pulled off the remaining slivers of material, exposing the tiny, half-formed face and limbs to the open air, and he raised the knife. Do it, you coward! As Malcolm plunged the blade into his shoulder, he felt it split. Skin, muscle and bone torn apart, opening up like an earthquake fissure, a red and gore-streaked chasm into himself. The sound he made could technically be called a scream.

The sound he made could technically be called a scream, but the agonies he cried out through a gurgling throat full of blood were beyond any noise he could have conceived himself making. From the wound came first a hand, then slowly, inch by inch, the arm followed, wrapping itself around his neck for purchase, and pulling out a shoulder, a neck, a face a sneering, familiar face. It took ten minutes for the bloody form to emerge in its entirety and another twenty for it to writhe and crawl its way over and up onto the old armchair. Through all this time Malcolm lay there, quietly bleeding, tears streaming down his cheek and soaking into the carpet. The pain was nothing to him, not anymore.

What he hated most, what he truly feared, was what stared down at him from that chair, that once again regarded him with sneering, bitter judgment. He could feel the old man's eyes on him, and he knew that he would never be rid of them. Not exactly subtle. But then you never were, were you? Not really. Well, if that's the most compelling argument you have, I'm going to go and apologise Martin? Martin, I'm... I'm sorry. You're right. I... Oh.

Sorry. Thought you were someone else. It's okay. I was actually looking for you. Why? What's... Sorry, do you know where Martin... The man I was with, do you know where he is? That's what I wanted to check. I saw him a while ago up near one of the trap doors.

I didn't recognise the woman with him, so I wanted to check if you were expecting anyone else before I woke the prophets. What woman? I don't know. What did she look like? What did she look like? Youngish, black, dressed normal, I suppose. She had a thing on her head, like a... I don't know, like a woolly hat? But, I don't know, it looked a bit weird.

Annabelle O... I didn't catch her name. Shh, please, I need to concentrate. Where are you, Martin? Come on, come on. Don't do this to me. Not now. Oh, God.

Okay. Are you all right? I need to talk to the prophets. What's going on? Now! Any luck? Nothing. Is Georgie back yet? Not yet.

But then she actually needs to go places to look at them. She can't just pop up top and check the big picture. Melanie, please. Not now. Sorry. So you didn't see them at all with your, you know... Nothing. They're hidden. Annabelle must have taken the camera. The camera? From Salasis.

Oh. So does that mean he's... Dead, right? Yes. I checked. I guess she liked him enough to do that for him before she stole it. Remind me not to get on her good side. No, it's what he wanted. What he said he wanted. But it means there's no way I can find them. Hey, hey, hey. Keep it together. Okay? Georgie might have better luck. She's actually looking in person. And from what you said... Yeah, no, I mean, that could work. But if she finds them alone, I

mean, if anything were to happen... They can handle themselves. Right? You're right. It's fine. I'm worried too. This is my fault. What? We had an argument. I said some things I shouldn't have. If I hadn't, we would have come back here together and I'd have been there to stop her taking him. You don't know that's what happened. I mean, he wouldn't have gone willingly, would he? You tell me. You said there was no sign of a struggle. But if it happened in the tunnel,

I can't know that. But we'd have heard. Stuff echoes down here. I suppose. What, so you think he chose to leave with her? Does it matter right now? I mean, if they left together willingly, they could already be miles away. And you can't, I don't know, see where your blind spot is, if you know what I mean. Not unless I'm right next to it. Right.

Fine. So, we do this the old-fashioned way. What? Why would she take him? Do they have any history? Not really. So, what other reason might she want him?

To get to me? To turn him against us? Or make him an offer? I don't know. She serves the web. So, it's probably some bullshit domino cause-and- effect thing we can't even begin to guess. Okay, probably. Okay, probably. But it doesn't do us much good to worry about that now.

Okay, let's say she wanted to use him as bait to lure you somewhere. Well, then why would she hide? To get a head start, maybe. So she can set up a trap. Either way, where would she go? How am I supposed to know? I can't see anything down here. For God's sake!

Pull your head out of your arse. Stop trying to use it as a bloody antenna and actually try thinking. Just listen, Melanie. Ow! Think! Ow! I don't know! Somewhere she'd be strong?

A place of power? A web domain? I don't think there's anywhere like that in London. No, it's all I, one way or another. So what about nearby? Hmm? John? Oh, God.

What? They're going to Hilltop Road. The Magnus Archives is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a 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. New. It featured Jonathan Sims as The Archivist, Alexander J. New as Martin Blackwood,

Laurie-Anne Davis as Celia, and Lydia Nicholas as Melanie King. 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. Join our community on the Discord via the website, or on Reddit at r slash the Magnus Archives. Thanks for listening. Hi everyone, Alex here. I'd just like to take a moment to thank some of our patrons. Thank you. Jasper, Eyu, Diorcas Day, CJ Craig, Nerea Bessman, Iota, Gwen S, RL Moses, Rogapan, Adrian Gergler, Agnes Kissme, Oliver Lupe, Katie Collins, Mikas Avrapoulos, Lucas Bear, Whoopsie Daisy.

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