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Elias leaned back in his chair and stared at his reflection in his cup of earl grey (with a hint of lemon and no milk, he wasn’t a savage). He tilted the cup gently causing ripples to spread across the deep amber surface and distort his reflection. He pursed his lips thoughtfully while watching his reflection reform. This body’s craving for marijuana had been inconvenient at first but at least it had excellent hair.
He placed his cup back on the worn desk and stared off distantly with glove clad hands clasped together; a flicker of annoyance crossed his brow as Elias became aware of Sasha placing the golden filling from The Lonely avatar into the wrong drawer in artefact storage. There was, after all, an obviously distinct difference between Slaughter aligned pirates and Lonely sea captains that refused to pick up their phones. Admittedly, the archival assistant wasn’t exactly aware of the eldritch fear entities that governed her reality, but still, she should be able to pick up on the contextual clues.
A delicate cough drew his attention away from Sasha’s botched archiving. Rosie was frowning at him; her eyes darted from Elias to the opulent painting behind him. When her eyes finally met Elias’s for a moment, the first thought that occurred to him was that he should probably put out another ad for a secretarial position.
“Can I help you?” He asked genially.
Rosie shook her head and raked a hand through her dark curls. “Sorry about that...for a moment I...I thought I saw a resemblance between the two of you.” She gestured behind him to the painting of the esteemed Jonah Magnus.
He smiled at her with practised charm. “I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.” He twisted his head to regard the all too familiar portrait he’d commissioned so long ago. “Our founder, who gathered such eclectic knowledge, is to be admired.”
Rosie wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I don’t know about all that. I wrote my dissertation on arcane cults throughout history.” She glanced up at the painting nervously, “From what I read, Magnus’s name kept cropping up in relation to some dodgy people.”
Elias could appreciate from his position of paradoxically selective omniscience that there was such a thing as knowing too much. He would have to ask Jeffery from marketing to design that new recruitment ad.
~0~
“The person you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone...”
“Peter, I am once again leaving you a message since you won’t deign to answer your phone even though I am fully aware that you are currently looking at your phone as you use some inane app. What is a ‘Candy Crush?’ Never mind, I know what it is now.”
~0~0~
Elias pulled out his favourite tape recorder, the one with the chipped edge from where Gertrude dropped it when threatened by a member of the Cult of the Lightless Flame. The recorder was empty but that didn’t prevent the dull roar of static from flooding out of it. Elias rapped his knuckles on the back of it; the static faltered as a voice became audible through it.
“A tongue sharper than the tears that sting my eyes,
Consoling words won’t ease these lies,
Thorns grow from your hesitant touch,
When will all of this be enough?
From your lips, nightshade blooms,
And by your words, I am entombed.”
Oh dear, Elias dreaded to think which half-wit poet was now inspiring Martin, at least the John Donne phase was short-lived.
Perhaps Tim had finally told Martin that the real reason Mrs Anderson kept requesting his presence for the statement follow-ups was because she’d been trying to covertly paint him as a dinosaur to sell at her art gallery, not because they both shared a love for Thai food.
Or maybe Jon had, at last, told Martin he didn’t like honey in his camomile tea.
If this was Martin’s reaction to betrayal Elias dreaded to think how much worse the poetry could become.
He could feel a pleased, warm hum in the back of his mind as The Eye revelled in Martin’s lazy rhyming structure and ill-thought-out words.
“Really?” Elias swivelled in his chair to gaze upon the grave face of Jonah Magnus. “You consider this knowledge?”
Addressing a painting of your former self in lieu of any physical representation of The Eye was not narcissistic, irrespective of Peter Lukas’s claims. He was after all the heart of The Institute; his own painting was a logical representation of his God.
He relented under the prickle of annoyance and dash of all-consuming terror that flowed between his connection to The Eye.
“Yes, I suppose the culmination of Martin’s woe is somewhat amusing.”
~0~0~0~
“The person you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone...”
“Peter, deliberately walking between two people holding hands on a narrow street so they are forced to relinquish their grip on one another doesn’t make them more lonely, you’re just being petty. Don’t forget we have dinner arrangements tonight. You can’t worm your way out of it. I know where you are.”
~0~0~0~0~
“And so, my dear audience, we are entering the habitat of an elusive creature...The Archivist. Archivists are often found in dingy basements without any daylight because the sun draws the attention of their natural enemy...other human beings! I, Timothy Stoker, shall bravely risk my life to investigate this terrifying...”
A loud thumping sound was emitted from the recorder and a hastily murmured curse before a new voice became audible.
“I can hear you, Tim.”
“Retreat! Retreat! He has projectile books.”
“I wouldn’t throw a book, Tim, I’m a professional. I’d throw this damaged briefcase; it’s less valuable and a lot heavier.”
Elias let out a contented sigh and took another bite of the triangular segment of his sandwich. He leaned back in his chair and let the chatter from the tape recorder fill the silence. Maybe the real reason he was indulging in these infelicitous statements was because he was feeling a tad lonely. You have few allies when everyone else around you is your hapless pawn in a game beyond their comprehension.
He closed his eyes and focused on Peter. He let the scent of brine and unwashed crew members assault his senses; he allowed the sound of a falsely cheerful voice and acerbic wit resonate in his head.
His reception was abruptly cut off by the invasive creak of a poorly oiled door. Elias’s attention snapped to his emergency stationary cupboard full of back up paperclips and an assortment of sticky notes in a variety of colours.
A head of intricate curls knotted together in new and horrifying ways poked through the open door.
“Elias.” It greeted with a grin baring too many teeth.
“Distortion.” He responded coolly, “What are you doing in my cupboard?”
It cocked its head to the side with an unnaturally long neck so its chin was parallel to its shoulder. “A door is a door is a door.” It chimed.
Elias massaged his temples irritably. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to leave? Your presence is warping my signal.”
Michael let out its chilling laughter, somehow both grating and too high. “Ships have lots of doors, don’t they? Wouldn’t it be funny for a crew to sail around the open sea forever, never finding land no matter how far they travel?”
Elias levelled Michael a look of devastating disinterest. “I rather suspect Peter would enjoy the isolation of being lost at sea.” He sneered as he spoke the name of the man he had just been casually checking up on.
It pouted at him and started to scuttle back through its door, “Perhaps your Captain would prefer to open the door to his ship’s larder and find himself unceremoniously dumped in the middle of a Broadway Theatre Stage. I’m rather partial to ‘Twisted’ myself.”
~0~0~0~0~0~
The Artefact Storage room had been a complete disaster. Elias was going to have to write up a very detailed thirty-point plan for how the artefacts are supposed to be stored and email it to all of his staff.
As he passed the break room he noticed Sasha, or to be more accurate, Not-Sasha eating a handful of paperclips. They fed them into their mouth one by one as if savouring a delicacy. When they felt Elias’s eyes on them, they turned to grin at him. Not-Sasha spat out a perfect chain of paperclips without breaking eye contact.
Elias wasn’t partial to having an avatar of The Stranger in his archives but he was willing to suffer for a greater power, himself The Eye. He thought it truly remarkable how so many people could go about their day looking without seeing anything.
Not-Sasha was, unfortunately, a less efficient worker than the original. But that was to be expected with the deliberate obfuscation of evidence and repeated trips to a completely unsuspicious waxwork museum.
Tim stormed into the break room, slamming the door angrily. A sheepish expression stole across his face as he realised his boss was also present. “Jon’s driving me up the wall. He won’t stop asking these pointed questions. Why the fuck would I have killed Gertrude?”
Elias flinched slightly at Tim’s unbecoming denials, “Language, Tim.” He warned softly.
Tim fell back into one of the maroon faded armchairs that clashed horribly with the olive green undertones in the room. “Sorry, sorry. He’s just impossible to work with. I think he’s been following me home.”
Elias nodded understandingly. “I’ll have a word with Jon.”
“Whatever.” Tim huffed out and turned to Not-Sasha. “What about you, how are you suffering under the oh so diligent watchful eye of our supervisor?”
If only Tim knew. Elias internally smirked.
Not-Sasha placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder compassionately, “I think you could use a break, how about we have a movie night.”
Tim regarded her contemplatively, “Sure, I guess that could be fun. If Jon shows up to hide in the bushes I can set my pet snake on him.”
“Excellent!” Not-Sasha beamed, “We could watch Stephen King’s ‘IT,’ that’s a classic.”
Elias watched with interest as the colour seemed to drain out of Tim’s face and an almost imperceptible gleam was visible in the eyes of Not-Sasha.
Tim forced a smile on his face, “Clown horror is a bit too cliché, maybe we could watch something else.”
“Of course Tim.”
Elias’s interest in the conversation dwindled as he started to contemplate his latest schedule. A small prickle of knowledge tugged away at the edges of his mind. Perhaps with the latest floods in London, it would be better to schedule Jon’s meeting with the Desolation for later on, after all, it looked like his hands would be rather full soon.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~
“The person you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone...”
“Peter, I hope you like the flowers I sent. Of all the places you could choose to land, you picked Hellnor, Iceland? I’m sure you’re aware they have a year-round population of fewer than ten residents a year, a bit too crowded for you, no?”
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
Elias shook his head in exasperation. As he gazed vacantly out of his window and in effect through the security camera of ‘Freddie’s Eazy Friez’ he started to wonder if he’d picked the wrong candidate to be his Archivist. Jon may have an admirable thirst for knowledge but he had no finesse when it came to spying on people.
Jon stumbled in the dark alleyway and made apologetic excuses to the woman in the lavender mackintosh who he ran past and startled. He was gaining a lot of suspicious looks as he stuck out from the filth laden wheelie bin he was using to hide himself from Tim and Not-Sasha.
For the first time in his life, Elias felt the urge to look away from something; the second-hand embarrassment became overwhelming as Jon decided it was a good time to leave the sanctuary of the dismal alley and smack straight into Tim himself.
He even briefly contemplated just telling Jon he’d murdered Gertrude to save Jon the trouble of his terrible plotting and conspiracy theories, he’d be doing everyone a favour.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
“The person you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone...”
“Peter, if you don’t call me back I’ll create a dating profile for you on Grindr. I find it rather...uncouth myself but I’m sure you’ll enjoy the barrage of emails you’ll be the recipient of...Is this an empty threat? I see you wonder as you frantically attempt to change your email address. Wait and see ...”
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
Elias snickered quietly to himself as he altered a single number in his spreadsheet. The cell he changed fell under the column ‘Jon and Martin’s romantic blunders,’ the row was named ‘Jon once again misinterprets affection as a threat to his life.’ One would think that such a category was far too specific for there to be many repetitions of that particular behaviour, and yet there were a total of sixty-four occurrences over the last month.
It was best to digitise these things since Michael’s last foray into the stationery cupboard resulted in all of his felt tips switching their colour of ink and all of his rubbers left black smears across the page.
Elias allowed his thoughts to focus upon his Archivist nestled away carefully under floors of academia and research in the basement. His gaze refocused through the webcam of a hastily disregarded tablet thrown to one side.
“Martin! You’ve spilt tea all over the tape Basira gave me.” Jon snapped.
“Oh, I’m so sorry Jon. It was an accident. I just wanted to surprise you...pleasantly.” Martin added hastily.
Jon glowered at him sceptically and futilely rubbed at the brown stain seeping through his navy jumper and onto his shirt. Martin fidgeted awkwardly, his hands made short abortive moves towards Jon as if he wanted to help clean him up but thought better of approaching the irate Archivist.
“Did you deliberately spill tea on this tape?” Jon’s eyes took on a frenzied stare as he edged his chair away from Martin slightly. “What was on there? I will find the truth, Martin!”
Martin raised his hands in surrender looking more and more miserable as his eyes darted from Jon to the upturned cup, he really should have paid more attention to the stack of files he tripped over, by the chair.
“Jon, you know me. I wouldn’t do that.” He tugged on his hair in anguish, “As you’re so fond of reminding me, incompetence is my core personality trait. I was just trying to help.”
A flicker of guilt flashed across Jon’s face. He rose from the chair wearily and approached a cautious Martin. “No, I’m sorry Martin. I’m just a bit on edge.” He frowned. “It’s no excuse for my poor behaviour.”
Martin smiled at him shakily. “Maybe we could get out of here, get some lunch. It’s not healthy to be cooped up down here for so long. I could...show you my poetry.” He offered hesitantly, “If you want, it’s more of a work in progress.”
Elias was half convinced by the tightening of Jon’s lips that he was going to reject Martin’s offer.
“That would be...that would be...nice.” Jon managed to force out a weary grimace. Going by the delight on Martin’s face, one would think that Jon had confessed his undying love to him.
“Great, great! I’ll go get my coat.”
“Just let me finish off my statement, I’ll be out in a moment.”
When Martin left, Jon returned to his recorder, he cast furtive looks around the room, double-checking that he was alone.
“Supplemental: I’m going to attend lunch with Martin. I’ve decided that it will be easier to investigate the others if I can question them more directly in a friendly setting. This ‘poetry’ he speaks of...what if it contains a code regarding his...darker, unsavoury past behaviour. I need to scrutinise it carefully. End supplemental.”
Jon was so comically oblivious to Martin’s crush on him, Elias was almost positive he’d win his bet against Annabelle Cane.
~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~
“The person you have called is not available. Please leave your message after the tone...”
“Elias, you’ve left me fifty-one voicemails. The only reason I’m calling you back is because you keep causing my phone to dysfunction with your excessive neediness. I can’t believe you sent me ‘Actaea pachypoda’ I am fully aware that the flower is more commonly known as ‘Doll’s Eyes.’ Do you hope to use your flowers to spy on me further? If this is about The Institute’s funding there are better ways of garnering my favour, as I’m sure you remember. Our divorce was just finalised a couple of months ago. If you are hoping to court me again, know this: you are dealing with the lawyers and paperwork the next time we tragically break up. Begrudgingly yours, Peter.