And here there is something to be said on death. Everyone fears death. Of course they do. Even the most devout must have some apprehension, for however confident they are in a life everlasting with their deity of choice, the concept of eternity is one that the mortal mind recoils from. Be it bliss, torment or the senseless void, none can actually imagine what it is to die, so it’s only right that all should have a healthy fear of it. There are some, though, for whom it is an enduring terror. Who cannot even consider the inevitable termination of life without a deepest panic, and can think of nothing in life that could be worse than its end.
—"Cheating Death"
Death paused, as though considering, before it nodded. “Very well,” it said, “and if you win, you shall not die.”
[...]
“You win.”
Its tone was almost… happy. The soldier didn’t notice, as at these words a thrill went through his heart. He had beaten Death. He was going to live. He stood up, still giddy and feverish, but with such joy that he nigh on collapsed from the laughter that exploded from his lips. He staggered to the cellar door, expecting to see the sunrise after so long waiting in the dark, but the sky was still black. Behind him, Death waited.
The soldier noticed the pain in his chest was gone, and took in a lungful of air. It was cold, damp, and tinged with a faint whiff of something metallic. It was only then he really noticed the low, rumbling laugh that came from Death. He turned to see the figure still sat at the table, but now the old monk’s robes were soaked with blood. The bones of the figure were red and dripping, with patches of muscle appearing over them.
Then he felt it in himself. Something was very wrong. An itching, burning deep within him, then a flash of intense pain in his arm. He grabbed it instinctively, but where he touched it, the skin and flesh beneath it came away in his hand, like chunks of wet bread. Beneath it, he could see the yellow-white of bone. His bone. Old bone.
And the soldier began to scream.
As more of his body sloughed off of him into crimson piles upon the floor, he looked up at where Death had sat. In its place he saw an old monk, bloody but whole, smiling at him. The soldier held out a now bony hand towards him in supplication: “You said that if I won, then I’d live!”
The monk shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
[...]
“You win.”
Its tone was almost… happy. The soldier didn’t notice, as at these words a thrill went through his heart. He had beaten Death. He was going to live. He stood up, still giddy and feverish, but with such joy that he nigh on collapsed from the laughter that exploded from his lips. He staggered to the cellar door, expecting to see the sunrise after so long waiting in the dark, but the sky was still black. Behind him, Death waited.
The soldier noticed the pain in his chest was gone, and took in a lungful of air. It was cold, damp, and tinged with a faint whiff of something metallic. It was only then he really noticed the low, rumbling laugh that came from Death. He turned to see the figure still sat at the table, but now the old monk’s robes were soaked with blood. The bones of the figure were red and dripping, with patches of muscle appearing over them.
Then he felt it in himself. Something was very wrong. An itching, burning deep within him, then a flash of intense pain in his arm. He grabbed it instinctively, but where he touched it, the skin and flesh beneath it came away in his hand, like chunks of wet bread. Beneath it, he could see the yellow-white of bone. His bone. Old bone.
And the soldier began to scream.
As more of his body sloughed off of him into crimson piles upon the floor, he looked up at where Death had sat. In its place he saw an old monk, bloody but whole, smiling at him. The soldier held out a now bony hand towards him in supplication: “You said that if I won, then I’d live!”
The monk shook his head. “No, I didn’t.”
—"Cheating Death"
So now I’m here, and I cannot die. I can barely live, either. Food and drink make me sick, and I cannot sleep. There is an aching inside of me. A craving for something, but I don’t know what. I don’t seem to age, but I’ve only been flesh again for a few years, so can’t be sure of this. [...] I can’t decide whether this existence I find myself in is better than the death I feared so long ago. I sometimes wonder, but have decided that it is. A living hell is, after all, still living.
—"Cheating Death"
"I don't know why the hive chose me, but it did. And I think that it always had. The song is loud and beautiful and I am so very afraid. There is a wasps' nest in my attic. Perhaps it can soothe my itching soul."
—Jane Prentiss, "Hive"
"I don’t want to become a mystery. I refuse to become another goddamn mystery."
—Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London
In ancient Egypt, dying was the most important thing a person would ever do. Your whole life was preparation for it: readying yourself, and acquiring what you would need for the journey. Back when the Nile was the source of all that kept you alive – the land of the living. But as you got further from it, the very earth itself became hostile to you, unable to support any sort of life at all. It was there, at the outskirts – the edge of life itself – that they built their tombs and pyramids.
I cannot imagine what they would have thought of a person who could not die.
I cannot imagine what they would have thought of a person who could not die.
—"Burial Rites"
Leitner: By carefully reading specific passages in certain locations, I am able to exercise… a degree of control over the substance of the tunnels.
Jon: I didn’t hear you say anything down there.
Leitner: I said reading. It doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Jon: I didn’t hear you say anything down there.
Leitner: I said reading. It doesn’t need to be spoken aloud.
—"The Librarian"
Perhaps they sensed it, that need inside of us. Above us, you see, there’s only the sky, the infinite, a void of space and emptiness so incredible that to think of it in detail is to overwhelm the mind. But down, down into the earth. Through the many layers of this globe, this sphere built and crusted upon a single, beating point. The centre of the universe for each and every one of us, that glorious convergence from which everything, everywhere, is ‘up’. To reach it, to approach that source, that rolling, molten centre of it all, the only thing you have to do is dig.
—"Dig"
Jonah Magnus did leave him in that place, Jon. He got the letter, oh yes, and was on good terms with Mordechai Lukas. He could have interceded, perhaps even saved him, but he did not. And it was not out of malice, or because he lacked affection for Barnabas Bennett: he retrieved those bones sadly enough when the time came. Bones that you can still find in my office, if you know where to look. No, it was because he was curious. Because he had to know, to watch and see it all.
That’s what this place is, Jon, never forget it. You may believe yourself to have friends, to have confidantes, but in the end, all they are is something for you to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard.
That’s what this place is, Jon, never forget it. You may believe yourself to have friends, to have confidantes, but in the end, all they are is something for you to watch, to know, and ultimately to discard.
—Jonah Magnus, "Nothing Beside Remains"
Jon: I never chose this.
Elias: You never wanted this, no. But I’m afraid you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. You sought knowledge relentlessly, and you always chose to see. Our world is made of choices, Jon, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.
Elias: You never wanted this, no. But I’m afraid you absolutely did choose it. In a hundred ways, at a hundred thresholds, you pressed on. You sought knowledge relentlessly, and you always chose to see. Our world is made of choices, Jon, and very rarely do we truly know what any of them mean, but we make them nonetheless.
—"Nothing Beside Remains"
“The moment that you die will feel exactly the same as this one.”
And in an instant I understood. There’s no… difference between the present and the future, no other me that will suffer the indignity of death while I live on. It’s all a single moment, and there’s… there’s no difference between that last moment that ushers us out into oblivion and the one we experience now. The promise of a cold and lonely eternity in the grave would have been a mercy; at least it would be eternal. But everything ends, even the universe, even time. And… that means it has always already ended.
And in an instant I understood. There’s no… difference between the present and the future, no other me that will suffer the indignity of death while I live on. It’s all a single moment, and there’s… there’s no difference between that last moment that ushers us out into oblivion and the one we experience now. The promise of a cold and lonely eternity in the grave would have been a mercy; at least it would be eternal. But everything ends, even the universe, even time. And… that means it has always already ended.
—Georgie Barker, "Dead Woman Walking"
"Sometimes not being able to see something is actually quite a good thing."
—Nikola Orsinov
Jon: Who are you?
Nikola: Well, my father called me Nikola, and then I killed him, so I thought I rather deserved to have his second name too. Which makes me Nikola Orsinov. Pleased to meet you at last.
Jon: You, um… You killed Gregor Orsinov?
Nikola: Yep! He got really boring, and I’m a monster! I mean, what do you want me to do – not pull him apart? I did use all the bits.
Nikola: Well, my father called me Nikola, and then I killed him, so I thought I rather deserved to have his second name too. Which makes me Nikola Orsinov. Pleased to meet you at last.
Jon: You, um… You killed Gregor Orsinov?
Nikola: Yep! He got really boring, and I’m a monster! I mean, what do you want me to do – not pull him apart? I did use all the bits.
"How could I sound anything, silly? I’m plastic." (taps head for emphasis) "I don’t even have a voicebox. I had to borrow this one."
—Nikola Orsinov
"Do you know how many people I killed to keep the world in one piece?"
—Nikola-as-Gertrude Robinson, "Stranger And Stranger"
And at last, the Archivist looks up. At last, he looks into the eye that sees all, and knows all, and clutches at the secret terrors of your heart. The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger the tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all, and everything, and forever.
It stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot.
He. Is. Whole.
It stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot.
He. Is. Whole.
—"Eye Contact"
Jon: It’s like there’s a, a door, in my mind. A-a-and behind it is, is the entire ocean. Before, I didn’t notice it, but now, I – I know it’s there, and I can’t forget it, and I can feel the pressure of the water on it. I – I – I can keep it closed? But sometimes, when I’m around p-people, or.. places, or.. ideas? A drop or two will push through the cracks at the edges of the door. And I’ll… know something.
Basira: What happens if you open the door?
Jon: I drown.
Basira: What happens if you open the door?
Jon: I drown.
—"Remains to Be Seen"
And so we took the casket, a hungry thing of the earth, a crushing, choking tomb that will not let you die because it is too much what it is for death to find you there, within its mocking shape, buried alive.
[...]
When that Hunter killed him, when she took her violence of mindless instinct and unleashed it on us, it was there. It was waiting. I fed her to it. She took him from me, made us a me. And she doesn’t get to die for that. She gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever. No prey, no hunt. No movement.
We failed, but I have at least that comfort. I am without him now. I am. I can feel myself fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver. But I am no longer tied to the casket, so you can have it. You can stare at it, knowing how your feral friend suffers, knowing how powerless you are to help. And when you can’t bear it any longer, knowing that you can climb in, and join her. I have never known hate before. I have never known loss. But now they are with me always, and I desire nothing but to share them with you.
[...]
When that Hunter killed him, when she took her violence of mindless instinct and unleashed it on us, it was there. It was waiting. I fed her to it. She took him from me, made us a me. And she doesn’t get to die for that. She gets to live, trapped and helpless, and entombed forever. No prey, no hunt. No movement.
We failed, but I have at least that comfort. I am without him now. I am. I can feel myself fading, weak, no reason to move, nothing to deliver. But I am no longer tied to the casket, so you can have it. You can stare at it, knowing how your feral friend suffers, knowing how powerless you are to help. And when you can’t bear it any longer, knowing that you can climb in, and join her. I have never known hate before. I have never known loss. But now they are with me always, and I desire nothing but to share them with you.
—"Breekon", "Heavy Goods"
"Yes, the bullet was bad, right, but it didn’t make me angry. Anger is… Anger’s been all I’ve had for a very long time. Years. Maybe since… oh, I, I don’t know. But everything I’ve done, everything I pushed for was because I was angry.
Angry at being passed over, being disrespected, ignored. That sort of anger, it – it powers you. Right up until it slips out and hurts someone.
I hurt someone. And then one day, I suddenly have this thing that takes all that rage, and it holds it, tells me it’s right, that it’s me. It didn’t stay in my leg because of some ghostly master plan. It stayed because I wanted it."
Angry at being passed over, being disrespected, ignored. That sort of anger, it – it powers you. Right up until it slips out and hurts someone.
I hurt someone. And then one day, I suddenly have this thing that takes all that rage, and it holds it, tells me it’s right, that it’s me. It didn’t stay in my leg because of some ghostly master plan. It stayed because I wanted it."
—Melanie King, "Flesh"
The Hunt, it can’t reach me here. I’m s-scared, but – but I – I feel more – feel more me… than I have for years. Maybe all my life. The Hunt was me – but I don’t – I don’t think I liked it. I think it just made me – need it. I hurt. A lot of people. And some who – who I shouldn’t have.
Did you ever hear the story Elias told me? About what I – did. How I am. He – He didn’t get a detail wrong. The Hunt. Hunger was in me all my life. Telling me who to chase. How to hurt them. I never needed to think. Who I was outside of that.
But down here, where I-I can’t hear the – blood, anymore. I, I don’t – I don’t know who I am without, without the chase. I just know that I – I don’t like who I was, back outside. I don’t want to be her again. I want – to be – better.
Y-You know what I thought, when I woke up here? I thought this was hell. I wa– I was dead, and I was in hell. And I – I knew I deserved it.
I don’t want t-to b-be a s-sadistic predator again. I-I don’t want to hobble around like some – pathetic wounded prey either. I don’t know which would be worse. But I’m sc-scared now. That I won’t ever get the choice.
Did you ever hear the story Elias told me? About what I – did. How I am. He – He didn’t get a detail wrong. The Hunt. Hunger was in me all my life. Telling me who to chase. How to hurt them. I never needed to think. Who I was outside of that.
But down here, where I-I can’t hear the – blood, anymore. I, I don’t – I don’t know who I am without, without the chase. I just know that I – I don’t like who I was, back outside. I don’t want to be her again. I want – to be – better.
Y-You know what I thought, when I woke up here? I thought this was hell. I wa– I was dead, and I was in hell. And I – I knew I deserved it.
I don’t want t-to b-be a s-sadistic predator again. I-I don’t want to hobble around like some – pathetic wounded prey either. I don’t know which would be worse. But I’m sc-scared now. That I won’t ever get the choice.
—Daisy Tonner, "Entombed"
You see, I do not disagree with my parents’ thesis, that the true virtue of the world is in its natural state. But the natural state of the universe is darkness. Those rank, pompous balls of fire and light vomiting their radiation out into the nothing, they cannot stand against the overwhelming reality of it.
We talk about light and dark being opposites, but they are no more opposites than a gaudy paint is the opposite of the wall upon which is sits. Without light, there is darkness. But without darkness, there is nothing. We sit, upon our tiny spinning ball of dirt, desperately building our own tiny suns, our own illuminating shelters from the truth of existence, clustering around them like insects, never realizing that they rob us of the revelations that come… in the dark. That our wretched eyes bind us to this grotesque world in which we live.
“But Manuela,” they would say, “All life comes from light. The energy that sustains us is drawn from the Sun, from its warm, beautiful radiance.”
And I tell them to look again at ‘life,’ at the pain and suffering and misery that it brings with it. The nature that light gives us is corrupt and base, tearing itself into pieces, spinning to its own sick destruction. The life that is given to us by the stars, by the Sun, can barely sustain itself for a century.
Did you know that the oldest single thing on Earth given life by the light is the Great Basin bristlecone pine tree? Five thousand years, some of them have been alive. Five millennia. That’s it. That’s all. Even the longest lived of the Sun’s children can barely make it a few thousand years. Compare this to the uncountable eternity of darkness, stretching back far beyond when the sickness of an illuminated universe was thrown into existence.
If the words of my parents hold any truth, then God is the true monster, and “let there be light” the most evil words ever spoken.
We talk about light and dark being opposites, but they are no more opposites than a gaudy paint is the opposite of the wall upon which is sits. Without light, there is darkness. But without darkness, there is nothing. We sit, upon our tiny spinning ball of dirt, desperately building our own tiny suns, our own illuminating shelters from the truth of existence, clustering around them like insects, never realizing that they rob us of the revelations that come… in the dark. That our wretched eyes bind us to this grotesque world in which we live.
“But Manuela,” they would say, “All life comes from light. The energy that sustains us is drawn from the Sun, from its warm, beautiful radiance.”
And I tell them to look again at ‘life,’ at the pain and suffering and misery that it brings with it. The nature that light gives us is corrupt and base, tearing itself into pieces, spinning to its own sick destruction. The life that is given to us by the stars, by the Sun, can barely sustain itself for a century.
Did you know that the oldest single thing on Earth given life by the light is the Great Basin bristlecone pine tree? Five thousand years, some of them have been alive. Five millennia. That’s it. That’s all. Even the longest lived of the Sun’s children can barely make it a few thousand years. Compare this to the uncountable eternity of darkness, stretching back far beyond when the sickness of an illuminated universe was thrown into existence.
If the words of my parents hold any truth, then God is the true monster, and “let there be light” the most evil words ever spoken.
—Manuela Dominguez, "Dark Matter"
That’s the thing about darkness, isn’t it? You try your hardest to eradicate, flood your surroundings with light, but it’s always there at the edges, waiting for the glow to weaken, to return and cover you forever. Robert Montauk discovered that the hard way. And someday, so will your Gertrude.
But we got so close. We touched it. There is another world, a world of still and quiet darkness, where no heat touches, and death cannot find you. You might wander beneath that empty sky of void forever, and never see a light to guide your way. No left, no right. No up or down. Only forward, into the crowded, shivering gloom.
For that night is not empty, far from it. Things move there, the sound of shuffling. Scuttling. Crawling. A scream. The fall of gentle stagnant raindrops that chills you as you try desperately to know if that is the sound of the storm… or something out there.
But we got so close. We touched it. There is another world, a world of still and quiet darkness, where no heat touches, and death cannot find you. You might wander beneath that empty sky of void forever, and never see a light to guide your way. No left, no right. No up or down. Only forward, into the crowded, shivering gloom.
For that night is not empty, far from it. Things move there, the sound of shuffling. Scuttling. Crawling. A scream. The fall of gentle stagnant raindrops that chills you as you try desperately to know if that is the sound of the storm… or something out there.
—Manuela Dominguez, "Heart of Darkness"
Melanie: I’m not going to do my job anymore.
Jon: I am not sure I follow you. We can’t quit, we’ve all tried.
Melanie: I didn’t say I was going to quit, I said I’m not going to do my job. No researching, no filing, no field trips, nothing that is going to help the Institute in any way. I’ll still be around, I just… I can’t be a part of this anymore. If – if I get sick, I get sick, and – and if I die –
Jon: Why?
Melanie: Because this place is evil, Jon. And so doing this job – helping it out, even in small ways – is in some way evil too. Every time we try to use it to do good, it just seems to make everything worse, and – and I will not be a part of that anymore. [...] If I’m just another cog, maybe I can’t leave the machine, but from this moment I’m not turning. I’m jammed.
Jon: I am not sure I follow you. We can’t quit, we’ve all tried.
Melanie: I didn’t say I was going to quit, I said I’m not going to do my job. No researching, no filing, no field trips, nothing that is going to help the Institute in any way. I’ll still be around, I just… I can’t be a part of this anymore. If – if I get sick, I get sick, and – and if I die –
Jon: Why?
Melanie: Because this place is evil, Jon. And so doing this job – helping it out, even in small ways – is in some way evil too. Every time we try to use it to do good, it just seems to make everything worse, and – and I will not be a part of that anymore. [...] If I’m just another cog, maybe I can’t leave the machine, but from this moment I’m not turning. I’m jammed.
—"Cul-de-Sac"
It is astounding the sort of thing you're willing to choose — given an unpleasant-enough alternative, isn't it?
—Helen Richardson, "A Gravedigger's Envy"
Helen: When has your guilt, or your sadness, or your hand-wringing ever actually stopped you from doing what it wants?
Jon: I... I - I have not been taking statements...
Helen: You've sworn of other people's trauma for now... because you're caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?
Jon: I... I don't know.
Helen: Even it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? ... Helen was like you, at first. She felt such guilt over taking people. Until one day she realized she wasn't going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.
Jon: I... I - I have not been taking statements...
Helen: You've sworn of other people's trauma for now... because you're caught. Because continuing would endanger you. But other than that, when has your discomfort ever actually stopped you walking the path of the Beholding?
Jon: I... I don't know.
Helen: Even it were capable of doing so, what possible reason would the Eye have to change how you feel, when it makes no difference to your actions? ... Helen was like you, at first. She felt such guilt over taking people. Until one day she realized she wasn't going to stop doing it. So she chose to stop feeling guilty.
—"A Gravedigger's Envy"
May you find your rest where no shadows are cast, and no eyes may see you slumber.
—Last words to Gertrude from Adelard Dekker, "Rotten Core"
Why does a man seek to destroy the world?
It’s a simple enough answer: immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.
It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.
I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.
It’s a simple enough answer: immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.
It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.
I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.
—Jonah Magnus, "The Eye Opens"
How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?
—Jonah Magnus, "The Eye Opens"
You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right. Come to us in your wholeness. Come to us in your perfection.
Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!
Come to us.
I – OPEN – THE DOOR!
Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!
Come to us.
I – OPEN – THE DOOR!
—Incantation of The Magnus Archives, "The Eye Opens"
To say that Gertrude Robinson never had a friend would not be true. She was close in her way to many people, but looking back I wonder if she ever realized just how strongly she herself reeked of the Lonely.
—"Curiosity"
FRANCIS: “Please. Let me go. Just let me go.”
THE SPIDER: “Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. (laugh) I am no more free than you are, little puppet. Ah! If only you could see the strings that bind me, that wind together as they pull me along my own path. Perhaps then you would not blame me so.”
THE SPIDER: “Oh, Francis. It’s such a shame that I couldn’t do such a thing even if I wanted to. The man in the audience saw to that. (laugh) I am no more free than you are, little puppet. Ah! If only you could see the strings that bind me, that wind together as they pull me along my own path. Perhaps then you would not blame me so.”
—"Strung Out"
What’s the time, Mr. Wolf? The time to run is over. The time to suffer has arrived.
But there is one last burst of strength within the prey. Not strength of arm, or speed of escape – what good is fight-or-flight in this place? But a strength of voice, of bitter, angry recrimination. Hurling accusations upon their pursuers: hypocrites, bullies, pathetic wretches that would hound the innocent so.
Perhaps the prey earnestly believes it, casts themself full woeful into the mold of victim, of one who has done no wrong.
Or perhaps they feel within themself the weight of the sin stinking out of them, flaring the hearts of their persecutors, but see in the faces that approach them those same transgressions shining, reflected back upon them.
It doesn’t matter in the end; the cry is the same: “This isn’t fair. This isn’t right.”
The pack descends and the prey is silenced, protests cut short by teeth digging into throat, nails piercing skin and clawing at gristle, bones shattering under relentless, merciless blows.
And the blood and bile flow freely, exciting the pack to ever-greater raptures of cruelty, of pure and cleansing rage.
They taste their fury in every corner of them. There is no sound to break their peace but the wet ripping of flesh and the occasional transcendent scream of deserved agony.
And then it is over.
There is a moment, a single, holy moment of blessed absolution, washed clean in sweet and sticky blood.
And then the unease returns. The uncertainty and fear that at some moments gripped them throughout their pursuit.
They look around from one to another, aware as they stand over the twitching remains, that they are suddenly without prey.
Expressions sharpen, eyes narrow, growls begin to bubble up deep from within each chest. They are afraid.
They can each smell it wafting from the others, but who will it be? Who is the most afraid?
Which of them held back? Which of them – there. You. Blood on your hands, no doubt; blood on your lips – but not much. Not much at all.
Perhaps you couldn’t get close enough; there were so many hunters, after all. Or perhaps you stayed your hand out of mercy. Out of… sympathy.
Perhaps you stink of that same sin.
No words need to be spoken, no accusations put in so coarse a form as voice. The pack immediately knows which among them is no longer theirs, which has exposed their own inequity.
Which is now prey.
But there is one last burst of strength within the prey. Not strength of arm, or speed of escape – what good is fight-or-flight in this place? But a strength of voice, of bitter, angry recrimination. Hurling accusations upon their pursuers: hypocrites, bullies, pathetic wretches that would hound the innocent so.
Perhaps the prey earnestly believes it, casts themself full woeful into the mold of victim, of one who has done no wrong.
Or perhaps they feel within themself the weight of the sin stinking out of them, flaring the hearts of their persecutors, but see in the faces that approach them those same transgressions shining, reflected back upon them.
It doesn’t matter in the end; the cry is the same: “This isn’t fair. This isn’t right.”
The pack descends and the prey is silenced, protests cut short by teeth digging into throat, nails piercing skin and clawing at gristle, bones shattering under relentless, merciless blows.
And the blood and bile flow freely, exciting the pack to ever-greater raptures of cruelty, of pure and cleansing rage.
They taste their fury in every corner of them. There is no sound to break their peace but the wet ripping of flesh and the occasional transcendent scream of deserved agony.
And then it is over.
There is a moment, a single, holy moment of blessed absolution, washed clean in sweet and sticky blood.
And then the unease returns. The uncertainty and fear that at some moments gripped them throughout their pursuit.
They look around from one to another, aware as they stand over the twitching remains, that they are suddenly without prey.
Expressions sharpen, eyes narrow, growls begin to bubble up deep from within each chest. They are afraid.
They can each smell it wafting from the others, but who will it be? Who is the most afraid?
Which of them held back? Which of them – there. You. Blood on your hands, no doubt; blood on your lips – but not much. Not much at all.
Perhaps you couldn’t get close enough; there were so many hunters, after all. Or perhaps you stayed your hand out of mercy. Out of… sympathy.
Perhaps you stink of that same sin.
No words need to be spoken, no accusations put in so coarse a form as voice. The pack immediately knows which among them is no longer theirs, which has exposed their own inequity.
Which is now prey.
—"Blood Ties"
Jordan: You turned me into what? A torturer? [...] I don’t… I don’t know how to be this. I don’t want to scare people.
Jon: No. But you'll learn. [...] I can put you back if you want. You could become a victim again, rather than complicit.
Jordan: …No. This isn’t… I didn’t want this. But I can’t, I can’t go back to that. I can’t.
Jon: No. But you'll learn. [...] I can put you back if you want. You could become a victim again, rather than complicit.
Jordan: …No. This isn’t… I didn’t want this. But I can’t, I can’t go back to that. I can’t.
—"Like Ants"
Helen: Of course I’m dangerous, Jon. I’m a monster, just like you. And you can’t kill all of us.
Jon: No. You’re dangerous because for all the torture and cruelty, you still somehow got us to think you’re our friend.
Helen: I am your friend.
Jon: No. You’re not. That’s just what you distort. It’s why you spin, but you never quite lie. The corridors, the warped body, it’s all just set dressing, isn’t it? It’s not the reality of what you actually are.
Helen: And what, actually, am I?
Jon: You’re a question.
Helen: “What lurks behind a door?”
Jon: To some. But that would be The Stranger or The Dark. No, you are the question of “What lurks behind a smile?” Is a friendship true, or is it reaching out with hands that cut you?
Jon: No. You’re dangerous because for all the torture and cruelty, you still somehow got us to think you’re our friend.
Helen: I am your friend.
Jon: No. You’re not. That’s just what you distort. It’s why you spin, but you never quite lie. The corridors, the warped body, it’s all just set dressing, isn’t it? It’s not the reality of what you actually are.
Helen: And what, actually, am I?
Jon: You’re a question.
Helen: “What lurks behind a door?”
Jon: To some. But that would be The Stranger or The Dark. No, you are the question of “What lurks behind a smile?” Is a friendship true, or is it reaching out with hands that cut you?
—"Checking Out"
Once there was a house, a building that, for all it might have looked like those around it, was not the same.
Stop, no.
It didn’t start with the house. It was here long before any might have thought of it as a home.
Once, there was a patch of land, not quite as firm in this reality as that which surrounded it.
Stop, no.
It’s not about the land. Mud and soil has no part in what is there.
Once, there was a point in space that did not quite obey all those petty rules that decide what can be allowed to happen in a world.
Stop, no.
It’s not a point in space. The Earth spins and hurtles through the darkness, but it still carries it along.
Let us simply say that once there was a place. A place where the universe had… cracked.
Stop, no.
It didn’t start with the house. It was here long before any might have thought of it as a home.
Once, there was a patch of land, not quite as firm in this reality as that which surrounded it.
Stop, no.
It’s not about the land. Mud and soil has no part in what is there.
Once, there was a point in space that did not quite obey all those petty rules that decide what can be allowed to happen in a world.
Stop, no.
It’s not a point in space. The Earth spins and hurtles through the darkness, but it still carries it along.
Let us simply say that once there was a place. A place where the universe had… cracked.
—"This Old House"
Jon: You've failed.
Jonah: Have I?
Jon: Immortality. It’s impossible. Even without me, nothing escapes entropy. Not forever. Not even fear.
Jonah: Yes… Pity. I suppose I always knew that, deep down. But it was wonderful while it lasted.
Jonah: Have I?
Jon: Immortality. It’s impossible. Even without me, nothing escapes entropy. Not forever. Not even fear.
Jonah: Yes… Pity. I suppose I always knew that, deep down. But it was wonderful while it lasted.
—"Last Words"
"It ends now. All of it. I am going to take this world that you used me to create, and I am going to burn it out. It’s the only way. I’m going to leave it a barren, lifeless void, cold and unafraid and then finally, when everyone’s gone, and I am all that’s left, I will have the satisfaction of knowing that I’ll be leaving these things that you serve trapped and starving in their own private hell. [...] I wonder if they’re even capable of fearing their own ends.
I look forward to finding out."
I look forward to finding out."
—Jonathan Sims, "Last Words"
Hm. Have you ever read War and Peace, Jon? I know, I know; I had to read an extract for a literature class once, ended up reading the whole thing.
Another life.
It’s not actually as boring as people say, and its central thesis is that the tiniest, most insignificant factors can control the destiny of the world.
In its post-script, Tolstoy muses on the concept of free will, on whether or not he really believes in it. He ultimately decides that if all the millions upon millions of factors that weigh upon our choices were fully and completely known, then all could be foreseen and predetermined.
But, he argues, it is quite impossible for the human mind to comprehend even a fraction of these. And in that vast, dark space of ignorance lies: free will.
Isn’t that marvelous, Jon? Free will is simply ignorance. It’s just the name we give to the fact that no one can ever really see everything that controls them.
Another life.
It’s not actually as boring as people say, and its central thesis is that the tiniest, most insignificant factors can control the destiny of the world.
In its post-script, Tolstoy muses on the concept of free will, on whether or not he really believes in it. He ultimately decides that if all the millions upon millions of factors that weigh upon our choices were fully and completely known, then all could be foreseen and predetermined.
But, he argues, it is quite impossible for the human mind to comprehend even a fraction of these. And in that vast, dark space of ignorance lies: free will.
Isn’t that marvelous, Jon? Free will is simply ignorance. It’s just the name we give to the fact that no one can ever really see everything that controls them.
—Annabelle Cane, "Weaver"
The Mother is the fear of manipulation and lost control made manifest. So perhaps it is our fear that projects her influence on everything that happens.
Like the mind: retrospectively assigning reason to our actions, so we fit whatever occurs into the neatest pattern we can, and declare her web both intricate and complete.
Perhaps she is no more active than Terminus, simply sitting and reveling in the inevitable cascade of paranoia, as those who hold her in special terror cocoon themselves in red string and theory.
Or perhaps I am simply telling you what you need to hear in order to ensure you behave exactly as the Mother wishes you to.
Like the mind: retrospectively assigning reason to our actions, so we fit whatever occurs into the neatest pattern we can, and declare her web both intricate and complete.
Perhaps she is no more active than Terminus, simply sitting and reveling in the inevitable cascade of paranoia, as those who hold her in special terror cocoon themselves in red string and theory.
Or perhaps I am simply telling you what you need to hear in order to ensure you behave exactly as the Mother wishes you to.
—Annabelle Cane, "Weaver"
