Chapter Text
Dear Mr Bouchard,
I am responding to the email you sent earlier, regarding the position of Head Archivist at the Magnus Institute. I am extremely interested in applying for this position. I have several years of experience working in the Institute, and believe that this position would be the right step for my career.
Should the position not be suitable, I hope you will consider me for the position of archival assistant, which I believe is also newly available.
Please find my CV enclosed, and I hope to hear from your soon.
Yours sincerely,
Jonathan Sims, Researcher, Magnus Institute.
Jon read over the email carefully, then again. Ran it through a spellcheck, and a grammar check. Double checked his CV to make sure it was fully up to date, and it had no spelling errors either. Finally he sat back, sighed, and clicked send.
There. He rolled his head back, wincing as his neck cracked. It was- about as good as it was going to get. Hopefully, good enough. Good enough to get him out of research, at least. Oh, He had been optimistic going in, before he’d had a decent look at just what he’d be working with, and it slowly dawned on him that the vast majority was, to put it bluntly, crap. He had only found a handful that were real, in the four years he had been working there. A few precious mouthfuls of truth in a desert of waste paper.
The Archives.
Oh, his mouth watered at the thought. There were centuries of accounts down there. Tens of thousands upon thousands, reaching right back to accounts sent in person to Johan Magnus, even before the Institute was founded. A veritable treasure trove that Gertrude Robinson had hoarded like the proverbial dragon, incinerating anyone who dared to set foot inside.
But now that dragon was gone. Now, he would have access to all of them. Jon looked up at the ceiling, feeling the deep hunger ache. More. Soundless, a gaping, ravening maw inside him. Jon kneaded his knuckles against his stomach, shivering as it gnawed insistently. More. Always more, never enough.
Another, deeper tug. He could feel It’s attention on him, watching. Watching. Jon sighed, got up and found his coat. He glanced outside and tried not to groan, a thin rain was starting to fall. Still, it was probably all to the good; fewer people would be out to see him.
His phone rang as he was climbing onto the nightbus. Jon glanced at the phone and felt a rare smile spread, quickly taking the call. “How’s America?”
The line crackled, making Jon wince at the interference. He took the phone away from his ear and glared at it, and the noise faded a little. “Lovely. Tall. Did you get the job?”
“I’ve just sent off the application.” Jon sat at the top of the bus, looking through the rain-speckled glass. “It’ll take a while to hear back.”
“Bouchard’s an idiot if he picks anyone else.”
“James has an actual degree in the subject, and more experience. It’ll be her.”
“You’re doubting the power of nepotism.”
“He’s looked at me maybe twice since I started working there.” Jon couldn’t keep the disappointment out of his voice, but it was one benefit of talking to Mike, he didn’t have to.
“Depends which eyes, how do you know for sure?”
“True. But it’s still going to be Sasha.”
“Want to meet me in New York to commiserate?”
“I’m surprised you’re not there yet.”
“I’m taking my time. Seattle was great, and Chicago has the Great Lakes and skyscrapers. I don’t want to rush.”
Jon smiled. “I’m glad you’re having fun. It’ll depend on when I hear back from them, and when they want us to start. I might be able to take a week.”
“Do it!” The static screamed as he laughed. “I want you along when I get to the Empire State Building. Don’t you want to watch?”
The hunger ached; the jaws deep inside him champed and drooled. “I’m sure Sasha will want a few days to get things on board before she’ll bring us in. I can’t imagine Gertrude left the place in any kind of manageable state.”
“Take pictures, I want to see. Will this Sasha be manageable to work with?”
“She’s a career academic.” Jon shrugged, “Becoming the Archivist is a stepping stone to her. I’ll be the good little assistant, do extra-curricular activities on overtime, and in a few years she’ll move on to be head of research or library or admin, and I’ll be ready to step in.”
“Tell me if you get impatient. A team building operation to the London Eye?”
“Oh, go away.” Jon shook his head, “She’ll bring on Tim Stoker as well. He’s solid enough, but I don’t see him having that ambition. He’ll go along with her to be her assistant.”
“Sounds like you got it in the bag.”
“Yeah.” He smiled. “I’ll see if I can come.”
“Grand. I’m counting on it.”
“See you soon.”
The call shut off. Jon looked down at the phone. Blank, black glass. The camera a deep, endless eye, looking back impassively. The loneliness gnawed at him, even deeper than the hunger. A single point of contact, a hand. A touch, leaving him all the emptier for the loss of it. He touched his forehead to the glass, closing his eyes.
The bus slowed, announcing his stop. Jon sighed and got up, swaying to the rocking of the bus, and made his way down.
The Mall was indeed deserted at this time of night. Jon pulled his coat more tightly around himself, turning his collar up against the chill. He walked, and turned into Parliament Street.
London. The most surveilled city in the world. A camera for every ten inhabitants. Almost a million of them now, nesting on the roofs, clinging to the lampposts, watching, watching, always watching. Jon could feel the cold, glass eyes resting on him as he walked. His shoulderblades itched, his head bowing under the weight of it. He let it wash around him like the rain, welcoming the creeping fear, knotting his stomach.
And here, on this deserted street, with the Cenotaph a dark shadow in the distance. Here was the heaviest concentration of cameras- of probably anywhere in the world. Jon glanced around, meeting those many, many unblinking eyes. On the camera atop the lamppost beside him, a spiderweb sparkled, raindrops caught in the silk, shimmering in the light.
And, one by one, they turned. They looked at him.
The spiderweb tore, sending raindrops falling to the pavement. The resignation raged up into a fierce, desperate joy. Yes. This was why he was here; this was why he had come so far. He could not have asked for a clearer message.
Jonathan Sims smiled, and sank to his knees on the damp pavement. “Ceaseless Watcher, cast your Eye upon me,” he whispered. “I am Yours, let me stand before You. Behold me. I offer myself to You.”
He could hear the whirr of the lenses, focusing more tightly on him. The weight, the terrible, terrifying weight of the Eye’s gaze, turning to him- if only for a moment. He wanted to close his own eyes against the deep, unspeakable terror of being held in the Gaze of something so unimaginably huge, so utterly beyond his ability to grasp. But he forced himself to keep them open, feeling the world swim and shimmer before him, reality thinning against his skin.
Yes. He met Its gaze, mind burning from the sheer force of it. He felt It drinking in his terror, devouring and hungry and- pleased. Yes. He offered up his terror, his joy, his worship. Yes, I am here. I am Yours.
The Hunger, but there was more there. A- curiosity. An eagerness to Know. To Learn.
Yes. See my mind, see my thoughts. Learn. Do not simply Know, but Understand.
He shuddered, slumping forwards as It drank him down. Sinking into him, devouring everything that made him Jon Sims. Taking the fear, yes, but so much more. He choked, gasped, the air burning his throat as he tried to breathe, but he felt The Beholding satiate Itself. Feed and- grow. Fragment by fragment, piece by piece.
“Thank you.” He whispered as he felt Its gaze move away from him. It had fed, and once, that would have been enough. To feed on all the fear it could eke out from Its supplicant, and move on. But now, he felt It pause a little, raking over him once more, to see if he had something- more to offer. More than fear. A flicker of true curiosity, digging into Jon to try and know more. To Understand.
“I will.” Jon whispered, driven down by the weight of the Gaze, prostrated on the wet pavement. “I will, and through me, You shall learn. I will bring You understanding.”
“Oi you!”
Jon blinked, pushing himself back up. His head swam, pounded. His mouth tasted of iron, he wiped at his eyes and his hand came away red.
A policeman was standing at the gate to Downing Street. He looked bored. “Yeah, God’s heard you, freak. I’m sure He’s going to tell the Prime Minister to smite the gays or the Jews or whatever. Fuck off, eh?”
“Right.” Jon wiped his face. He got up unsteadily, bracing himself on the lamppost. Above him, the camera was back in its place. All of them were; bolted in place, unable to move. Jon could have imagined it.
But the spiderweb was gone.
This was why he was here. This was why he had come this far. This was why he would go so much further.
Jon turned his face up to the falling rain, blissfully. Thank you, Beholding. Thank you. Thank you.