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marlasomething · 1 year

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(my) Mag a Week: The Brothers Non-Slayer

Hello there!

I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened. This week I am publishing late...I have a hell of a week, sorry.

For today I rolled Archivist!Tim (FINALLY A NORMAL ONE) and The Web (Eps. 58-65).

As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

CW: THIS IS A HEAVY ONE --> Domestic abuse, murder, explicit violence, child neglet, manipulation, police brutality, trauma of varios kinds, corruption of the "soul", paranoia

Also on AO3!

Statement of Ashley Giles, regarding how he believes he has managed to sell his soul to his lawyer (more or less).

Recorded by Timothy Stoker, Headless Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

Sometimes I wish I was actually guilty of the charges I was being accused of. At least, that way, I could…I don’t know; feel less guilty about the crimes I am committing now? You know, since I would already be a “felon in soul” or something on that style.

That is not the case, though: I am completely innocent. I didn’t kill my brother. That cop did, that bloody cop did kill him and all because…all because he was delusional and thought he had found an actual vampire and, er, murdered him.

Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds: in less than ten lines I have already told you that I am currently involved in multiple criminal activities, that I was accused of murdering my very own brother and that he himself had killed someone believing he was a Hammer’s classical bloodsucker. Oh, yes, and don’t forget there is a cop in this story, which that makes it a bit more terrible.

However, this is not a Goncharov type of story. There is no tragedy larger than life taking place, neither a lot of mafia-esque characters going around. It is just the story of two brothers, one sick in the head and other sick in the leg, and how the system just managed to push them aside until working to be paid by the hour in the most shameful of positions was all they had left.

It all began when my father died and we were left alone with our mother. I have not mistaken the words: the man that died was just my biological father, for my older brother (Iago) was the son of our mother’s first husband, who hung himself when he was barely a baby. However, we both went by her maiden’s surname because…I actually don’t know why, sorry about the side-note.

My father was a complete asshole that drunk himself to the tomb and that, one evening he was feeling especially outraged by how dumb and useless and lacking of any remarkable future I was, came to me as if he was possessed by some evil deadly spirit and started hitting me until I was left unconscious.

Iago did nothing; he was too scared to even move. My mother locked herself in the bathroom and pretended nothing was happening, almost as if we were no longer her family, just people that happened to look just a lot like her. My father went out, probably to try to cheat on his wife just to realise he couldn’t get it up even if he took a full box of Viagra (which I hoped he would have done, being the chances of giving him a heart attack quite a delightful thing to look forward).

Meanwhile I…I crawled to the kitchen, since there was a framed picture of the four of us in my room and I couldn’t even begin to handle the thought of facing it for the time being.

Maybe, if Mister Sinclair had appeared back them; I would be able to even remember him with something ever so slightly reminiscent to kindness. But he didn’t, and I was just there, alone, crying in the kitchen while trying not to look at my mangled leg.

My leg started to go black and, since my parents would do nothing to put a remedy to it and I was…rather afraid of hospitals as a concept, I took it upon me to find how to get it back without dying in the process.

As the teenager with zero to none medical knowledge that I was, I couldn’t; so I ended up cutting it off with the help of my brother.

That is exactly how we found out my brother was sick in the head. In some manner at least, though it isn’t as if doctors ever diagnosed him properly and, as you likely can imagine, we didn’t have the kind of money to get an expert opinion.

He blanked out. Not in shock because of the blood, not because he felt asleep due to tiredness, not because he was high or wasted. No, he just spaced out. He sometimes did, I just hadn’t realised until then.

What a brother I was…

Anyways, I was about to bleed out when he came back to his senses and, in spite of my prejudices, in spite of the more than certain repercussions from our parents…he called an ambulance.

I, obviously, didn’t die and we both silently formalised the fact that Iago wasn’t ok either. Our mother stayed home and…my dad got infected. After cutting himself in the doctors’ bathroom, where he entered without permission, feeling somehow entitled to use “the best facilities” due to, well, I don’t know: most resistant liver ever to have been born on this wrecked Earth?

Anyways, it is not important. My father died of a hospital infection before I was even released and, since both Social Services and The Police believed this was all related to the jerk that had just become a corpse; they released us to go to our mom.

To find she had flown away, never to be seen by either of us again.

I can’t say I blame her. At that moment, I was fifteen and Iago, seventeen; in her old-fashioned mind, we were likely old enough to survive on our own, and she had had enough of a life she had never asked for.

I am not saying I forgive her either, nor that what she did is ok by any means. Just that I understand how she came to be so broken and willing to make such a harsh decision.

The both of us, being the brainless teenagers we were, refused to call anyone and chose to fight for ourselves.

Oh my god we were so stupid, so bloody stupid…

Flash-forward to almost ten years later; when my brother decided that vampires were, obviously, a real thing.

Now, my brother became extremely superstitious the moment we started living on our own, almost as if he hoped that, if he deposited part of his soul on growing a faith, the World would give something back to him for his…devotion? Patience? Open- eyed mind?

Among all those things he began to take a liking to investigate monsters, the sooner they had begun being spoken around humans, the better. I considered this a waste of time, especially since he had less free time than me as I could work less hours since got extremely tired much easier due to the whole, well, only-one-leg thing (and that my hand-made fake one wasn’t exactly the epitome of comfort).

He wouldn’t listen, though, and he should have! He should, and, then, he would still be alive.

And I would still have the whole of my soul with me.

It all happened one day I left him alone to have a date because, yes, even in the life of barely-above-misery that we were living I refused not to have fun. Not to, basically, Live . So I kissed my brother goodbye in the cheek as he complained we were both far too manly for those gestures and headed back to the Soho.

Meanwhile, my brother got one of his attacks and, when he came back to himself, there was a rail thin person with their mouth disproportionally opened right next to him. Layers and layers of shark-like-teeth were about to close around his neck while a tubular tongue of an unnatural purple colour twirled with anticipation from the back of their vocal cavity. It could barely be seen, but, the moment you did, there was not mistake possible to be made.

On an act born out of pure reflexes, he pushed the creature to the window and threw our only remaining candle to hit It, just in case.

It burned to the ground.

Yes, I know, if your brother with, very likely, medical mental-health problems, clear traumas and a life-time of being worn out had told you this…you would probably have not believed him but, here is the thing: I know my brother, he would have never, ever, lied about any of this.

If he told me so, this was what had happened. At least, from his perspective point of view.

This doesn’t mean, of course, that I condemned his behaviour or encouraged it in any way imaginable, but I couldn’t change it. He had found a mission and started to dedicate more and more time to find and take down vampires (and, apparently, werewolves and insect-like-people too? I am not certain about that point, sorry), occupying this hobby of his more and more time while real-life occupations mattered to him less and less by the hour.

I tried not be mad at him for it, I had also screwed up a few too many times before and he had always been exemplar until that point, but I couldn’t help but letting an animosity as nothing I have ever felt before come into me and fill my entire soul. Everyone around us noticed, too, and the whispers about us began to grow; the rumours about how the two brothers that had always had their backs were about to stab each other.

All nonsense, that much I knew. Or, at least, I think I did.

One day, as I was wondering around the market, I saw a knife with an intricate cobweb design on sale and, somehow, I knew I had to buy it. After all, I was a disabled person living on a very dangerous city; it was a cautious measure to be

taken. As I bought it, I was told that my brother and another customer had bought its

twin , but I didn’t truly process the actual words, just getting the idea that

my brother had a fucking knife as a shiver run all through my back.

What if my brother thought I was a vampire too?

So, I made up my mind: that very night I was going to go and find my brother dear and begged him to come to his senses.

Little did I know, he was bringing his knife too, and he wasn’t the only one with one of them. By the time I arrived, he was bleeding out, his knife fallen next to him and a figure standing nearby. There were a sandy-blonde haired female-presenting person, in their mid-thirties, muscular and with a face of not being messed up with.

They were holding a knife, just like ours and, when they realised I was in that very same position (if you could equiparate my utter harmless pose to their deadly one) to her clear murderous aspect), they shrugged, muffled a “you are likely not much better” and knocked me down.

I woke up already at the station, handcuffed and with a concussion that could only be rivalled by the one thanks to which I lost my leg. The first thing I did was, obviously, asking whether my brother was ok or not. By the cops’ reactions I could already tell the whole story: he had been found dead and I was the main and only suspect.

I even have the murder weapon with me! What an easy win at the trial; or that is what they thought.

They didn’t count with Ronald Sinclair.

Ronald Sinclair is a private lawyer whose usual fee I couldn’t have payed even with all the money I had earned in my entire life. However, from time to time, his firm takes in some free cases, usually in exchange of recruiting whoever they chose to represent. This might sound cynical and harsh, but I was almost certain he had chosen me because they were lacking on a corporative image including someone with a visible physical disability.

I wouldn’t complain, though. A stable job! Well-payed! And the only thing I would have to endure would be condescending looks from time to time was perfectly fine with me.

Oh, and the whole not-being-declared guilty of murder, of course.

Since the first moment we had a proper lawyer-client meeting, I sensed something was off. First of all, the contract I signed said that I bounded myself to work with Mother & Co. Associates as long as my thread remained intact. It made no sense to me, and it was rather ominous, but I wanted to get out of there and I wasn’t getting a better change, so I signed it and, as I did, I swear

something was guiding my hand.

I’ve haven’t had such a good calligraphy never before (and never after that signature).

The trial went as smoothly as possibly imaginable and, still, I didn’t feel comfortable for a single second.

Yes, Ronald allowed me to talk and let me explain everything to him before each session so he could defend me and teach me how to answer every possible question those answers based on what had really went down; but somehow…each time, he just, he just managed to convince me things were to be understood in a particular manner, usually not the same I was coming from beforehand, and that, actually, this was what I meant in a much more succinct and clear way.

And I believed it, somehow, it wasn’t until I was alone that I started to point out the moment in which I could have said something, in which I have thought

something and just…let it go. And, here is a very funny thing, when a version of reality is only in your head, completely incorporeal and the other one is being spoken, real sound waves sending the message across space and time…no matter how strong your convictions, one is clearly going to bury the other in the mud.

I won the case, he even found the cop who was the actual killed, whose name was Alice Tonner, and she got convicted for it (to what he smiled a bit to widely and said, without further explanation, she works for the competence ).

Then, I started working for Mother & Co.

It was all paralegal at first; they paid for a speed education so I had the the basicest and I am rather proud of being able to say that, from working at housewares, I learned pretty quickly and handle my way around better than much of the people with fancy degrees that worked alongside me.

Then, more morally dubious stuff started to come in right to me desk and…I don’t want to keep writing for much longer (my hand starts to hurt and, with the leg thing is more than enough, thank you very much), so I will just tell you about the very first time all red flags started to show up in my head.

And, as the fucking coward I am, I did nothing against it.

What is even worse, I am not even sure if I wanted…if I

want to do something about it.

There was this kid; Wesley, he was called, that had got into trouble with his step-mother, claiming she had been substituted and was no longer the woman his biological mother had married thirteen years before.

He was making charger and with everything he had in his entire persona (both practical and metaphysical ) to take her down and we, well, we defended the mother. Also known as the scariest woman I have ever faced while being also the most vanilla person in all of Creation.

You know what is the worst part? This Wes kid…he was a lot like Iago had been. He was cunning, hot-heated, a bit of a nerd even if it was of the things usual nerds would mock him for, too naïve while being too mature…Shit! They even dressed a bit alike!

I have always been instinctively good with technology so, the moment I had access to a proper education on the subject, I wasn’t just good, I excelled. So, what I had to do was simple: play with Wes, twist his little world up-side-down via the Big Net so by the time the trial began, he is the least believable person in the history of trials.

Not only that: while I made conversation with the boy letting the precise words to rise his curiosity in the most troublesome spaces, to generate nonsense questions that had no answer so he believed he had found The Holy Grail of information. By the end of this process, if I did well my job, his behaviour would belong to us as it truly never belonged to him in the first place.

I was... am amazing at my job, so I didn’t do well . I did

AMAZING !

I was conscious that what I was doing was bad. I knew deep down the boy was right, even if the pictures of his step-mother clearly matched the ones of our client. And I wanted to do something, I wanted, I don’t know, go full American movie and renounce my freedom sentence.

However, every time I felt as acting, something else happened. Usually, small

events where to be blamed: a text message, a person in the office suffering from some health issue, a casual meeting in the elevator (and, you know, I cannot simply take the stairs), a song sounding in the background…just the exact thing to trigger in me a thought that, sooner or later, made me realised I should act.

So I didn’t, though until the very last moment I thought that, in the end, I would be the hero. I would defeat the bad guys. Like Iago would.

That is what heroes do, right? And what wasn’t I except the hero of my own

story?

Well, apparently, I was the villain for, the moment the trial began, my boss came into my office and told me I had to tewak a little bit the online presence of Wesley. Not only the one that I had affected directly, but the previous one too. Not to change, steal, erase or manipulate anything on itself, just alter the order they were presented, the elements external to Wes’ presence around which each file appeared.

I am ashamed to admit I actually enjoyed the challenge and put an extra effort to it.

When, in the trial, they tried to prove that the recent mental and sentimental state of Wesley was not representative of who he had been when he had begun this whole

Hamlet-esque fight; his very own lawyers almost dropped death at the stage when they started to realise the information they had wasn’t exactly accurate…once again, as I began to feel bad, I wanted to do something but…the ambiance (we were watching on video the trial as it happened, I still don’t understand how they have access to basically all cameras; the only explanation I received “the pathetic old man owes us” ), the interactions…before I could realise it I felt fitting in this web of people I hadn’t actually choose, behaving that someone that wasn’t who I truly was.

Though I might be becoming him piece by piece.

The alleged fake step-mother won the trial, delighted us with her presence one more time and, in a very Ofelia manner, Wesley drowned himself. I even went to the funeral. I was devastated, I felt hopeless, for Wes but also for myself; especially because part of me was, still is, proud of me being there, of my actions having such a determinant impact on someone’s life.

It scares me, it scares me that I am losing myself in this other me that is still me and yet…sorry, I am rambling. Please, take this statement and, I don’t know what kind of influence you handle but, if you can destroy them (I am not even to pretend I am in too deep now), do it.

For me, for Wes, for my brother, for so many other (except all the cops they have ruined, there had to be something good about Mother & Co. ).

Statement ends.

Wow, Ash; that is…wow (since you opened so much to me, I hope you don’t mind I call you Ash). Good calligraphy, by the way.

I remember Ronald Sinclair; he was the only survivor of Hill Top Road, after the fire that burned it to the ground. Apparently, he was hidden in the basement… He always wanted to go to that…sorry, I was digressing.

About the statement on itself: everything can be verified (well, except for the morally deplorable practices of a successful lawyer firm, but that is so blatantly true I guess there is no problem with believing that).

On a sad note, I looked upon what had happened with Ash and…quite recently, Ashley Giles got a promotion in Mother & Co. He seemed completely at home in the picture.

Embracing being a worst version of yourself…I wish I could say I cannot relate.

End recording.

SUPPLEMENTAL : Melanie King came by the other day and, when Jon went to talk to her, she started screaming. Not regular screaming, crazy-mad-out-of-your-mind-horror-movie-death kind of screaming. She kept saying that wasn’t Jonathan Sims and even texted Georgie Barker (who, apparently, used to know Jon…I want the full story there…) a picture for her just to say…that he was clearly Jon.

Sad, I thought I might count with an ally in Melanie, since I don’t feel comfortable about no one around here…

…I am royally screwed.

End recording.

#a mag a day #a mag a week #mag horror #statement #original statement #au #the magnus archives #fanfic #tma #magnuspod #timothy stoker #ronald sinclair #fic #the web #the hunt #mag #melanie king

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marlasomething · 1 year

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(my) Mag a Week: Body Points

Hello there!

I am participating in the "a mag a day" idea by @a-mag-a-day which is BRILLIANT and I decided to do "statement a week", rolling dice with the characters and fears that were ftw that week in the episodes I have listened and...I changed it to publish on Monday instead of the previous Sunday, but got busy so...delay. Sorry.

For today I rolled Archivist!Sarah Baldwin (weird one there, uh) and Flesh!Statement (Eps. 25-30).

As usual, please do forgive my quick tipper and non-native speaker mistakes, Marla

Allons-y!

CW: weirness, very mild body horror, bad attitudes towards body image, mild violence, murder

Also on AO3!

Statement of Jenna Goth, regarding the murder and partial eating of a remarkable number of individuals in the course of less than a year.

Recorded by Sarah Baldwin, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London.

Statement begins.

I know how this might look like, a letter coming from a mental institution, written by a teenager (I am still nineteen, after all) that has been in all public news after having killed and partially-eaten a few of her former classmates…

…not very reliable. However, I have heard about the kind of menaces you have to deal on a daily basis and, honestly, I trust you to trust me even more than myself. Plus, if it is of any consolation, the guard that will be taking my letter to you seem as sceptic as anyone can possibly be about you guys (you are a recurrent topic of conversation in here), so…there is that.

Sorry, I have never been much of a public speaker or, more accurately, I have never been much of a public speaker when I actually had something interesting to say or that wasn’t exactly what I wanted. When it comes to useless giving monologues as an evil cheerleader from a 80s film? There is no one (and I shall repeat no one ) that could get to my level.

I was rather perfect back then, with the exact body and features that had been worshiped for the last decade or so, looking a bit too old for my age, so everybody could acknowledge my biological merits without any sort of guilt ruminating at the back of their minds.

I was the recipient of all someone on my age should ideally be.

I had friends, a nice comfortable social position and the most accurate British version of the “popular girl in high school life” proposed by the Americans, but without the unnecessary romantic drama (which could have been funny, as long as it doesn’t involve you personally).

It cost me, of course, I had to make sure that both my brain (no one want a good-for-nothing gal, I needed high enough marks without being too remarkable) and body were perfect, just as they should be. I had to be what I was supposed to. I had to reach that state of certain perfection.

After all, who would I be if I was left alone in the not-always-so-metaphorical darkness?

Then, it happened.

The pimple appeared.

It wasn’t in a place that was actually visible; but in the upper part of my arm, completely covered by the uniform and, since it was winter, all the clothes I was going to be seen on outside high school.

Still, I knew it was there, and every time someone praised my porcelain skin I felt the gilt and same, the small sickly white over red protuberance itching within my arm. I had to make it disappear, at all costs.

I first tried cologne, it had worked previously and, obviously, all of my perfumes and similar products smelled beyond nice, so maybe I would even be more presentable. However, it did not only didn’t work, but practically burry my senses, almost as if I had fever, as if my body was… defending itself against me drying out a pimple?

It made no sense and, yet, I couldn’t think of a better explanation. So, since the painless method hadn’t worked out, I tried the grossest one: discard it from all its greasy and abscess mass manually. It worked out just about right; only that, the only thing that came out was…water, pristine water. I felt as someone voluntarily pushing a clown’s flower.

It had worked, though, so I just was glad of it and left the bathroom, choosing not to think about it ever again.

The dimple came back, this time at the perfect length for it to be seen if I rolled up my sleeves ever so slightly and, what was even worse, I could feel the rush sensation where the previous one had been coming back.

I tried not to think about it, and wait patiently until they had disappeared, certain the itching would just go away and nobody would notice my body wasn’t as perfect as before. With a bit of luck, the itching would have gone down enough for me to finish all my school work without any interruptions.

I wasn’t that lucky and, in the recess, I run towards the bathroom, noticing how the pimples were somehow crawling on themselves, provoking the most unnerving of itching on all my skin and even, partially, the muscle on itself.

I rolled up the sleeve and, apart from the already partially visible very mundane pimple, there was an inform shape almost next to my shoulder. A bulging capsule of a very low-density liquid inside…

…this couldn’t be happening. I refused to believe it but, just when I was about to turn in self-denial, I spotted one of my classmates behind me.

You see, Clara had never been very good at anything, nor even sleep (she had insomnia) nor eating (she had constant indigestions). However, what she was, that was a very reliable; that and that she always worried about other people.

“That is not normal, you should see a doctor” she said, her voice far too sweet for my liking.

After seeing that I was not going to answer, she carried on.

“Look, I will call a teacher. With an arm like this” I took personal offence.

My arms were perfect, never a “like this”. Do they have a couple of pimples? Maybe! But…I was being what I had to be! It is not fair to be judged like that! Much less by a girl whose only actual remarkable physical quality was the skin of her arms…?

There, my brain froze in one and only one thought: Clara’s arms were what I wanted. What I needed, so my body could be whole once again.

I jumped towards her, catching her for surprise and making her head find the sink with a dry clank, followed by the loss of any light in her bright blue eyes.

I started chewing the skin and flesh that occupied the parallel spaces to where mines had been corrupted.

It felt like glory.

I woke up the next morning to two completely gone pimples. Yes, it is true that Clara had always been a bit plump, so now my arm had two very specifics parts softer and wider than the rest of it; making the long-sleeve pyjamas look a bit funny on me. But I didn’t care, I got rid of the corruption and, last time I checked, we were in an era of accepting more body types, right?

So, as long as I still got accepted (better even, ever so slightly applauded), everything was fine.

The pimples kept coming up, in different parts of my body; even those were they were never supposed to appear, such as my fingertips. Every time, there was someone unworthy of a long life to give me that part of my body that had been corrupted.

My nose passed from a tiny button to the big one but with personality of my aunt, I won the muscular left leg of a marathon runner that lived next door, the far too long middle finger of a girl from the class next door…still, they matched me more than the relentless pimples that came, and came, and came…

And, every time one came, people noticed more, giving me terrible looks, noticing what I already knew: I had stopped being useful, as my perfect body was far gone and, since I couldn’t focus in anything by my disgrace, my grades also started to go down.

I passed from being a very promising piece of society to a pile of useless disgusting biological waste.

I was desperate.

So I got sloppy and, hence, the police did what they had been trying to do with absolutely no result for more than half a year: they caught me.

Somehow, the doctors and other experts came to the conclusion that all my physical alterations were the cause of extreme self-inflicted plastic surgery I somehow learned how to do.

I cannot understand it, but I couldn’t understand my pimples either; and here we are…

…at least, apparently, I finally discovered how to stop them: I surrendered. Now, I get one once in a while, but it is gone within a few days and, hey, maybe there are not so bad after all…

…maybe they help me find my new place in the world. That is the only thing I am missing: a place in the world.

Alas, me writing to you: is there anywhere in your Archives a document that explain what people like me are meant to do?

If you find it, do please contact me. If not, I bet we both can waste our time better.

Statement ends.

Well, I remember when this came to the press…God, I have never been gladder of not having gone on that trip to Edinburgh…think what would have happened having I’ve been there…Well, at least she knew what she was all the way out of the experience; that is much better than other statements we have in here.

I have just recently taken this position, after Georgina Barker recommended me when her partner, Jonathan Sims, refused since he knew what a workaholic he could become and how he was not going to go into that rabbit whole again….and, honestly, I get it.

I have always been drawn to the supernatural, but some of these statements make me question all reality on its totality.

If I am saying all this is because I would just cut part of the recording.

It isn’t as if there was anyone else listening, right? If there is: no, I am not sorry I smoked in my office every single day.

Recording ends.

#a mag a day #a mag a week #mag horror #statement #original statement #au #the magnus archives #fanfic #tma #magnuspod #sarah baldwin #original statement giver #fic #the flesh #mag

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