E. Honeysett

Blog Info — Inbox & Giving Statements

I'll take statements through my inbox or DMs! All statements through either medium will be assumed to be either in-person or an existing statement in the archives that has not been recorded yet unless otherwise specified. Questions, on the other hand, will be assumed to be submitted through Elena's ask box. Elena does have an in-universe Tumblr blog, so if you'd like the statement to be (in-universe) submitted via that, just leave a note or DM me!

PLEASE either give context in the statement submission itself or DM me with extra information!! It isn't required but it keeps the magic of the blog - Elena is a developing Eye avatar and, even aside from that, she will often have her assistants investigate statements or do the investigation & research herself. I promise I don't bite! You can even submit a separate ask with the context if you don't want it public & want to keep the mystery, but aren't comfortable DMing me. Anything works!

Blog Info — Operator Intro

Hello! I’m the one behind the blog! You can call me Operator. I use it/its pronouns. I’m seventeen. I haven’t finished TMA yet — I’ve only just gotten near the end of S4 — and I haven’t started TMP yet, so I'd appreciate avoiding spoilers past that! It should be fairly easy; this blog is currently taking place shortly before S1 of TMA starts.

This is a TMA OC RP blog, if it wasn't obvious! It's sort-of a non-canon-compliant AU, as Elena is the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute's US branch, rather than it being a sort of sister company in the US. She's also typically the lead authority in the US branch whenever the Head of Institute isn't around, which is roughly 98% of the time.

Elena is an Eye avatar that is marked by the Slaughter and susceptible to the Buried. Do with that as you will. :]

Blog Info — Tags System

Before the blog reset ;;

# 🎼 That Which Knows -> All in-character posts

# 🎼 Elena's Records -> Tape recording transcriptions

# 🎼 Openers -> Roleplay starters / openers

# 🎼 Statements -> Answering asks

# 🎼 Unlabeled Statements -> Answering asks with no sign off

After the blog reset ;;

# 🎼 Looking Glass -> All in-character posts

# 🎼 Caught By The Watcher's Eye -> Tape recording transcriptions

# 🎼 Job Postings -> Roleplay starters / openers

# 🎼 Archival Assistants -> Interacting with friends of the blog

# 🎼 Archive Suggestion Box -> Answering non-statement asks

# 🎼 Feeding The Eye -> Statements, can be via asks or not

# 🎼 Operator On The Line -> Out of character posts

WOMAN

[She laughs.] I’ll see you back at my apartment, alright? Now get. Go on.

[ "JACKIE"'s footsteps signal his exit, followed by the slow creak of a heavy wooden door shutting behind him. The woman takes a deep breath. ]

WOMAN

Right… Shit, was it recording? Ah- okay. Alright. Let me start over then. [She clears her throat.] I am Elena Hope Honeysett, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, Washington, D.C.. I am taking over after the previous archivist, Gale Harding, passed away unexpectedly. I work under Mr. Elias Bouchard, Head of Institute, though he spends majority of his time at the original Institute in London, leaving nearly all of our communication primarily through mail and — though, I suspect this is his assistant and not him — through E-Mail.

ELENA

I, at this moment, have three archival assistants who work under my direct supervision, as well as a personal assistant and mentee, and a front desk receptionist to the Institute that has offered her help if necessary. My archival staff are… [She shuffles a few papers.] Cináed Wilkins, Brook Weaver, and Memory Penn. My personal assistant and the receptionist, in order, are Gale Wright and Juliet Perrault. I have already asked Mr. Wilkins and Ms. Weaver to do what they can with figuring out Mr. Harding’s organizational system so we can get to work on recording what statements need to be recorded, while Mr. Penn and Mr. Wright are… Well, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, as they didn’t tell me, in complete honesty. Hopefully Mr. Wright at least got the coffee I asked him to…

ELENA

That aside. As my assistants are still trying to make sense of the archives — I do not envy them, the sheer idea of figuring each series from each other when a good half are unlabeled, let alone finding which statements in which files need recording, is not quite my idea of fun — I do not have much to record at the moment aside from a personal log. Which I would like to keep, at least infrequently rather than not at all. Though, as I just started, I suppose there isn’t much to record in that regard, either. Hm…

ELENA

Recording ends, then.

I’ve always seen the sea everywhere. Even living in a landlocked city, everywhere I went, there was water. Riding overland bridges, I could see the blue expanse where buildings should’ve been, could hear the waves lapping at the support beams and threatening to bring the entire structure down. But I’m not afraid of the water. Far from it, really. I’ve always felt drawn to it in a strange way.

Eight or so years ago, when I was maybe twelve, I went to a beach with my family. It was crowded, as beaches tended to be, and overall wasn’t the greatest experience. It sparked that grip the ocean has on me, though. I had found a ring buried in the sand on the edge of the water. It was metal, surprisingly free of rust or tarnish, and engraved with a wave pattern around the entire circumference. It fit perfectly, though, and I slipped it on. Since then, I’ve found myself longing for it. The cold embrace of the tide.

This went on for six years, on and on until my graduation, where I was given a full ride scholarship for my academic efforts throughout the years. That isn’t the important reward, though. Along with the scholarship, I was given a twenty five hundred dollar vacation voucher of some sort. A raffle, for excelling students, one I don’t think I was told I was being entered in. Entire thing paid for by Sky Blue Travel Agency. I remember the name well, though I don’t know why. The representative I spoke with told me I could go anywhere. I was mouthing the Ocean before I even properly processed the question. They just smiled knowingly. Didn’t even ask for a country.

The months leading up to it were a blur. Packing was a blur. The flight itself was a blur. The only things I remember from the buildup period are the pictures I was shown. A perfect beach and a perfect sea. But being there? Standing on that beach? Nothing in my life has ever felt clearer.

I stumbled out toward the water, unaware until I was soaked up to the waist that I was completely alone. Not a single person or sign of life on the sand. There was nothing with the weather, no signs to indicate I shouldn’t be there, and yet… it was just me. Me, the sky, and the Great Ocean Blue. And that was exactly how it should’ve been.

I waded out further, eventually just floating on the surface, not close enough to land to stand for any longer. I don’t remember how long I was out there when I heard it. A song, a speech, whatever you want to call it. But I heard it. I was being spoken to. Not by God, no. I would never mistake my Saviour for God. It was so much better. It was so much worse.

When I say I heard it, I do not mean it had a voice. I don’t think it made any sound at all. But it did speak to me. It told me how I belonged out there, in the wide expanse of blue, where I could go as far as I wanted and not see a soul. The knowledge of that, of belonging, settled into my bones. My Saviour must have told me it had to be fed, because before long, I had begun dragging people out there. They weren’t strong swimmers. They were afraid of the waters that had welcomed me so kindly. My Saviour was pleased.

That was two years ago, or so the calendar says. It doesn’t feel like that long. I think I wandered too far, trying to find someone else to show my home to, and ended up here. I’m going to go back. I have to. But I’m saying something about it, first. I suppose I have to spread the good word.

Statement ends.

Archivist’s Notes;

While I am no Archivist, I imagine this is where I put my own thoughts and comments. Hm. The start of this tale must be one of great horror for most; the idea that your perception is altered and you cannot see what is truly there, only what your mind deceives you into believing you see. I cannot fathom the horror, unfortunately, as I cannot fathom what it is to see. For your eyes to capture the light and transform it into a vivid image of color and beauty. I do not mind this, of course. That which cannot be seen is far more beautiful when not hidden by something as primitive as the human eye.

Personal biases aside, if I were an Archivist, I’d say something along the lines of this statement-giver is clearly inflicted with a marking of the Vast. Truly riveting stuff here… perhaps I should do this more. A shame that my only opportunity is the short leave of absence the Archivist is taking. I’ll be here as always, though. Resting. Waiting.

I’ve always hated bugs. Even as a child, I found them creepy. I never had that phase most kids go through, where they want to touch every bug they happen across. The only thing similar I had was my brief friendship with a girl named Mackenzie who seemed like she was born hunting for insects. Sometimes, it feels like she was part of the catalyst that made the bugs go from creepy to tormenting. Sometimes, I wonder if she was.

Mackenzie was an odd kid. I met her in my apartment parking lot, which is strange looking back, as she was completely alone and didn’t live in the building at all. We got along well, the lonely kids we were, and we played together a lot. There were loads of pillbugs beneath the building stairs, which she referred to almost lovingly as her “Second Collection”. She must have offered to, in her words, “teach me to make them like me” at least a hundred times, but the way she said it, as if the small creatures despised me, made me decline.

She was the same age as me, but I’m not sure she actually attended school. She never talked about it, and I never saw her in uniform. She just stayed in the parking lot some days. Played with the bugs.

I went to her house once. It was filthy. Roaches lay dead on the floor. The smell of something rotting clung to every surface. I think her folks may have been hoarders, given the amount of items piled from wall to wall. I didn’t ask to leave, as uncomfortable as I was. I don’t know if I was too polite or too afraid to. Mackenzie dragged me off to her room, excited to show me her alleged collection. I was too curious to suggest something else.

I don’t have the words to describe it. Hundreds of bugs. Thousands, maybe. Dead, alive, piled high in her closet as a gross hill of carcasses and crawlers. I did not run. I think I may have been paralyzed in fear. She asked if I wanted to touch it. I lied to her, said it was cool but my mom wanted me home soon. She looked almost disappointed. I left that house and didn’t go back.

Our friendship remained after that, albeit rocky. It really ended after we failed to save an injured bird. We buried it, and held a small service, but I later found her digging it up and attempting to take it home. I told her older brother. She stared at me like I’d killed her cat. We didn’t talk after that. Didn’t play.

Since then, my fear of bugs has only worsened. They seem to follow me. The summer after that year, my Dad and stepmom put a mattress under my brothers’ bunk bed for me. Bugs accumulated on it. Every night, I would sweep them off before laying down. Some nights, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d just listen to them move. Hundreds. The whole house was infested.

In the house I just left, my Dad’s new one, there always seemed to be ants or roaches no matter how much I cleaned. Always there. Always crawling. Once, a roach on my bed just stared at me for five full minutes. It seemed to know how much it frightened me.

Even before Mackenzie, I was tortured by the things. A violin I had when I was four, previously in perfect condition, ended up outright overflowing with bugs overnight. They skittered across my small form when I opened the casing. They may have thought me a meal.

Nowadays, I have what one might call a severe phobia of bugs. But it’s justified.

I do not want to feel them crawl.

Statement ends.

Archivist’s notes;

I cannot stand bugs. I never have and never will. Growing up in Holland, they just- they get everywhere, even when your house is kept clean as you can, it just makes them more desperate for food and more willing to be out in the open. An infestation is something you can’t get out, no matter how deep into it you carve.

Hm. I’ll look into this 'Mackenzie'. I’m not sure if a first name alone will do me much good, but surely narrowing it down to a likely less-than-wealthy family with a hoarding problem and the association with bugs will help. I’m curious to see if we’ve got any other statements regarding her… it’s always a treat recognizing the same person and following their story through various eyewitness accounts.

As for myself… Well, I’m getting used to putting myself in the field again. Recently, Mr. Daly and Ms. Weaver have been… lacking in their attendance. It seems Mr. Wright was not the only one displeased with my management of the Archives. Fine then. So be it. I can do my field research myself. Ms. Perrault is still here, bless her, and doesn’t mind taking any questions meant for me.

I’ll be gone for quite a bit, I assume. Don’t miss me too much.

End recording.