hey just a thought but for everyone who likes drawing/writing/imagining tma aus where Sasha comes back after being replaced, or someone else is replaced and comes back, or whatever just someone manages to survive a not-themming: no one seems to consider that they'd probably remember their appearance wrong too. Their memories would be rewritten just like everyone else's.
Imagine Sasha or Jon or Tim waking up and wandering around before catching their reflection and freezing because who the hell are they looking at. They don't remember looking like this. No, they're certain they were tall, or white, or black, or had a crooked nose, or tattoos, and when they ask someone for help, their voice sounds wrong in their ears, and no one seems to recognize them either or believe that they're who they say they are, and why would they believe them, when they're so obviously not that person?
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Georgie: The Wilkinson Houseâalso known as the Floating House or Trespasser Houseâwas built in 1896 in Rodell, Kentucky, USA. Two brothers, Joseph and Mathias Wilkinson, inherited their late fatherâs coveted plot of land. Unwilling to reach an agreement over the use of the land, the brothers descended into an increasingly ugly feud. Joseph built a house âovernightâ to stake his claim, using materials bought at short-sale auctions in a nearby town. Said town was suffering from air and water pollution from newly built factories surrounding the steps of the Appalachian Mountains where it lay. The town as it was slowly dismantled and moved out, and the area has since been named Smog, Kentucky. Fun fact: three of these factories belonged to Wilkinson Sr. It is unclear whether they were included in the will.
Georgie: Joseph contracted tetanus while finishing the house and died soon after. Mathias tried to have the house torn down, but apparently had a change of heart and moved it to the same lot as his own home. His body was found with a broken neck in the attic by a neighbor a few days later.
Georgie: The house was made into a tourist attraction the following year, on account of the shocking tale behind it as well as its eerie creeks and slamming doorsâmost likely due to the rushed craftsmanship. The story went that Josephâs ghost had possessed his brother and made him move the house, then killed him in revenge. The attraction was moderately popular up until the Great Depression. It never officially closed, despite additional unexplained deaths on the property and a growing negative reputation. The body count only drew in a steady stream of onlookers, according to tour records.
Georgie: It wasnât until the spring of 2017 that things began to change. On April 18th, the house was observed to have disappeared from the lot without a trace.
Georgie: Five months later, a house of identical description allegedly appeared on a small island in the Pacific Northwest. A retired entrepreneur reported to local police that it had been placed illegally, as she had bought the island privately several weeks before. Police were ready to dismiss the complaint when they arrived and found nothing. She was adamant that the intrusion had occurred and went on record with a vivid argument she had had with one of the two occupants, who she says had been reading a book written in Spanish on the porch. The other was repairing part of the railing and shot her dirty looks. The complaint was sustained after fresh scratches and paint chips were found in the soil, but the case was otherwise shelved.
Georgie: Surprisingly, the pair of men donât appear to be the Wilkinsons. The brothers were both Kentucky-born and -bred, white, average height, muscular, and almost hairless. The houseâs new occupants were âBritish-soundingâ. One was very thin and short and appeared to be of Indian or Middle-Eastern descent, with silver hair. The other was tall, heavy-set, and white with brown hair.
Georgie: Similar reports would crop up in North, Central, and South America over the next few years and get passed around on Tumblr, Twitter, and Reddit. The house would almost always appear in secluded areas that were off-limits to the public and disappear itself shortly after being found. It was always inhabited by the same two men, with the added consensus that they were married.
Georgie: They were rarely spotted in nearby towns and never spoke with anyone enough for their names to become known. When they were interacted with, they were generally polite--if a little tired or distracted. Otherwise, they were found to be wandering the area around their house together, mending the exterior, reading, or reciting aloud. Even the most invasive person couldnât attempt to film or approach the house without suffering a migraine or severe paranoia before losing consciousness. The house would be gone when they woke up, and their recording device rendered unusable. But written descriptions match a file photo of the original Wilkinson house. Debate sprung up over whether the two were ghosts, aliens, witches, a made up meme that keeps coming into fashion, or two eccentric recluses who happened to be living in a haunted house and deserved to be left alone.
Georgie: Sightings became more sparse toward 2023. When the couple were encountered, they never responded when spoken to. A reddit user in Mongolia supposedly used their home telescope to take photos through the houseâs windows where it sat in a glen behind their apartment. The two men sat still or paced in separate rooms for a few hours. They stopped and came together to talk once. The redditor recorded the conversation through lip reading and concluded that they were arguing in English about âwhere it was goingâ or âwhat we are beingâ. Their accuracy is disputed. The occupants then began pulling books and papers off of the shelves in every room. The user stepped away for a few minutes and came back to find that all the windows were greyed out. They were unsure if they were covered in smoke or paper. The house stayed for a week in that state before disappearing. This account used to be widely discredited, as it didnât fit the behavior profile at the time and the photos taken are unreadable. More radical accounts are believed to exist going backward, but have suffered from link decay and regional internet suppression.
Georgie: On May 8th of 2024, an elderly woman living next to a military base in New Mexico told her connected family that there had been a security threat that morning, complete with sirens and troops rushing out with rifles and buggies. Her husbandâwho works as a janitor thereâonly alluded to âsome kind of prank with an old empty houseâ. Their grandchildren relayed the story to their mutuals on tumblr, stirring attention in the States again.
Georgie: Following reports of the Floating House usually included some description of a visit by a pair of American âsecret serviceâ agents or men in military garb with weapons. The usual couple either answer the door or refuse to come out, and the house is gone within minutes. Similar accounts were made by users in China, Chile, Australia, and Turkiye, but were discounted as the agents were always said to be American. The circumstances of each encounter continued to escalate until it was claimed by a cyclist in Mayak, Russia that there was some kind of standoff between the two sides, followed by a ânuclearâ explosion that left nothing behind but the house. The area appeared untouched the next day, but had apparently become irradiated due to previously unaccounted-for material in the soil that had been agitated by construction efforts. A few people were found dead in the area. The cyclist himself had to be treated for burns.
Georgie: From here, it gets a little muddy. Despite a renewed surge in popularity for the Floating House, agreed-upon sightings are very rare for the next two years. It only appears in very sparsely populated areas along the north and south poles and is even faster to disappear. A researcher in Antarctica thought she saw the outline of a roof on the horizon as the sun rose after six months of night, but it was gone a few seconds later. She managed to get a quick drawing of the shape, which will be included in the image links in the description. There are often claims of similar encounters to the American secret agent incident. Sometimes itâs cultists. Sometimes itâs businessmen. Or âwerewolvesâ. Sometimes itâs members of a particular subgroup that also follows the sightings. It all ends the same, with the house as the only thing standing when the dust has cleared. The houseâs legend has become so routine, that many accounts are ignored out of hand and highly disputed. Though, it is notable that the inhabitants havenât been a visible part of the story in several months.
Georgie: Phew. Now, to wrap up our deep-dive on the Floating House, weâre going to hear a first-hand account from just last year.
NapĂąttuk: Okay. Um, hello. My name is NapĂąttuk Waska. I saw the house in the woods near my hometownâsouth of Salluit, Quebec, basically. Almost at the tip. Iâm not sure exactly how long it had been there by the time I found it. I practically lived in those woods from birth, but Iâd been away at university in Montreal with my partner, Tootega.
NapĂąttuk: I kind of have to tell you about all that for this to make sense. She had some friends there who were willing to let us stay with them. And it was⊠it was really bad. Not the friends. Iâd just never lived in a big city before, and I wasnât expecting all the trash and noise and giant ugly buildings. And then, there was a really big forest fire nearby a little while after we got there. We didnât end up having to evacuate, but smoke came in on the wind for two weeks. I was covered in ash and my eyes hurt by the time I got to class every day. The way the sun came through the smoke made everything look orange and menacing. I tried my best to stick it out because Tega was handling it alright. But I just found myself sitting inside all the time, watching people talk on the news about the new giant ugly buildings they were going to put in the place where the trees were burning down. I had to make myself not freak out every time there was a little change in how the air smelled for the rest of the semester.
NapĂąttuk: Anyway. By the time we finally went back home after finals, I was desperate to feel normal again. This was December, and it hadnât really snowed yetâwhich is very odd. But the weather said snow was coming, so I tried not to let it bother me. I decided to go hiking in a spot I knew about ten miles from town. Itâs a bowl surrounded by hills, so itâs hard to get lost. I didnât make Tega go with me. She hates hiking. But it was fine. It was just like I remembered. I felt great.
NapĂąttuk: And thatâs when I saw it. Justâthis house sitting in the middle of the forest. First of all, this is the Low Arctic. We donât even have a ton of forests. It could have been put anywhere else. Second, this is my forest. I mean, itâs not. But. It was like someone had just dumped the house there and knocked over a bunch of trees, and then left. There were skid marks on the ground, like it had been dragged. It even looked like trash. Itâs exactly the same as the picture you showed me, but the windows and roof had been covered up with metal. Most of the wood I could see had bullet holes in it. The paint was almost gone, and the slats were discolored and caked in brown and yellow stuff. Like some kind of glue. The weirdest thing was that it looked⊠bloated. Have you ever seen wood thatâs been left in the water too long, and it gets swollen and bent? It was like that, but something had been pushing at it from the inside at the same time. I could hear it creaking and groaning under its own weight. The whole thing was slanted away from the ruts in the ground, which was also strange. I was too mad to really think about that at the time.
NapĂąttuk: It reminded me of some of the scary neighborhoods around the university, so I was nervous about getting the attention of anyone inside. But I made myself get over it and marched up to the door. I heard rustling when I knocked, so I knew someone was in there. IâI donât know what was wrong with me. I tried opening the door. It barely moved, like there was something heavy barricading the other side. I kept pushing on it, and it suddenly swung inward.
NapĂąttuk: âŠ
NapĂąttuk: The⊠the inside was so dark, I didnât see anything. But I knew that I was staring down into a chasm. I swear. The vertigo almost made me collapse. I jerked backward to avoid losing my balance and took a tumble down the steps of the porch. I was okay, but I still felt myself slipping. I had to cling to the ground to keep from falling into the house. There was nothing to grab onto, and I kept sliding back on the pine needles and loose soil. I slowly crawled my way back into the trees until I could stand. Then, I ran until I was back at my car.
NapĂąttuk: I told Tega about it, and she said it sounded like the Floating House stuff sheâd read about. I had no idea. I guess I shouldnât have been surprised, though. Sheâs much more online than I am. She really likes SCP and things like that. Iâm not sure she fully believed me about the falling part, but she and some friends agreed to go back with me. I didnât want to go too near it again. I just wanted it⊠reported, I guess.
NapĂąttuk: The thing is, we couldnât even find the place where it was. Itâs not a huge area. It made Tega more excited, but our friends were pretty annoyed to be dragged into the freezing woods for nothing. I was mortified. I knew where it was, we must have just been circling around it. I cut through another way, and when I turned around, Tega and the others were gone. I kept looking, until I saw that the sun was going down. They werenât picking up their phones, they didnât hear me calling them. I decided to just leave and see if they were waiting for me by the car. But then, I couldnât find the treeline. The trees just went on and on and on. It got hot. I was hot even after I took off my parka. And then, I smelled smoke. It hung in the air all around me and got thicker until I couldnât see. Ash came off of me in sheets as I waded through it like gritty snow. I couldnât tell which way the bowl went anymore. I eventually felt something through the ash, but it was hard and flat like concrete. It hurt to walk on. I donât know, it sounds crazy. I was tired and deprived of oxygen. I donât remember getting to the road, but I woke up in the medical center in town. One of my neighbors had found me on their way home.
NapĂąttuk: Tega and the others had gone home without me, apparently? I asked them about what happened, but they wouldnât talk about it. They keep saying they didnât find the house, but I think theyâre lying. They did say they saw the fireâthere really was one. Nobody knows why. Heavy snowfall put it out before it did any real damage. It wasnât where the house was, and there hasnât been any word about people finding it. Nothingâs really happened since then, but I had to move to Alberta to get away from the smell of smoke.
Georgie: I see. Do Tega and your friends still live there?
NapĂąttuk: Iâm not sure. Theyâre mostly her friends, and she and I donât really talk anymore. The last couple times that we did, she was really agitated about something. I got the sense that we were losing touch because she was busy trying to deal with it. A few months ago, my mom told me she had gotten in trouble for stalking this guy who lived out by the water and had his lights off all the time. Only came out at night. Never had a flashlight. Walked with a cane. I just assumed he was a little blind and sunburned easily. He was always super friendly and chill. But I asked Tega about it, and she said heâd been accused of kidnapping when he lived in Sweden?? Like, kidnapped a whole lot of people??? What????? Itâs messed up if itâs true, but then Tega got arrested trying to break into his house with an axe. I justâI canât believe any of this is happening.
NapĂąttuk: A while ago, I dove into the Floating House forums to try to make sense of it. I made a bunch of posts about what happened, and people asked all kinds of questions. I was so relieved. I felt like I could actually talk to someone about it. I even put up the coordinates of where Iâd seen the house. But lately, my mom says thereâs been a lot more tourism at home, and I canât help wondering if that has something to do with me. I donât think you can even get to the bowl anymore. The road was closed after some kind of accident. She says people still park up there, though. I⊠I havenât thought about going back there before, but⊠do you think I should?
Georgie: WhâIâwhy do you ask?
NapĂąttuk: Youâre the professional. Iâm the one who opened it, so maybe I should close it.
Georgie: ⊠I donât know.
NapĂąttuk: Thatâs okay. Sorry⊠For all I know, itâs not even there anymore. Did you have any other questions?
Georgie: I did see that you took down the locations youâd posted.
NapĂąttuk: Yeah, it just. It made me nervous. But somebody else probably has them saved and put up somewhere.
Georgie: Hmm. You know, This kind of thing happens all the time. It blows over when something else interesting comes along. And honestly, a lot of these âsightingsâ are on pretty shaky ground. I wouldnât worry.
NapĂąttuk: Right. Youâre right.
Georgie: Okay, well, I think thatâs about it. Thank you very much for coming on.
NapĂąttuk: Uh, yeah. No problem. Bye.
ââââ
Prev
First
Whoa. Wow. I canât believe it. Thatâs it. Thatâs the end.
Iâve had this fic slowly taking up more and more space in my head since 2020. And now, itâs fully out there! Spiraling off into the internet like the big crazy snake that it is.
I know the process was rocky, but Iâm really glad I stuck it out all the way. I learned a whole lot, and I actually feel more sure that making comics is what I want to do than ever (while working out a more sustainable way to do it, of course).
And Iâm really grateful to you, if youâve read the entire thing or just a page. All the comments and reblogs and kind words have been really nice to hear and helped me keep going. Seriously, thank you.
Maybe have a look at my other stuff, if youâre so inclined.
Martin, Jon, Sasha, and Tim take in fresh air they never thought theyâd breathe again and sunlight they never thought theyâd feel again. They stare absently at the smoking hole where the Institute used to be. The persistent bustling of the town around them, totally unheeding of their presence, helps draw them out of their shock.
Both sets of Fears are still there. Distantly, but unmistakably. But the hold that the invading set had in the enigma has grown faint, like a droning noise suddenly absent. The world is still and quiet.
Jon feels half-blindâpartially because his glasses are nowhere to be found.
The absence of hunger tells them that Not-Jon and Not-Martin are still out there.
After a long heavy silence, they begin to talk in low voices about what to do next. They did make it out, though no one can quite remember how. Their shaky progress has given them some tepid confidence. If they can get themselves away from here without incident, they could potentially rebuild some form of normalcy. The four of them could keep in touch, helping each other monitor their stability.
And they should hurry. Thereâs a rather uncomfortable feeling in the air.
The four of them do worry where the doubles could be, what they could be doing. But they canât let themselves get distracted already. Maybe they can work on it later, if the two start making noticeable trouble.
Tim makes a Scooby-Doo joke. Everybody needed it.
Theyâll definitely have to find new jobs too, they realize.
The pair uncoil. Jon looks into Martinâs eyes.
NJ: How bad is it?
Martin tries his best to look placid, but the pain of the hunger is evident on his face.
NM: Itâs⊠bad.
NJ: Iâll help you work through it. I know some tricks to take the edge off. And, maybe we can find some better ways now. Less self-punishing.
NM: Sounds manageable.
Jon smooths his partnerâs hair back and brushes his cheek with a thumb.
NM:Â How about you?
NJ: Better. So much better. I canât believe Iâ
He swallows with difficulty.
NJ: Martin, Iâm so sorry.
Martin nods.
NM: I am too.
Jon looks incredulous.
NJ: For what?
NM: For wasting time, I guess. We spent so long letting them make us miserable, and I didnât evenâŠI donât feel like I was much better than you, in the end.
NJ: Well, they donât get to tell us how to be miserable now.
The wind rustles the grass as the clouds pass their shadows over the pair.
NM: What do we do now?
Jon curls his lip thoughtfully.
NJ: We should probably make ourselves scarce. The police might be sweeping for arson suspects. And⊠maybe we should let you get more used to the hunger before we go anywhere around people.
NM: Right.
They hesitate. Jon stares into the trees. Martin canât help doing the same.
NM: Thereâs definitely one of them among the EMTs.
NJ: Yep.
She reeks of Spiral.
Section 31 is on its way, too.
The surviving archival staff should really get going if they want to make it out clean.
There are more. Others. Moving and agitating, attracted to the vacuum of power. Yet, theyâre small. Vulnerable. Containable.
It would be easy.
Jon tears his eyes away and squeezes Martinâs hand.
NJ: You wanna go for a walk?
He gestures at the open field behind them with a thumb.
Martin brightens.
NM: Sure.
They get up and start walking through the brush, hand in hand.
NM: So, if a tomb is out⊠You think we could go for a house? Probably abandoned, but hopefully not too falling-apart.
NJ: Thatâd be nice. Maybe something in the country.
NM: ...Oh! And we still need to go let Gerry out of the book.
Everything feels smaller and emptier now. Further away than ever.
Jon spends a long time looking for Martin, calling his name. He hasnât heard anything back. He feels like heâs being wrung out like a rag as the Entities revoke their favor in him. His head hurts terribly.
Thereâs a grinding sound rising behind him. As he zig zags around in search and the sound steadily grows, he starts getting scared that heâll never find Martin. That something happened to him.
Jon finally feels his hand brush something warm. Martinâs hand. He turns around and clasps it as it clasps at his. They can hear each other. See each other. Theyâre relieved to see the other alright.
They decide to go look for the others. On the way, Jon retells his revelation to Martin, who listens intently.
They get interrupted by the grinding sound catching up, and the terrain pounces on them to drive them further away from Not-Jon. As they run, they encounter many branching paths. Rather than agonizing over which are right and which could lead them to worse traps, Martin suggests that they not overthink it and just pick the ones that appear to be the best choice based on the information they have in hand. Jonâs stomach turns, but he agrees. He refuses to grant the enigma his doubt and indecision. He squeezes Martinâs hand and lets him pick the lane.
Their method proves true. They quickly escape the upheaving terrain andâamazinglyâfind Tim and Sasha.
~
The two are aghast to see Jon and Martin in one piece each. The boys donât have much of a plan for the moment, but they want the two of them to come along before the landscape catches up. Tim and Sasha hesitate.
Martin: Whatâs the matter?
Tim and Sasha have the grace not to let Jon know that they heard his tape, but they ask if he detonated the TNT after he split off in the tunnels.
Only then does Jonâs stifled memory resurface. He saw the blast from halfway down the tower shaft. The explosion had reached him before the emerging hellscape did. He remembers the scorching and crushing pressure. They all remember.
None of them could have survived. Theyâve been fabrications within the Entitiesâ sphere of influence the entire time. It could explain why Jon and Martinâs avatar status progressed so quickly and why it has gone back out with the tide. Their minds have been kneaded so that they couldnât realize it on their own, even as they clambered over the wreckage that killed them.
Itâs a deflating revelation. If any of them manage to escape, thereâs no telling how much of what they do will directly serve the Fears. Even without Jonah, the Institute, or the Mother of Puppets in play, their fates are still not their own. At the same time, how can they throw away the hard-won revelation that they doâno matter how smallâhave agency here? At least enough to walk away, to refuse to act. It could make all the difference, and itâs certainly more than Not-Jon has shown himself to have.
They talk it out.
There are two options. They could stay here as the creature digs his way out in hopes of not spreading the Extinction themselves. Thereâs a chance heâll die here, leaving the rest of them to handle the hunger until they too pass away. If Not-Jon escapes or Not-Martin succeeds him, theyâd be difficult to stop. Or, the group could try to monitor their manipulation and escape, themselves. If theyâre fast, they might be able to trap the doubles before they get outâassuming that they wonât invent a reason not to.
The safest thing to do from there would be to avoid involvement with any other rituals or disturbing activity, no matter the circumstance. It would be too much of a risk to participate, even with good intentions. As much as theyâd all love to put this behind them, the probability of actually doing it with how much they know seems⊠unlikely. Thereâs a good chance theyâll inherit the full brunt of the hunger.
On the other hand, how can they justify not acting on their knowledge of the Entities in some way? They could, as Not-Jon had said, save lives.
It could all be part of the Fearsâ plan to have them escape, Tim argues. But then, what about the plan to have Jon take over? Itâs possible for them to have two plans, Sasha simply replies.Â
Jon explains that the Fears have no plan. He saw it himselfâtheyâre creatures with as abstract a concept of their prey as their prey has of them. Avatars make plans on behalf of the Fearsâ desires. Even if their motivations are somewhat influenced, they arenât being âpuppetedâ. Martin agrees. If the Fears had that kind of control, they would have won already. As long as the four of them try to stay actively aware of their impulses and shortcomings, they might be alright.
Sasha asserts that it wonât be that simple. They just destroyed a massive site of power and became part of an irritant to residing avatars. Troubleâs going to seek them out.
Sasha: For all we know, theyâre already on top of us out there.
Martin: Or itâs been no time at all. Thereâs no way to know how much time has passed in the real world.
Tim: I guess we could just bolt and hope they never find us. The avatars wouldnât necessarily know what we are just because they get headrush when we happen to pass by.
The other three perk up in surprise at Timâs comment.
Tim: That doesnât mean I agree. I still donât think we'd be able to keep it together out there.
They continue to debate the same points for some time with no consensus. There will be massive risks no matter what they do. The near certainty of failure burns in the back of Jonâs mind. The possibilities nag and bite.
His attention drifts, tracing a path back the way they came.
He knows he could still corner the creature if he tried.
Martin: Jon. Jon.
Jon stops staring off.
Jon: Right, sorry. What were you saying?
Sasha: We canât agree on going. But weâre willing to⊠try it. We try to find a way out without letting the place get to us.
Martin: Which might work better this time if we know what weâre doing.
Tim: And if we canât do it, we stay.
Jon rubs his neck.
Martin: You donât think we should do it.
Jon: No. But that probably means we should go for it.
Utilizing a mix of Sasha and Timâs methods and Jon and Martinâs methods of counteracting the hellscape, they begin trying to find their way out. If theyâre lucky, they might find the hole in the wall from beforeâor some other loose trapping that could be pried apart as the hellscape twists itself tighter and tighter around them. The wet parts are starting to dry, making them brittle.
They canât find a stable path, of course. The journey quickly becomes intimidating, and the environment punishes that to the fullest extent of its ability. Itâs grueling and frustrating and never seems to get them any closer to their goal. Jon constantly has to fight the impulse to abandon the others, especially as the Fears descend upon him to remind him of what they want. But he stays. He fights not to pry, but the same thing is happening to the other three inside their heads. And they stay. They face their obstacles and the danger they pose head-on, with the unfounded certainty that they can handle it. It becomes a kind of shared psychosis. Their blind faith allows them to put more trust in each other, which bolsters their fluidity as a team. That trust only deepens with time. Their mission demands it, as their exit eludes them for days, weeks, an eternity. They never escape, but they survive.
~
Not-Martin watches from afar with the burgeoning sight of the Eye. Long invasive fingers pull at his consciousness, seeking refuge from the rapidly decaying vessel they chose, used, and have wasted. Not-Martin knows that itâs happening at some level, but he canât really feel it.
He had tried hard to stay in his cell. But there he was, outside of it, once again steeling his nerves to kill his partner a second time and looking for something sharp. That is, until the group caught his attention.
Hearing their discussion felt like white noise at first. It took a while for the meaning to sink in. He watched as they shakily put their theory into action. Without the paralyzing logic of the enigma in play, they seem more... themselves. Not that he really remembers what that means.
Not-Martin fully expects them to fail. To give in, to be crushed or show signs of insidious sway.
The group continues to evade the hideous alien presence that now saturates the very fiber of their being. Of his being. He keeps watching, a motionless phantom waiting for its grim reality to reach the foolish occupants of the haunted wreckage.
It always happens. Why would this time be any different?
As time passes, the definitive proof of this radical solution that he knows wonât arrive doesnât arrive. The group falters. They fall apart.
Not-Martin lets out a deep sigh. He hadnât noticed himself tense up.
He catches himself hesitating to move on as the victims of the enigma languish in tatters.
Knock it off, he thinks. He shouldnât be drinking this in. He has work to do.
But before he can tear himself away, the members of the team change their scattered course. Slowly, difficultly, they come back together and start again. Their observer counts their inches of progress as they face their first obstacle. They fail to be defeated, moving on to the next. Their quest is the same as before, with its tiny little victories. Only now, Not-Martin isnât watching for failure.
A nagging feeling prompts him to wonder why.
His punishing journey has taught him that the only way to progress against the Fears is not to care what happens next. These four people fighting tooth and nail to see an uncertain future reawakens a piece of him heâd been trying to kill for agesâsomething he had set out with into the unknown, but had had to leave behind in order to continue.
That piece remembers how repulsive the Lonely feels. Itâs the part of him that felt something at seeing the passions of others reflected in himself, despite his isolation. The desire to realize his own passions despite the dread that always held him back.
Life. His life.
Heâs been dead for so long, the remains of a failure long ago. But now, he feels acutely aware that heâs still here. Still acting. Just as they are.
How much of that time has he spent trying to destroy himself? Watching his partner destroy himself? For what? They still became part of the trap. Betrayed the promise they had made to defy evil that had threatened to swallow them. The future he had hoped for that had carried him out of the Lonelyâs shore and through the apocalypse.
One way or another. Together.
But it isnât over yet. Theyâre still here. They still have that promise to keep. They could still have that future, however brief. They could be themselves again.
And the thought of that, looking at where he is, nearly scares him to death.
Not-Martin feels something burn inside a frozen hollow place that grew over the years of detachment. Itâs barely there, but a drop of warmth feels like a fire when youâve become accustomed to the deepest cold.
Itâs so hot, he falls to his knees with tears in his eyes.
He clutches his chest, desperately trying to hold on to the precious feeling as instinct tries to force it back.
He feels paper-thin, like he could expire in the breeze.
Nevertheless, he gets to his feet and sets off toward the root of the island, high above him.
The creature slithering and scraping in the darkness below him answers without pausing.
NJ: Go back, Martin. Itâs almost over.
Not-Martinâor just Martin, hereâcanât find it in him to argue, looking at the circumstances. Heâs too winded from the climb anyway. He settles back against an outcropping of busted wood.
Jon notices the lack of response, but only turns his head for a moment as he tears at the last of the rubble with unraveling hands.
The shade on the ridge sits silently. There are arguments he knows he needs to make and vanishingly little time to make them, but he suddenly canât find the will. Itâs all he can do to hold on to his warmth as it drains the cold determination that was preserving his inertia.
Below, the shrapnel flays away more of whatâs left of his partner with each stroke. It kills him to watch. He looks away, but it kills him all the same.
To his surprise, Jon slows to a stop and speaks first.
NJ: Have you seen what the others are up to?
Martin picks himself up a bit to answer.
NM: Yeah. I was surprised, but it seems to be working so far.
NJ: Theyâre persistent, Iâll give them that.
He sighs tiredly.
NJ: Still canât risk letting them out, though.
NM: They kind of make me miss the old days. Never thought Iâd say that.
Jon makes a haggard noise that he thinks might have been a chuckle. A long silence follows.
NJ: I miss the way we used to be, too. Iâd nearly forgotten.
His voice is quiet and fragile with regret. Martin can barely hear it.
NM: Itâs working, JonâŠ
NJ: For how long?
Nothing.
Martinâs guard drops, and his partner can feel whatâs going on inside him.
Jon turns himself around in the pit with concern. His many green eyes wink up from the darkness.
NJ: Martin, what did you do?
His voice is alarmed, and it wakes Martin up.
NM: Iâm letting it go. The whole plan. I donât⊠I donât want this anymore. I want us to make it through this. It doesnât have to be the end yet.
NJ: Itâs too late for that. Youâre going to get killed if you turn back now.
NM: No. Iâll be fine. Theyâre right, Jon. Neither of us are going to pull off what weâre trying to do. The Fears only have more of us the more we think weâre pulling away.
NJ: Itâll be even worse if we give up. We canât just unleash this thing.
NM: We donât have to give up, either. I was wrong. This is how the Entities win, Jon. Itâs how they always win. Itâs our fear. We play their games and fall right into their hands because weâre scared of whatâs going to happen. So this time, why donât we just go on and find out? Maybe we can try to get back a little of what weâve lost while weâre at it.
The man within the creature can feel the meaning of the words. Emptiness reawakens with longing for all the things that both of them were so committed to think werenât possible for them.
NJ: How can you believe that?
NM: I donât. But we donât have to. Weâll just do it anyway.
NJ: Martin, stop.
He feels weaker by the second.
NM: We promised. This is our last chance.
His partner extends a hand toward the pit.
NM: I canât come down and get you this time. You have to come up.
Jon hesitates.
Theyâre right there. Just behind the door.
They knock again.
The rapping of Their fingers shakes the tenuous shape of the wreckage loose. Martin falls, followed by a crunch.
NM: IâmâIâm stuck.
Jon knows. Pain. Blood. The cuts are deep. His partner is going to die.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The creature is paralyzed, the consequences of loss and failure shrieking at each other at the forefront of his mind.
Itâs happening again. He has to choose. If he shares the burden with Martin, it would relieve the vulnerability. Martin will live, sustained only by the maddening burden of Jonâs mistakesâand so will the Fears. If he leaves, Martin will die. No matter which he chooses, heâs still being drawn forward by fear.
Jon has never been more sick of it.
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
The sound of screeching, straining metal echoes up from the pit.
Martin: Jon?
Jonâs knifelike fingers claw at the rubble, showering him with brick and glass. The components that lead into his backâburied deep in the remains of the Institute, connected to beings beyond reasonâdrag behind him like an anvil. Partway up the climb, still far from his partner, he runs out of leash. He pulls with the final ounce of strength that never seems to leave him to hoist the entire mess upward, but he only ends up breaking some of whatâs holding him together. It falls and clatters in the darkness.
This will destroy him. He knows it.
Martin: Jon, can you hear me?
Jon: I hear you. Iâm coming. Just keep talking to me.
The certainty of defeat has sobered his panic.
Martin: You remember the cabin?
Jon: Before or after I read the mail?
Martin: ^smiles^ Before.
The wreck comes loose, and Jon slides down.
Jon: I remember getting stranded on the road the night we got there. We had to walk to the nearest town. It was terrible.
He starts up again and loses more parts.
Martin: Yeah. It wasnât so bad, though, looking back.
Jon: Well, not compared to the walking we did after the cabin.
Martin: That doesnât seem as bad either, now. There⊠thereâs a lot I donât regret about the times weâve had to go back. Or the time we spent driving each other up the wall at the Institute. I think I could do it all again if you were there with me.
Jon: ...I would too.
Martin doesnât seem to hear him.
Despite it all, Jon aches to walk straight into the eye of the abyss with Martinâs hand in his again. Even though theyâll fall apart. He wants it more than anything.
He just has to make it a little further.
Something yanks him downward. He clings as tightly as he can and cranes his head back to see the speck where Martin is. With that movement, he snaps a crucial thread holding him together. Layers of his horrible body separate with each movement. He burns, the foul soil in his chest smoldering to dust. He doesnât care.
He keeps moving. Just a little further.
His hands fall away on contact, leaving weak spindly limbs of armature to climb with. His body is a tangle of loose snares that rapidly shakes apart. Cords and ventricles tangle and burst. The tether that leads back down into the dark remains intact as the creature is left with less and less of himself for ignoring his keepers. The pain reaches new unbearable heights. Pieces continue to fall as he slowly climbs.
Martin hears the clatter come closer, even as it grows thinner. Gasps and shudders echo up the walls of the heap. He stretches his best arm downward as Jon reaches up.
When the walls finally settle, the remaining group is left with one path down to the Panopticon. Sasha asks Not-Martin if he can conjure them a way in that isnât curated by their opponent. He says he canât do anything like thatânot this close to the Eyeâs center of power. Tim is given the option of staying behind, but he canât feel assured that the walls wonât push him along anyway.
Tim: Besides, Iâm developing a strong need to kick that thingâs ass when we find it.
Reluctantly, carefully, the three archival staff pick their way down warped stairs and lopsided halls. Their spectral escort leads the way. Degraded uneven stone and poured cement eventually give way to the slightly more preserved inner walls of the prison. The rumbling returns to muttering, which then becomes footsteps on concrete and clanging steel doors on rusty hinges. Thereâs too much echo to tell from where. The increasing presence of the Eye makes them all feel watched and makes Not-Martin as blind as they are. They change the flashlightsâ batteries.
The dust breeding on the decaying pipes above floats down through the air into the dark. They glint and dance like distant spirits before the groupâs flashlights, playing tricks with the imagination.
Martin feels like his heartâs going to leap out of his chest. He tries to match Not-Martinâs stride, diving into the darkness without hesitation. It doesnât matter if somethingâs out there, he tells himself. He knows where heâs going. Tim and Sasha stick to Martin, watching their backs more than anything. Tim doesnât like following Not-Martin, but he doesnât feel like throwing out pack security right now. Sashaâs half expecting the walls or floor to turn over in their sleep at any moment. She walks on the balls of her feet.
Her apprehension is the only reason that sheâs ready to pull Tim and herself out of the way when a door suddenly swings shut between the group. She meant to catch Martin too, but she missed. Another door slams on the other side of the Martins, enclosing them in the closet-sized security chamber they were passing through. Not-Martin is first to try the handle, but itâs hot. Liquified metal from the latch dribbles down the door jamb. He braves the heat and pulls, but the door might as well be part of the wall. Martin kicks the other door with the same result.
Footstepsânear onesâclatter down an adjoining corridor. Different from the sharp snapping of the dress shoes Jonah always wears. Not-Martin shouts through the door.
NM: Donât let him get to the bottom of the guard tower!
Tim and Sasha run off.
Martin: This didnât happen before, either?
Not-Martin sighs.
~
Jon makes his way through a wide intake corridor in the prison with the spiderweb lighter as a torch. He feels the need to hurry, but precaution stands against it. The supernatural interference that he was hoping to use to track the presence of his adversaries is completely drowned out by the affronted gaze of his native patron. His head pounds. Not-Jon could already be following him. Steering him.
Martinâs bold assertions from before give him courage. He does wish Martin was here beside him, though.
Jon blinks away a staticky discomfort in his eyes and checks his periphery. Nothing but darkness and dust motes. Picking up on Jonahâs trail doesnât prove difficult. After meandering around a bit, he stumbles upon a set of footprints in the dust. Theyâre too big to be his own.
The thin twang of struck iron yanks his attention directly behind him. Then againâhigher, overhead. Jon only needs to catch the faint sway of buckling structure in the dim light to break into a run in the other direction. A churning, skidding screech rings through the hall behind Jon, stripping the pipes and support beams overhead in the process. Seeing them pulled out of their fastenings just ahead of him pushes him to go faster. He refuses to turn and look. The sheets of dust falling around him, vibrations underfoot, and approaching cascade of noise needs no image. Nor does he stop when the screeching and crashing attenuates into a granular rasp.
It fully stops at a small empty office. Jon lets himself collide with the far wall rather than trying to slow down. He catches his breath, his lungs burning, body shaking, blood vessels firing like theyâre filled with gunpowder. He turns over to lean his back on the wall and finally has a look. The path behind him is shut, the floor and ceiling about 20 feet behind pressed tightly together. The exposed rebar and debris sticking out of the seam twitches and creaks, reaching for him like skeletal hands. So do the ones still hung from the ceiling. They stop after a few seconds.
Jon sinks down the wall to the floor beside a metal cabinet, relieved to think that Not-Jon canât reach him here and has stopped trying. From afar, at least.
He lets himself rest. His eyes hurt.
Jonah: It is nice to drop the pretense and see each other plain, isnât it? Sooner than I thought, though.
Jon steadies immediately.
Jon: I was looking for you.
Jonah: I know.
He produces his crescent-shaped piece of the plastic ring from his vest pocket.
Jonah: You were looking for me because you couldnât save the others because you couldnât find out what was really going on. Sounds familiar.
Jon makes the sinking realization as the words slither out. His head falls limply back against the wall. Jonah was privy the entire timeâeven of the summary of prior events that Not-Jon gave the team.
Jon: So glad we could entertain you.
Jonah: Iâll admit, it has been interesting. Iâve watched a lot of people come and go, and it never fails to astound me how resiliently some will fight a current even when itâs plainly obvious that theyâll never reach the shore. Resting all their bets on little objects is usually a bad sign.
Jon is thoroughly unmoved by this poetry. He doesnât have to beâJonah is plenty satisfied with himself. He twiddles with the broken ring in his fingers.
Jonah: So, isnât this the part where you try to leverage your extranarrative knowledge to force or convince me to give you my piece ofâwhat is it? From the American comic books?
Jon: Kryptonite.
Jonah: Ah. I give up my kryptonite so you can go find the last piece, kill your doppelganger, and⊠get on with the rest of your swimming.
Jon: No. I just came to give you mine.
He holds his tiny square of plastic out for Jonah to take. The steady expression on Jonahâs face falters with the raising of an eyebrow. His spellbinding eyes pierce Jonâs curiously. Jon volunteers to speak before heâs forced to.
Jon: I get it. No matter what I do, no matter where I go, youâll always get your way. The Fears will get their way. Putting it off just gets people killed. We donât need to have any more monsters around than we have to.
Jonah takes the piece from Jon, but he doesnât break eye contact. His gaze delves deeper, searching for something in particular. Jon feels it groping. Cold shivers run up and down his spine. He canât even move.
After a few long seconds, Jonah retracts unsatisfied. He looks annoyed, like something was in the way.
Jonah: You really expect me to think youâd go through with this?
Jon: Well, itâs one thing we havenât tried yet.
Jonah breaks into a chuckle. He turns to go.
Jonah: I suppose it doesnât matter if you mean it or not. But I wouldnât get too comfortable. Iâm going to see if I canât tweak the ending a bit.
Jon takes some time to recover after Jonahâs footsteps have receded down the hallway. When heâs ready, he picks himself up and starts looking for a way back to the tunnels.
~
Tim and Sasha pursue the footsteps. Once in a while, theyâll see part of a black shirt, the heel of a shoe, or a lock of silver hair wink out of the edge of the flashlightâs field of view. Down the stairs, through more halls, down more stairs. Not-Jon gains lead as the footsteps grow fainter. By the time the two of them reach a series of filthy chambers on the very bottom floor, they can barely hear anything. The hanging cobwebs caked in dust are so thick, they can hardly see, either.
The last trace they hear leads them to another heavy security door, sitting slightly askew in its frame. Its hinges have completely given in, along with part of the wall leading into the adjoining roomâa room full of drains with a long wire mesh window in the connecting wall. There are handprints in the dust all around the door. Tim and Sasha work together to try to unjam the obstacle, but itâs wedged against the edge of the next wall. Their only option is to try to pull it from the drain room. And take up more time. The footsteps are already gone.
The door to the drain room is all the way down the hall to their left. They hurry inside, cross the tile floor littered with fallen plumbing, and latch onto the bit of door peeking out from the far wall. The doorâs finish is pearly and slippery under the grime. It takes them several minutes to inch it far enough out of the way for both of them to be able to squeak through the gap when they get back. By the time theyâre done, their fingers and arms hurt. They head back to the door to the hallway, only to find that it wonât open. The doorknob is warm.
A familiar figure passes by the mesh window at a shambling pace. Not-Jon is haggard, barely able to hold himself upright beneath the crushing weight of the center of the enemy Eye, let alone concentrate enough to manipulate architecture again. Tim and Sasha donât need proof of that to realize the ruse. They shout at him in resentment. Not-Jon doesnât turn. He disappears through the slim opening in the doorway.
Sasha grabs a pipe and tries hacking at the drain room doorâs hinges. The hinges fly off, but the door stays firmly in place. She turns around when she hears Tim bashing at the metal mesh with a club-like joint piece. The mesh is rusted enough to bust apart after a few good hits. She joins him. The sound of something heavy crashing to the floor up ahead adds to the cacophony of metal on metal. They create a decently wide clearing and help each other climb the half wall. Sasha goes first. Bits of jagged rust cut her legs and hands as she hurries through. Her hair tie gets caught and breaks. She lands with hair spread over her shoulders and eyes. Tim grimaces as he makes the vault. They squeeze into the next area and find themselves barred by a lockdown gate designed to separate the cells of the inner Panopticon from the rest of the prison. Their injured hands and legs scream in pain as they try to lift it. The sliding parts have been welded together. The only other outlet leads back into the halls. Sasha instantly dashes off, determined to find another route. She turns at the door when she doesnât hear Tim behind her. Heâs staring through the bars, his expression of outrage washing over with growing panic and anguish. She has to swallow her own terror in order to speak.
Sasha: Tim!
He follows wordlessly.
With nowhere to go and nothing to do, Martin listens to âThe Lastâ. Heâs tired of guessing at how bad it was. Not to be mistaken, it is bad. He already knew that Not-Martinâno, the old Martinâhad had to stab the old Jon to detach him from his ultimate place in the Fearsâ designs. He knew that Jon had gotten there by killing the man who had victimized everyone he cared about. But now he understood how hard it all was to live through. How resentful, disappointing, uncertain, and destroying. Martinâs heart leaps out to them in their hope and foolishness. His aching loneliness envies them.
There was maybe a trace of that when it was retold to him by the Thing That Used To Be Jonathan Sims. But it was more like an actor conjuring a feeling.
Martin looks up at the person stoically pressing his fingers into the crack of an iron door, one centimeter at a time, to melt the fused part and push it out. His flesh resists the whole way, but he doesnât make a sound or flinch. His expression is unreadable. It doesnât seem like much remains of the old Martin now. Martin wonders with wariness what could have taken its place.
Not-Martin finishes with a section and retracts his hand to correct the warped bones before starting again. Martin has to look away. Heâs glad his double has stopped trying to squeeze through the holes in the corners of the room, at least.
The flashlight on his knee rolls to his crossed ankles.
NM: Steady light, please.
Martin puts it back and holds it there. He continues to stare. Not-Martin notices and eyes him stoically, glancing at the tape.
Martin: What... happened to you?
Not-Martin: I told you what happened.
Martin nods.
He doesnât ask what he means to ask, but Not-Martin hears it anyway. The latter considers for a moment before going ahead with the answer.
Not-Martin: Itâs a survival thing.
He says that the more he and Not-Jon relived their history throughout the cycles of time, the less they felt over it. They knew that whatever was lost or changed would return unaltered the next round, and re-experiencing something theyâd seen before didnât inspire the same urgency of feeling. It was all less precious. Many of the unknowns were known.
They had used that kind of apathy to their advantage. Conducting their operations and overpowering avatars is relatively easy when fear canât stand in your way. It certainly has its drawbacks, alienating them from other people and driving them to make questionable decisions in the name of a greater good that hasnât yet materialized. All the events and people that used to motivate their actions are now no more than pieces on a chessboard.
Martin: Thatâs horrible.
NM: Itâs the only reliable agency we have, given what weâve become.
Martin: You donât feel anything at all?
NM: Sometimes. It comes in waves. The context just kind of⊠fades in and out of focus.
They did it for so long that the behavior became part of their being, as everything now does. As long as they remain unafraid, they canât be killed by outside forces--with one exception.
Because Not-Martin and Not-Jon are the only ones who permanently change, the consequences stay potent. The fear of those consequences makes them more vulnerable to each other.
Not-Martin rubs his mottled fingers with a thumb.
As he realized they were approaching what would be the last world theyâd ever see, Not-Martin clung to that immunity by surrendering his sense of self-preservation. If he has nothing to lose, thereâs nothing to hold him back.
His gaze has drifted down into the flashlight. His voice softens to a dwelling murmur, like heâs talking to himself.
NM: Itâs funny. We initially thought denying our fear would be a way to place ourselves out of the Entitiesâ reach. Weâd be free. That was never going to happen, obviously. Weâd nearly forgotten why we were doing what we were doing. We were just going through the motions, wasting time as the pent-up hunger got worse. Jon actually knew it before I did. Thereâs a part of him that just canât let go of his old self, I suppose. Or the Fears just have their hooks too deep in him for him to get away with not caring. So, heâs stuck between being afraid of failing and not being able to afford to feel that fear.
Martin: And so are you.
NM: I stand a chance, at least. Itâs too late for my Jon to get the ending he wants, and I think he knows it. Heâll stop if his backâs far enough against the wall. We gave it our best, but weâve become part of the problem before we could fix it. Just like last time. Itâs time to give up and disappear.
Martin: But you wonât be able to do it alone, will you?
He takes a deep breath and looks Martin in the eye.
NM: If you really want to help, youâll have to play by our rules. I have a bad feeling itâll only get worse from here. We really canât afford to lose.
Martin nods.
Thoughts bother him.
Martin: Even if he did agree to share the hunger, youâd still be risking losing the only lucid person between the two of you. Thatâs why he wonât share it, isnât it?
NM: Yes.
Martin: Youâd be the only one who could kill--
NM: Yes.
Not-Martinâs mouth curls sourly.
NM: But I wonât have to. With any luck.
Martin: ⊠There arenât many good outcomes here, are there?
NM: No, there arenât.
Not-Martin sets his face back to stone and returns to working on the door.
Martin sits back and accidentally pushes the tape player into a small hole just behind him. It tears away from the headphone cord and tumbles down through the levels of the prison and lands at Jonâs feet.
Jon calls out, but no one responds. He considers, then takes it with him.
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