Tim wonders where the hell everybody is. Jon’s not in his office, which is…unusual, to say the least, since they usually have to pry him out of it with a crowbar at the end of the day, and lately he’s been acting like lunch breaks are something that happen to other people. On the other hand, he might be poking around the Archives looking for more out-of-place statements to sneer at. Martin isn’t at his desk, either, unless he is and Tim just can’t see him; sometimes he swears Martin’s part chameleon, like he doesn’t exactly go invisible but can just fade into the background and not be seen. At least Tim knows for a fact that Sasha is off getting lunch, because she actually told him where she was going.
“If this is a game of ‘Let’s Make Tim Think the Archives Are Cursed’, I think the Archives themselves won that game several weeks ago, so give it up, guys,” he says to the room at large. The room, thankfully, does not answer him.
Walking around aimlessly, looking for his colleagues, Tim appreciates for the first time why Martin is so jumpy lately. This is, not to put too fine a point on it, creepy. Wandering through rows upon rows of files containing the stories of scary encounters and eerie presentiments and the like, no sound but his own muffled footsteps, and he swears he can hear a faint susurration from the shelves, like they’re whispering to him. Or like something is…crawling on the papers, rustling them ever so lightly. Makes his skin crawl and his fingers itch for the comforting weight of a fire extinguisher.
And it’s the middle of the day! It’s barely lunchtime and the lights are up and the window slits near the ceiling that let in enough daylight to help visibility but not enough UV light to damage the paperwork (honestly, it’s a shockingly well-designed and well-thought out archive for how old it is) are at full glow. And it’s still creepy as hell. It has to be worse after dark, when there’s for sure nobody here. The fact that Martin hasn’t run screaming from the Institute or had a complete nervous breakdown honestly has Tim feeling a surge of newfound respect for him, and for his courage—or at least his sheer bloody-minded stubbornness. There’s a fine line between the two and Tim rather suspects Martin uses it as a skipping rope.
“Hello?” he calls out, and then instantly curses himself. For God’s sake, he’s read the statements! He’s seen plenty of horror films, too, and then there’s…well, his own experience, which he’d rather not think about, thank you very much. Anyway, he knows damn well that nothing good ever happens after the person wandering alone through the spooky whatever calls out “hello” into the empty nothingness. Ominous music tapers off, split second of utter silence, sudden surge of discordant musical sting, cut to black, and the next day someone stumbles on his desiccated corpse.
There’s a clatter from the next aisle and it almost has Tim running for the hills, but he pokes his head around the shelf and relaxes. “Oh, hey, Marto. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Tim! Christ, I—shit, sorry.” Martin is clutching a sheaf of papers in one hand and steadying the shelf with the other and looks flustered.
“You know, you’ve really got to stop apologizing when someone else spills soup on your lap.” Tim has no idea if Martin’s going to get that reference. He doesn’t seem like the type to be into American comedians, but you never know. “Was wondering where everyone was. I know Sasha’s at lunch, but I couldn’t find anyone else either.”
“Jon’s got a meeting with—Elias. Something about the budget, I think. I can hear him now. ‘I have acceded to your…concerns in regards to the fire suppression system, but really, Jon, it was quite expensive, so we’ll need to have a serious discussion regarding some of these other requests you’ve made.’” Martin’s impression of Elias’s voice is amazingly spot-on.
Tim frowns a little, though, because it’s also amazingly biting and bitter. He mocks Elias all the time, usually making Sasha and Martin laugh when he does, and occasionally Sasha joins in, but he’s never heard Martin do anything but laugh or nervously try to stop them. He’s certainly never heard Martin speak about Elias, or anyone else for that matter, with that much anger—no, not anger. Hatred. Tim didn’t even realize Martin had that kind of hatred in him, let alone directed at Elias.
“How long have you worked here again?” he asks.
“F—eleven years, give or take. Why?”
Tim studies Martin. He looks…tired isn’t the word. He looks exhausted. He’s pale, although that could be because he’s been basically underground for almost two months and it was winter before that. His glasses sort of hide them, but looking closer, Tim can see shadows under his eyes so deep they’re nearly bruises. The papers in his hand waver a little, and it’s not because of air currents in the Archives, it’s because Martin’s hands are shaking, ever so faintly. He looks like a precariously-built structure that’s just had the support props removed—standing on his own, for the moment, but with a sense that it won’t take long, or much effort, to send him crashing to the ground.
It’s that that makes Tim decide to change tack. He was about to ask why Martin doesn’t quit if he hates Elias that much, but in the state he’s in, Martin might just do that, and if he quits he can’t stay living there, and if he leaves he might get hurt. Besides, he knows why Martin—usually—puts up with so much crap, and not just from Elias.
Instead, he says, “Well, I guess that’s long enough to build up a good reserve of aggro against the Big Guy. Aren’t you worried he’ll overhear you, though? After all, ‘nothing escapes his notice.’” He does his own impression of Elias, and it’s about as spot-on as Martin’s, but even he can hear the difference in tone.
“I’m not worth his attention.” There’s still that spark of bitter anger in Martin’s voice, but also a note of resignation. “Besides, he’s busy with his meeting. He won’t be looking at anything down here.”
The first part of Martin’s reply has Tim wanting to storm up to the office and knock both his bosses’ heads together—nobody has the right to make Martin feel like that—but the second part gives him pause. Martin makes it sound like Elias is…spying on them. Tim knows there’s no CCTV equipment in the Archives, something about interference, but could Elias have the place bugged?
“You get that feeling, too, do you?” he asks quietly. “Like you’re being…watched?”
Martin laughs. There’s no humor in it. “Yeah, get used to that, it’s not ever going to go away.” Before Tim can say anything, he rubs a hand over his face. “Sorry. Sorry, I’m just…sorry.”
“You really don’t have anything to be sorry for.” Tim glances at the papers in Martin’s hand. “So what’s that, then?”
“Oh. Erm, Jon asked me to—to pull some statements that might be helpful, so I was looking through and seeing what we’ve got.” Martin holds up the paper to study it. “Thought this one might be useful.”
Partly because Martin is so visibly tired, and partly because Tim’s not actually capable of carrying out a conversation without being at least a little lighthearted, he smirks. “Wow, I knew you were good, but I didn’t realize you were so good you could read a statement upside down.”
He expects Martin to blush. Instead, his face goes almost bone-white and his eyes get as big as saucers. He says something in what Tim is pretty sure is Polish—something Eastern European, anyway, and he knows Martin speaks Polish—and is also pretty sure is profane, but then he recovers and looks up at Tim. “Well enough to pick out the salient points, anyway. Here—take a look. What do you think?”
He thrusts the papers at Tim, who decides—again—not to mention that Martin’s hands are shaking and takes them. His eyes fall on the name on the document, and his eyes widen.
“Okay, I take it back,” he says. “You said you saw salient points—did you see the name?”
“No, but—” Martin pauses. “Christ. It’s from her, isn’t it?”
Tim doesn’t need Martin to clarify who she is. “Yep. You should take this to Jon. Like, now. He’s definitely going to want to see this.”
Martin nods. “I’ll just—put it on his desk then. Unless you want to.”
“No, you go ahead. This is your find, you deserve the credit. I’m going to—” Tim waves vaguely over his shoulder. “It’s lunchtime. Want me to bring you back anything?”
“I’m good, but thanks, Tim.” Martin smiles. There’s something sad about it. “You’re a good friend.”
“Of course I am.” Tim grins to cover up his confusion. “Right, see you in an hour or so.”
“Right-o.” Martin hesitates for the barest of seconds, then starts off down the row of shelves. Tim hears a clang and a curse as he rounds the corner and suspects he’s run into something, or at least banged the fire extinguisher dangling from his hip like a gun in a cowboy movie into something.
Figuring Martin will be embarrassed and not want anyone fussing over him, Tim heads in the other direction, looking for Sasha. He lucks out; she’s just coming in the side entrance, stomping hard as she does so before shutting the door firmly. She looks over at Tim and grimaces. “Worms,” she says succinctly. “What’s up?”
Tim glances over his shoulder to make sure they’re alone, then quietly tells her, “I’m worried about Martin. Frankly, he looks like hell.”
Sasha frowns. “I mean, he is under a lot of stress these days.”
“I know, and I don’t think he’s sleeping.” Tim quickly recounts the encounter he’s just had with Martin, as well as what preceded it. “As bad as it is being alone down here in the daylight, it must be a thousand times worse after dark. No wonder he isn’t getting any rest.”
“So what are you suggesting?”
Tim grins recklessly. “How do you feel about a sleepover in the Archives?”
Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take him long to get Sasha on board; it’s obvious she’s been worrying about Martin, too, and there’s strength in numbers. Tim spends most of the rest of the day pretending to be working while really he’s plotting out how to stick around for the night without letting Jon know. It’s not that he thinks Jon would mind…well, he does, actually. He can almost hear Jon’s voice in his head: This is a place of business, Tim, not a sleepaway camp. Also, Tim doesn’t want Jon to decide to stay as well; he relaxes—some—when they’re all together off-duty, on the whole one occasion they managed to do that, but if they’re still in the Archives he’s perfectly capable of trying to make them keep working, and Tim very much wants to distract Martin from all the things he’s stressing about tonight, work included.
Besides, he’s also trying to surprise Martin, despite that probably not being a great idea.
In the end, it turns out to be pretty easy. Jon doesn’t linger at the end of the day, so Tim and Sasha walk out with him, calling cheerful good-nights to Martin before trooping out the outer access door. Tim, the only one who drives to work regularly, offers Sasha a ride home; she pretends to grudgingly accept. He offers Jon one, too, but unsurprisingly (and thankfully, as Tim has conveniently omitted to mention that he didn’t actually drive in today), Jon declines, citing as his reason that he lives in the opposite direction as both of them. As they reach the edge of the grounds, Tim slips his hand in his pocket for his keys. Nothing.
“Oh, hell,” he says, trying very hard not to overdo it as he pats himself down. “Where the hell are my keys?”
“You had them in your hand when you got back from lunch,” Sasha volunteers. “Maybe you left them on your desk?”
“Or I dropped them. Hope I didn’t throw them out by mistake.” Tim turns back towards the Institute. “Front door’s still unlocked, I can just pop down and check for them…you want to wait out here, Sash?”
“Not likely.” Sasha falls into step with him. “Four eyes are better than two, and those steps are spooky after dark. I’ll come help.”
Tim glances over his shoulder briefly as they head up the steps. Jon is halfway down the block towards the Tube station. “I don’t think he heard a word of that, actually.”
“Better safe than sorry, right?” Sasha nudges him. “Come on, let’s see if we can slip past Rosie.”
Fortunately, there’s a big crowd heading outside about then, so they’re able to escape attention as they head back down the steps leading to the Archives. The first thing Tim does is head over to his desk and hold up the keys he deliberately left sitting there with an air of triumph. “Here they are!”
“Tim, you’re an idiot.” Sasha shakes her head in amusement.
“But a devious one.” Tim drops the keys into his jacket pocket before hanging it on the back of his chair. “Come on, let’s go find Martin and rustle up some dinner.”
Sasha hangs up her jacket, too, and the two of them head into the Archives. Tim at first is going for the little room where the cot is set up, where Martin’s been sleeping, but then he hears…voices? A voice, at least. It sounds like Martin, and it sounds like he’s having a conversation with someone, but…
“Martin?” he calls, not wanting to startle him again. “You talking to yourself over there?”
“Tim!” Martin’s voice is high and strained. “Y-you’re supposed to—yes! Yes, I am talking to myself, sorry about that.” He pops out from behind a shelf and forces a smile. “Sasha? What are you two doing here? Did you forget something?”
“Yes,” Sasha says. “We forgot that we get to go home safe every night while you’re stuck here in the middle of the spooky, whispering, singing Archives.”
“Singing?” Tim and Martin say in unison.
Sasha frowns at them both. “Yes. Neither of you has heard it? That faint singing, when there’s no other sound to be heard?”
Tim gives Martin a confused look. Martin looks both confused and worried. “No? No, I can’t say I’ve ever noticed it.”
There’s a clatter from somewhere else in the Archives, and Martin casts a nervous glance over his shoulder. Tim stiffens. “What was that?”
“Nothing. Nothing. It’s—it’s probably nothing.” Martin runs a hand through his hair, looking worried. “Anyway, you two should—go, maybe. It’s getting dark and all.”
“Nope, not tonight.” Tim slings an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “I’ve decided not to leave you alone anymore. Sasha’s staying tonight, too, it’s up to her if she stays after this, but from now on, I’m not leaving the Institute until you can, too.”
“Erm—thanks, Tim, but…” Martin wrings his hands. “I don’t mind staying alone tonight. There’s something I need to do and—it’s best I do it myself, so—maybe another night? Besides! Besides, you’re not even prepared for this and…”
“Martin,” Sasha says, looking annoyed, “what’s going on?”
Tim should probably be annoyed, too, but he’s just worried. He tries not to show it, though. Whatever it is Martin is planning to do, or whatever reason he thinks he needs to be alone, Martin is pretty damn stubborn and it’s going to take a gentle application of pressure rather than a show of force to get him to yield. Persuasion rather than intimidation.
“We’re friends, right?” he says, as gently as he can. “You can trust us.”
Martin’s shoulders slump. “I know. It’s just…you’re going to think I’m crazy.”
Tim spreads out his hands, palms up. “You were held hostage in your flat for two weeks by a thousand worms wrapped in a trench coat, which followed you home after you broke into a basement to investigate a man who was stalked and murdered by the ghost of a spider he killed twenty years ago. Sasha was attacked by a man with knives for hands and a smile that didn’t fit his face, and now she’s talking about the Archives singing. I haven’t even ever told you why I came to work at the Institute in the first place, but believe me, it makes the rest of that seem normal. Whatever you’re going to tell us, I promise you, crazy is the last thing I’ll think you are.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “Besides, you’re wrong about us not planning anything for this. I bought us dinner when I was out on my lunch break, so let’s all head to the break room and eat, and you can tell us what’s going on.”
Sasha loops her arm through Martin’s on one side, and Tim takes the other, so he can’t escape them, and together they proceed to the break room. The halls are set to emergency lighting only, and the break room is completely dark, but when Tim fumbles for the switch, Martin extracts his arm and clicks on a torch.
“The lights are centrally controlled,” he explains. “There’s a master switch somewhere. I don’t know if Rosie or Elias turns it off when they leave, but one of them does, so it’s nothing but emergency lighting, and I’ve only seen that in the Archives.”
Tim wonders how he’s never known that, but then again, it’s not like he stays late all that often, maybe twice in the whole three years he’s been with the Institute. (God, has it really only been three years?) And it’s not like he’s ever gone around looking for light switches before. Never been a priority.
“Well, then,” he says, “I guess we’ll take our food back to the Archives. We can have a picnic on the floor or something and you can explain what the hell is going on there.”
Martin doesn’t say anything, just shines the light on the refrigerator. Tim retrieves the takeout containers he placed there with PROPERTY OF TIMOTHY STOKER, CONTAINS POISON, ELECTRIFIED, DO NOT TOUCH, THIS MEANS YOU, SCOTT scribbled across the tops and sides, then comes back to the door. “If this didn’t work, I’m going to figure out a way to actually electrify them next time,” he informs the others.
Sasha snorts. “You really think it’s Scott who keeps stealing your lunches?”
“It’s either him or the monster under the fridge.” Tim regrets saying it as soon as it’s out of his mouth, because there are times jokes like that don’t feel all that much like jokes.
When they get back to the Archives, Tim is about to suggest a comfortable corner to have their dinner in when there’s a loud banging noise that almost makes him drop the containers. Sasha about jumps out of her skin. “What was that?”
“Who’s there?” Tim yells, despite having already realized that not doing that is practically Horror Film 101.
The answer makes Tim’s blood run cold, for two reasons. One, it’s coming from Jon’s office, the door of which is now ajar…and two, it’s Martin’s voice. “Storage room! Now!”
“Come on, come on!” Martin—the real Martin—grabs Sasha’s wrist on one side and Tim’s arm on the other and practically drags them across the floor. Sasha screams, and Tim follows her gaze and can’t help a shout of fear as well. Pouring out of Jon’s office are hundreds—maybe thousands—of small white worms, wriggling wetly and coming straight at them.
Martin makes a noise that’s somewhere between a whimper and a defiant yell and hauls both of them over to a door off to one side. He lets go of Tim long enough to yank the door open, then shoves the other two in and slams it shut once they’re all inside, breathing heavily.
“What the hell is going on?” Tim demands, wavering somewhere between outrage and fear.
“The worms,” Martin gasps, which isn’t really an answer. “This room is sealed. I checked it myself when I moved in. Also climate-controlled. Sturdy door. Soundproof. These old documents are better protected than we ever were.”
He sounds like he’s repeating a lesson. Sasha shoots him a sharp look. “And that voice from Jon’s office? The one that told us to come in here?”
“The one that sounded like you?” Tim adds.
“It is me,” Martin says, his voice high and sharp. Clearly he’s at the end of his tether. “From the future. He came back to stop the world from ending and this is apparently part of the plan and I, I knew he was going to start it tonight, he told me after we thought all of you had left that he had something to do and I was supposed to help him with it, but I wasn’t counting on you two sticking around. I also didn’t expect him to start this fast, but—” He breaks off abruptly and leaps back from the door. “Christ!”
Sasha looks stunned by the barrage of information. Tim is, too, but he’s also worried about whatever Martin sees out there, so he thrusts the takeaway containers at her without conscious thought and peers out the window in the door. What he sees turns his stomach.
“O…kay.” He takes a deep breath. “That is…a lot of worms.”
“Any sign of Prentiss?” Martin asks anxiously.
“Not yet.” Tim realizes what he just said and turns to look at Martin. “You think she’ll show up?”
Martin makes an exasperated gesture. “No, Tim, I think worms are just randomly pouring into the Archives undirected. It’s just your basic insect infestation. Maybe somebody left food out!”
“Okay, okay, I get the picture.” Tim steps back. He really doesn’t want to see what’s out there.
Sasha hands him back the takeaway containers and steps up to peer out herself. “Martin…are you sure it’s really…you know, you from the future?”
“Positive. He knows things about me that I haven’t…really told many people? He told me to—” Martin takes a deep breath and looks away from Sasha. “To, erm, tell Jon that I lied on my CV, I don’t actually have a master’s degree in parapsychology, I just really needed the job. He said Jon wouldn’t be mad at me, and…well, he was right. He told me the worms were under the Institute, but they weren’t really after me, so I’d be safe.”
“This is safe?” Tim demands.
“Well, I think he sort of—broke into the walls? He’s going after them now. I’m—I was supposed to set a fire, not a big one, just small enough to set off the suppressant system so that whatever got in here would die.” Martin swallows hard.
“You’re not going out there alone,” Tim says firmly.
“You’re not going out there at all,” Sasha says. She backs away from the door and leans against the wall, rubbing her temples. “God! Tell me you can’t hear that now.”
“Hear what?” Tim asks.
Martin cocks his head. “I don’t hear anything. And we shouldn’t be able to hear anything. I told you, this room’s soundproof.”
“I can hear the singing. Like…” Sasha frowns and moves away from the wall. Her frown deepens and she moves back. “Wait…it’s louder over here. Like it’s coming from inside the wall…this wall.”
“Isn’t that an exterior wall?” Tim asks.
“Should be.” Sasha thumps on it, hard, and manages to put a fist-sized dent in the drywall.
After that…things happen rather quickly.