Work Text:
[CLICK.]
[A MUTED, UNCOMPLICATED SOUNDSCAPE. ONE MIGHT CALL IT GENERIC. OCCASIONALLY, YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO STRAIN YOUR EARS AND HEAR ROYALTY-FREE MUSIC PLAYING FAINTLY IN THE DISTANCE, BUT YOU’D NEVER REALLY BE ABLE TO SAY FOR CERTAIN WHETHER IT’S THERE OR NOT.]
THOMAS
– not really sure what you want me to say? I mean, I – I might be wrong, but, aren’t you supposed to be the all-knowing one? If you have a problem with me, can’t you just... you know, open your... million... eyes, or whatever it is, and see all instantly-?
MARTIN
It doesn’t work quite like that. At least, I don’t think it works like that?
ARCHIVIST
Wait a second.
THOMAS
Sorry, did I say something wrong-?
ARCHIVIST
No – yes – I mean, it’s not you, it’s... it’s really quite strange. I think this only just turned on?
MARTIN
Did it? I... think I just kind of assumed it was always running. I’d gotten used to it.
ARCHIVIST
So had I, which is why I am, well, strangely unsure about this. Hm.
THOMAS
Well, hey – not to keep bringing up the million all-seeing eyes thing, but couldn’t you just ask your (fabric rustles as he gestures upwards) big friend up there to, you know, rewind the tapes, scroll back to the beginning of the transcript, see where the start of this... weird, intimate fear hellscape interview started...?
ARCHIVIST
It’s not – I can’t do that.
THOMAS
You can’t? Why not?
MARTIN
Actually... Jon, he has a point. Why can’t you do that?
ARCHIVIST
You can’t turn the Eye back upon itself. (pause, then, rather dryly:) It doesn’t appreciate the view, and likes to make that fact known uncharacteristically violently, I’ve found. Anything that it collects, it tends to want to keep that to itself, hoarded away in – whatever passes for an incomprehensible fear-based abomination’s head, I suppose. It’s very much a locked box.
MARTIN
Even to the Archivist?
ARCHIVIST
Even to me, yes. I don’t think I’ve been able to replay any of the tapes since... since dying.
THOMAS
(with a genuinely amused laugh:) Wait, the Eye’s self-conscious? You’re telling me we could’ve scared it off back in February by just putting a mirror in our front window?
MARTIN
I guess that does make sense. It’s called the Eye, not the Ear, so –
THOMAS
(with more genuine laughter that seems eerily out of place, given the setting) I can think of more than one reason the horrible fear god that’s ruling over everything isn’t called the Ear, honestly! I mean, can you imagine how terrible the imagery would look?
[MARTIN LAUGHS TOO, SOUNDING SURPRISED AT HOW ENTERTAINED HE ACTUALLY IS AT THIS.]
MARTIN
Surely the Ear’s got to be better than, ah – um, the Tongue. Or –
THOMAS
No, no, I’m caught on Ear, let’s run with that. Like, I can picture haunting, gorgeous fanart with Jon here and his swarm of glowing green eyes as he’s surrounded in a halo of godly fear energy, but... ears? Ears, everywhere? Doesn’t quite do it. (semi-seriously affecting the Archivist’s ‘VENGEFUL SMITEFUL’ tone of voice:) Inconvenient listener, turn your ear onto this really annoying weekly rave party my neighbours keep hosting at three in the morning –
[MARTIN IS NO LONGER LAUGHING.]
MARTIN
How do you –
[FAINT COMPELLING STATIC BEGINS TO RISE, REMARKABLY SWIFTLY.]
ARCHIVIST
You’re not with the Eye; so how do you know any of that?
[THOMAS LAUGHS AGAIN, BUT IT’S STRAINED. HE AUDIBLY STRUGGLES AGAINST THE COMPULSION FOR A MOMENT OR TWO.]
THOMAS
Gosh, do you always – (gasps) – press the full weight of the knowledge of eternity onto every cute guy you meet? At least buy me a drink first! (laughs, strained) Oh, this actually hurts, a lot –
MARTIN
(faintly scandalized) Are – are you hitting on my boyfriend while he’s trying to compel you?
[THE STATIC PRESSES HARDER.]
THOMAS
Oh, oh, sorry; didn’t know you two were together! Congrats, I am so sorry, I actually thought it was all subtext, would you believe that? Good surprise, though, I always thought this apocalypse could be a bit gayer –
ARCHIVIST
(flustered) Yes, well, all right, just – you’re going to hurt yourself, you know, just answer the question – actually, how do you know about the, the smiting thing, and not about us being... being us?
THOMAS
The Eye isn’t the only one who pays attention to what’s going on around here. (the static pressure recedes, he lets out a sound of relief) Aah, that’s better, jeez. Look, couldn’t you just see for yourself? I could explain what I’m doing here and why I don’t have a proper domain and, you know, all of that, but explaining stuff like that is hard without a script, and I didn’t have time to write one. The script’s kind of writing itself here.
MARTIN
You know, I’ve suddenly realized that I haven’t the faintest clue what’s going on.
THOMAS
(laughs, awkward) Yeah, I... I tend to do that. Lately. Sorry. Come on, Jon – Jon? It feels weird to call you that, but, um, ‘Archivist’ feels a bit too formal – Jon. Just look. Seriously, I can’t believe you haven’t already, it feels like the first thing I’d do, if I was you. Which I’m not. (quieter:) At least, I don’t think I am...
ARCHIVIST
I – I will. I will do that.
[STATIC RISES AS THE ARCHIVIST SEES.]
ARCHIVIST
(softly) Oh. Well, I don’t know what I was expecting but... it certainly wasn’t that.
THOMAS
Yeah. Do – do I get a medal for managing to surprise the guy who knows everything-? A participation trophy, or something? It feels significant; I don’t know.
[A MOMENT OF RELATIVE SILENCE.]
ARCHIVIST
Martin, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you should leave.
MARTIN
Wha – and leave you alone with him?
THOMAS
Hey, I’m not dangerous.
ARCHIVIST
He really isn’t. At least, not to me. (dryly:) In case you hadn’t noticed, there isn’t a lot that can hurt me at this point. (pause) He’s more of a danger to himself than to anyone else.
THOMAS
That’s – okay, it’s harsh, but you’re probably not wrong.
MARTIN
O-okay. All right. Sure. But if that’s true, then... why do you need me to go?
ARCHIVIST
(sigh) It’s – think of it like a statement thing. I’m going to say a lot of things. He’s going to say a lot of things. And from what I can tell, a lot of it’s going to be ultimately pointless, and immensely disturbing, and I don’t need to check to tell you that you’re probably not going to like it.
THOMAS
‘Pointless’ isn’t –
ARCHIVIST
There may not be people in this domain – people apart from us three, I mean – but the Eye still needs me to, ah, you know.
MARTIN
Oh. Oh, right; you could have just led with that.
ARCHIVIST
Yeah. I’ll give you the summarized version later, if you really want.
[MARTIN HESITATES.]
MARTIN
...No. It’s fine. I’ll, just – I’ll go over there. Hang out with all the... discarded piles of calendars and, um, hundred-plus broken mirrors. Come get me when you’re done, all right?
ARCHIVIST
Of course.
MARTIN
And don’t do any more smiting without me. Love you.
ARCHIVIST
(deep affection) I love you too.
[CRUNCHING FOOTSTEPS; SHOES ON GLASS. MARTIN DEPARTS. THOMAS MAKES A MUFFLED NOISE, AS IF TRYING TO CONCEAL A SQUEAL OF DELIGHT OR PERHAPS A LOUD ‘AWW’.]
ARCHIVIST
(in slightly better humor than he usually would be in this sort of situation) Yes, yes, we’re sickeningly adorable. I refuse to apologize, just so you know.
THOMAS
(delighted beyond measure) Oh my goodness gracious, I would never ask you to apologize for that. You’ve just made my entire apocalypse!
ARCHIVIST
Yes, well. (faintly embarrassed, now; he’s not used to being on the end of such honest enthusiasm) Quite. Now, I don’t want to keep Martin waiting too long, so if you don’t mind –
THOMAS
(audible grin) Of course, sure! (sings) Let’s get down to business! To defeat! The – well, I don’t know. Not me, preferably?
ARCHIVIST
We – we’ll see. About that. Hopefully not, no. (a second, to collect himself) I’m not sure how aware you are of this, but with the world being in the, ah, current state it’s in... you can only really take up one of two roles. You’re either the torturer, or the tortured, and there’s no room for in-between.
THOMAS
Um, I kind of knew that. Like, I didn’t know I knew, but it makes sense. I guess. Everything’s a fear machine, so you’re either generating the fear, or... being... the one... causing... the generation? No, I don’t know where I was going with that.
ARCHIVIST
‘The one operating the machine, or the one plugged into the machine’ might be a better way to put it.
THOMAS
That makes more sense.
ARCHIVIST
Well, I’m glad I could elucidate. When I say there’s no room for in-between, I really do mean it. It’s a binary switch. There’s no splitting hairs or slipping between the cracks. You’re either tormenting people and drinking down their terror, or you’re on the other end of the process and suffering more than you’ve ever suffered in your life. (a pointed intake of breath) Which makes it really, really strange, because from what I can tell – and I can tell quite a lot – you appear to be filling both of those roles at once.
THOMAS
Ah. Yeah, I – I guess I am. (light chuckle) Well, y’know what they say – hell is other people!
ARCHIVIST
...You’re the only living being here.
THOMAS
Yeah, but I’m a lot of people.
[BRIEF SILENCE. SOMEWHERE IN THE DISTANCE, THE SOFT SHARP SHIFTING OF SHATTERED GLASS. SOMETHING THAT MIGHT BE THE SNATCH OF A FAMILIAR CHEERFUL OPENING THEME SONG – OR MAYBE NOT.]
[THE ARCHIVIST BREATHES IN, SLOWLY AND DELIBERATELY. STATIC, AS HE ATTEMPTS TO SEE. AFTER A SECOND, THE STATIC FADES.]
ARCHIVIST
You know, I don’t get to say this very often lately, but I am puzzled by you.
THOMAS
Heh, I get that a lot.
ARCHIVIST
It’s not that I can’t see information about you, and what you’re thinking, and what you are. I can. I can see all of it. I know that you have a freckle behind your right ear, that you met your most recent boyfriend through a series of deeply awkward accidents at your local shopping mall, and that you harboured a secret crush on Jareth from Labyrinth all through middle school that’s never really faded.
THOMAS
You – I – listen, you can’t tell me that you didn’t.
ARCHIVIST
(a bit too quickly) That’s irrelevant. The point is that while I can see literally everything that I’d ever need to know about you and quite a lot of things that I don’t – including what power, powers you’re aligned with, and... and how you came to be here – all of the important things that I’m actually curious about just keep sliding away from me before I can think to follow them.
THOMAS
Important things? Like what?
ARCHIVIST
(genuinely, properly frustrated) That’s the problem! I can’t put my finger on it! Why are you so – (struggles) why? What’s important about you? Is there anything important about you? If there was, shouldn’t I know about it already? What are you doing here? Your domain wasn’t here when I plotted out the path to London, so why here and why now?
[AS HE SPEAKS, GAINING PACE AS HE GOES, STATIC CREEPS IN, RISING AROUND HIM LIKE A STORM.]
THOMAS
Hngh – (unhappy little choking noise) – so, like, do you want me to answer those in order or chronologically or is this some sort of –
[THE ARCHIVIST INHALES, HOLDS HIS BREATH, BREATHES OUT. VERY MEASURED, VERY SLOW. AS HE DOES, THE STATIC RECEDES.]
ARCHIVIST
Sorry. That was unfair of me. You haven’t done – you’re not – (breaks off, abruptly) – well, just the first part will suffice, for now. What’s so important about you?
[STATIC... RISES? IT’S NOT QUITE RIGHT, THOUGH. IT’S NOT THE SAME SORT OF STATIC WE’RE USED TO. IT’S NOT THE ARCHIVIST’S STATIC.]
THOMAS
It’s... well, kiddo, it’s a bit strange and complicated, actually. I’ll do my best – hey, actually, I’ve been wandering around here for what might be a literal eternity, and my legs are getting kinda sore. I need to work out more... d’you mind if we sit down?
ARCHIVIST
W-well, I – I suppose not. (pause) Although... weren’t we sitting down, already?
THOMAS
Don’t you worry about that; it was deliberately ambiguous.
ARCHIVIST
Oh. I –
THOMAS
Here, pull up, er... a stack of calendars, reminding me of all my previous and current mistakes. Probably not very comfortable, but better than nothing.
[SHUFFLING, PAPER AND GLASS SHIFTING. AFTER A MOMENT, THEY SIT. THOMAS SIGHS, HAPPY.]
THOMAS
Okay. The best place to start is, um, well. You know what in media res is, right?
ARCHIVIST
...Is that really the best place to start?
THOMAS
Probably not, but, hey, I’m doing my best! In media res – I think I’m saying that right?
ARCHIVIST
No, ah... the actual term is ‘in medias res’, although it’s – it’s a common mistake to make. It’s only a one letter difference. You were close.
THOMAS
Aw, well, close enough! I thought it was ‘media’ because, y’know, it’s the sort of thing you usually see in media and also when you’re scrolling through your social media you catch stuff kind of in the middle of the action, and you gotta work out the context for yourself. That’s what in medias res is, right?
ARCHIVIST
...Sort of? In medias res isn’t really meant to apply to real life, it’s – it’s a literary, mm, narrative technique, designed to throw the audience into the middle of the action rather than spending a lot of time explaining how the events leading up to it came to pass.
THOMAS
Hey, look at you go! Archivist, more like Top-Mark-ivist, because that answer sure deserves a gold star in my book!
ARCHIVIST
...Thank you. But, this... really isn’t answering the question. I just want to know how you know some really incredibly specific things, but not others. Why you know about my ‘smiting’ but not the fact that Martin and I are...
THOMAS
Dating?
ARCHIVIST
...Yes.
THOMAS
Weeelll – I could drag this out, but it’s actually pretty simple, so I won’t. You told me already!
ARCHIVIST
I... told you?
THOMAS
Before the recorder started running. We were talking about where you came from and how you got to my house, and you brought up the fact that you’d just killed, um, some sort of bad person, or maybe thing? Oh, I don’t know, I’m forgetful like that – but you definitely mentioned that. That, and your names – but you didn’t actually tell me that you were dating!
[SILENCE.]
ARCHIVIST
I don’t remember that.
THOMAS
Really? It was only a couple of minutes ago. I remember it pretty clearly, and like I said (laughs) hoo boy, this old head of mine, the memory in it is not great.
ARCHIVIST
I don’t – I’m not –
[HE TRIES TO SEE, BUT THE STATIC FLICKERS AND CUTS OUT SEVERAL TIMES AS HE DOES.]
ARCHIVIST
What is this? I... I can’t remember how we even got here. Or meeting you. Or – or, anything, before we started talking about, about – turning the Eye back on itself? (softly:) Maybe?
THOMAS
Well, that’s in media res! Whoops, sorry, in medias res.
ARCHIVIST
(mild crisis) That’s a literary technique, not-!
THOMAS
Well, it’s like – aw beans, what’s the term? – all the world’s a stage! Right?
ARCHIVIST
Right now, yes, literally it is, because we’re always being watched, but – but – that’s not it, it’s not – you can’t use in medias res in real life, because... you don’t just get thrown randomly into the middle of a conversation, not like that. There’s always going to be some sort of buildup to it, because – because everybody’s living their lives continuously. This isn’t some television show, where you just skip to the interesting, action-based bit, and avoid all the walking-between-locations and tedious repetitive conversations about things that have already happened –
THOMAS
Not for you, sure.
[PAUSE.]
ARCHIVIST
Oh. So this is about your-?
THOMAS
Yes. I’m trying to explain it to you in a way that makes sense, but you’re panicking over not knowing all the information immediately and it’s really quite distracting, so if you could –
ARCHIVIST
I am not panicking, I-! (reigns it back) – would like to know... what you mean. Go ahead.
THOMAS
Well, to begin with, we’re all just stories that we tell each other. Or at least that’s how I’ve ended up perceiving things. I’m aware that not everybody sees it that way, but this is my domain, and so my perception of things is the most important. Yes?
ARCHIVIST
I... yes. Like how the victims in several of the Buried’s domains aren’t actually worms, but –
THOMAS
– they believe that they are, so that’s how their reality is shaped? Essentially, yes. And the same, as such, applies here. For example, I never actually told you my name, but you’ve been calling me Thomas all this time in your head. Yes?
ARCHIVIST
I don’t need people to tell me their names. I can know them.
THOMAS
Yes, yes, but my name’s not actually Thomas.
[PAUSE. THOMAS SHIFTS AROUND BROKEN GLASS WITH HIS FEET, AND HUMS A SNATCH OF SOMETHING PLEASANTLY MYSTERIOUS.]
ARCHIVIST
(carefully) Because... you’re the entity formerly known as Thomas Sanders...?
THOMAS
(careless) No – I’m still Thomas Sanders.
ARCHIVIST
Then –
THOMAS
Or at the very least, I’m still legally entitled to call myself that, or I would be if legal still existed. As it is, the construct that was society has been quite thoroughly dismantled. Which, by the way, is maybe the one thing about this situation that I’m genuinely pleased with.
ARCHIVIST
(dawning comprehension) You’ve... changed.
THOMAS
Oh, honey, no. Not in the least. It’s just your perspective that’s shifted.
ARCHIVIST
No, no, you have changed, I can tell, it’s your face – it’s, it’s like –
THOMAS
Listen, Archivist; you can’t actually prove that I look any different from how I was two minutes ago. Not even if you know it for certain. Like I mentioned before – how I look right now is thoroughly, gloriously ambiguous.
ARCHIVIST
(audibly glaring) You said you would explain, but you really aren’t explaining anything at all. And you are a lot less pleasant than you were at the beginning of all this. It’s beginning to wear at my patience. (pause, intake of breath. Then, firmly:) So explain. Or I’ll take your explanation from you by force. And I’m reliably informed that that is rather unpleasant.
THOMAS
Fine, I’ll do my best. As I said – you’ve been calling me Thomas all this time, working under the impression that it’s my name.
ARCHIVIST
Because it is.
THOMAS
On some level, but where we are right now, names are pointless. For example.
[SILENCE. JON IS WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN, BUT NOTHING AUDIBLE DOES.]
JON
(expectantly, testily) Well?
THOMAS
Have – did you not notice?
[A BRIEF SURGE OF STATIC AS JON ATTEMPTS TO SEE WHAT THE CHANGE IS.]
JON
(hesitant) I don’t... no?
THOMAS
Unbe-lievable. I really thought that was going to be the big moment right there. Good grief. Well, let me make it more obvious for you, since you apparently don’t appreciate the majesty of a good old-fashioned wham reveal.
JON
I don’t... I’m sorry, what are you talking about?
ARCHIVIST
Hell’s bells and cockle shells, evie-ivy-over, okay. Let’s try this on for size.
[A SUDDEN, SHARP INTAKE OF BREATH FROM JON AS HE REALIZES.]
JON
That – it isn’t right. I don’t know what you just did, but it isn’t right.
ARCHIVIST
Aaaand there we go.
JON
You – wh – there’s – what? No! (actually properly angry) No! You can’t be the Archivist! It’s not – there’s not – I’m the bloody Archivist!
ARCHIVIST
All right, all right. Calm thine tits, Avatar: The Last Fearbender, I’m just proving a point. People call themselves things all the time, and it doesn’t mean they are those things. I could call myself, ah, you know – Peter Pan, or the world’s leading expert on major empires of the third century, or, or (losing enthusiasm) a duke, or a prince, (picking up again) and it wouldn’t mean a single thing – especially not now! I’m not actually the Archivist; it’s just a name.
JON
(full-on indignant outrage) Well, give it back!
ARCHIVIST
Jeezy creezy mac-n-cheezy, all right, no need to get all... vengeful and murder-y! Don’t you like being Jon? I’d’ve thought it’d be actually quite refreshing for you.
JON
I don’t need to be Jon, I already am Jon! I... I just also happen to be the Archivist! The two aren’t mutually exclusive! Just – just because you call yourself a prince, does that mean you stop being whoever you were before you started calling yourself that?
ARCHIVIST
Ow. Okay – number one, ow. Low blow, Yikes Wazowsky, low blow. Number two, would you mind terribly thinking very hard about what, specifically, has made you think that I’ve taken the title of ‘Archivist’ away from you?
JON
Well, I-!
[SILENCE. A MOMENT OF GENUINE CONSIDERATION.]
JON
Huh. I suppose I... I suppose I just knew.
MARTIN
Oh, right, you just knew, okay. And if I did this?
JON
(not amused) I know you’re not Martin, and I don’t know what you think you’re playing at.
MARTIN
I mean, yeah. I don’t sound anything like him, and I definitely don’t look like him – no offense to your smokin’ hot beefy beefed-up BF over there, but I would never give up this perfect, perfect face. But again – seriously – even though there aren’t any actual physical proper indications, you knew that I had yoinked his name, anyway. So, how do you know?
JON
I – (sigh) – your identity theft is extremely distracting, and I would like to be the Archivist again, please.
THOMAS
Oh, fine. Here, take it.
ARCHIVIST
Are you-? (sound of realization, and then satisfaction) Thank you. Ah – I need to...
[STATIC RISES, AND THEN FALLS, VERY QUICKLY.]
ARCHIVIST
You know, I’m really not sure how you did that. That is – that is to say, I know how you did it, but...
THOMAS
The logic of it isn’t processing? Yep! Perks of the job, Blink-182-Million, perks of the job.
ARCHIVIST
Because... everything is a narrative to you?
THOMAS
Yeppers. I can just kind of, you know – dip my hands in and out of the medium, play around with formatting, all that fun jazzed-up jizz. Pretty neat, could be neater. Actually, you know what – I’m still lowkey pissed I didn’t end up with one of the good fear gods; one of the juicy ones. I liked the one with all the rotting meat and the extra hands, it was actually fun. Not like, pfft, the fuckin’ theatre kid god I’ve got myself halfway attached to here. I mean, different strokes for different folks, different fears for different queers, whatever fucks your truck, but I just had to go and become a horrifying freak of nature at the circus? There are so much better ways to die.
ARCHIVIST
I... I guess there... would be?
THOMAS
(sliding into faint introspection) Mm, never thought it’d end this way. (pause, then, upbeat:) The spirograph decor is a surprise, though.
ARCHIVIST
Ah – yes. I had been intentionally avoiding the, er, common terminology, I suppose you’d call it? – because the terminology is, well, it’s not so much ‘outdated’ as ‘completely and utterly flawed and inaccurate to begin with’. But, if you know them already –
THOMAS
Oh no, yep, I know all of them. The Big Fourteen, except when there’s more and/or they blend together and overlap, etcetera, so on and so forth. Huge fan, me. Got the trading cards, collectible mugs, horrifying bug-eyed Funko pop figurines – with real bugs in the case of the squirming-writhing-flesh-hive-of-insects one – got celebrity signatures scrawled all over my body, the works!
ARCHIVIST
(rolling with it; this might as well happen) Right. Well, since you’re already familiar, I can’t seem to know for certain, but given your... affinity for names and – and, general aura of... confusing... I take it you rest in an intersection between Spiral and Stranger?
THOMAS
Huh, is that what you call them? I always just went with something like ‘the circus one’ and ‘the crazy one’.
ARCHIVIST
It’s what Robert Smirke called them. (faintly bitter) It’s the sort of thing that’s really managed to catch on. Much to my chagrin.
THOMAS
Well, it sounds about right – so that’s a butt-hole-in-one for you, Eye-sack Ass-imov, I am half horrible-circus-freak and half-mashed-up soup of eyewatering Escherian geometry. You get a gold star, right to the forehead and through your frontal lobe! – or you would, if I had one on hand, and it’s hard to make a gold star audibly recognizable, so I guess I don’t.
ARCHIVIST
You – I – (gives up) – well, you don’t... look like a, an eyewatering soup? I’ve met entities aligned with the Spiral before, and they looked a lot... more than you do.
[THOMAS CACKLES MADLY FOR A MOMENT OR TWO; A FAR CRY FROM HIS EARLIER, COMPARATIVELY-SUBDUED LAUGHTER.]
THOMAS
(wildly gleeful) The soup is all on the inside, baby! Take a proper squizz inside this horrible head of mine, see what I’m talking about! You’ll love it, promise.
ARCHIVIST
(deep reluctance) I’m going to need to, eventually, but –
THOMAS
(leering) Scared, Archivist?
ARCHIVIST
– but I have one more question before I do, and no. Not remotely.
THOMAS
Oof! (claps a hand to his chest) Well, I’m out of practice, so I won’t take that too personally. Spending all this time scaring the fuck out of myself is pretty bad for creative flow. Maybe I should take a gap year.
ARCHIVIST
Right. This... (pause) I’d like to say it’s all been rather illuminating, but it... hasn’t. By definition. And to be honest, the way your appearance and personality keeps shifting is giving me a headache.
THOMAS
Dude. It’s not my personality that’s shifting. It’s –
ARCHIVIST
(overlapping) My perspective, yes, yes, you’ve mentioned. Like – like different facets of a gem, viewed from different angles.
THOMAS
Yeah, whatever, if you want to put it like that. I guess it makes sense. What was your question?
[A TOUCH OF STATIC.]
ARCHIVIST
You didn’t always used to be like this. You had – names?
THOMAS
Probably. I mean, we were all Thomas, but... sure, yeah, we had names. Identities, even. It was (hesitation) nice. I think. Hard to tell, you know, but it was definitely better than whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
ARCHIVIST
And now?
THOMAS
And now, we’re all Thomas. I’m all Thomas. But it’s all blurry and messed-up and I think I’d hate it if I wasn’t so busy loving it. You are so lucky you don’t live in my head. It sucks in here.
ARCHIVIST
Like – watercolors. Blurring together at the edges.
THOMAS
More like one of those palette-mixing videos where the mixer has, like, absolutely no idea what they’re doing, and the colors are all shitty to begin with and by the time they’re done it’s a terrible-looking mess and the mixing part wasn’t even satisfying because they used a weird scrape-y knife to do it and now your entire day is just... ruined.
ARCHIVIST
Er... yes, quite.
THOMAS
Like colors, but if colors were torturing themselves. Ugh, what am I doing; that doesn’t even make sense – I’m not the one who does the metaphors, that’s-! (sudden silence) No. I guess it’s just me.
[THE ARCHIVIST HESITATES. SIGHS. INHALES.]
ARCHIVIST
I’m still going to have to – you know –
THOMAS
Oh, right – statement?
ARCHIVIST
If you’d rather I didn’t do it in front of you, I can... ah, go somewhere else?
THOMAS
No, it’s fine, I guess. Hey, it might actually be interesting. (laughs) You know what? Yeah. Take it away, Biggest Brother.
ARCHIVIST
(slightly wary) Well, all right.
[PAUSE. THE FAINT, INCOMPREHENSIBLE BACKGROUND MUSIC BECOMES SOMETHING ALMOST RECOGNIZABLE, IF ONLY FOR A SECOND OR TWO.]
[STATIC RISES, DROWNING IT OUT.]
ARCHIVIST (STATEMENT)
You’re arguing again.
You hate it when you argue, but then again, there’s not much else to do. Not these days. There’s entirely too much to sort out and so many things you’re unsure of and so much swirling in your head, around and around until you’re just far too enveloped into it to think straight.
The you in the hallway says, “– was one of the original metaphysicians, and a mathematician of the highest order – ” and you can barely remember where you started in order to get to this point. A brief moment of insecurity, maybe, or a steady build-up of misery over days and days and days that’s led to this, like a pipe shuddering and heaving and bursting liquid garbage everywhere.
Liquid garbage is really an apt way to put it, you think, because you really do feel like liquid garbage a lot of the time. Look at you, a waste of space and a burden of time. This isn’t even good content. You could be doing so, so much more, but here you are again.
And where were you, again? Oh, yes.
“But what does Descartes have to do with any of this?” demands the you in front of the television. You are trying to hold yourself up, tall and proud as you always do, but are mostly failing. Your hands are white-knuckled on the television’s frame. The weight of everything
The you that is mostly you, is you as the sum of all of you, sits on the couch and is about to respond and explain but then it occurs to you that you’re not sure.
“I think,” says the you in front of the curtains, “that we need to – well, think! A bit harder! We’ll get there eventually if we just put our minds to it, right?”
You are never not thinking these days and you would really quite like to stop. but the you that is your heart has never steered you wrong before except when he has, so you decide to take your own advice and you think.
You tell yourself that you are a formless featureless ball of sentience hallucinating itself into reality on a higher plane of existence, and that’s a compelling enough thought that it must be true.
“I don’t like this,” one of you says, and you’re right, but you’re also not real in any way that matters, so really, who cares at this point? Who’s left to care?
You. You’re left. You’re all that’s left.
You don’t especially love the idea of being a formless featureless ball of any kind, so you try to dismiss that thought and try to settle back in your skin, such as it is. The flesh feels tight, stretched thin and taut around the joints. Any words sharp enough might puncture and rip it and reveal the fact that there’s nothing of consequence underneath. You don’t want that; you really don’t want that. You’ll try your best not to cut yourself with your own words, but some days it feels as if all your bones are knives and with the slightest movement you’ll tear yourself apart.
One step further up, you tell yourself. We can take this higher. There’s more to see, if you just look at it from a wider angle, a bird’s-eye-view even higher up than the previous one. You know you’re never going to happy until you truly know yourself, and if it’s I think therefore I am that you’re going for, then you really are going to have to think a little harder. Because the thing is, the thing is, you aren’t really sure of it. That you are, that is. You’re a wreck of a man; a sad little creature peering down the rabbit hole of his own brain and marvelling, marvelling at the fact that you still can’t see anything of use. Not yet.
You step back.
The mirror refracts on itself. Scatterthoughts, fractured like diamonds. You are you are you are you are not you, staring down at yourself through layers upon layers. You turn, and there is you, and you are turning to greet you with a toothy grin that slopes off your face with a shattering of stained glass and stained enamel.
You greet you, exhausted and weary.
“Told you we were going to hell,” you inform yourself, and your laugh is crooked and hacking, like a backed-up compactor. A hint of hysteria to it, maybe. You think some part of you might be enjoying yourself, or maybe it’s a larger part and you’re all that’s left.
You look at the man on the staircase. He is not you. This is expected; you expected this, but it still unsettles you, somehow. You look at your self in the mirror. You are you. This is also expected. Dread creeps up your spine, strangling your breath. Something is very wrong. Something is very wrong.
You look at. You look. You. You. You look at yourself. You are not the you you thought you were. You are you. You are not you. You are panicking. Four seven eight, four seven eight. You feel like you’re about to vibrate out of your skin. It’s not your skin anymore. You are. You look at you. You are not you. You never were. You think therefore you are, but you can barely think, so you must not be.
You. You. You. You. Who?
A man, a mask, a mystery; a twisted tangle of endless conflict and fear and confusion. Tearing at your head, your skin, your bones, your soul, until there’s nothing left but an endless sea of WHY. The Little Engine That Might Have Been, puffing I think I am I think I am from now until the day you drop.
You say yes and but and wait and stop and this isn’t me this isn’t us this is it this is too much and there’s a you near the window with a pained smile like broken promises who says, “No, no, don’t go there, don’t think that. Getting lost in your head is no wait to end the day.”
Reality stings as it whips back to greet you. You stagger. The world feels fresh and real unless that isn’t the case –
“It’s not,” you say, voice sticky-sweet with reassurance. “It’s fine, it’s all going to be fine. If we can just – ”
“It’s the opposite of fine,” says the you near the stairs. “In case you hadn’t noticed, we don’t even know who we are.”
And would you look at that? You’re arguing again. And you do so hate it when you argue – but then again, there’s not much else to do. Not these days.
Not anymore.
[STATIC RISES AND DISSIPATES, AS THE ARCHIVIST EXHALES.]
THOMAS
(quietly) Hm.
ARCHIVIST
(almost defensive) What?
THOMAS
Nothing, it’s just that... well, I didn’t enjoy listening to that very much at all.
ARCHIVIST
(deep breath, sitting up straighter) Well, it’s not exactly designed to be the sort of thing that a rational, sane person would enjoy – and come to think of it, I don’t enjoy listening to it very much either.
THOMAS
Is that so? From the way you’ve been acting, I’d say you’re enjoying it quite a bit.
ARCHIVIST
...It’s hard not to, when it tastes... (Pause. Then, quieter, almost ashamed:) When it tastes so good.
THOMAS
I sympathize entirely.
ARCHIVIST
Yes – you would, wouldn’t you?
THOMAS
Mm. Metaphysical autocannibalism, I suppose you could call it. I’m sure I’d find it abhorrent if I were... ah, different right now. But it’s almost fascinating, isn’t it? I fuel myself through sheer suffering. I used to entertain other people for a living, and this is where it’s got me. Although... I suppose that being afraid is a sort of entertainment, isn’t it?
ARCHIVIST
(calm realisation, almost curious) You’ve changed again.
THOMAS
Yes, well, it happens. Quite frequently, actually.
ARCHIVIST
(slowly) Yes... yes. Does – does that have anything to do with the – name thing?
THOMAS
In a roundabout sort of way, yes. I suppose it does.
ARCHIVIST
And-?
THOMAS
To be frank – you’re not really Jonathan Sims. Not any more than I’m Thomas Sanders.
[A LONG SILENCE.]
ARCHIVIST
You’re – you’re with the, the, (stuttering a bit) so of course you’re trying to confuse me. (recovering, settling back into his usual apocalyptic coolness) It’s not going to work, you know. I know everything now, and that’s barely an exaggeration, everything. I know where Amelia Earhart’s final resting place is; knowing my own name is – that’s nothing.
THOMAS
Wait. How did Amelia Earhart die? Was it the crabs, or-?
ARCHIVIST
Oh! – actually, it’s a funny story – (audibly reigns himself back; going abruptly cold) No. Stop trying to distract me.
THOMAS
I’m not. I... really would like to know about famous American aviation pioneer and author Amelia Mary Earhart’s ultimate demise. It’s, I suppose you could call it a distant passion of mine, and I... (sigh) But I suppose you’re right. Now is not the time.
ARCHIVIST
Good. Fine. Thank you. I think I know my own name.
THOMAS
That was never in doubt. You’re Jon Sims, yes. But are you Jonathan Sims?
ARCHIVIST
Is this intended to be a rough, painful jab at the state of my humanity?
THOMAS
Not in the least. I’m still talking about names and identities. Did you know that some authors have a rather interesting habit of naming their protagonists after themselves?
[SILENCE. STATIC. SILENCE.]
ARCHIVIST
Interesting. I have no way of factchecking what you seem to be implying, but you certainly seem convinced of it.
THOMAS
You’re not bothered by the suggestion that your existence is being manipulated by some creator on another level of existence higher than anything that even the Beholding is able to witness?
ARCHIVIST
Are you?
THOMAS
(dry as anything:) I fluctuate wildly between being immensely bothered by it and being dizzily thrilled by the very notion. I’m hardly the person to ask.
ARCHIVIST
Fair point. Of – well, of course I’m bothered. But I’m also beginning to come to terms with the fact that there are some things I just can’t control.
THOMAS
Such as the all-seeing all-consuming eye floating in the sky that surveys all of humanity at all hours of the day and night, feasting voyeuristically on our constant pain and suffering?
ARCHIVIST
Well... yes. But – how much do you know about the Mother of Puppets?
THOMAS
We’ve... met.
[A THOUGHTFUL PAUSE. FAINT STATIC.]
ARCHIVIST
I see. Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, the Web has a certain predisposition towards... angling and weaving any and all events due to occur in the distinct direction of its plans. And of course those plans are incomprehensible and downright impossible to parse or even begin to understand, but I’ve recently come to learn that at least some of these plans involved me. Me, from a very young age. Me, and the position I find myself in now. Do you understand what I’m saying?
THOMAS
You’re saying that your entire existence was a tortuous, gradual build-up to becoming a sort of, mm – fear messiah in a broken world? And that you could have done nothing about it?
ARCHIVIST
Yes, precisely that. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it.
THOMAS
Oh, certainly not. I understand entirely. For the longest time, I served as the last futile remains of logic and sanity in the slowly crumbling mindscape of a man whose career I didn’t respect, and there was nothing I could do about it.
ARCHIVIST
And now?
THOMAS
And now I serve as the last futile remains of logic and sanity for myself in a slowly crumbling universe that is ultimately destined to collapse in on itself in a cavalcade of anguish and fear, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I should have taken my old job more seriously.
ARCHIVIST
Then I think we understand each other. Then, if that’s all-?
THOMAS
I think it might be.
ARCHIVIST
Right. Ah. In that case – (a bit awkwardly) thank you for having me over for... dinner? I’ll be going now. Need to find Martin, kill God – you know how it goes –
THOMAS
You’re not going to kill me?
ARCHIVIST
Do you want me to kill you?
THOMAS
I don’t think so, no.
ARCHIVIST
Then I won’t. The only person you’re hurting here is yourself, which might make you... (a bit startled) the most innocent person on the planet right now, come to think of it?
[A BEAT OF SILENCE, AND THEN THOMAS LAUGHS – A BIT STARTLED, A BIT DEAD-SOUNDING.]
THOMAS
Gosh, you know what? I really wish I could believe you. (sigh) Bye, Jon. It was nice to get a break for once.
ARCHIVIST
Y – yes. Well, quite. Goodbye, Mr Sanders.
[THE ARCHIVIST BEGINS TO WALK OFF. FOR ONCE, WE DO NOT FOLLOW HIM.]
ARCHIVIST
Martin? Martin, we’re done – Martin?
MARTIN
(distant) About time!
ARCHIVIST
(distant) There you are.
MARTIN
(distant) Hello, you. Is everything taken care of-? – what ended up happening with that Thomas bloke?
ARCHIVIST
(distant, fading) Well – ah, actually, it’s... complicated? And rather confusing –
[THEY ARE LEAVING, GETTING FURTHER AND FURTHER AWAY, UNTIL THEY’RE BARELY AUDIBLE ANY MORE. AFTER A FEW MOMENTS OF RELATIVE SILENCE, THOMAS EXHALES WITH A SOFT LITTLE CHUCKLE.]
THOMAS
Just me left? Well – okay. I didn’t think it was supposed to work like this, honestly! But as long as I’m here... Guess I’ve got to finish this one off.
[SHUFFLING FOOTSTEPS AS HE GETS AUDIBLY CLOSER, THAN STOPS.]
THOMAS
Well, the world’s a pretty scary place – now more than ever. But hey, at least we’re all suffering for a good cause. Remember, be kind to yourself and to each other. And if you can’t do either of those things, which, let’s be real, you probably can’t... remember that this, too, shall pass. You won’t be in continual agony forever, I promise. Either Jon’s going to succeed, or we’re all going to die, eventually – and either way, it’s out of our hands. I find that weirdly reassuring – don’t you?
Either way, the best advice I can give you apart from ‘wait for the inevitable End to approach’ is... just be yourself. Whoever that happens to be. And if you can’t be yourself, try to be someone else instead – it’s great fun, I promise.
Take it easy, guys, gals, and nonbinary pals.
[HE REACHES DOWN AND PICKS UP THE RECORDER.]
THOMAS
Peace out.
[CLICK.]