Chapter Text
Jon yawned, stretching his arms out in front of him before reaching over to the coffee table to check if he had any tea left. The mug was, as expected, empty - he vaguely remembered finishing it off before falling asleep.
Pity.
He hauled himself upright, blinking the post-nap bleariness out of his eyes. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He’d settled down to read, but the couch had been very comfortable, and the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the windows had been very warm, and he could hear the sound of Martin’s typewriter clicking away in the other room, and all in all it was just a perfect lazy Sunday, and no one could really blame him for dozing off with his book in his lap.
Oh, right. Where was…?
He fished the book out from the gap between the cushions and the back of the couch where it had fallen, conscientiously correcting the placement of his bookmark before setting it down onto the table next to the empty mug.
Yes. Time for more tea. He could make some for Martin as well, and check in to see if he was still working on his poetry.
Jon stood up, grabbing the mug from the table with the same movement, and turned to head toward the kitchen.
He was stopped by a strange, electric whirring noise from the room behind him.
He looked over his shoulder.
In the middle of the living room, hovering in the space between the television and the couch, was a pulsating, twisting, shimmer in the air; a place where there was nothing, and yet that nothing bent and shaped the light like a heat haze.
The mug fell from Jon’s numb hands, landing with a small thump on the carpeting.
“Martin,” he breathed, and then, louder, his voice shaking, “Martin!”
“What’s up?” Martin’s voice was muffled across the house, but he didn’t sound alarmed. Yet.
“Y-you, uh. You’re going to want to see this.”
“One sec!”
Jon heard a chair scrape across the floor; a door opening. Martin’s footsteps padded down the hallway toward Jon, and his voice got louder as he turned the corner into the living room.
“What did you want me t-” He stopped. “Oh fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Jon hadn’t been able to tear his eyes away from it. It hadn’t changed, just floating there, in the middle of the room, making that sound that was almost a tape hiss, but not quite.
“It- it looks like the one we came through,” Martin said after a moment.
Jon nodded. He’d been more than half-dead when they fell through the rift into this world, but he’d never forget the way it looked, that twisting, wrenching void in the air above him as he lay bleeding out on the ground. It had dissipated mere seconds after spitting them out, and after that all he remembers is the wail of the ambulance and Martin’s voice begging him to hold on, but the image of it had never fully faded from his mind.
And now it was back, in front of him again, in the middle of their living room on a peaceful Sunday afternoon.
“Is this it, then?” Martin asked quietly.
“It seems like it.”
Ever since they’d arrived here, years ago now, they’d been scouring the news for any hint of supernatural activity: strange stories or rumors that couldn’t be entirely accounted for by ordinary science. They’d found nothing. This world seemed entirely devoid of Dread Powers, or even run of the mill paranormal activity like ghosts. It was, to all appearances, completely normal.
They’d never stopped looking, but they had grown complacent as time passed. It had been so long, and nothing had happened. They knew it would, someday - their own actions in releasing the Fears had seen to that - but they had started to believe, against all the odds, that it might not happen in their lifetimes. That they might, for once, be safe. And now…
“I suppose they just… took longer than us to cross over,” Jon said, reaching back with one hand to find Martin’s and grasp it within his own.
Before he could make contact the wrench in the air spat, a bright pulse of light and screech of noise like a jammed disk drive. Jon leapt backward, into Martin; Martin caught him with a yelp, one hand closing around his arm, the other over his chest. Beneath his palm Jon could feel the faint, almost inaudible hum as the delicate artificial tubes and wiring that kept his heart beating kicked into high gear, keeping pace with the adrenaline surging through his system.
Almost without thinking, Jon spread his arms a little, shielding Martin with his own body. “Martin,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the din, “If this is the end-”
Another flash. Something emerged from the rift, small and dark and impossible to make out in the chaos. Once it was through the rift began to shrink, twisting in on itself as it grew smaller and smaller and then, with an anticlimactic pop, disappeared.
Dead silence fell over the room.
Martin poked his head out from behind Jon’s arm. “What happened?”
“I… I don’t know,” Jon said, nonplussed. He lowered his arms, taking the smallest of small steps forward so he could see over the coffee table. Martin followed, still holding tight to his arm.
Lying in the middle of their carpet, as innocent and innocuous as if it had always been there, was a small orange floppy disk. It was the hard plastic kind, about as big as Jon’s palm and shaped like a computer ‘save’ icon.
They stared at it for a long moment.
It did not move.
“That’s a little less threatening than I was expecting, I have to admit,” Martin said after a minute.
“Maybe it’s cursed?” Jon said dubiously.
“Could be.” Martin stepped around him, approaching the disk, and Jon only realized what he was about to do when he bent down to pick it up.
“Don’t touch it!” Jon yelped, lunging forward to grab the back of Martin’s shirt and pull him away before his fingers could make contact.
“Hey!” Martin protested.
“It might hurt you!”
“It’s just a floppy disk, Jon,” Martin said patiently. “It’s not like it’s going to explode or anything.”
“Like that would stop you.”
A teasing smirk lifted the corner of Martin’s mouth. Jon had never let him live down the ‘plastic explosive incident’, as they had come to call it, and Martin always got inordinately proud of himself when Jon brought it up.
“I still say you were overreacting,” he countered, and Jon rolled his eyes.
“Can we at least poke it with a stick first?” he sighed.
In the end they fetched the kitchen tongs from the other room and lifted it carefully off the floor and into a sturdy plastic box. Close examination didn’t reveal anything suspicious on the outside of the disk: it was a little scuffed up, but still solid, and not marked with any arcane symbols or glyphs. Jon eventually relented and let Martin pick it up; he stood by his side warily as he did so, ready to snatch it out of his hands at the slightest sign of a threat.
There was nothing. To all intents and purposes, at least from the outside, it was an ordinary floppy disk.
“I don’t know if that makes me more or less nervous,” Jon said, staring at the thing where it sat, once again, in the box.
“I mean, there’s still a chance it’s horribly cursed and going to kill us both,” Martin pointed out. “I know the Fears never played well with technology, but it could set something off if we actually, you know, load it into a computer.”
Jon hummed. “There were a few statements about cursed computers. I might not have passed them on to you for follow up.”
“Hm.”
They stared at it for a long moment.
“We should destroy it, right?” Martin eventually said.
“That is probably the best course of action.”
“I mean, it’s not like we have a computer that could actually read it, anyway.”
Another moment passed.
“Actually, I think there’s a vintage computer store not far from here,” Jon said. “They’ve probably got some old machines that still run floppy disks.”
“Huh.”
The wall clock ticked gently in the background.
“But it’s still probably safer to destroy it.”
“Absolutely.”
~~~~~
It took almost a week to find the right computer for the job. The folks at the store were very helpful, and surprisingly understanding about making sure the machine was completely disconnected from any outside networks. Martin claimed they’d found some disks at a yard sale and wanted to see what was on them without the risk of spreading malware to any connected devices, and it was apparently a common enough issue that they didn’t ask any questions.
They set it up in the living room, plugged into the wall outlet that was normally reserved for the aircon in the summer months.
“And we’re absolutely sure we want to do this,” Jon checked, as the old machine came slowly to life with the whirr of an electric fan.
“Yes,” Martin confirmed. “It could be important.”
“It might not even play,” Jon mused, watching the screen brighten into the ancient Windows 95 logo that was vaguely reminiscent of his childhood. It was strange to see it in high definition on a modern screen, but the techs at the store had said they’d be better off using new screens, keyboards, and all. Just as long as the computer tower itself was an old model.
“I mean, it doesn’t seem to be damaged?” Martin said. “Unless other dimensions format their floppy disks differently and the whole system is incompatible.”
“You never know.”
The screen settled onto the desktop. The fan quieted down.
“Right,” Jon said.
“Ready?” Martin asked.
“Yes. Let’s see what sort of interdimensional message we’ve been sent.”
“Okay.” Martin took a deep breath, and lifted the floppy disk from its box. “Here goes nothing.” He pushed it into the disk drive.
The fan kicked up again. The disk drive made a worrying buzz, then settled into a low background hiss.
Jon tensed, reaching over to grab Martin’s hand. Martin squeezed back.
No horrific images suddenly appeared on the computer screen. No eldritch terrors issued forth from the speakers. A crack in reality, ushering in the apocalypse in the form of unknowable entities of fear and terror, failed to appear.
Jon navigated into the ‘files’ folder and double clicked on the icon for the floppy disk drive.
With another series of clicks and buzzes, the disk’s contents appeared on the screen. There were only two files: an audio track, titled “First Shift,” and a text document, titled “Transcript.”
Martin tapped the back of Jon’s hand with his index finger. “Reminds me of the way you used to name statements.”
“Except we never managed to digitize a transcript.” The cursor hovered over the files. “Which one do you want to start with?”
“Audio,” Martin said decisively. “If there’s going to be horrible screams and explosions we may as well hear them right away.”
Jon clicked on the file. A new program launched, with a little spinning loading icon.
“‘WinPlay3,’” Martin read from the screen, and snorted. “Very retro.”
“Oh, it’ll be right up your alley then,” Jon teased.
Martin shot him a sidelong glance. “Jon, if you hadn’t noticed already, I’m kind of loving all of this.”
Jon grinned. “I had, actually.”
The program finished loading, and with a burst of static, the file started to play.
At first, it seemed to be just a recording of the same computer boot-up noises they had just heard for themselves - the hum of a fan, the whine of a screen, the cheesy little fanfare indicating that it was now awake. Then audio cut in, in the middle of a sentence, and suddenly unknown voices were filling the room.
“-looking forward to the most?”
“I mean, occasionally seeing the sun could be nice?”
“Boooo! Your pathetic addiction to vitamin D will only make you weak.”
“But Alice, my bones! They’re ready to snap like twiglets!”
“Listen to me: bones are a lie peddled by Big Milk to keep you buying. No such thing.”
Jon shot Martin a baffled look. Martin gave him one right back, mouthing who is that? silently. Jon just shrugged, nonplussed. He wouldn’t have admitted it to himself, but he had been half-expecting the disk to contain a message from their old friends, and to recognize Melanie’s or Basira’s voice coming from the speakers.
“Right, so what keeps your body upright?”
“Spite and coffee.”
The conversation continued in the same vein for a bit, giving them another name - Teddy - and the ominous hint that both of them were involved in a job that was not, necessarily, normal. Then another voice appeared, gloomier and more stressed than the first two. The lighthearted banter continued, though, and Jon sat back, crossing his arms with a frown as he tried to figure out why any of this might have been worthy of sending as a cross-dimensional message.
There were… oddities, of course. The fact that someone was holding a retirement party at six am, for one. The little joke, which probably wouldn’t have stood out to anyone who hadn’t once worked at the Magnus Institute, that quitting might not be an option for some people. The jabs and cutting remarks sniped back and forth which spoke of long-standing tensions burning just beneath the surface.
And then the big one.
“Please ensure you shut down your workstation before you depart.”
“Hm? Oh I already d- Oh. That's- uh... Right, hang on, I'll just-”
The audio went quiet for a moment, the sounds disappearing as whatever computer had been recording them was shut down.
“Well, shit,” Martin said into the silence.
“Indeed.”
When the recording picked up again it was just the two called Alice and Sam talking. She walked him through some paperwork; he ticked off a box for an unused department that had both Martin and Jon wincing in shared foreboding.
For a few minutes it was just administrative minutia and struggling with technology even older than what Jon and Martin were working with. Then Alice started talking about frankly worrying invasions of personal privacy in the form of what she called ‘incidents’ and-
“...would you say this is more ‘Dolls comma watching’ or ‘Dolls comma human skin’?”
“Well, shit,” Martin said.
They categorized the ‘incident’. Submitted it. Bickered a little over how pointless the act seemed to be.
Sam moved to the next report.
“Email. To: Darla Winstead,” said a familiar voice. A very, very familiar voice. Martin jolted in his chair hard enough that it slid back a few inches over the floor, and Jon’s hand shot out at lightning speed to hit the pause button on the recording.
“That was-” Martin spluttered.
“What the fuck was that?” Jon demanded, at the same time.
“That was me!” Martin said.
“I know, but what are you doing on the floppy disk?”
“I don’t know!”
They both stared at the computer, vaguely horrified.
“Do you think it’s some… Stranger stuff?” Martin finally asked. “Like, Not!Them stuff?”
“I don’t know,” Jon said, chewing on his lower lip in worry. A memory was floating at the back of his mind, one of the worst ones he had. We marked him young, guided his path as best we could. And then, we took his voice. He tried not to think about that day, if he could. He’d made his choices, and obsessing over whether or not they really had been his choices was not going to do him any good. But…
His, and those he walked with.
“Maybe…” Jon said, slowly. “Web.”
Martin grimaced, and Jon could see that the same memory had just occurred to him.
“It might not be,” he said, in a tone that told Jon he didn’t believe it. “Maybe- maybe there’s just a different version of me in that world. I mean, it’s another dimension, there’s nothing to say there isn’t another Martin Blackwood there living a completely different life. Maybe he went into… computer voice work.”
“Maybe,” Jon echoed.
There was a beat of silence.
“Should we… keep listening?” Martin asked.
“I think we’d better.” Jon leaned forward, and hit play.
“Alice, what is this?”
“Hey! You got Neil!”
This time, Martin paused it, at almost the exact same moment as Alice in the recording.
“Did she just call me Neil?” he asked.
“It sounded like it,” Jon said. “Why?”
Martin grimaced. “I don’t know, just… Neil.”
Jon shrugged. “It could be a good sign. Maybe it is another version of you, who has a different name.”
“But Neil?”
Jon laughed. “Something wrong?”
“Do I sound like a Neil to you?”
Jon raised an eyebrow. “That depends on what a ‘Neil’ sounds like.”
Martin grumbled something inaudible under his breath, but leaned forward and hit play again.
The recording continued with a worrying discussion of tech oddities and recent changes in the system. Jon noted with some relief that the one called Colin seemed to be aware something was wrong: if at least one person was keeping an eye on things, then the people on the disk might not be entirely doomed.
Then again…
Sam chose to stay and listen to the stateme- incident report, and Jon winced. He knew firsthand what the consequences of that itching urge to stay, to listen, to watch, could be. He didn’t want anyone else to have to go through that.
The incident was… well, old hat for Jon. A reanimated corpse, or something like it. A manifestation of the End, perhaps? Though it could also be Stranger, or Flesh.
He shook the thought away. There had always been overlap between the Fears. It would make sense if the lines between them had only become more blurred with their trip across realities.
After the report there was more office politics. Jon could see Martin tapping his fingers as he listened, a frown on his face as he paid attention to the ways different people interacted with each other. He’d always been good at that sort of thing, picking up on the little affections or enmities between people and figuring out how best to present himself to stay out of the conflicts and fly under people’s radar.
Until he’d been transferred down to the Archives and let a dog in on his first day, of course. There’d been no flying under Jon’s radar after that.
Not that either of them minded, in hindsight.
And then Jon’s own voice issued from the speakers.
“Forums.lostcityurbex.com
Board index. Spelunking. Sites.
New topic: Magnus Institute Ruins
By RedCanary on Sunday April 10, 2022. 3:31pm”
Martin’s hand reached out and grabbed Jon’s arm, squeezing it tightly. Jon himself remained frozen, eyes fixed on the screen. Neither of them moved to stop the recording, this time.
There was… a lot to think about, in the statement. The Institute had apparently been located in Manchester in this other universe, for one. And it had burned down twenty years ago.
So much of it was familiar, though. The offices like little cells. The old, out of place furniture, like pieces out of time. The creeping feeling that something was wrong.
And the Archives, with the suspicious stains on the floors.
Martin’s hand tightened when the last message from RedCanary was read out, and Jon sucked in a breath through his teeth at the mention of eyes shortly afterward.
And then Sam said the Institute was a ‘blast from the past,’ and both of them groaned.
“Oh god, he’s doomed,” Martin said.
“Hold on, Alice is-” Jon started.
“How we doing over here? Clear your cases yet?”
“Not quite. I had another talker.”
“I heard. Sounds like you met Chester.”
“Chester!” Martin exclaimed, sounding delighted.
“Shush, you.”
The recording ended soon afterward, on a fairly threatening note, as Colin menaced his computer. Jon couldn’t blame him, after everything he’d heard.
Martin closed the audio program and sat back, giving Jon a look. “So.”
“So,” Jon echoed.
“That all sounds… really bad.”
“Quite.”
“Do you think there’s anything we can do?”
Jon took a long, slow breath, and then shook his head. “We have no way of reaching them to warn them, or… or anything. I…” He breathed again, shaky. “No. We can’t help them.”
“Right.”
They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Martin leaned forward and opened the transcript.
It was surprisingly detailed, with much more information than Jon was expecting about the setting and environment that the events had taken place in. Nothing stood out to Jon as terribly important, though, until…
“Norris?” Martin looked aghast.
“Wasn’t it Neil on the recording?” Jon asked.
“It fucking was!” Martin confirmed. “Norris? Oh, god.”
“I thought you didn’t like Neil,” Jon pointed out mildly.
“It’s a damn sight better than Norris,” Martin said. “I mean, really! Who came up with these names?”
“Alice,” Jon said immediately.
“Shut- I know that, okay?” Martin protested. “Chester.”
“Hey, I like the name Chester.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Jon nodded. “I could see myself as a Chester. It’s a very… solid name. Reliable.”
“It’s better than Norris, at least,” Martin grumbled.
“It is,” Jon agreed. “I like Neil too, though.”
Martin didn’t deign to reply, just giving Jon an exasperated look.
“I’m serious!” Jon said. “You could pull off being a Neil, if you wanted.”
“Neil Blackwood,” Martin tried, looking skeptical.
“Chester Sims,” Jon countered. “See? They roll off the tongue.”
“Eh.” Martin scrolled down the transcript a bit. “Oh, here, it does turn to Neil later. Must’ve just been a copying error.”
“Aw,” Jon said, with as much exaggerated regret as he could muster. “Does that mean you’re not really Norris, then?”
“God forbid,” Martin said.
“Norris and Chester would go so well together, though.”
“Neil and Chester is fine by me, thanks.”
“Ah, so you’ve changed your mind about Neil, then?”
“I-” Martin snapped his mouth shut, glaring at Jon.
Jon grinned.
Martin huffed, rolling his eyes. “At least neither of us is Augustus. Wonder who that is?”
“I can think of one person with an ego big enough for that name.”
“Hm? Oh.” Martin wrinkled his nose. “Oh, I hope not. I’d hate for my voice to be stuck for all eternity on a tape with him.” He paused then, considering. “Though, it would serve Elias right to be stuck with a stupid name like that.”
“Better him than us, at the very least.”
“I repeat. Chester.”
“Neil.”
“Shut up.”
~~~~~
They got a notebook, eventually, to chart all the information from the recording. There was only so much they could glean from it: names, places, speculations about what it all might mean with no solid answers. After a while it went into the box with the floppy disk, tucked away on the corner of the computer cabinet to gather dust. It wasn’t like there was anything else they could do.
They did keep the computer, though. It turned out there were a lot of places you could still get ahold of floppy disks with old computer programs that had long since been discontinued by newer models. And, well, perhaps Martin wasn’t the only one with a bit of a retro aesthetic.