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It’s all gone wrong, hasn’t it?
He doesn’t think it’s his fault, not completely. But everyone else thinks so. Tim thought so. Now he’s dead. Melanie certainly thinks so.
Well, he’s done. With all of it.
No more puppet on a spider’s string. No more avatar of the Eye. No more Archivist.
Are you hungry, Watcher? Well, good.
You can stay that way.
Things are different now.
Daisy was in that coffin for eight months, or so everyone tells her. It feels longer than that. But also…not that long, if that makes any sense.
She didn’t know Tim very well, but now that he’s dead, the archives feel emptier. One less person in an already lonely place. The hallways seem longer. Quieter. Haunted by memories.
Melanie has become volatile. As Basira explains it, she was…compromised? In some way? By a ghost bullet? Whatever. She mostly stays to herself and glares at anyone who comes close. So long as she doesn’t act on any of the murderous thoughts Daisy can see floating behind her eyes, she can sit and glare all she wants.
Then there’s Elias. Arrested, apparently. Good. Although, it would have cleaner if he’d… No, never mind. She’s trying not to be that person anymore.
Martin. The mousy, quiet one. He’s missing – or, not missing in the traditional sense. Just not around anymore. Apparently, Peter Lukas (the new head of the institute, worth watching out for) is trying to isolate him or something. She really doesn’t understand the whole thing, but Jon is pretty broken up about it.
He’s broken up about a lot of things. Always sighing and rubbing his forehead, staring into space. Sitting by himself in that cramped office of his. It’s irritating, yeah, but she supposes she feels sorry for him. A bit. He did save her from the Buried, so she owes him that much, doesn’t she? A little sympathy?
Too bad she isn’t built for sympathy.
And finally, Basira.
Basira.
In another time, Daisy might have been proud of her taking charge, protecting all these people with such ruthless clarity. Maybe she is proud. But Basira makes it hard to be.
Pretty sure she’s disappointed.
She probably expected Daisy to leap out of the coffin with a gun and a knife already in her hand, gritting sharp fangs, and roaring like a trapped animal. Which is a far, far cry to the tired, pale, shaken women who climbed out of the box and spent the next two days trapped on a bed because her leg muscles had atrophied to the point where she could no longer stand or even stretch them out of fetal position. And she hasn’t gotten much better since. Her legs still ache. And she’s trying not to be a hunter, which is what Basira wants her to be.
So, where does that leave them? The group of them. Their sad, broken little ‘team.’
As Daisy’s walking the hall to the archives (building up strength in her legs again) she sees Jon, and stops in her tracks. Like a hunter, her brain tells her. Then she tells it to shut up.
Jon is standing in the archives with a tape recorder in his hand. He’s staring at it, and Daisy almost rolls her eyes and turns back. Sims and his fucking recorders.
But then he does something surprising. He drops the tape recorder in the trash…then steps back like he expects it to leap out and bite him. It doesn’t. And after a few seconds, his shoulders droop and he turns away, going back into his office, and closing the door.
What was that?
She tells Basira about it. Of course, she does.
“Really.” Basira’s hands are interlocked on top of the break room table. A frown on her face. “He threw away a tape recorder?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe it was broken.”
Daisy just looks at her until she sighs and shrugs. They both know the tape recorders in the Institute don’t break.
“Then what do you think it was about?” Basira asks.
“I don’t know.” Daisy sits back in her chair so she can stretch her legs. They get stiff when she sits too long. “But he had that look on his face. That resolved look he gets when he’s doing something stupid.”
Basira sighs. “Great.”
By the end of the next day, Daisy has almost forgotten it, though. She’s kept an eye on Sims, but he hasn’t done anything else out of character. Except, maybe, that he seems even more morose than usual. He hasn’t been out of the office, but he doesn’t seem like he’s working, either. He hasn’t asked anyone to do any follow ups or look into any statements.
It’s like he’s just sitting in there. Waiting for something.
The very idea prickles the nerves on the back of Daisy’s neck, where her fur would bristle if she were a wolf or some other animal hunter. Her blood is loud, now that she’s out of the coffin. But she’s trying not to hear it.
Nothing happens at all until the next day, around noon.
Basira’s gone out, some kind of mission. She didn’t say so, but Daisy’s been her partner long enough to know when she’s working. Still. She keeps her mouth shut and doesn’t ask questions.
But around noon, after Basira’s long gone, Daisy is taking her walk around the archives. Going up and down the stairs, working the blood back into her muscles.
Jon is in the break room when she enters. He’s wearing the same old librarian clothes he wore yesterday, and he’s bent over the table, both hands planted on it like he caught himself falling. And he’s breathing hard.
“Sims,” she says. “Are you all right.”
He lifts his head and sort of squints at her, like he’s dizzy. “Oh. Daisy. Yes, I’m…” He clears his throat. “I’m fine.”
“Don’t look fine.”
“I’m fine.” He straightens up. “Just…a bit lightheaded. But fine.”
“Right.” She goes on standing there, looking at him, until he walks past her and out into the hallway. She doesn’t see him again for the rest of the day.
When she does see him, it’s because she’s gone into the office to grab a statement for Basira. Something related to some clandestine thing she’s working on, probably. But Daisy doesn’t ask questions. Basira already sees her as dead-weight and a disappointment. Best not to make herself out to be an annoyance as well.
Sims is at his desk, but there’s clearly something wrong with him. It stops Daisy mid-step as soon as she has opened the door.
His breathing is labored again, and he looks bad. Gray, with angry purple bags under his eyes, and when he glances up to see who has come into his office, there is none of the usual sharpness in his eyes. Instead, they’re glassy, blood-shot…and hungry.
Daisy knows hunger when she sees it. Part of the hunter in her, she supposes. But like her hunger, Jon’s isn’t a craving for food or water. Or anything to do with the body at all. It’s something else.
Still frozen on the threshold, Daisy tenses. “What is it.”
He shakes his head at her, but apparently regrets it. His hand trembles when he reaches up to press the heel of his palm into his eye. He looks like a migraine. “Nothing.” His voice comes out raspy. A whisper like dry leaves.
“Sims.”
“What?”
“What is it.”
He looks at her like he’s going to argue, then gives up before he can even open his mouth. Another reason to suspect something isn’t right. You can always count on Sims for a good argument. “I’m just…not feeling well.”
“Clearly.” After a moment of contemplation, she comes into the office and closes the door behind her. When they’re alone, she asks, “What did you do.”
Maybe it’s the insinuation that everything that goes wrong is his fault, or that she has bothered to strive for privacy in this place…but Sims makes a noise close to a laugh without the humor.
“I am…” He searches for the right phrasing, his brow scrunched up and thoughtful. His mouth twisted. “…starving the Eye.”
Daisy blinks. “Why?”
“Because it deserves to starve for once,” he mutters, almost too quietly for her here. Still, the resentment in his face is easy enough to read.
“So, you’re not reading statements.”
“Yes. Not doing…anything, really.” He smirks. “Must be an awfully boring show to watch.”
“But I thought you needed to read statements to survive, too.”
Sims just…shrugs. “I had a building dropped on me, Daisy. I survived without a heartbeat for six months. I don’t think I can die anymore.”
That may be true, but he looks like death.
Daisy crosses her arms. “This is stupid.”
“Excuse me?”
“Has fucking with these forces ever done anyone any good? Or has it only served to ruin their lives even more? Is that worth it? To be petty?”
Jon is quiet for a moment. Then he shakes his head, stubbornly. “I can’t…” He huffs. “You’re probably right, Daisy. This probably won’t do anything in the long run. It probably won’t lead to any good results. I know I can’t escape it.” He stops, rubs his face. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I Know I can’t. But…I can’t go on mindlessly feeding the Eye every time it…makes me a little uncomfortable. Gertrude Robinson only read statements every few weeks—”
“Yeah, and from what I hear of her, she was cut from a very different cloth than you, Jon. She was kind of a badass. And you are not.”
Ignoring the jab, Jon continues. “The Eye has hurt so many people. And it feeds on them. On their suffering, their fear. I. Won’t. Help it. Not without at least trying to stop.”
There’s no way to budge him. Daisy can see it on his face, in the flames of his eyes. He is going to keep starving the Watcher, and himself, until he sees with his own eyes how idiotic and pointless it is.
“Fine,” she says. “What can I do?”
“W…what?”
“You’re doing something dangerous out of anger and spite. I want to help. Does that surprise you?”
The next few days are rough.
Daisy’s role in Jon’s petty revenge against the Eye is small, dismally so. But it keeps her in the loop and gives her an excuse to poke her head in and make sure he hasn’t died in his chair, or something.
Basically, her job is to stop the others from asking questions. Which is where the “small” part comes in. Mostly because there’s no one around to stop.
Basira’s been gone this whole time. Melanie stays to herself. And Martin’s still MIA. So…Daisy goes for walks. She pokes her head in on Jon. And she waits.
For what, she doesn’t know. When does she draw the line? When does Sims?
Over the next three days, she watches him grow paler, and sicker, and weaker. She watches him struggle to stand from his chair, leaning on furniture just to cross a room. She brings food and water when he thinks he can stomach it, and when he occasionally falls asleep, she listens to his breathing to make sure he doesn’t die in his sleep.
Other than that, there isn’t much she can do.
His condition is on a steady downward trajectory…
Until Friday. Exactly a week since Jon’s “hunger strike” started.
It’s first thing in the morning, and Daisy’s legs are aching from her few hours of sleep. It doesn’t occur to her at first. Not until she’s up and dressed and brushing her teeth in the archive bathroom…
She didn’t see Jon in her dreams last night.
The realization stops her cold. She spits out the remaining toothpaste and crosses the archives in a few long strides, throwing open the office door.
“Shit,” she says.
Sims is on the floor. And it looks like he might be dead.
Daisy feels for a pulse. She finds one, so she doesn’t bother calling an ambulance or anything. Just hefts Jon up and carries him to the couch in the break room, arranging his limbs in a way that looks comfortable. He’s shuddering, barely pulling air through his lips.
“All right, Jon,” she says, shaking him hard. “That’s enough. You got your revenge, well done. The Eye is probably right miffed. Time to wake up.”
But he doesn’t wake. She shakes him again, harder. “Sims.”
This time, he comes around, slowly. Blinking unfocused eyes that squint and look past her. Eventually, he groans.
“Jon? You with me?”
“Daisy?” His voice comes out a hoarse whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Wha…what…?” He tries to lift his head, but his face instantly drains of color, and he collapses again. “Oh…wow…”
“All right, that’s enough. I’m going to get you a statement—”
“No!” His hand grabs her. She growls. He lets go. “No, Daisy… I don’t want—”
“I don’t care. I didn’t sign up to help you with your petty little hunger strike just to watch you wither away and die. I did not agree to help you commit suicide.”
He stares at her, his eyes still glassy and swimming. “That’s not… I’m not…”
“Good. Then I’ll be back with a statement. Hang on.” Without giving a chance to argue further, she stands up and marches out of the break room.
Melanie is in the archives when she arrives. “Daisy? What’s—”
“Don’t ask.” Daisy grabs the first statement within arm’s reach and whirls back to the door. But despite her warning, Melanie follows.
“What’s going on?”
“It’s Jon.”
“Oh, God…” Mel sighs. “What’s he done now?”
“Almost killed himself.”
“What?”
Okay, that came out wrong. “No, not—He didn’t try to. Not exactly. Look, it’s hard to explain. I don’t have time.”
Melanie picks up the pace to match hers. For someone who apparently threatened Jon’s life a short few weeks ago (and also stabbed him? With a scalpel?) she looks awfully concerned.
When they get back to the break room, Jon is exactly where Daisy left him. He’s thrown an arm over his eyes, and his chest is rising and falling too fast.
“Jon,” Daisy says, bringing the statement to him. “Here. Take it.”
He moves his arm to see her, and the faraway, feverish look in his eyes is enough to send a chill down her spine. He’s dying. She’s been around enough death to know what it looks like.
“D’sy?” he murmurs, squinting.
“Take it.” She pushes the paper into his hand, forcing his fingers to close around it. “For fuck’s sake, Jon. Read the goddamn statement.”
“Statement?” he says breathlessly.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure he can—I mean, maybe one of us should read it to him? Does that work?” Melanie asks, wringing her hands.
“I don’t know,” Daisy says. “Jon, would that help?”
He doesn’t answer. His head has lulled back against the arm of the couch.
“Jon?” Melanie says, her voice jumping an octave.
“Shit.” Daisy snatches the statement out of his hand, which is colder than it should be. “Statement of, uh, Lila Johnson. About, uh…” She glances up. Jon is still laying there, deathly still. Daisy swallows down the bile that rises in her throat. He saved her. “About the disappearance of her roommate…”
He walked into The Buried to get her out. He sacrificed two ribs to do it, not even knowing if it would work…
At some point during Daisy reading the statement, Melanie disappears. Daisy doesn’t even know what she’s reading. She can’t get her brain to focus on anything except for how still Jon is, how shallow his breathing is, how she can’t…sense him as strongly anymore. Like his blood is quieter.
He held her hand in the dark, choking grave. His hand was the only real thing anymore. Small and bony as it was. It was real. It was Jon.
Will reading the statement out loud even work? Will that feed him? Or does it have to be him? She can’t focus on the words, on the story. On the fear. Does that kill the statement? If you don’t feel the fear?
She tried to kill him once. When that failed, she planned a new attempt. She had it all worked out. But he saved her. He saved her.
Somewhere near the end, Melanie comes back. Daisy doesn’t look up at her, but she can feel her standing there. Her blood is still loud. And the papers in her hands smell of ink and musty basement.
Jon’s blood is louder now, too. But he doesn’t wake up. He doesn’t open his eyes.
“Oh, God…” Melanie whimpers, gripping the statements in her hands.
When the statement is done, Daisy tosses it to the side and grabs another out of Melanie’s hands. “Statement of—”
Jon groans. Low and weak. And he moves, just a bit. Just a slight shifting of his limbs.
“Jon? Jon.” Daisy shakes him. This time, it works. He opens his eyes and looks at her. The feverish glint is gone, although he still looks utterly exhausted. “You with me?”
“Yeah…”
“Good. Then read.” She shoves a statement into his hands. “And don’t bother arguing with me. If you open your mouth for anything except saying ‘statement of’ I will rip your throat out. And that is not a joke.”
He stares at her, then swallows. “S-statement of…Casey Gregory, regarding…”
It’s a bit…eerie listening to the strength return to Jon’s voice just from reading.
Daisy has sat with him a few times while he recorded statements, but this is different. This isn’t work, it’s feeding.
As soon as he’s got the paper in his hand, and he’s read a few lines, something about him, something in his eyes…disappears. Or goes dark, momentarily. Like something inside of him gets switched off when he’s reading.
Free will? A part of her asks. While his tone lifts and falls according to the feelings of the statement giver, his eyes never change. They stare down at the page, moving left and right as he reads. But they don’t… They don’t… There’s no light in them.
“Statement ends,” he says. Then he sits up.
Daisy and Melanie haven’t moved from their spots. When he looks at them, the light is back in his eyes, and he gives them a sheepish, apologetic look.
“I… Thank you. I didn’t…” He shakes his head. “Thank you.”
Daisy knows what he was going to say. I didn’t mean for it to get this far. But that would be a lie. He did mean it. He wanted to make the Eye suffer the only way he knew how – to starve it. And knowing Jon, having listened to her fair share of his self-loathing monologues, he probably thought, and hey, if I die, then at least the universe loses another monster.
“Melanie,” Daisy says stiffly. “Would you give us a minute.”
Mel looks torn. But she nods and backs out of the room, probably at least a little thankful she doesn’t have to decide whether or not to be happy he’s alive.
“Daisy?” he asks, swinging his legs off the couch to face her.
She glares at him, and he stiffens. “That was not okay.”
“O-oh. I—”
“No. Shut up.” She stands, and he shrinks back. She jams a finger at his face. “That was stupid, even for you.”
He doesn’t dare speak. Just stares down her finger at her, wide-eyed.
“You don’t ever do that again.”
He shakes his head. “I won’t.”
“Because if you do—”
“You’ll rip my throat out, I know.”
“Good.” She lowers her hand, still fuming. And he stares at her, like he’s mildly afraid she’s going to kill him anyway. Part of her wants to, of course. But it’s getting easier to ignore those impulses.
She takes a breath. “Are you feeling better?”
He nods.
“Good.”
“I, uh…” He clears his throat and peels himself off the back of the couch, trying to relax. “I’m sorry, Daisy.”
She shakes her head and looks away, crossing her arms. “Did it work, at least?”
“Oh, I…I don’t know. I think so? The Eye felt…hungrier than usual.”
“So, that’s a win, then?”
He shrugs. “As much of a win as we can get against The Eye, I suppose.”
“Mm.” Daisy pauses, arms still crossed. “Then that’s worth a celebration.”
“Celebration?”
“Yeah. Come on. We’re going out.”
“Uh—where?”
“I don’t know yet. Figure it out when we get there.”
He gives her a strange look, and she rolls her eyes.
“Neither of us have left the archive for over a week. I’m antsy. So, we’re going out.”
“O-oh. Okay. Okay, yeah, sure…”
“But first, you’re taking a shower. Grubby.”
He gives her a tiny half-smile and a snort. “All right, yeah. Fair enough.” Then he hauls himself off the couch with surprising ease. On his way out, he pauses just to take her hand. It’s only for a second, but the squeeze of his thin fingers kills any lingering anger in her. So, with a sigh, she grabs her coat and follows him toward the archive.
Maybe I’ll sign a contract, she finds herself idly musing. Between Basira and Jon, she won’t be going anywhere anytime soon.