Chapter Text
Tim had been following Jon on foot since he left the Institute–always staying a couple blocks back or ducking into a store when he needed a quick cover. On the tube he’d rode the next car over, keeping an eye out through the tiny window between cars for when Jon got off. He got off at a stop that was decidedly near his own flat, and as Tim followed he realized it must have been someone else’s.
Now, Tim sat on a bench across the street from an unfamiliar apartment building, waiting. It’d been over an hour and Jon still wasn’t out. He was starting to rethink the whole “stalking Jon back” idea when he spotted a familiar man leaving out the front door with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. He walked with purpose, ignoring everyone else on the street as he began to make his way back towards the tube station.
Tim eyed the duffle bag and the dejected slant of Jon’s shoulders. Maybe it would be a good time to call it quits. Maybe he’d made his point to the universe.
He shook his head. Nope. He’s been acting too weird. If he goes somewhere normal, maybe I’ll give it up. He thought, following Jon once more down the street.
Jon stared at the ground as he walked, deep in thought. He couldn’t keep putting others in danger just because he was frightened. He’d rather die than see something bad happen to Georgie or the Admiral because he got too close. Especially not now that Nikola knew where she lived. He shuddered. He’d just have to hunker down in the institute, take up residence in document storage like Martin had last year.
“‘Scuse us.” Jon looked up a little too late, feeling the impact of another person–a very hard person–hitting his shoulder. That accent. He immediately knew who it was–well, who they were.
“Are you Jonathan Sims?” Asked the other faux-Cockney delivery man–the one who hadn’t shoulder checked Jon.
“Oh shit.” Jon took a step back, bumping into Breekon–or Hope, to be honest he still wasn’t sure which was which.
“Miss Orsinov says she wants to see you.”
“Says she’s changed her mind.”
Jon looked around, noticing the street suddenly had less people on it, “No–I–I–” He tried to duck between the two men, but one scooped him up by the waist while the other started to haul a canvas bag up.
At that flash of a moment, Jon’s eyes rested on the sole other person on the street. A familiar face was poking out behind the corner of a shop about a block back. Tim. What the hell was Tim doing here?
Jon felt a moment of intense panic as he realized that if Tim came any closer, he’d likely get snatched up too–or become collateral damage. He tried to mouth “go” and look as if he had things under control, but he was sure the illusion was broken as a canvas bag was pulled over his head and the two men heaved him into the back of their van.
“Oh god.”
Jon had spent the majority of the long, bumpy road trip with the canvas bag over his head and what he was sure was the coffin digging into his back. Breekon or Hope had been in the back with him, making sure he didn’t get any “ideas”.
They’d roughly dragged him from the van to a building, down a flight of stairs, and—after some squabbling—had tied him to a chair.
When the canvas bag was taken from his head, he only had a moment to look around before hard, plastic hands were gripping his face, forcing his mouth open around a thick strip of cloth. It was tied behind his head, effectively gagging him.
Jon’s eyes darted around the room, seeing moving waxworks in the flickering lights, seeing Breekon and Hope and their coffin. A mannequin in a ringmaster’s costume parted the small crowd, walking—no, practically dancing—straight for him.
It was Nikola. Of course.
She found his tape recorder. She spoke to Elias. She sent away Breekon, Hope, and their coffin. She said that she was going to turn Jon into her new costume.
She was going to keep him alive, for now. Because she needed to improve his skin before she peeled him.
Eventually, Jon was left alone, with just some waxworks lingering by the walls, unmoving. Maybe. Was that a display of the Beatles? That didn’t look like them at all.
Jon closed his eyes, unsure if it was better than staring at the faces that seemed to move in the faulty basement lighting. He hoped Tim was okay. Despite being a proper dick lately.
He had to be okay. They would have said something if they’d grabbed Tim too, right? And anyways, it was probably for the best that Tim had seen him. Then he could alert the rest of the archives staff and someone might be able to come get him out of this mess. Who knows how long he’d have been stuck here if no one knew where he went.
Tim had been working for two days straight. He barely slept. He had a single-minded focus. He had to figure out where Jon was.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Tim knew that he should have asked for help on this one. Martin and Basira would be happy to help him find Jon, he was sure. Melanie probably wouldn’t leave him to die, either, though she would have complained the whole time.
But… they’d said “Orsinov”. That meant the circus. That meant the people who had killed Danny.
Jon was probably dead, anyways. If Danny hadn’t survived more than a few hours with the circus, there was no way Jon—or whatever monster Jon was turning into—was still alive. Tim told himself it was fine. He’d lost Jon a long while ago, really.
Tim knew he was on the edge of a breakthrough. He sat at his desk, flipping through a more recent statement regarding the circus, cross referencing the location with others he’d found. If he could find enough of a lead, he could find out where...
Basira set a file down on his desk, interrupting his thought. He looked up at her, and he knew that the look he gave her probably wasn’t the look of a mentally well or friendly man. He generally tried to look mentally well and friendly.
“You’re working hard.” Basira observed. “Maybe a little too hard. What’s got you so focused?”
“Just a promising lead, that’s all.” Tim said, trying to keep any bite out of his words. “What’s in the file?”
“You said you were interested in the circus. There’s some waxwork museum that sounds… odd. No direct mention of the circus, but… something about seeing people on display, I thought it might be related.” Basira sighed, “You know how tangential these… things can be.”
“I’ll take a look.” Tim said, not intending to look at all.
“I remember going to the circus in that city once, when I was a girl.” Basira mused, “It was… strange. Anyways, I’ll leave you to it.”
Tim thought that the interaction had gone pretty successfully, all things considered. And something about how Basira had mentioned going to the circus herself… maybe he would read that file.
Jon sat, slumped in his chair, humming to himself, trying to keep sane in this dark and dank room. The figures all around the perimeter had stayed still but… he still didn’t trust that they weren’t watching him. His thoughts were interrupted when he heard the door creak open. Nikola entered, striding over to him in a theatrical manner. Jon glared up at her.
“Oh, my!” Nikola said, nearly bending in half as she inspected his bindings, her unnaturally long body with too many arms moving in a jilted and doll-like manner. It was uncanny. Jon tried to speak, but the monster paid him no mind as she traced a hard plastic finger over the rope burn on Jon’s wrist.
“Archivist, this will not do. Stress and struggling like this are so bad for your skin. I want you in pristine condition for the dance.” Jon struggled a bit more against his bindings in retaliation as he tried to say a muffled “fuck you.”
“You really are quite uncouth.” Nikola straightened up, a frown on her mask-like face. “Elias must not bother training his Archivists anymore. At least Gertude had manners, even if she was an old bat.” Jon watched Nikola carefully as she began to open a plastic shopping bag that had been looped around her wrist. She dug through it, pulling out a bottle of expensive looking lotion.
Jon couldn’t quite make out what the bottle said, but as she pulled out the products he noticed they all had sleek, minimalist designs. They were mostly white labels with black text. He knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that when things looked boring, they were understated and elegant. He’d gotten a right lecture from Georgie once when he used about half the bottle of her very expensive shampoo on himself. His hair had looked quite good though.
“Oh dear.” Nikola said, once the bottles and sprays and tubs were arrayed beside her. “I can’t very well do this over your clothes, can I? That would be silly!”
She clapped two of her hands. The pattern was to the tune of “shave and a haircut”. Ten of the waxworks behind her stood to attention and walked purposefully towards Jon.
Wordlessly, they untied him from the chair. A wax figure braced each of his limbs as he tried in vain to fight against them, protesting against his gag.
“Relax!” Nikola laughed, stretching the word to about four syllables, “And hold still, these are quite sharp.”
Jon held still when metal brushed against his neck. Nikola was holding scissors at a strange and uncomfortable-looking angle, and with one swift motion, she cut through his shirt and vest down from the collar to the bottom edge.
Jon tried to ask her what she was doing or beg her to stop or maybe he was just trying to scream. She didn’t seem to notice.
“I thought so.” She said, looking at his scarred chest, poking and prodding at the random scabs and pimples he had on his skin. “You really should do better, Archivist.”
She nodded to the waxworks holding his arms and Jon found them forced straight. She cut straight from the cuffs of his shirt inwards, the sharp scissors biting once at the soft skin of the inside of his elbow before he stopped struggling, frozen. The rags that had been his shirt and vest fell to the floor.
“That wasn’t so hard!” Nikola said, “Now, for the rest of you!”
A waxwork that Jon was pretty sure was supposed to be John Lennon took off his shoes. The absurdity of it bounced around his head while Nikola disposed of his trousers and pants. She cut through his belt. He had an errant thought about how expensive those were, like it mattered, like he was going to make it out alive to have to buy a new belt.
When he was sufficiently naked, Nikola called over her shoulder “Oh boys!”
Two mannequins walked into the room, carrying a bucket of water and a washcloth. Nikola rolled up her sleeves.
“Well, Archivist, this is going to be fun! Just think of it as a spa day.”
Jon shook his head frantically. He prayed to whatever might be listening that Tim and the others would arrive soon.