MAG120 - Eye Contact • Very Unofficial Transcripts Archive

[CLICK]

ELIAS

Statement of Elias Bouchard, regarding the dreams of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, currently unresponsive. Details pulled directly from subject.

Statement begins.

ELIAS (STATEMENT)

The Archivist does not know where he is, and in many ways that is correct, for to say that he was anywhere would be an error. He has no conception of his body, lying on that gray hospital bed, perplexing the doctors. Heart unbeating, lungs unmoving, but mind and nerves alive and firing wildly: everything but brain-dead.

But he is where he exists so often when his eyes are closed. He wanders the dreams he was given. A cold and well-cleaned room, sterile metal tables that overflow with a gentle trickle of blood.

[HUMMING/VIBRATIONS BEGIN IN BACKGROUND]

The hearts that beat upon them spasm and spurt without any sort of rhythm, and were they to stand still for but a moment, it might become clear just how wrong they are in their construction.

There are no strange figures standing over those tables – no mockeries of earnest learning. But in the center stands a weeping, bearded man in a lab coat. In his thin, vinyl-gloved hands, he holds an apple, that he dearly wishes otherwise.

The doctor cannot bring himself to look at the tables, so instead, looks to the Archivist, whose eye watches him, and cannot close. He tries to scream, to curse at the Archivist, pleading to him for peace, for rest. The Archivist watches as the blood creeps along the tiled floor and pools at the doctor’s feet.

Desperate, he tries to throw the apple at his observer, but it is too late. The doctor has forgotten how the elbows work, and wrenches it to the side with a sickening crack. He tries again to scream, but he hasn’t got the throat right, and the wheezing, half-choked gurgle that escapes would stir pity in the Archivist, if he had not heard it so many times before.

The Archivist waits, expecting to awaken, but there is nowhere for him to awaken to. No avenue of escape from these dreams.

He turns to see the familiar screen, the familiar woman beneath it. She looks up at him with an expression of recognition and weary dread. She types and types and types, her fingers a blur, flying across the keyboard, and yet never fast enough to outrun the relentless words that flow like dark water across the screen that stretches off into the sky.

It hurts. She is shaking her head, defiant in her well-worn terror, and tries with every corner of her will to force back the rolling tide of words. It hurts. Her fingers are still, her hands raised to her mind, trying to think, trying to comprehend. It hurts.

She turns to stare at the Archivist. There is hatred in her eyes, and blame: an aching certainty that she is here because of him. He has brought her here.

He watches as she slowly brings the keyboard up to her lips, fighting against it every moment. She bites down, shards of plastic cutting her fingers as the words scroll unfettered across the screen for miles and miles and miles. And she is gone.

[BACKGROUND VIBRATIONS ACQUIRE A RUMBLING, INDUSTRIAL QUALITY]

The Archivist wanders. He is searching, though for what he does not know. He passes those places he can no longer watch – the silent wards of peeling skin, the empty warehouse of thick darkness and frightened children, the rusted train car that smells of eager, infectious hate.

All through it, the shadow is above him; the shape that gazes down upon him, bloodshot and unblinking.

The rain is still there, though it is empty. The long and desolate road, slick with the downpour; a police car’s lights flashing over the unmoving van. The doors are open, and the too-familiar statues stand either side of the well-worn wooden box.

He looks around, his eyes scanning this forever road and the clouds of iron gray, looking for her, but she is not there. The Archivist expects – he hopes – to find the violence in her looking back at him, hungry for pursuit and murder. But the emptiness of the place is complete – the only sounds, the gentle singing of the box, and the pounding, bitter rain.

He knows the writing on the coffin has changed, though it is still carved deep into the splintered wood:

I Am For You.

He knows it is not addressed to him, but he reaches down and pulls the chains off all the same. It opens, and he walks slowly down the steps into the earth. But even as it closes above him, the great shadow still sees him.

There is nowhere in this universe that it would not blot out the sky.

The rough-hewn tunnels go down, down beyond anything but sodden earth and despair, until the Archivist arrives at the tunnels. Here he sees the train, twisted and pressed in on all sides, nothing but shrieking metal and cracked glass. He climbs inside, and takes his seat, mouth tasting of mud and soil, his eyes moving through the dust and grit unblinking.

The passenger is there, though she is, as always, stationary. Dry dirt trickles between her teeth as she smiles mirthlessly, seeing the Archivist has returned. She is relaxed, suspended from a dozen broken handrails and shattered, jagged seats. They cut her flesh, but she does not bleed. There is no pain in her eyes. There is nothing except the certainty of her fate.

The train begins to move, the wheels screaming with the awful weight of it, every part buckling and pressing in, but the Archivist is not afraid. His only fear is that even here, at the center of the world, barreling towards a lightless, infinite tomb, still, he will be watched. Still, he will watch.

The expression on the passenger’s face does not change, even as the contorting metal crushes her skull like an egg, as she vanishes from view. He catches a glimpse of an advert above his seat: “Dig.”

There is a door in front of him. A yellow door. He knows the dream it used to lead to; he knows it well. But that’s not where it leads anymore. He does not know what is behind it anymore, and he is deathly afraid of finding out.

[HIGHER-PITCHED, TINNITIS-LIKE OSCILLATING SOUND ADDED TO BACKGROUND VIBRATIONS]

The Archivist turns away. Behind him are the ants. They move like a terrible rolling wave along the hard-packed ground, and he can see every twitching antenna, every clenching mandible. Somewhere, underneath that twitching, burrowing mass, is the exterminator. He is screaming. The Archivist knows he is screaming, can see him screaming, although the sound is lost under the noise of those hundred million ants, that crawl and scurry over everything.

For a second, a hand breaches the shifting mound, desperately stretched towards the Archivist in supplication, pleading for help. The Archivist watches, as it disappears painfully back into that sea of scrabbling life.

Then all at once, the ants are gone, fled in a moment away from the still-shuddering form of the exterminator, and a familiar terror finally pushes its way into the Archivist’s heart.

Before him rises an incinerator door, the glowing light of the flames curling around the cracks. With a wailing shriek, the door opens, and the burning silhouette that stands within is ingrained upon the Archivist’s racing mind. They smoke and sizzle, but still the worms crawl through her charred and pockmarked flesh, her now-singed red dress shifting with the movement beneath it.

[OSCILLATION GROWS LOUDER]

The exterminator looks to her, then to the Archivist, and it is not certain which he fears more.

The Archivist, for his part, is hopelessly willing the dream to stop. But as she takes one scorched step after another, it is clear that he has no power to make it.

When faced with her, he even longs for the terrible dream of the melted woman, who would see everything desolated without rhyme or reason. But she was beyond his reach the moment she knew he was there, so the Archivist can only stand and stare, as the hive goes about its infested, long-dead work.

The dark building is newer, but he knows it well; knows the two lost souls who creep through it with an alert hunger on their faces. He recognizes that look from the other hunter, whose dreams he has watched for so long. They stalk the darkness itself, and hope to catch and kill it before it can do the same to them. They see him watching, but they cannot catch his scent.

At last, he is in the moonlit graveyard – the oldest of the dreams. It is peaceful, cool and damp, as the rolling, boggy fields stretch out in all directions. He hears her calling pathetically from the bottom of the graves, but by now he knows there is nothing he can do but stare. She begs to be released, to dream of this place no more, but there is nothing he can do.

So he watches her, trying in his single-minded focus to ignore the attention of that impossible thing that covers the sky, and fixes its gaze on him with such force it would choke him – were he breathing.

Another dissection room, another figure standing in its centre – but this one is calm. She simply looks at him sadly, a pity in her face that burns him worse than any flame. More than anything, the Archivist wants to look away, to turn his eye from her gentle sadness, from the disappointment in what she sees in him.

But he cannot, so he watches her, until she simply fades away.

[GROWING METALLIC, ECHOING SOUND, FADING IN AND OUT]

And at last, the Archivist looks up. At last, he looks into the eye that sees all, and knows all, and clutches at the secret terrors of your heart. The Ceaseless Watcher of all that is, and all that was; the voracious, infinite hunger that tears at his soul, invoking him to discover, to observe, to experience all, and everything, and forever.

It stares into him, and it stares out of him, and he is falling into the devouring eternity of its pupil. He wants to cry out in horror, but he cannot.

He. Is. Whole.

And still he does not wake. Wandering his slim collection of gifted nightmares, passing the grey and lifeless remains of severed dreams he can no longer watch, he waits – but not for long – before they all begin again.

ELIAS

You’re doing well, John. I only hope you can continue your growth without my guidance.

[KNOCK ON DOOR]

[ELIAS SIGHS]

[sullenly] Come in.

[DOOR OPENS]

Hello, Inspector. Martin. I’m, uh, sorry to hear about Tim –

MARTIN

Don’t.

ELIAS

And Daisy, I suppose –

MARTIN

Don’t. You. Dare.

ELIAS

I suppose it’s some consolation Basira made it out. And John. More or less.

[MARTIN INHALES ANGRILY]

POLICE OFFICER

[cutting Martin off] Is this him?

MARTIN

– uh – yes.

POLICE OFFICER

Right. Elias Bouchard, you’re under arrest.

ELIAS

[grumpy] On what crime?

POLICE OFFICER

[SOUND OF OFFICER CUFFING ELIAS]

ELIAS

[ow] Are those really necessary?

[SOUND OF ELIAS BEING APPARENTLY PUNCHED IN THE STOMACH]

PETER

Exactly!

To be honest with you, Martin, I didn’t expect to be taking over the place so soon, or in quite such a state of disarray. But I’ll do my best to keep the place afloat.

MARTIN

[sigh] …right.

PETER

Oh, what’s that look for? You won! I am sorry if it doesn’t look quite like you hoped, but – here we are!

MARTIN

I suppose so.

So what now?

PETER

Well, if you could send Melanie and Basira up to see me, I’d like to introduce myself. After that, I’ll put through a couple of weeks of paid leave for you all – I think giving everyone some space to try and deal with the loss of Tim and Daisy might do everyone some good.

[MARTIN SIGHS]

Oh, and if you want to talk to a counselor, the Institute will of course cover any cost.

MARTIN

Uh – thanks?

PETER

Don’t mention it. I know how it can be with a new boss. I’d like to help you ease into it.

MARTIN

Is, is that –

…can I… go?

PETER

Of course!

Oh, and Elias said you’d probably be keeping a close eye on the Archivist’s condition, so I’d be keen to hear any developments.

MARTIN

…

…suuuuuure.

PETER

Marvellous. And don’t look so down! I know, change can be scary, but eventually it happens just the same.

I think we’re going to great things, Martin.

Great. Things.

[CLICK]

Season 3 of The Magnus Archives has featured:

Jonathan Sims as The Archivist
Sasha Sienna as Georgie Barker
Fay Roberts as Alice ‘Daisy’ Tonner
Alexander J. Newall as Martin Blackwood
Frank Voss as Basira Hussain
Mike LeBeau as Tim Stoker
Ben Meredith as Elias Bouchard
Lydia Nicholas as Melanie King
Sue Sims as Gertrude Robinson
Hannah Walker as Jude Perry
Guy Kelly as Michael Crew
Jessica Law as Nikola Orsinov
Alice Adzowa as Sarah Baldwin
Luke Booys as The Distortion
Imogen Harris as Helen Richardson
Steven Violich as Kurt Anderson and Hope
Martin Corcoran as Breekon
Peng Wei as Xiaoling
Brock Winstead as Max Mustermann
Francesca Renèe Reid as Julia Montauk
Ian Hayles as Trevor Herbert
Jon Gracey as Gerard Keay
Richard Davies as Police Officer
Paul Sims as Jurgen Leitner
Alasdair Stuart as Peter Lukas
Lowri Ann Davies as Lynne Hammond
Martyn Pratt as Robin Lennox
James Ross as Conspiracy Theorist

and

Bryn Monroe as Brian Finlinson