[massive spoilers for The Magnus Archives, also big content warning for claustrophobia, crushing/smothering, and emotional trauma/giving up]


It's been a long day, which is to say it's been a day. Every day for the past eight months has been a long one. Wasn't too good before that, either. Really, ever since he wriggled into that damn basement and drew the attention of Jane Prentiss, Martin's life has been a ceaseless stream of long, mostly awful days. He feels guilty moaning about it, even just inside his own head. It's not like he ever had it worst. In fact he's always been the lucky one, sort of, hasn't he? Prentiss never did get him, in the end. Even with Elias, he walked into that knowing it would hurt. All he ever got was a bit of trauma, while everyone else got near death or worse.



He still thinks about Prentiss a lot. Spent a while wondering if it all could have been avoided if he just hadn't gone back, but it didn't take very long to realize something much worse: how if she'd wanted to attack the Archive, she could have just... done it. Was planning on it, with or without him. It's not like she needed him to lead her there. He was... worse than bait, even, more like a plaything, feeding her a steady diet of fear for nearly two weeks until she decided to let him go. And when the attack finally came, he made off with the least damage of anyone. Always on the sidelines somehow or other, never in the thick of it, in the real, proper danger at the heart. An appetizer for Prentiss, a distraction for Elias, and now... whatever he is to Peter.

Of course, whatever he ends up being to Peter seems like it'll be far more at the heart of things than usual. That's the point. That's why he has to do this. That's why it has to be him. He's had enough of everyone else risking their lives, blowing themselves up and throwing themselves into coffins while he sits around and makes tea. He'll never trust Peter, not as far as he could throw him, but... it's not like he has a wealth of options. He has to do something, and Peter has something, if only he'd share what it was.

These thoughts hang around Martin like a fog while he waits for the tube. It's late - he's been getting out later and later these days - and the platform is empty. Small mercies. Used to be he preferred company, even if it was just strangers around him, insulating him somewhat. Now, well... he's changing. Difficult to see it happening in real time, but this whole isolation thing is changing him. The way he'd snapped at Daisy today, it was awful. It was for the best, of course: push everyone away so they can't tangle themselves up in this, etc. Just like Peter wants. Martin's not an idiot and the whole thing is so transparent it's almost ironic. He knows he's being groomed for something, isolating himself so he's... optimized, or whatever. But that's the exchange. He puts himself in danger for once, and everyone else stays safe. It'll be worth it. It has to be worth it.

It's so hard to stay out of his thoughts with them all pressing down on him so heavily. He scarcely notices when the train finally pulls up, just walks on with automatic steps. He's done this hundreds of times. The carriage is empty, which is a bit more of a surprise than the platform - it's not that late, is it? - but he's too tired to concern himself over it. He drops himself into the nearest seat, setting his unused umbrella and messenger bag beside him. He considers pulling his phone out, maybe listening to some music, but decides against it, settling back against the wall and listening to the muffled groan of metal on metal as the train pulls away.

It takes far too long to realize that something is wrong. Minutes of staring, gaze unfocused, out the window across the carriage. There's nothing to see, really, just dark tunnel rushing past, the windows horribly grimy on top of that. There's something distant and strangely muted about the noise of it all, but that isn't exactly a problem. Not one that grabs his attention, anyway. It isn't until his eyes drift from the window to the floor, settling on the shape of footprints, that something jolts within him. Even that is slow, a moment of peering uncomprehendingly at the outline of shoes - his shoes - before it connects. He can see them not because his shoes are dirty, but because the floor is. And not just the floor, but everything. The windows. The seats. The hand rail. The adverts - not blank, but hidden beneath a layer of tightly packed earth. Everything is covered in a fine layer of not dust, not grime, but earth.

Martin knows what this is. Karolina Górka's Statement was one of the ones he looked into, and one of the many that plays in his mind often. Trapped on the underground. Buried alive in an old train. It's exactly the same, every detail, every sign. And he missed it. He walked onto that same train and he didn't even realize.

If his recollection is correct, Górka didn't think to act for a long time. Why would she? Most people don't respond to little oddities with instant action. But Martin knows better. He immediately sits upright and fumbles his phone out of his pocket. No signal of course, but with as many weird things that he goes through on a routine basis, it can't hurt to try, can it? He loses valuable seconds wavering over the list of his recent calls. John isn't even near the top of it anymore. He'd have to scroll back a while to find that.

Calling John isn't an option anyway. He knows that. Neither is Basira, Melanie, and certainly not Daisy. There's only one person left who could help him, and it's with an uncomfortable turn in his stomach that he remembers with terrible certainty that's the point.

He taps his thumb shakily against Peter Lukas' name and number and stares at the screen as it debates whether or not to let a call get through. Peter isn't all-seeing, but surely he has a vested interest in Martin's survival, right? He must.

It's with a sinking feeling that he realizes it doesn't matter. The call fails to connect. And it's very likely Peter would have no help to offer. This isn't his domain on multiple fronts. This is the Buried, and if his understanding of how John's adventure to save Daisy went is anything to go on, the Buried doesn't exactly relinquish its victims. Elias might be watching, but even if he wanted to help, which Martin doubts, he wouldn't be able to talk the Buried out of holding him anymore than Peter would be able to manifest within the earth to give him, what, a light talking-to? He doesn't know what he was thinking.

And of course John can't exactly throw himself in here like he did the coffin; what's more, Martin wouldn't want him to.

So he's alone, really and truly. Peter would be proud, he thinks a bit hysterically. How did Ms. Górka get herself out of it? He can't remember, or maybe there's nothing to remember, because she didn't exactly know. That sounds right. Utterly unhelpful to him now. In any case, he's not about to do that waiting-it-out thing he remembers her talking about. He gets to his feet, nearly taking a tumble as the train skids alarmingly. His phone clatters across the floor and he grabs onto the bar in the middle of the carriage for support. His hand comes away muddy. He looks after his phone and sees it down the carriage, already half-submerged in thick earth. Martin has no intention of losing his phone to a supernatural occurrence twice in as many years, and he begins to move toward it when the train lurches again, sending him crashing to the floor. He lands hard, letting out a pained gasp. The air is horribly thick and musty, and he gets a mouthful of dust for his trouble, causing him to cough violently and uncontrollably for several agonizing seconds. The train is moving much too fast now, and he doesn't think he'll be able to stand again, so he tries to crawl, his hands and knees aching from the impact of his fall. Mud now grasps at him, deeper and damper than it had been moments ago, slowing his movement. When he looks up he realizes he can't even see his phone anymore. Fine, to hell with it. He looks instead to his umbrella and his bag, wondering if he could use the umbrella to pry a door open or something, when there's a sickening crunch of twisting metal and he watches the seat where he'd just been sitting warp and contort inward. It's like watching a car being put in a compactor. The umbrella disappears within the folding plastic, and he thinks he hears it snap; his bag is swallowed too, along with everything in it. Wallet, keys. He always knew it was stupid not to carry them in his pocket. Not exactly at the top of his current list of problems, though. Wouldn't have mattered at all if he'd still been sitting there.

It's so hard to breathe here. Not just for the dust in his lungs; he realizes he's hyperventilating a bit. "Get a grip, Martin," he whispers to himself through gritted teeth. "Just pull yourself together." He struggles to turn himself around. He has few options and little time to choose one. The side door? Leaping out of a moving train, foolish enough without hoping against hope it's not just dense earth on all sides? The front or rear doors of the carriage on the off chance there's some way off? These didn't work for Ms. Górka. What did work for her? Why can't he remember, now that he needs it?

Is it his imagination, or is this train working much faster than hers did? Like it knows he's onto it. He hasn't even had time to weigh his starkly limited options before whatever semblance of calm he's managed to grip onto is shattered by a horrid straining from above. He looks up into the shower of grit to see the ceiling of the carriage denting and bending inward, curving inexorably down toward him. Then all the lights flicker and die, he's plunged into unceremonious darkness.

"Oh God," he whispers, his breath still short and choking, his voice now a pathetic whimper. "Oh God, no, please."

He tries to move, to get somewhere, keep moving, away from what he knows is bearing down over him. But he realizes then it isn't just over him, but around. The walls have moved in, or rather been filled; it isn't warped metal he feels digging into his shoulders, but more of that tightly packed earth, close and crushing. He'd imagined that he was going to be die beneath the collapsing train carriage, but now it seems to be something slower and potentially worse. He's being buried alive.

Martin lets out a strangled grunt as he struggles to move, but the earth is surrounding him now, pressing against every contour of his body, pushing down above him, too. He can't move. He can't move. The pressure is overwhelming, squeezing him to the point where he's not sure what'll happen first, suffocation or the breaking of bones. And then, abruptly, it stops.

Well, not quite. The pressure remains; he's pinned, but it's no longer compressing, just holding him there, steady and still. He realizes the train has stopped moving now, if he's even still on it. Everything around him is the muddy, muffled silence of depth and closeness. He tries to squirm around a bit, to see if he can dig his way through it, but he only succeeds in getting one of his arms folded up and trapped against his chest. He slides his hand over his mouth to stop the dirt from getting in, or maybe to stop himself sobbing. The earth shifts around him, not exactly threatening, just settling gently, but it's enough to force a gasp out of him as it pushes against his back. His fingers twitch and flick back, and to his shock, they touch something hard and plastic. Not a piece of the train; this is small and whole, not broken and twisted. His hand closes automatically around it, but he already knows what it is. It's a tape recorder.

A miserable, desperate laugh twists out of him. It's too funny. Here, says the Eye, have a tape recorder. Oh, you wanted a shovel? A hand to reach in and save you? You didn't offer those to John, did you? No, you piled tape recorders on that coffin and that seemed to work, so here, have one on me.

Manic thoughts aside, Martin clutches onto the little recorder like it is, nonetheless, a lifeline. He doesn't have anything else. He's either going to die a slow, painful, lonely death, or be kept alive indefinitely while the earth breathes around him, just like what apparently goes on inside that coffin. What is there left to do but...

Ha. Make a Statement.

His finger finds what he's memorized as the record button and presses down on it. He hears the telltale click and the gentle whirring as the magnetic tape begins to spool.

For the first few moments, all he manages to record is staggered breathing, a few strained choking sounds. He's not sure what to say. Best to begin somewhere sensible, right? Even under the circumstances.

"E-erm," he stammers, and tries to swallow, taking in a mouthful of dirt. He loses himself in another bout of coughing, until finally he's breathing again, ragged and shallow. "S-sorry. Statement of M... Martin Blackwood, assistant to... Peter Lukas, head of the Magnus Institute, regarding his... erm, death? No, his... being buried alive. Statement taken direct from subject, er... s-statement begins."

He says nothing for a long time. That ritual usually helps, the repetition and professionalism of it calming his nerves. Now, though, it feels silly to waste air on it. Too late now. He stares into the pressing dark and finally says, "J-John? I... I don't know if you can hear this. Or... or if you will ever hear this. I don't really know how it works, if all these tapes get back to you somehow, or..." He cuts himself off with a strangled cry as the earth moves around him again, crushing him by degrees before it lets up, lets him catch his breath. Like it's playing with him. Seems like that's all he'll ever be to these monsters, in the end.

Martin gives himself a moment to steady out his voice before he begins again. "What's happened to me seems about the same as what happened to Karolina Górka. I... I don't remember the Statement number, I'm sorry. She got on the night train and it took her into the Buried. And that's... where I am. It's all around me now, the earth. Crushing dark and... I can't move or, or breathe that well. That's all there is to it, really." He laughs, sort of, more like a desperate little huff. That's all he can manage, the air so close, his chest compressed so tight. "Is this what it was like for you in the coffin? And for Daisy, Christ. Oh God, Daisy, I... if... if this does get back to you, John, can you tell Daisy... Tell her I'm sorry, all right? She seems... better now. I'm glad. I just... I needed to push her away. It wasn't personal, it... it was... Just tell her I'm sorry."

The earth presses around him again, forcing a helpless, whimpering squeak out of him, and he has to fight to keep breathing. He's worried he'll pass out if he keeps this up, but he's got to keep trying. Maybe less rambling. Get to the point, Martin. Whatever that is.

"Sorry," he says again, and lets out another sickly little ghost of a laugh. "Not much of a Statement, is it? More of a... confession? But I suppose that'll have to do." It's getting so terribly hard to focus. He squeezes his eyes shut, not that it makes any difference. "John," he says again, his voice tight and seeming strangely distant. "I..." Only now does he feel the prickling of tears, of overwhelming sadness. He'd been frightened, but not sad. It takes effort to speak around the looming threat of giving way to outright sobbing. "God, John, I... I'm never gonna see you again, am I? Never gonna get to explain, to tell you I... to tell you how sorry I am. I didn't want it to be like this. I hated the way things were, John, how I had to... keep my distance. I know it was dangerous, I know you didn't like it, and I - I just wanted to keep you safe, all right? Everything you've been through, and I was never there to... I, I left you in the tunnels, when Prentiss, wh, and, and I was never there all the million times you got kidnapped, and I didn't go with you to the Unkowing, and I... John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The tears spilling into his mouth offer a little bit of comfort, but only a little. He knows the loss of moisture is only going to make things worse. He continues, unable to stop, unable to stifle the quaver in his voice: "I wanted to tell you everything, John, I just didn't want you to - I'm so tired of you getting hurt and just not caring, or just - just trying to hide it from all of us. I was just trying to find a way to keep you safe, and it meant I had to, to do what he said, and I couldn't - I missed you so much, John, and I couldn't even tell you-"

His voice gives out. Not just because he's losing the thread of his thoughts, losing the capacity to keep himself together, but because that pressure has returned, closing around him until he almost can't breathe at all. He hopes it doesn't keep him like this forever. He hopes it just kills him.

It seems impossible that John will ever get this tape, but he keeps talking, wasting air, barely even aware of it anymore: "I'm sorry, John, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."


Something gives. A rumble of motion beneath him, of something sliding to a halt. Was the train still moving after all? There's a soft mechanical hiss, of doors opening. Daylight. Daylight?

Martin opens his eyes. The pressure is gone. The earth is gone. All of it. He's lying on his back inside a train carriage that is not the one he entered, not like any of London trains he's familiar with. It's still empty, but that is the only similarity. It's pristine. And it's not underground.

He sits up, stares at the open door in front of him. Beyond is an unfamiliar station, sunlight streaming through the windows. He stares, unable to parse what he's looking at, then casts his eyes down at himself. Here he is, whole and physically undamaged, though he looks like a wreck: mud and dirt is caked over his coat, covering his trousers, shoes, hands... every inch of him. He can still feel the damp stain of tears on his cheeks. He looks around for sign of his phone and his other belongings, but there's nothing here but him. He looks at the tape recorder still in his hand, still recording. He stares at it for a moment, then clicks it off.

He pushes himself to his feet. His legs are stiff and shaky. He can feel the after effects of what he just went through, but he can walk, so with some trepidation he propels himself off the train that is not the same train he boarded. He stands there stupidly, looking around for possibly more than a minute.

"What?" he finally blurts.