The Magnus Protocol 27 - Driven
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I don't know.

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This episode is dedicated to Alicia. During early lockdown in 2020, Alicia listened to a lot of the Magnus Archives, a source of fantastical scares that gave her temporary reprieve from some very real horror. Among many terrifying episodes, though specifically centering on meat, on the juxtaposition of human and animal bodies, the callous suffering of slaughterhouses, and other fleshy things, resonated with her.

She re-evaluated her relationship with food. She wondered what the difference was between a family member and a beloved dog, between that dog and a nameless factory cow. She decided to become vegetarian and hasn't looked back since. Many thanks to the creators of the Magnus Archives for using their art to inspire change in Alicia's life. Rusty Quill presents The Magnus Protocol Episode 27 Driven

I don't know. Colin maybe?

Why, what's up? It is a cluttered eyesore. I'm sure Colin can sort it when he's feeling better. If Colin returns to this department, it will be long after the minister's visit. I want this resolved now. It's just some files. It is not just some files. It is a symptom of a disorganised office and an excuse for the minister to insist upon additional oversight. You will move them into the stationery cupboard at once. I mean, I could, but...

But then I'd have to stop processing cases, and you were pretty clear you wanted the entire caseload dealt with, so... Gwen, I'll deal with it. Very good. Check in with me once you're finished. Of course. Thanks for that. Look, I honestly wasn't trying to... Oh, don't give me that. You're loving this. You've been sat there grinning all night. Have I? Yes.

Maybe I just woke up on the right side of the bed this evening. Well, whatever it is, it stops now. Um, I don't think you can order me to stop being in a good mood. I can, and I am. It's putting me on edge. I'm so sorry. In that case, I'll do my best to get bitter and cynical. Good. This should help. Uh, what's this? Your extra duties. I thought you were sorting it. I am. By delegating them to you.

How's that good mood doing? Struggling. Look, I'll see what I can do, but I really do need to clear my caseload first. Alright then. Now, do you know where Alice is? I've got a special list for her. Now who's grinning? Break room, I think. Excellent. Carry on. You're welcome. February 18th, 1845.

It is with some trepidation that I am forced to record yet another failure, as despite my certainty that none beside myself will read these words, I must be mindful of my becoming disheartened, and strive against any loss of conviction. While I have no hesitation in accepting N's recommendation, the particulars of the collapse must be confronted directly.

We have been undertaking this great work, perhaps the greatest work, for nigh upon three decades, and thus far are still unable to effect transmutations beyond those endeavors we each undertook alone. We have some dozen of the finest minds of the age, yet it seems more wont to stagnate our thoughts and progress than to light within them that muse's fire of inspiration.

Is it perhaps the need for secrecy? Is the clandestine nature of the researches we attempt, in its very nature, opposed to the work of both natural and unnatural philosophy we have undertaken? Or is the spiritual aspect of our alchemical undertaking such that only the experiments of an individual can ever bear fruit? No, I must excise such doubts from my mind.

Purification is not only to be found in chemical processes, after all. We had, all of us, reached the limit of what might be achieved alone. If such were not the case, the Institute would not have been founded, nor would my fellows have selected me for its leadership. Much less its name. I must hold fast and continue my explorations. February 22nd, 1845.

A curious thing has caught my attention. It is strange how the work of natural philosophy attunes one's eye to the things that might be termed unusual.

I was making my way to our London offices when I heard the din of a crowd approaching from a nearby corner. The shouting of slogans and waving of banners marked it immediately as a Chartist meeting, and not wishing to receive another sermon on the necessities of reform and the urgency of radical constituency changes, I moved to hail down a carriage.

At my call, two stopped close by each other, a somewhat worn-looking handsome cab, and one of the newer Clarences, one of those which my housekeeper calls, in her inimitable way, a growler, due to the sound of its wheels on the cobbled streets.

As I was travelling alone, my natural impulse was toward the speed of the Hansel, yet the din of the meeting made me reconsider, as I have often found the heavier wood of the four-seater Clarence to make for a quieter journey, at least within the coach. I was certainly in no rush, so I took a step towards the cab with every intention of engaging it, when something stopped me. There was only a single coachman.

Not so unusual, perhaps, but something about the manner of his sitting gave me pause. He looked straight forward, paying no heed to myself or anything else in the street that might call his attention, and he wore a long oilskin greatcoat, which draped over the entirety of his body, despite the dryness and unseasonable warmth of the day.

As I slowed my step, my eye began to take in more precise detail of the cab itself. The colour seemed unusual somehow. The glossy black glinting like a bottle fly, and the joins in the wood seeming smoother and less angular than perhaps they should have been. There was even a sheen on the plush red furnishings, almost as though they had become wet somehow.

and I could not shake the oddest sense of disquiet when looking at it. I had no opportunity for further examination, however, as my momentary hesitation had been noticed by another prospective passenger, who promptly stepped ahead of me into the clarence. It began to move away immediately, and as it did so, two things became apparent. The first was that the very instant the door closed,

There was no longer any sign of the passenger within the carriage, and it seemed once again empty. The second was that as he pulled away, the coachman's greatcoat was caught briefly by a gust of wind, and in that moment I saw without doubt that there was no border, no dividing line, no gap between the coachman and the coat. They were somehow as one.

If this is as I suspect, I would be wise to keep an eye open for this vehicle, restrict myself to handsome cabs, and try to forget the unnerving sound the growler made as it moved away. February 26th, 1845. I have found it again.

It took far less effort than I suspected it might, as I believe that it relies on the ubiquity and variety of cabs speeding around London for its anonymity, rather than the actual verisimilitude of its disguise. Indeed, the longer one considers it, the clearer it becomes that neither it, nor the coachman, nor the so-called horses that feign to pull it, are at all what they appear to be.

I espied it once again upon the exact same street where it had nearly caught me, and I have no wonder as to the reason. It is dense with traffic, and few pause their step or make note of the specific comings and goings. I suspect it is a more than adequate hunting ground.

Upon sighting the thing, I hailed down a separate cab and bid it wait, pointing at the Clarence and telling the driver to follow it when it should have a passenger. He gave me a look that I might uncharitably describe as insolent, but it took little extra coin to secure his goodwill and us cooperation.

I then watched as a well-moustachioed young gentleman in a brand new frock coat flagged down and entered my quarry. We followed behind for almost an hour, leaving my nerves frayed from the constant rattle of the thing moving over the cobbled streets and my driver's near-constant aggravation.

It did not stop, nor slow, nor discharge its passenger, but after some minutes I began to notice a subtle but unmistakable hint of crimson in the ruts it carved through the muck of the London streets, as though fresh dye were leaking from the joints of the rolling wheels.

At length it disappeared into a covered alleyway. By this time evening had fallen, yet the lamplighters had not been about their duties, and my own coachman was adamant that he would take me no further after such a frivolous chase. So it was, I left the safety of the cab, and continued on alone, creeping into the darkness with naught to brighten my way.

I took what comfort I could in the knowledge that if I could not see, then I could not be seen, though it helped me little, as I was now possessed of an unspoken certainty that the growler had no need of eyes. I consider myself fortunate that the coach thing was not waiting for me,

Instead, I soon found that the seemingly derelict alley was instead full of small, discarded scraps of clothing, as well as old newspapers and even an umbrella. And of course, the freshest and least decayed of these was a frock coat, though I could not in any sense still describe it as brand new. There is more to learn here.

Perhaps my recent frustrations with our progress, and the increased scrutiny by Boyle's incessantly meddling inheritors, have pressed me to put more significance on this than is warranted. But I cannot help but feel that to understand this thing may be to finally unlock the world as yet unknown to us. And in pursuit of that, there is no cost too great.

March the 2nd, 1845. It is dull, and I am surprised to find how little remorse I feel. I have retrieved young Archibald Cameron's notebook and found it surprisingly legible, if somewhat soiled. It is no great loss to the Institute, though I shall not be too open with the others as to the cause of his disappearance.

he was the youngest of our number and certainly the least skilled which endeared him to several whose hearts are in my estimation too soft for the great work even so i was taken aback by how little dissembling it took to convince him to enter the growler and make observations

I naturally made no mention of my nigh certainty that the journey would be fatal, but in almost all other particulars I was honest, even to the point of speaking to him plainly that I could not guarantee his personal well-being. Still, he was eager to assist in the scribing of those notes I had emphasized were potentially vital to the advancement of the Magnus Institute's work.

Likely he was simply overawed by my status as founder, but his excitement at this prospect was clearly genuine. For all his youth I am impressed at Archibald's conscientiousness, writing as he did so far into the process, albeit with some trouble towards the end.

The final few pages are naturally of a more frantic and pained character, but they also contain some of the most useful observations. To his credit, his philosopher's eye was calm and accurate even in his final moments. Well, perhaps not his actual final moments. His analytical faculties begin to desert him shortly after the loss of his skin.

and it is clear from the handwriting exactly when his eyes depart his skull. This seems to have occurred some minutes after he finally accepted the doors were truly impossible to open, and in turn seems to have prompted his last but perhaps most important deduction: that the rate of digestion, for lack of a better word, seems to have been linked to his own levels of fear.

Ironically, this discovery itself clearly caused him a great deal of that particular emotion, since the rest of his notes were little more than pained scribbles and crude invective. I believe his final lines were cursing me specifically, but his penmanship, already so poor, was rendered truly unintelligible by this point.

My surmise that a paper notebook would not be digested or consumed has proven accurate, reinforcing my belief that the consumption process is supernatural rather than chemical, as there are no biologic stains other than blood smears.

Sufficed to say, if the contents of this notebook prove true, it may indeed prove transformational to our researches. That such beings exist, and not simply as myth beyond the fringes of civilization, but within the very heart of our great empire, may yet prove as important as any transmutation taking place within an alembic.

And if there are things of such horror already in this world, perhaps our great ambitions are not quite so foolish after all. Time will tell, I suppose. Hmm. Alice?

Alice. Sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of me polishing all the break room knives. For goodness sake, that wasn't even on your task list. No, but it's important if I'm going to properly murder, suicide you, Lena, and the useless pain-in-the-arse minister when he arrives. You know it's illegal to joke about killing an MP. You know it's illegal to be a complete... What do you want, Gwendolyn? You ever get any weird emails? I'm openly trans on the internet.

At work, I mean. Not really. Why? What have you got? It's just some old files. The email address looks like gibberish. I'd ask Colin, but he's, you know... Careful? Indisposed? Yeah, well, I don't know what you want from me. I'm hardly a computer whiz myself. Hmm. What are the files? Just junk. Old paperwork. Nothing important. Right...

Let's have a look. You know me, I love unimportant old paperwork. Sorry, already deleted. Oh yeah? Fine, whatever. I've got better things to do anyway, like clean all screens with isopropyl wipes. Oh, for God's sake, I'm not doing that. What about the minister? Oh, for him I'd use bleach and wire wool, maybe some pure chlorine to finish. What? No, that's not what I...

No. We're not doing this now. Nice try. Go do the list. Damn it. Miss Ripley! I do hope you've not been using the department printer for personal projects. Wouldn't dream of it. You should. This place is a gold mine. I take a carton of milk and a roll of toilet paper home every night. Are these the ones Helen sent over? Yeah. I really didn't think there'd be so many.

The Institute must have been absolutely loaded. Surely they didn't actually buy all of these? Thankfully no. Anything they actually got the deed to goes here. These are the ones where they put in an offer but didn't close the deal, and this pile is inquiries that didn't go anywhere. Why not? It varies. Sometimes the owners didn't actually want to sell in the end. Sometimes the Magnus Guide would just send a bunch of weird requests that not follow up once they were answered.

Weird how? See for yourself. Why would they want: A picture of the constellations as seen from the front elevation facing due east? I mean, astrology is big in alchemy, but you'd think the answer would be obvious based on its location. Doesn't make any sense. Oh, how about this one? Preference for properties with intact first-generation

Per... perichloro... Perichloroethylene machines. I looked it up. Basically, super toxic washing machines. Okay. Were they making a lot of these queries? I think so. Get the impression most of them were done by phone. The only ones here were either sent by letter or done through Helen. Hmm. So how can I help? Well...

I reckon we start with the sites they actually owned. I mean, I think they might technically still own some of them. I haven't been able to get my head around some of the legals. Let's see if I have any luck. So... So? Do we talk about it, or...? We can if you want to. Cool. So what was that? That was sex, Sam. Pretty decent sex, actually. I, uh... Yeah, no, I agree, but, um...

You know what I mean. Well that depends. What do you want it to have been? Was it a bit of fun? Or two scared people trying to comfort one another? That's fine. You want it to have been something more? Well I'd be okay with that too. Even with everything else that's going on? We might be in genuine danger. We might die. That's true of every relationship really. It's just a bit more obvious with us. What do you want?

I mean, Jack's always going to be my first priority. But beyond that, I think I'd like it to happen again. If you'd be okay with it. See where it goes? Yeah. Okay. I think I'd like that too. Great. Great. I can't stop thinking about it. This one in Oxford. Yeah, me neither. Oh, uh, yeah. It was one of their last purchases in 1997, I think.

What do you think they mean by retail unit? Well, the Hilltop Centre is a small shopping development just off Cowley Road. It was built in the 80s, but it looks like the storefronts didn't exactly get snapped up. I thought you meant to rent a shopping unit. I didn't realise you could buy one outright. Yeah, it's super weird. So is the fact that they never really did anything with it.

Apparently it was set up as an outreach center, whatever that means, but it was only occupied for a month or two. Then they just locked it up and left it. They only had a couple of years before. Is this one of the ones that they still technically own? Yep. And the Hilltop Center's been effectively shuttered for a while. Meaning that no one's been inside... Since 1997. What do you think? Worth a look?

I swear if I hear one more word about Trevor Bloody Herbert MP, I'm going to blow up Parliament. How's your list coming? Don't test me, Sam. I have so many barrels of gunpowder and the blessing of the Pope. Is it really that bad? Lena's going mental over dust bunnies, Gwen is so far up Lena's arse she can see daylight, and oh, and let's not forget we're all being stalked by a terrifying monster.

It is a lot. It's fine. Just feeling a bit more anti-establishment than normal. Anyway, what are you two doing? More magnusing? Yeah, we were thinking about having a bit of a field trip. Don't worry, we'll keep it to ourselves. Nah, screw that. What? Were you not listening to me when I told you about this thing? I'm pretty sure we let it out when we went poking around that archivist room at the ruins.

I wanted to stop you before you did something stupid, but now we know you already did. So maybe we can dig up something to protect ourselves. Or even stop it for good. I don't know about that. The way Gwen talks about these things, sounds like that might be a quick way to get killed. You didn't tell me the room was labeled "Archivist". Surely you did? No. You said you messed up some sort of ritual design in one of the locked rooms and thought that might have released it.

The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-Sharealike 4.0 international license.

The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J. Newell and directed by Alexander J. Newell. This episode was written by Jonathan Sims and edited with additional materials by Alexander J. Newell, with vocal edits by Nico Vitesse, soundscaping by Meg McKellar, and mastering by Catherine Rinella, with music by Sam Jones. It featured...

With additional voices from...

The Magnus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J. Newell, Danny McDonagh, Lynn C., and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and associate producers Jordan L. Hawke, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, C.T.S. DeRaven, and Megan Nice.

To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit RustyQuill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us at TheRustyQuill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail at RustyQuill.com. Thanks for listening. We all have dreams. Dream home renovations, dream vacations, or sending our kids to their dream colleges.

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