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It was sunny, somehow, and that made everyone suspicious. Nothing was ever alright at the Archives, after all, so why should it be on the beach?
Elias had decided to try running the place for once and had given all staff the day off on the hottest day of the year. That was reasonable. But simultaneously ordering them to visit the beach down by… Kent? Or was it Sussex? That wasn’t.
At exactly midday, they had somehow all found themselves purchasing train tickets and walking to the beach. Now they were there, and they were unable to leave. (Tim was no stranger to that feeling.)
Tim had tried. He'd taken one step off the sand and onto paved ground. Just one. And suddenly his skull was being split by the most agonizing migraine he'd ever had in his life. It had felt like a carrot was being shoved and twisted into his right eye socket, like he'd been doing 32 pirouettes without spotting, and like someone was cooking up a barbecue in his cranium.
At least they'd all had all had time to collect their various beach gear, Tim thought, trying so hard to be positive about things. Well, not everyone had. Martin went straight into the water up to his chin, muttering something about how he ‘had no sunscreen’. Jon still hadn’t arrived. Perhaps the sheer severity of the Archivist's allergy to the sun had prevented Elias from exerting any control over him.
The kiss of salt spray on his feet pulled him out of his thoughts as he wandered up and down a narrow stretch of shore, occasionally kicking his feet in the soft sand. Sun, sand - you can’t really go wrong with that, he’d give Elias that at least. And he was weariing his favourite sunglasses = a guy he'd dated (or was it that girl?) had said they made him look like his favourite actor. Also, he was getting quite a few looks from other people on the beach, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the attention.
So he resolved to try to actually enjoy his day off, heck, maybe even make the most of the sun. The warm rays were heavenly against his skin. He noticed Sasha a little further up the beach and waved to her. She waved back with a flicker of a smile, wearing a swimsuit that suited her pretty well.
Tim found a spot on the beach approximately equidistant from the three of them, but a safe distance from the hungry tides rushing up the glistening pebbles, and got everyone to dump their bags and stuff there so they could all watch over the pile and make sure no one’s phones got stolen. All good.
They were a pretty unremarkable-seeming trio, and while they were all doing their own thing, enjoying the change of scenery in their own individual ways, Tim felt for the first time in a long time that his co-workers were actually normal people. And it made him like them just a little more.
It made him feel normal again, too, and boy, had he missed that.
It was all going great. Until Jon arrived.
Jonathan Sims arrived in a dark navy parka jacket with a collar that hid the tip of his chin, and black trousers that hid his grey dress shoes. In tow, he was dragging a full-sized leather armchair - not a reclining sun chair, an armchair - with wheels and a high back with his left hand, and in his right he held a book with an awfully dreary looking long title.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Tim muttered.
Martin enthusiastically greeted Jon, who offered back the best he could, given how much he looked like a kettle threatening to explode at the fact he'd been forced to go to the beach.
“Hello… everyone,” muttered Jon. He placed his armchair down in the sand and sat down on it and crossed his ankle over his knee and put on his glasses and opened the book to a folded page.
Now, there was nothing wrong with reading on the beach; sure, it wasn’t Tim’s preferred way to spend his time in the sand, but plenty of people did it and there were other people on the beach doing it. But it was the manner that Jon did this simple, ordinarily normal activity, in an armchair rather than a simple reclining chair, that reminded Tim (not that he needed another reminder) why this man was the worst boss he had ever had.
“Do you just have to do everything in the most conspicuous, obnoxious way possible?” hissed Tim.
Jon raised a brow at him and continued reading.
“Are you seeing this?” Tim tried to appeal to Martin, but his co-worker simply gave him a look, his head bobbing out of the water almost comically, that said, ‘just let him be weird’.
After a moment, Martin waded out of the water. “Reading anything interesting, Jon?”
Without looking at him, Jon replied, “Yes, Martin, It’s-”
“Unbelievable. Just as I thought I might actually enjoy my day off,” Tim lamented.
“I don’t see the problem,” Jon snapped.
“Well, good for you, because, as always, everyone else does!” griped Tim, motioning to a young family who had stopped to look at Jon with open mouths. “You can’t just be normal? Wear a beach fit to the beach? Unheard of, I know. I wonder how the great Archivist could handle that one. Me and Sasha are the only normal ones out here, while you’re out here dressed like an eskimo.”
“I-It’s not polite to use that term anymore-” Martin pointed out, raising a finger.
“I believe the correct modern term is ‘Inuit’-” Jon clarified, still not looking up from his book.
“F- Whatever! We've been through so much this last year, fought monsters and hid in tunnels, but no, it's just too much to ask for a little bit of peace and normalcy,” Tim spluttered. He turned away from them and walked towards Sasha, who was still keeping her distance, standing with her bare feet just in the water, observing the gentle push and pull of the crystalline water.
He snatched his rucksack from the bag pile, rummaged through it, and took out a ball. He tossed it at Sasha, who - without even sparing a glance in his direction - caught it with inhuman reflexes.
Deciding to ignore that (and the fact that this was probably, most definitely not Sasha), he asked, “You play?”
“Play what?”
“Volleyball.”
She perused the ball for a second before responding, “Kind of.”
“That’ll do,” Tim sighed. He drew a line in the sand in-between them. “First to five points?”
“Sure. Let’s go,” Sasha affirmed.
Meanwhile, Martin had found a seat in the sand beside Jon, reading the book over his shoulder. Jon pretended not to notice or care, but anyone could see that before he turned a page, he would pause with his thumb on the edge, glance over at Martin for a few seconds to track his eye movements, and wait for him to finish reading before he turned to the next page. Tim fought, really fought the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes.
But at least they’d settled back into a sort of peace.
Until he arrived.
“Hello,” came that haunting voice, somehow both childlike and ancient and neither all at once.
Michael was standing in the sand, in between the gulf that had formed between the volleyball game and Jon’s armchair.
Various shouts of surprise and fear resounded for several seconds from all parties. Michael stood in the centre of it all, smiling and unbothered.
“I’m not here to hurt you. I just wanted to see what this… beach episode was all about. Elias seemed to think it was a good idea, and I’ve heard… every good series has one. A beach episode. I wanted to see what the big deal was.”
“A… what? Episode?” Martin exclaimed, “Are you trying to imply we’re in a- like, a TV series, or a podcast or something? No, this is just- just one of your mind games! I've had enough of you. Stay away!” He pulled a twig out of the sand and brandished it at Michael, "Hah!"
Michael just stood there, smiling, looking very out of place framed by golden sand, a clear cerulean sky and turquoise waves.
"Jon!" Martin hissed.
“What?” said Jon, who hadn’t looked up from the book, “Didn't you finish reading that page?”
“No, Michael’s… Wait, you noticed I was reading too? A-anyway, more importantly, Michael’s here!”
“Oh,” Jon said with a grimace, looking up at the distorted figure standing there, looking so very out of place, “What do you want?”
“To watch the beach episode,” chirped Michael, ocean zephyrs toying with his blond hair. He looked like a deranged actor in a Jet2Holiday ad who'd infiltrated the set after his unsuccessful audition.
“He said he’s not here to hurt us,” confirmed Tim to Jon, before addressing Michael, “And I wouldn’t waste my time if I were you. You’re not missing anything. And don’t worry, you’re hardly the weirdest-looking one out of all of us here.” Tim glared pointedly at Jon.
“Yes…” agreed Michael, “At least wear a Hawaiian shirt, Archivist.”
“I would love to see you in a Hawaiian shirt,” chuckled Martin.
“No,” Jon said. With finality.
Michael was true to his word, keeping his distance from Tim and Sasha as they restarted their volleyball game (“Are you sure? With him right there?” Sasha whispered. “Yeah. Can’t get much worse than it already is,” replied Tim with a shrug) simply observing as Jon eyed him suspiciously over the top of his book and Martin sat protectively at his side, still holding his stick which he had sharpened against a rock. It was as though the entity was enjoying a good episode of a sitcom.
Other people at the beach kept their distance from the strange group, many sensing something innately off about Michael, despite the colourful Hawaiian shirt he was wearing.
After a few moments, Martin got up and started looking around.
“What are you looking for, Martin?” Jon said, somehow knowing exactly what he was doing despite not looking at him.
“A t-shirt or something. If… people-” he motioned at Michael noncommittally, “keep showing up, I’m going to… well, I’m a bit self-conscious.”
“You look fine, Martin,” said Jon flatly.
"Heh. If you say so," Martin muttered, smiling a little.
“Uwu,” said Michael, and the moment was ruined, completely torn into a thousand pieces, gone with the tides and strapped to a Space X rocket on its way to the moon.
Tim, who had been forced to come closer to them in order to get some water from the bag pile, froze like he’d just been shot. “Did you just say oo-woo, out loud? Like, in speech?” he whispered, incredulous, then shook his head desperately, “No. I didn’t hear that. Please, don’t ever do that again.”
"I mean, what part of 'silent audience' do you not understand?" Martin snapped, clearly irritated and slightly red.
"Are you talking to that thing or me?" asked Tim, "'Cause I just came here to get some water."
“This is a great episode,” Michael mused, “I’m having fun. Though I suppose, ‘fun’ itself isn't real. It isn't a real attribute. It's not something that can be assigned to an activity, not like a permanent attribute like 'hard' or 'soft' that can be assigned to an object. No. anything can be fun if your mind perceives it that way, and the mind's perception can always be changed.”
“F- my life,” Tim muttered, despondent, head falling into his hands. Sasha walked over and patted him on the back reassuringly.
"What's that sound?" Sasha murmured. Her voice was quiet, but all eyes turned to her, remembering that she was there. Everyone fell silent, and, sure enough, there was the distinctive, yet faint, sound of UK Drill music. She pointed, far ahead into the distance, at a moving object approaching them on the sand.
Tim lifted his head from his hands. "What the hell is that?"
As it approached, it became clearer to see a person riding atop a bicycle.
“Having fun, everyone?” came a voice that they all instinctively recognised as their boss'.
“Oh, piss off,” wept Tim. Sasha patted his head, humming in a way she intended to be understanding. "I'm not a dog, don't do that," Tim moaned, then leaned into her touch like a puppy desperate for comfort.
“I like this episode,” Michael mused.
“Elias, when can I go home?” Jon demanded, staring down the small man who pulled up beside them on the beach, brakes screeching to a halt.
“Y-yeah, I want to go home too!” petitioned Martin.
“Your homes are the Archive, and today the Archive is closed,” explained Elias, “So I'm afraid that means you’re stuck here until dawn.”
That's what he said, but no one could hear anything but the incredibly loud rapping of UK Drill.
"What?" his employees chorused, and Elias sighed, reaching round the bicycle frame to switch off the portable speaker he'd attached to it.
Elias repeated himself.
"What?" Tim cried. Elias simply climbed back on his Lime bike. "No, you, get back here!"
“Find a pub or something. Get a few drinks until dawn. You all deserve a real day off,” Elias said pleasantly, ignoring Tim's shouts as he pressed a button on his speaker and the air was once again filled with the voice of a man saying 'I remember when...' and 'when gang pull up, where your mandem', punctuated by gunshot and sword-slash sound effects.
They watched, speechless as their boss rode off, his bike chirping out the alarm sound that it makes when someone hasn’t paid for their ride.
“Well,” Jon sighed, breaking the silence after several minutes, “Anyone have any money on them?”