---
layout:          post
title:           "MAGP 17 - Saved Copy"
date:            2024-05-23 15:00:00 # in UTC = GMT = London time
episode_type:      episode
tags:            []
voiced:          []
categories:			"tmagp"
podcasts: ["tmagp"]
title_prefix:	"MAGP"
prev_categories: ["tmagp"]
prev_prefixes: ["MAGP"]
prev_episode:	['016']
prev_episode_num:		['016']
prev_episode_title:		["Anti-Social"]
next_categories: ["tmagp"]
next_prefixes: ["MAGP"]
next_episode:	['018']
next_episode_num:		['018']
next_episode_title:		["Solo Work"]
episode_title:   'Saved Copy'
episode_number:  '017'
summary:         "CAT2RC1147-30111997-04042024<br/>Doppelganger (interdimensional) -/- murder"
content_flags:   ["Murder", "Undertones similar to a suicide attempt", "Existential Horror", "Temporal Distortion", "Identity Crisis", "Graphic Injury", "Captivity/Torture", "Mentions of: Therapy (Anger Management), arrest, malnutrition"]
acast_url:      https://shows.acast.com/themagnusarchives/episodes/the-magnus-protocol-17-saved-copy
formats:
    Official PDF: https://rustyquillcom.sharepoint.com/:f:/g/ElFMfJSzHzRMhhWGghFX8E8Bg27o0_Amiemvu0Hqq8D6Yg
official:        true
notes:          "Content warnings edited with help from Anonymous"
---

#### ANNOUNCER

This episode is dedicated to Saiorse Killigrew. Open square brackets, ad lib, close square brackers, fullstop.

The "ad lib"... was that they didn't write a fullstop. 

##### [Intro Theme]

#### ANNOUNCER

Rusty Quill Presents: The Magnus Protocol.

Episode Seventeen -- Saved Copy.

##### [Music]

------

##### [Digital fuzz, then dial-up noise as the phone recording starts]

##### [We're outside. A train can be heard in the distance, trundling along. Someone is breathing, slowly and steadily, in the foreground.]

##### [The train grows louder. The horn wails.]

#### CELIA

_(groggy)_ Hmm? Wha?

##### [The train thunders closer]

##### [Celia gasps]

#### CELIA

JESUS CHRIST!

##### [She scrambles to her feet and dashes away from the tracks moments before the train speeds past her.]

#### CELIA

_(panting, furious)_ For god's sake! Not *again.* Not. Today!

##### [She starts walking]

##### [The phone recording beeps off]

------

##### [Whirring as the CCTV audio starts up]

##### [Voices echoing in the breakroom:]

#### SAM

_(not fine)_ It's fine. 

#### CELIA

No honestly, I am *so* sorry. It was so sudden, and by the time I sorted a sitter...

#### SAM

I said it's fine. I just would have appreciated it if you could have called. 

#### CELIA

I know... 

#### SAM

I mean, you didn't even let me know you weren't coming until the trailers had started.

#### CELIA

I know, I know. I *promise* I didn't mean to miss it. I tried to get back in time but there weren't any *trains* and I didn't have any signal... 

#### SAM

It's okay. I do understand, just... Don't make a habit out of it, yeah? 

#### CELIA

Of course.

Tell you what, next time we go out, it's my treat. 

#### SAM

You don't have to...

#### CELIA

I *want* to.

##### [Beat. The mood is lighter.]

#### SAM

So where did you have to run off to? 

#### CELIA

_(reluctantly)_ Oxford. 

#### SAM

Sounds nice. 

##### [Glassware/ceramic sounds in the background as cups are handled and poured]

#### CELIA

It really wasn't. I'd have much rather been at the cinema with you. 

#### SAM

Next time, I guess. 

#### CELIA

Yeah.

Speaking of, what did you think of the film in the end? 

#### SAM

Oh, I actually really enjoyed it! 

#### CELIA

_(smiling)_ Yeah? 

#### SAM

I'm not a big horror fan, but -- it was all right! Not sure how romantic it would have been though. 

#### CELIA

_(flirty)_ I'm sure we'd have found a way to make it work.

##### [SAM finishes making coffee.]

#### SAM

_(chuckles awkwardly-flirty)_ Er... We'll have to find out next time, won't we? 

#### CELIA

Absolutely. 

#### SAM

_(heading off)_ I'll see you in there. 

#### CELIA

Sure thing.

##### [Sam exits]

##### [Celia lingers for a moment and takes a deep steadying breath] 

#### CELIA

_(to herself)_ You're okay. It's __okay.__ 

------

##### [The O.I.A.R. microphone starts up]

#### CHESTER

Statement and Research Assessment for candidate PD553  
Magnus Institute -- Oxford Outreach Centre  
Private and confidential.

Viability as subject -- low  
Viability as agent -- low  
Viability as catalyst -- low

Recommend continued incarceration as part of Welling Mutare Materia research program.

Statement follows:

I know how this looks, but it wasn't me. Well, it was me, but it wasn't *me,* you understand?

Of course you don't, how could you?

Okay, so I'm just going to tell you everything that happened, everything I know. What you do with it after that is none of my business. All I ask is that you don't hold me responsible for what he did.

Right. Where to start? Anger Management, I guess.

Now, let me explain before you go jumping to any conclusions. I'd been going to therapy for a while, ever since the arrest, so coming on sixteen months, and I was making real progress. It sounds like rubbish at first, but all that counting to ten, gratefulness and compassion work... _(a little wondrous)_ they *do* work! From the look of you, you'd probably benefit from it.

Anyway, it was my last session. I'd met all the terms of the court order and I was due the rubber stamp. Upstanding member of the community and all that. So that's what led me to my normal seat in Dr Dumfries's waiting room.

It was a terrace townhouse and I'd always found it uncomfortable, like the walls were so thin you could almost hear what people were saying on the other side. I never did, though. At some point I'd chalked it up to just being antsy waiting for therapy.

Anyway, there was a new receptionist behind the old front desk, some big, soft-looking guy who stumbled over every word. A year ago, it would probably have wound me right up, but what can I say? Therapy works.

There was another patient too, some bookish-looking guy with serious city miles. I used to play the game "what are you in for," where I would pass the time guessing... well. You know. In my head he was *definitely* some kind of weird pervert, really into stroking orchids or something.

Thinking back, I almost wonder if the same thing happened to them... Do you know? Would you even tell me, if you did?

So my turn comes up and in I go! Dr Dumfries says hello in that cheery way that always used to set me on edge, and we get down to it. Now his office was pretty much the most boring room in the world. No pictures, no clock, not even a window. Just the front door, the office door, the desk and some chairs. It must have been deliberate. It drove me up the wall.

I'd been trying meditation in the last few sessions and it had always been a struggle, but this time, when I closed my eyes and went into myself... It was different. I remember sitting there that last time and realizing that *this* was what she'd been on about. Just sort of... having a sit... going away for a while. Just... *being.*

...

I don't really know what happened then. I felt like maybe I was dreaming, but I don't really remember. I wasn't asleep, though. You can't feel pain like that in a dream. It was the migraine that brought me back. All at once, this deep, throbbing pain, and my eyes were so dry I couldn't open them. My neck was stiff and I was dizzy, cold and trembling. Finally, I tried to stand up and fell forward onto my knees.

I could barely move, couldn't focus over the pain, I just knew I needed to get out of that room, into the fresh air. It was dark now, with no sign of Dr. Dumfries, and I had to make my way up a flight of stairs and through an office space I didn't recognise before I saw daylight.

I collapsed again, but I remember two things before I lost consciousness: I was in some kind of shopping centre. And a sign reading "Magnus Institute Outreach Centre." I assume that's how I first came to your attention.

I came to for a bit in the ambulance. They seemed really worried, kept asking me what had happened. I tried to tell them I'd felt fine earlier... then I saw my arms. They were withered with paper-thin skin hanging from emaciated wrists. My aching eyes traced their way up to my sunken chest, then down past my protruding ribs to the swollen belly below. I passed out again.

The next few days are a blur. I know they kept me in for "malnutrition with complications," but when I told them I didn't know how it happened, they didn't believe me. I reckon they had me pegged as bulimic or something, but they seemed satisfied once they got me on solids and I scoffed everything I could get my hands on.

I had plenty of time to think about what had happened, but I just couldn't wrap my head around it. All I knew was that I needed some time away from the quarry to get my head on straight. I couldn't afford another "incident" there.

I tried to phone in sick but the call wouldn't go through. The hospital asked for an emergency contact, but obviously that was a non-starter. Finally, they just looked my address up on my NHS records and bundled me into a drop-off bus. Honestly, I think they were just keen to get shot of me, since I wasn't infected or anything and I've never been exactly the -- *easiest* to get along with.

At first, I thought the driver had managed to get himself lost. I certainly didn't recognize the route, and eventually instead of heading to Balfor Road, he tried to drop me at some ridiculous place off Banbury. They'd obviously given him the wrong address. I admit there may have been some... harsh words between us once I realized, but even so I was still feeling pretty hard done by when he drove off into the darkness swearing at me.

So that's how, with no money, no bags and just the shirt on my back, I ended up knocking on the door of Harcourt House. Well, technically I rang the bell, some huge, overdone brass ring pull like you'd see in Downton Abbey. I felt like a right prick, but I figured at this point, what was the harm? I should warn whoever lived there about the mix-up if someone came checking on me, and you never know, they might even help me get home. God knows they could afford it. Besides, it was cold.

It took a while for someone to answer, long enough for me to start seriously considering how I was going to make it home in my current state. I had just decided to call it when they pulled open the door, spilling golden light out into the cavernous porch, and that was when I first met myself. The... *other* myself.

I don't recommend it.

We both yelled, then we both laughed, then we just -- stared. He took it better than I did. He even invited me inside once he realized how bad a state I was in. He sat me down and made me a tea, four sugars, just how I like it. I was so grateful. Anything to stop that feeling that I was somehow falling through the cracks.

He was my height, obviously, and had my eyes, but I actually noticed the differences, more than the similarities. He wore glasses. No grey in his hair and had white, almost glowing teeth. And no beer gut. I realized that whatever this was, I was definitely the worse version, and that is... *not* a good feeling.

Thankfully, he didn't say anything. In fact, he looked *thrilled.* Kept telling me how "amazing" this was, in his fancy house and designer clothes.

We talked and after a bit we figured we must have been half-brothers, as we definitely had the same piece-of-shit dad. I'd grown up with a mum, though, so I guess I got the lucky side of *that* particular coin-flip. Didn't feel it at the time, though.

I'd always hated my old man. The vicious bastard had put me through hell, and now here was proof that he had a whole second life. A better, richer life without me and Mum. He even called this son Darrien too. That hit hard.

But the other Darrien was good about it. Changed the subject, asked me what brought me here. I started explaining my side of things. The hospital, the ambulance, the weirdness in the waiting room. He was a good listener and I ended up telling him way more than I meant to. Even about the therapy and the arrest, all of it... The only time he interrupted was to check the little details: dates, times, that sort of thing.

That was when things got *really* weird, because if the other Darrien was right, that meant at some point Dad had been at his own funeral, at the same time that he was in surgery for the tumor that killed him.

We talked for hours without coming to any conclusions, but I was still in a pretty bad way and I was nearing my limits. Darrien noticed and insisted I stayed. After all, _(with a bit of a disbelieving laugh)_ "we're sort of family." I was too exhausted to argue, so I kipped in the spare bedroom. It was bigger than my whole flat.

The next day I was properly sick. I'd definitely overdone it and I felt __horrendous.__ Darrien was really great about it though, insisted I stay longer; he had the space, and the housekeeper was used to cooking for guests. Besides, we still had so much to talk about. I didn't argue. It was a comfy bed.

Darrien came by later with some spicy leek soup, and we talked again. He was just so *eager,* he kept telling me how amazing it was, how he might finally have someone to talk to who would "get it," how happy he was to have me around. I'll admit it did feel good to talk, and he was right, he did "get it." When I talked about the anger and what it had caused, he immediately understood with no judgement. He just -- smiled, and said he knew just how to help.

I stayed another couple of days getting my strength back. We spent the time talking, eating, and just generally hanging out. He was really good company, and incredibly generous, letting me have the full run of the place.

The only thing that made me pause was how the housekeeper, Sharon, was around us. It wasn't that she was judgmental or anything. She was... *afraid.* Maybe even terrified. I assumed she was just weirded out and tried to get to know her, talk to her when Darrien wasn't around, but -- the whole time it was like she was ready to run. Like she was waiting for me to suddenly turn on her.

Eventually, I had to just give up and let her hurry off. I didn't want to upset her or anything, but... it worried me. The last time I'd seen people look at me like that was after the fight, and -- I hated it. I had sworn I would never give someone reason to look at me like that again.

That evening Darrien and I were sat smoking in his massive study. Sharon had left an hour before, having cleaned up after dinner, and Darrien was telling me all about his time at university. I'd never been, but it seems like he had done the whole Eton and Oxford thing and even done some competitive boxing while he was there. I saw my moment and asked him if that was how he managed to stay so chill? Venting the anger, that kind of thing?

He gave me a look then. A very direct, very calm look over the tops of his expensive horn-rimmed glasses.

"I was waiting for you to ask," he said, in a tone I hadn't heard from him before. Then he smiled, stubbed out his cigar, and walked off without another word.

I followed, still a little unsteady on my feet, but he wasn't hurrying. He walked through the house without a word, winding his way down to the basement. I had been there before, seen the gym and the home cinema and all that, but we walked past all of it to a locked door at the end. I had assumed it was a cupboard or utility room, something unexciting but necessary, but when I looked closer I could see the hinges were heavy. Reinforced. The edges of the door had a thick rubber seal, and the lock was... excessive, for such a generic-looking door.

Darrien placed a key in the lock, and turned to me with a smile.

"It's so nice to finally share this with someone," he murmured, before turning the key, opening the door, and gesturing for me to enter.

I looked inside, seeing a spotless, sharp-edged steel staircase leading downwards into a harshly lit, stainless steel space. Most of the room was out of view from the doorway but -- I could hear something, right on the edge of my hearing, in the quiet. Past Darrien's measured breath and the distant hum of the boiler. There was another breath, a slow and ragged rattle creeping up from below. And a smell: the tang of disinfectant over a faint, coppery undertone.

That was when I noticed the single spot of color on the otherwise pristine stairs. A single, crimson spot.

I didn't need to take a single step down to know exactly what this place was. Darrien leaned in close to my ear to whisper, "Trust me, you'll enjoy it," as another rattle clawed its way up the stairs towards me, asking weakly for mercy. For death...

I tensed. I couldn't help it. Darrien's secret, his solution to the anger that had been burning my own life to the ground for as long as I could remember, was down there. And if he really was the same as me, if he really had all that rage trapped inside him, then whatever he had done to the man who was down there... I didn't want to see it. I couldn't.

Darrien frowned at me then. I could see the disappointment bleed across his face like a stain, souring that boyish eagerness and replacing it with an anger I recognised immediately. We were so similar and yet... I couldn't join him down there with our father in that horrible halogen light.

He hesitated.

_(faster)_ I shoved him, more instinct than anything else. He grabbed for me as he overbalanced, his face contorted in rage, but he was snatching at air. He never broke eye contact as he fell. Even as his arm broke on the first impact, even as his knee wrenched as he tumbled, even as his temple cracked into the bottom step and he slumped onto the stainless steel floor. He just stared at me with pure venom in his eyes, whilst I looked back sadly.

_(slower, softer)_ He wasn't dead. Not at that point. Maybe it would have been merciful to finish him off. Maybe if I had done, I could have saved whatever tortured soul he'd kept down there. But the idea of walking down those steps was too much. I just couldn't do it.

The door was solid, soundproof and had a firm lock on the outside. I haven't opened it since.

...

I've lived Darien's life for four years now. It wasn't as hard as you'd think. Turns out your world and mine are pretty similar. I sent Sharon on an expensive package holiday and lied to her about my "half-brother" having to leave in a hurry. She knew what I had done, I'm certain of that. She never called the police or anything, but she never came back after that holiday either. I think she just wanted done with the whole mess. I don't blame her.

Ohhh. I bet she's the one who tipped you off, isn't she?

Yeah, I thought so.

So where does that leave us? I suppose you could call the police, but I don't see that that would do anyone any good. And I've had enough practice living this life now that I could make it... pretty unpleasant for you. Besides, all I'm really guilty of is killing a killer and not helping someone who was likely dead either way. Is that really so bad, in the scheme of things?

We could just call it quits. I'm really not a bad person. I give to charity, I pay my -- *his* -- taxes. In a lot of ways I'm a better Darrien than he ever was. So let's call this a happy ending. 

------

##### [Beep]

##### [A moment of silence. Someone nearby is typing at a keyboard]

##### [The ambient music of the case transitions into faint rock music in the background]

#### CELIA

...

_(to computer)_ Thanks, I guess. Not exactly the same, though, is it? 

##### [Typing noises stop as a chair swivels in Celia's direction:]

#### ALICE

What's up? Got a good one?

##### [The rock music is louder as she starts speaking; it was probably from her earbuds.]

#### CELIA

Nothing useful. 

#### ALICE

I mean, when are they ever? 

#### CELIA

True.

##### [She sighs.]

_(to herself)_ True. 

------

##### [The O.I.A.R. microphone whirs on again]

##### [Quick typing sounds]

##### [A short error beep]

#### ALICE

See? Not my fault! 

#### GWEN

It would help if your keyboard didn't have an *entire* pack of digestive crumbs wedged between the keys.

##### [This is punctuated with a few swipes -- helping with the crumbs, maybe?]

#### ALICE

It's shortbread. 

#### GWEN

It's disgusting, is what it is. It's no wonder you're having PC issues. 

##### [Gwen keeps typing as Alice responds; another error beep]

#### ALICE

Are you *seriously* suggesting that a "jmj error" is actually an issue with the... _(grinning)_ cookies?

##### [Beat, in which Alice snickers at her own joke]

#### GWEN

*Shut* up. 

#### ALICE

You set 'em up, I knock 'em down!

#### GWEN

I bet you don't even know what cookies actually are... 

#### ALICE

Oh, and you do?

##### [Error noise]

Look, forget it. Celia said she's seen Colin about. Maybe I can grab him so he can kick it into submission again. 

#### GWEN

Then *Celia's* wrong. He hasn't been in for weeks, so unless you've secretly been learning Ethernet protocols...

#### ALICE

Now you're just making stuff up --

#### GWEN

...I'm the best you've got right now.

#### ALICE

*Jesus,* that's depressin'.

#### GWEN

_(heh)_ Trust me, I hate it just as much as you do.

##### [GWEN continues to work on the PC. More errors.]

#### ALICE

You *know,* if we had a real HR department, *they'd* probably tell us that we all need to "sit down" and "talk things out." Work through everything that's happening to us in a "safe environment."

#### GWEN

Look, Alice, if there's something you want to talk about... 

#### ALICE

Me? No.

...Unless there's something *you* need to share...?

##### [Silence. Gwen considers.] 

#### GWEN

No. 

#### ALICE

_(immediately)_ Oh thank Christ, me neither.

##### [The PC gives a begrudging but successful tone]

#### GWEN

Right, that's the best you're going to get until Colin gets back. 

#### ALICE

Any word on when that might be? 

#### GWEN

_(packing up)_ I wouldn't hold your breath. 

#### ALICE

Great.

...

What? 

#### GWEN

_(pointedly)_ You're welcome. 

#### ALICE

Am I? Oh good.

##### [She immediately starts back up on typing]

##### [Gwen gives a frustrated grunt, then walks off]

------

##### [Music]

#### ANNOUNCER

The Magnus Protocol is a podcast distributed by Rusty Quill and licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Non-Commercial Sharealike 4.0 International License. The series is created by Jonathan Sims and Alexander J Newall, and directed by Alexander J Newall.

This episode was written by Alexander J Newall and edited with additional materials by Jonathan Sims, with vocal edits by Nico Vettese, soundscaping by Meg McKellar, and mastering by Catherine Rinella with music by Sam Jones.

It featured Billie Hindle as Alice Dyer, Shahan Hamza as Samama Khalid, Anusia Battersby as Gwen Bouchard, Lowri Ann Davies as Celia Ripley, with additional voices from Jonathan Sims.

The Magnus Protocol is produced by April Sumner, with executive producers Alexander J Newall, Dani McDonough, Linn Ci, and Samantha F.G. Hamilton, and Associate Producers Jordan L. Hawk, Taylor Michaels, Nicole Perlman, Cetius d'Raven, and Megan Nice.

To subscribe, view associated materials, or join our Patreon, visit rustyquill.com. Rate and review us online, tweet us @therustyquill, visit us on Facebook, or email us at mail@rustyquill.com.

Thanks for listening.