---
layout:          post
title:           "MAGP 21 - Breaking Ground"
date:            2024-07-11 15:00:00 # in UTC
episode_type:      episode
tags:            []
voiced:          []
categories:			"tmagp"
podcasts: ["tmagp"]
title_prefix:	"MAGP"
prev_categories: ["tmagp"]
prev_prefixes: ["MAGP"]
prev_episode:	['020']
prev_episode_num:		['020']
prev_episode_title:		["Social Stigma"]
next_categories: ["tmagp"]
next_prefixes: ["MAGP"]
next_episode:	['022']
next_episode_num:		['022']
next_episode_title:		["Mixed Signals"]
episode_title:   'Breaking Ground'
episode_number:  '021'
summary:         "CAT2RBC4254-04011998-12042024<br/>Architecture (landmark) -/- corruption (entropy)"
content_flags:   ["Live Burial", "Rapid Aging", "Doppelgangers", "Compulsions (supernatural)", "Mentions of: strangulation", "SFX: tattoo buzzing, screaming"]
acast_url:      https://shows.acast.com/themagnusarchives/episodes/the-magnus-protocol-21-breaking-ground
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 Elena. Thank you to *The Magnus Archives* for showing me an asexual character who fell in love, and keeping me sane during lockdown. 

##### [Intro Theme]

#### ANNOUNCER

Rusty Quill Presents: The Magnus Protocol.

Episode Twenty-One -- Breaking Ground. 

##### [Music]

---

##### [Beeping and whirring as the CCTV surveillance starts up]

##### [Faint sounds of drizzling outside]

##### [Sam sighs]

##### [Footsteps enter:]

#### CELIA

Enjoying the rain? 

#### SAM

More drizzle, really.

##### [He sounds dead inside. Celia notices.]

#### CELIA

Hm, yeah. Coffee? 

#### SAM

Got one, thanks. 

#### CELIA

How about a coffee you *haven't* let get stone cold? 

#### SAM

I'm good, thanks.

##### [Celia sits. Sam takes a sip and regrets it.]

#### CELIA

Look, I *know* what Alice said got to you, but it's only because she cares. 

#### SAM

I know. 

#### CELIA

I do too. We all do. Well, maybe not Lena... 

#### SAM

You barely know me. 

#### CELIA

Maybe... Then again, maybe digging into sinister secrets together boosts you up the old affection track a bit? 

#### SAM

_(smiling)_ Yeah, maybe. 

#### CELIA

But that's not it, is it? 

#### SAM

Not entirely.

It's more... what if she's right? 

#### CELIA

About stopping with the Institute stuff? 

#### SAM

About working for the OIAR. I know Alice can square it with her whole "everything's-evil-in-late-stage-capitalism" thing, but -- I don't know if I can. 

#### CELIA

You thinking of quitting? 

#### SAM

Urgh. Maybe. Whatever weird, creepy stuff is going on, I'm really starting to doubt we're on the right side of it. 

#### CELIA

I suppose there's plenty of non-evil jobs out there for a smart, charming guy like you. Maybe *not* law, but... 

#### SAM

_(laughs)_ No, I -- uh... I couldn't go back. 

#### CELIA

If you get desperate there's always the old, _(high-pitched)_ "beep-beep."

#### SAM

_(lost)_ Beep-beep? 

#### CELIA

Checkout. 

#### SAM

Ah! Yeah. Well that's the real question, isn't it? _(half-jokingly)_ Does my desire not to actively promote evil outweigh my fear of disappointing my parents? 

#### CELIA

Ooooh, that's a tough one. Maybe you could stay and try to make things better from the inside? 

#### SAM

_(playing along)_ Of course. Because that's *such* a traditionally surefire way to achieve change. 

#### CELIA

Might still be better than living in London on a retail wage. 

#### SAM

Mmh. True.

_(sighing)_ For now, I'm probably just going to stay and keep digging. No sense quitting until I have a better idea of what's going on, and if I get fired for it, well... that works too, I guess. 

#### CELIA

And if it turns out it's as dangerous as Alice says? 

#### SAM

Yeah, well, if like a psycho goat-monster or something tries to kill me? I'll definitely quit. 

#### CELIA

_(amused huff)_ Good policy.

##### [Sam sips his coffee again and remembers why he isn't drinking it. He sets it down with a clink.]

#### SAM

And you? 

#### CELIA

_(deliberately light)_ Eh, couldn't afford to leave even if I wanted to. 

#### SAM

Sure. But something else is bothering you. Has been ever since we met. 

#### CELIA

Hmmmm. 

#### SAM

You want to talk about it? 

#### CELIA

Not really. 

#### SAM

Fair enough. 

#### CELIA

_(hesitant)_ ...Let's just say I have a... complicated immigration status. 

#### SAM

Really? Surprised the Civil Service didn't pick that one up. 

#### CELIA

I think the OIAR might be a bit less rigorous than the other branches. _(inhale)_ Anyway, if I had to go back, I couldn't take Jack with me. But staying with him means I have some... difficult decisions to make.

##### [Beat.] 

#### SAM

_(sincere)_ Look, Celia, if there's anything, *anything,* I can do to help you and Jack... 

#### CELIA

You really mean that. 

#### SAM

I do. 

#### CELIA

Thanks, Sam. I'll keep it in mind.

##### [Pause.]

##### [Fabric rustles as they embrace.] 

#### CELIA

Well, if neither of us is quitting, we should probably get back. 

#### SAM

Yeah. Institutional evil doesn't just grow on trees, right?

##### [They chuckle halfheartedly as the joke dies]

##### [The CCTV clicks off]

---

#### CHESTER

From the desk of Mr Leonardo Kennings ACCA, co-treasurer of the Magnus Institute, Manchester, to his esteemed brethren of the same.

My most distinguished colleagues,

By now, I'm sure you have all read the proposal in detail and made your own personal assessments of the formulae and calculations submitted by Dr Welling and his team. I wouldn't for a moment criticise the fine work they've done, or the compelling case they've made for the potential transmutative properties of the dome; nor do I believe they are mistaken about the potential power we might be able to harness, were we to sponsor an exhibit of our own there. I cannot, however, in good conscience support the project as it has been laid out, nor do I believe it is a useful expenditure of the Institute's significant -- but certainly not infinite -- financial and political resources.

I have spoken before about my concerns over the choice of the millennium as the date for our grand experiment. I do accept, to a certain degree, Dr Welling's proposition that the turning of the millennium is an important psychological focus of transmutation, thanks to the cultural emphasis of change placed upon the shifting of an "age." That said, I still believe that determining the date should be the province of the astrological, not the cultural. The constellations have played a key role in our researches for centuries, and I fully reject the notion that they should be dismissed as irrelevant to the Great Work in such a way as the Christian god has been summarily discarded.

It should be kept in mind that the year 2000 has *no relevance* for cultures that do not use the Gregorian calendar, of which there are many. It means nothing to the Chinese, Indian or Hebrew calendars, and thus excludes vast swathes of the global population from our equations. The stars, by contrast, are eternal and near-unchanging, thereby providing a far more stable base for a project that has always been conceived of as a *universal* transmutation.

I understand, of course, that this *particular* debate is one that myself and those who think as I do have long since lost, and I do not wish to re-awaken old schisms when a unity of purpose is so profoundly vital to the success of our endeavors at this time. Nonetheless, I believe it is worth raising once again in relation *specifically* to the Millenium Exhibition proposal, as to go forward with this would tie our intentions even more irrevocably to this conception of Gregorian dates as having true and meaningful significance.

Even beyond this -- admittedly more abstract consideration, I believe that the Dome project is almost uniquely dangerous to our work as a place of power.

The calculations provided by Dr Welling and his team presuppose that any outputs from the site will be broadly balanced; that as a symbol of the future it captures both optimism and despair -- the belief in a better world, and the terror that a new millennium will bring nothing except new ways to suffer. It is *my* belief, however, that the actual balance of energies involved will be *profoundly skewed* towards the fearful and despairing, thus invalidating the majority of the calculations provided by Dr Welling and his team.

Public support for the Dome is limited, at best, and the stated plans hardly inspire confidence in its utopian ideals. Even beyond this, however, Dr Welling's calculations have failed to account for aspects of stagnation.

This modern social and political order, following the fall of the USSR, has taken root in the popular imagination as a natural and final state of society with an emergent and inherent stability. The turning of the millennium is therefore felt as an "end of history," to borrow a term, and in this context the Dome may be seen as a *monument* to this order. A full stop. Not to mention a desperate cry for relevance from an imperial power locked in a death-spiral of diminishing importance.

If my suspicions on these points are correct, these echoes of stagnation, almost entirely antithetical to our transformative ambitions, make the exhibition *profoundly* unsuitable to be utilized in the work.

And this is not to mention the location problem, as I believe it may already be in the process of developing into a locus without our intervention.

You are familiar with the peninsular on the which the edifice is to be constructed -- Dr Welling et al explained it in the proposal, though not in great detail. Specifically, I would note that they rather glossed over its history as a gas works, and the incredible levels of soil toxicity that still remain in the area, currently the focus of much of the building and land reclamation efforts that will ultimately allow for the Dome's construction.

Knowing this proposal was forthcoming, and suspecting that it would elide this particular concern, I myself made the journey down to London some weeks ago to personally inspect the site. I still have connections and clout enough to have a tour arranged on my behalf, and... what I saw there troubled me deeply.

The laborers were in poor shape -- grey-faced with blank expressions as they shifted barrows of dirt and shovelled sodden earth with such rhythmic defeat that were it not for the bright yellow of the excavators and the omnipresent fluorescent waistcoats, I might have believed it an etching of some grim Victorian salt mine.

Their fingernails were cracked and dirty, their voices were hoarse, and their words often gave way to ragged bouts of coughing. I had not previously considered that there might be any need of mask or respirator, but shortly after my arrival I found myself surreptitiously holding my handkerchief to my mouth and nose, if only to lessen the pervasively acrid smell.

The foreman, a spritely young man whose weak moustache gave him the air of an overambitious school prefect, was talking excitedly about the engineering of the building, about struts and sheets and material loads, but when I asked him how long he expected the dome to stay up -- he went quiet for a moment. He told me he wasn't sure. "Could be there forever!" he said, with an odd manic edge to his voice. "Or it could be gone in a year! You just... never know. Do you? You never know what's coming."

Something about the way he articulated this thought, this clearly disordered conception of the future, sat rather ill with me. I began to develop another suspicion, that the contaminants of the place were not simply chemical in nature, but may have contained a more psychical poison.

To be clear, had that been the extent of what I observed, I would not be so vociferous in my opposition to Dr Welling's proposal. Unfortunately, it very much was not.

Following my guide's strange comments, I began to hang back somewhat from the rest of the group, attempting to make my own determinations without the consideration of being watched. I espied a worker operating one of the concrete mixers that arrested my attention. He was of East Asian descent, Pakistani I believe, and his face was locked on the aperture of the mixer, spinning round and round, as though hypnotized by the motion. There was no-one else in sight, and it seemed to me as though the din of industry and construction had faded somewhat, like it were muted as he stood in his senseless reverie.

Abruptly, he turned and walked over to a nearby ditch that was in the process of being dug out for the foundations. I could see the tell-tale indications of heavy metals in the earthen edges of it, but he took no precautions as he hopped down into it and began to stare at the wall of the trench, as transfixed as he had been at the mixer.

Were I writing for a less learned and experienced audience I might take some time here to caveat my reliability and sanity, but given none of us are strangers to the strangeness of our work, I will speak plainly of what I saw for the sake of brevity.

From the dirt of the wall emerged the same man as was standing before it. He clawed his way out slowly, painfully, as though it were a grave; but this second version of the worker was not identical. His hair was white, his skin wrinkled and pitted with age and illness, and his every movement slowed with the agony of infirmity.

Were I to guess, I would say he was some forty or fifty years older than the man with whom he was twinned. The younger version, for his part, seemed to break out of whatever reverie had overtaken him, with an expression of purest terror across his face.

He moved to scream, but before he could utter more than the most perfunctory of cries, the older -- or perhaps newer version of him depending upon one's perspective -- covered the original's mouth with gnarled and twisted fingers. Despite his, or perhaps *its,* apparent age, this elderly copy was clearly possessed of enormous strength, and was easily able to pull the young construction worker towards the dirt wall from which it had emerged. The struggle was grim and desperate, but not particularly lengthy, and in less than a minute both had vanished into the polluted ground... the last thing I saw of them both being the poor young man's horrified eyes, disappearing into the darkness and mud.

I rejoined my guide without comment and had no other encounters worth noting here during my visit, beyond the general malaise induced by the site of which I have previously spoken.

It should be clear enough, then, why I felt compelled to write in opposition to Dr Welling and his team's proposal to become involved with the Millenium Exhibition and the Dome that is to house it. It is my firm belief that not only is this site *already* on its own journey to become a decidedly hostile locus, but that the future it represents, and that we are being pushed to incorporate into our grand ritual, is unfit being so profoundly and irrevocably poisoned.

I thank my brethren for their time considering these letters, and wish them insight in their works.

---

##### [Chester stops with a beep]

#### ALICE

You bastard.

You *wanted* him to read this, didn't you? Just slipped it into his caseload all subtle-like and waited for him to hear it.

##### [She starts typing.]

Well not this time.

##### [A decisive keystroke: Alice deletes the case]

##### [The computer makes a noise of complaint]

#### ALICE

_(leaning close)_ I see what you're doing. Trying to lead him on, feeding his obsession.

Colin was right about you.

What do you want? Hmmm? Who's in there?

##### [The computer is silent.]

##### [Footsteps:]

#### LENA

Alice? 

#### ALICE

_(leaping back)_ Ah! Ahem.

#### LENA

May I ask why you are investigating Sam's terminal? 

#### ALICE

Oh -- er -- Sam was having an issue with it earlier, same errors as mine, and since Colin's still not around I thought I would give it a quick go! See if I couldn't copy Gwen's solution for him. 

#### LENA

I see. And I presume that Sam consented to your intervention? 

#### ALICE

_(unconvincingly)_ Oh, er... yeah. Yes. 

#### LENA

Well regardless, he really shouldn't be sharing terminal access like this. It's a security risk. 

#### ALICE

I'll er -- let him know when he gets back. 

#### LENA

Please do. In the meantime, I would suggest you return to your own terminal. We wouldn't want these technical issues to put you behind your own caseload, now would we? 

#### ALICE

Er, yeah, sure.

##### [Swivel chair noises as she moves back to her terminal]

Can I, uh -- Can I speak freely for a moment? 

#### LENA

Do you ever not? 

#### ALICE

Fair, but look, serious talk a moment. We're going to struggle to keep on top of everything without Colin. Everything keeps breaking and we don't know the first thing about fixing it.

#### LENA

Interesting. If anything, *my* data seems to indicate the system is actually functioning slightly better without his interferences. 

#### ALICE

Oh well, I don't know about that. 

#### LENA

No. You wouldn't.

##### [Beat.]

#### ALICE

W-well, I should probably --

#### LENA

Have you heard from Gwen tonight? 

#### ALICE

What? No. Why, should I have? 

#### LENA

It's nothing. I simply wondered if you had heard from her tonight. She is late returning from her assignment. 

#### ALICE

...Something's up. You look worried. You *never* look worried. 

#### LENA

Only about your caseload after all these interruptions. 

#### ALICE

_(unconvinced)_ Of course.

#### LENA

Do let me know if Gwen contacts you. 

#### ALICE

Will do.

##### [Footsteps & door opening as Lena leaves] 

#### ALICE

_(hissing at computer)_ What did you *do?*

##### [Freddie pings obnoxiously in response]

##### [Microphone shuts off]

---

##### [Dial-up tone as phone recording starts]

##### [We're outside. It's drizzling]

##### [Gwen is running hard, her breathing ragged]

##### [She slams open a metal door]

#### INK5OUL

_(calling)_ Come back, little canvas... 

#### GWEN

Get away from me! 

#### INK5OUL

What to give you? I'm thinking... trash polka? But I'd never want to impose my own taste on a client...

##### [As she runs, Gwen starts to dial into her phone, but fumbles it]

##### [We (listening through the phone) tumble into a puddle]

##### [Sound goes muffled for a second in the rain, then back to clear as Gwen picks the phone up again]

##### [She starts trying to dial again:]

#### GWEN

Shit. Shit! 

#### INK5OUL

You sound like someone who might have a family crest! Maybe we could riff on that? Or perhaps a silver spoon done across the face? Hmm, choices, choices...

##### [Gwen rounds a corner to see a man in the distance, lighting a cigarette.]

#### GWEN

Hey! HEY! Help! You've got to help me!

#### BYSTANDER

Woah, woah, what's up, love? Calm down, are you alright? 

#### GWEN

_(panting)_ Trying... to kill me... Call...

##### [Ink5oul rounds the corner.]

#### BYSTANDER

_(to Ink5oul)_ Oi! Back off.

##### [Ink5oul laughs quietly]

#### BYSTANDER

I'm warning you.

#### INK5OUL

Nice ink. Barbed wire, is that? 

#### BYSTANDER

What? 

#### INK5OUL

Boring, but not badly done. _(thoughtful)_ Looks so sharp you could cut yourself... 

#### BYSTANDER

Wha--AAAAAHHHHH!

##### [Metal on bone as the tattoo begins to saw through the bystander's arm]

##### [Fleshy noises]

##### [His arm drops to the ground. Then so does he, still screaming.]

#### GWEN

Oh god!

##### [Gwen drops her phone; sound goes muffled again] 

#### INK5OUL

Don't worry. We'll get you something much more... unique.

##### [Gwen takes off running, disappearing into the rain. Ink5oul follows, chuckling.]

##### [The phone finally gives up the ghost.]

---

##### [A tape recorder clicks on]

##### [For a while, nothing but rain]

##### [Gwen bumps into a fence and skids to a stop]

#### GWEN

_(panting)_ No, nonononono!

#### INK5OUL

End of the road, Princess Civil Service. 

#### GWEN

Please... Please don't... 

#### INK5OUL

You know, when you first walked in, I was just going to give you a bit of ink. Something small to keep you up at night.

##### [Gwen is half-sobbing, half-hyperventilating]

#### INK5OUL

But now? Now we're going to have to get creative! Tell me, how do you feel about scorpions?

##### [They grab Gwen's arm, and she starts to gasp in pain as ink begins to seep onto it to the distinct sound of scorpions]

##### [But then:]

#### GWEN

_(compelled)_ When I was a little girl there was a shed at the bottom of the garden that I was always told never to go inside. There were tools and sharp and deadly things --

#### INK5OUL

What -- What are you talking about? What are you doing?

##### [Gwen is talking so fast the words almost blur together]

#### GWEN

-- that were not right, too dangerous for a little girl --

#### INK5OUL

Alright, stop. Stop it.

#### GWEN

-- But then one year we lost the gardener to another house and the new one brought everything they needed in the van so the shed was locked up tight -- 

#### INK5OUL

Enough, I said! Shut up! Shut!

#### GWEN

-- and sealed against any nosy children who would think that *something* in there might be rusty toys for --

#### INK5OUL

Stop *talking!*

#### GWEN

-- playing without the fear they needed --

##### [A shimmer. Slow footsteps emerge.]

#### GWEN

_(compelled)_ -- at what damage such sharp metal can inflict on uncareful flesh --

#### INK5OUL

_(realising)_ You did this.

_(angry)_ Well stop it, she's mine!

##### [The figure continues to approach.]

#### [ERROR]

MINE.

##### [The figure speaks in layered whispers, almost sounding like if a shiver in the breeze could talk]

#### GWEN

_(still compelled in the background)_ -- it took no more than the smallest push to break it open and inside spilled out teeming swarms of writhing bonewhite maggots --

#### INK5OUL

No, *I* found this one!

#### GWEN

_(compelled)_ -- flesh poured forth from the rotted fox that must have come in through the window seeking warmth not death --

#### [ERROR]

ALL OF THEM, *MINE.*

#### INK5OUL

Dammit, fine!

##### [Ink5oul reluctantly releases Gwen]

##### [Gwen sprints away, still gabbling as she flees]

#### GWEN

_(voice fading into the distance)_ -- instead finding only putrescence seeping squirming reaching for me as I...

#### INK5OUL

Go get her then.

##### [The figure does not move.]

#### INK5OUL

Didn't you hear me, freak? She's all yours.

##### [Beat.]

##### [The Figure turns to Ink5oul.] 

#### [ERROR]

THERE IS MORE.

#### INK5OUL

Not here, there isn't.

##### [The Figure breathes deeply, a strange and disconcerting sound, enveloped in pained whispers.]

#### [ERROR]

NO. NOT HERE. ELSEWHERE...

##### [The Figure recedes.]

#### INK5OUL

Yeah, whatever. Manky old git.

...

Oi, you left your --

##### [The tape recorder bites Ink5oul]

*ARGH!* MOTHER *FU--*

##### [Click.]

---

##### [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 Jonathan Sims and edited with additional materials by Alexander J Newall, 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, Sarah Lambie as Lena Kelley, with additional voices from Jonathan Sims and Beth Eyre.

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.