Spagonia University, History Department.
Mobius.
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The office was quiet this late at night save for pen on paper as Professor Lentil graded semester's first exams. Outside, storm gathered against the windows like moths to the lamp. His pen paused, his attention caught by the flicker of lightning glowing at his back. He stood, closed the curtains and went back to his work, red ink marking triumphs and failures with equal rigor.
His desk was groaning under the weight of ungraded papers in his 'IN' tray, the stacks making what as in the 'OUT' tray almost pitifully small. Worse, the two empty red pens he threw in the waste basket next to his seat was a depressing drumroll of disappointment.
He quickly graded the test and saw that it was a 67 percent, the highest score he had seen so far. He placed the test in the 'OUT' pile before feeling a wave of relief and excitement flutter through his chest as he recognized the name signed at the top of the next test.
"Ah, Miss Wave," he recognized her name from the back row, often just a blur behind her books and always asking questions. One of the few who showed genuine excitement for the ancient Babylonian kingdoms that almost matched his own. For many, his classes were one of the 'throwaways', something to cross off on the way to a doctorate or PHD.
But for her, each lecture seemed a gateway to another realm. The professor's hand steadied as he turned the pages of her test. His eyes moved briskly from question to answer, each response not only correct but enriched with insightful nuance that betrayed a deep engagement with the material.
Lightning again split the sky, visible now only through the small gap he had left in the curtains.
The silence was broken when the phone rang. It was an antique he brought from home when he first got the job, placed on his left where his free hand could always pick it up, without missing a beat in his grading. The brown feathered finch glowered the suddenly hateful thing before more softly, and rather mournfully looking at the empty cup of coffee next to it.
The craving for more caffeine rose in the back of his head before his temples twanged sharply, the first note in a symphonic migraine that began hounding him shortly after his 32nd birthday.
His doctor, the cruel and heartless mobian he was, limited him to 1 cup of life-giving roast per day, heavily recommending alternatives like tea and absolutely forbidding energy drinks.
His beak still twitched in an ironic smile when he thought of that rule. Like he'd ever touch the stuff students on campus guzzled like they'd find exam answers at the bottom of every can. He wasn't that desperate; he hadn't even lowered himself to de-caff yet.
His smile twitched away as the antique phone's bell jangled against his nerves, plucking a few more notes on the building background headache. He glanced at the clock. Midnight. Who could possibly...?
With the sigh he put his pen down and snatched up the receiver, the engraved silver handle cold and heavy. "History department. Bartleby speaking."
The greeting was barely out of his mouth when-
"Barts!!"
The finch jerked the phone away from his ear and had to wait a few seconds for the pain to ease off the tempo before he cradled the phone against his shoulder. "Jacob." He responded, impressed he kept his voice even. "Need something?"
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The Bengal was excitable at the best of times and didn't mellow in the years Bartleby worked with the man. Instead of doing the smart thing and saying 'No' what the feline said was "Yeah, actually. I was just going over the exhibit. You know, checking on some last few items for display when I noticed something was off in the archive. An extra box I think was, like, over overlooked and you know me, I had to check it and make sure this wasn't one of the things we have on loan from Station Square. I told myself this was important, like real important. Cross your Is and dot your Ts important. and guess what I found?"
The question jolted Bartleby back from the exhausted hazy exasperation filming over his ears hard enough he had to thumb his glasses back in place as he sat straighter in his chair. "Jacob could you just tell me? It's," he glanced at the clock and bit off a chirp of agitation, "very late. I've got tests to finish grading. Unless a passing grade for all of my students and a bonus to my tenure is in that great I don't think I care. Good night."
The receiver was about an inch from his ear but he heard Jacob's responses if the man was in the room. "Don't have that but I'm pretty sure I'm looking at a tablet detailing Gamil the 4th's rule and his infamous eagle-head scepter."
The professor sat up ramrod straight in his chair. "You're kidding."
Jacob's voice, crackling with excitement and static, came back strong. "I kid you not! And it's as clear as the morning brew you so dearly love, my friend. It references tax reforms, public works, even mentions a few skirmishes along the northern ridge. The language... Bartleby, it's pristine!"
The weight of exhaustion fell from Professor Lentil's shoulders like a shed cloak. His fingers tightened on the receiver. "Hold that thought—and that tablet," he said, his voice tinged with a fervor that matched his young caller's enthusiasm. "I'm coming over."
He rose in one fluid motion, the chair groaning in protest as it rolled back. Grabbing his coat from the stand, he thrust his arms through the sleeves while striding towards the door. Books and papers lay forgotten in his wake—a testament to the ancient lure that now beckoned him.
As he locked his office door, another flash of lightning illuminated the corridor, casting the grand Spagonia University halls in flickering shadows against the overhead lights.
The southern exhibit hall was attached to administration so certain staff and volunteers weren't too far from acting as museum guides. The hall was decorated with well-designed signs and banners depicting models clothed in ancient Babylonian dress or artist renditions of the nation's long passed kings. Written on all of them were the words: 'Babylonians: Ghosts Of The Past'.
He gave none of the exhibit a glance as he hurried to the warehouse in the back, things which five minutes earlier would've made him pause to admire them. His mind whirled with everything he knew about Gamil.
Gamil the Fourth, a minor king lost in the annals of time, rumored to have wielded supernatural influence with his scepter—a talisman that had evaded archeologists and historians alike for centuries and what few, legends passed down about it told of a weapon which made entire armies vanish with a wave. Bartleby's feathers bristled at the thought; such a discovery could redefine their understanding of ancient Mesopotamian rulership and magic.
He pinched the bridge of his beak, feeling the migraine pulse at the prospect. Maybe they could even find the location of Gamil's tomb of Victory.
Which is why when he opened the door into the warehouse, he didn't hesitate. The sudden shift from the bright hallway to pitch black swallowed him whole and before he could bring himself to stop, his foot went through empty air where he'd expected floor.
He stumbled, arms flailing as he fought for balance. He vaguely made out the squared off shape of stairs rising to meet him before being folded over the cold metal railing like a well-worn book spine. The thud of his body against the metal echoed in the empty space, reverberating like a gong in some ancient temple.
All air and thoughts went out of him in a wheeze and he clutched his chest, fingers winding through his collared shirt, gasping as his heart raced against the sudden vice confining his chest. His feathers puffed out in an instinctual display of shock and recovery.
Things quickly got worse.
As he lay on his back, the door swung shut in front of him, plunging him into complete darkness. He winced at the pain in his chest and took a moment to catch his breath before attempting to move.
He rolled over onto his back, feeling the cool concrete beneath him. "This isn't how I wanted to start my night."
He felt himself up in the dark, moving slowly at first. Bending an arm, testing his fingers, and little by little, gaining the confidence to stand. He could've twisted or broken something in the fall and not notice it with his mind focusing on trying to breathe.
There had been a day when he could've taken a hit like that and walked it off, but he wasn't young anymore and falling down the stairs again due to broken leg…
He shook off the thought and called out. "Jacob?" his choked chirp bouncing off the high ceiling.
His response was just his own voice bouncing back to him. Not a peep or sound otherwise.
Bartleby's eyes adjusted slowly to the dim light, each breath now more controlled as he levered himself back up. If this as a prank… Again, he shook his head. Jacob was many things, a chatterbox foremost but not a prankster and even if the tiger was, this wouldn't be a joke the professor imagined him pulling.
"Jacob, please tell me you're turning on the lights."
"Barts! Are you alright?"
Oh, thank Gaia. The voice was distant in the dark but the finch didn't care. "Could be better." He answered, prodding his side. Nothing felt broken so he stood up against the ache. "Why's it dark in here?"
Silence.
"Jacob?" His voice emerged more tentative this time, a whisper that seemed to dissolve into the void.
"Sorry about that, should've warned you about the lights."
"Nevermind that! Could you get them on? I don't know where the switch is."
"Maybe later."
Bartleby froze—Jacob's voice. But it was way out of place—not from the shelves below, but suddenly close. Right behind him.
The professor whirled around, his heart pounding against his ribcage like a rogue drummer in a band. "Jacob? That's not funny. Turn on the lights."
The darkness stayed silent, offering no retort—just the echo of his own words being devoured by the engulfing silence. He strained his eyes, attempting to pierce through the murky shadows. The dim glow from an emergency exit sign over the door barely sprinkled enough light to cast any real illumination, making it impossible to detect any lurking movement in the shadows. "This is far from amusing."
His feathers ruffled involuntarily. An unpleasant chill, totally divorced from the cool air of the warehouse, snaked its way down his spine. He tried to rationalize it away. Nerves. Stress. A simple fall down the stairs couldn't have rattled him this badly.
Could it?
Jacob's voice slithered once again from behind Bartleby—a cruel imitation of Jacob's usual cheerfulness, stripped of its vivacity and replaced with something lifeless and flat that caused the finch's heart to skip. "Did you find it? The tablet?"
Bartleby's beak tightened. This close, the voice sounded…wrong. Like a warped recording or basic text-to-speech program where words spoken with different inflections were glued into a rough sentence.
"Jacob, where are you? I said this isn't funny, damn i-" He took a hesitant step back, bumping into something solid. Something cold and unyielding. Fear, primal and sharp, clawed at his throat. He spun around, desperate to put distance between himself and whatever was toying with him in the dark.
A hand, if it could be called that, shot out of the darkness. It was grotesquely large, easily twice the size of any mobian's hand, and as solid as steel. It clamped over his mouth, over his whole head, stifling his cry before it could escape his beak.
The last thing Bartleby saw before the darkness engulfed him entirely, between the fingers, were a pair of eyes. Not Jacob's familiar amber glow, but twin orbs of malevolent... something that burned with an alien hunger.