Soft-ly, softl-y, hear the rus-tle
Of the Spirits' Airy wings;
They are com-ing down to min-gle
Once again with earthly things…
— Spirit Rappings, 1853.

A Foster the People song was playing on the radio when the aging grey sedan pulled up to the apartment block. A far cry from the decrepit, moaning mansions that were once investigated by the Center, it was still suspected of being haunted nonetheless. And, unfortunately, Daniel Fox hadn't been the first to get here.
Daniel stepped out of the car, his dark skin making him stand out against the pale snow falling around him. Through the blizzard, he could see the purple and yellow design printed on the van for Modern Haunted, a ghost-hunting show that prided itself on covering hauntings that had only started popping up in the last seventy years. All fake, of course, but Daniel had been hired as a consultant more times than he could count, and it was a good supplement to his paycheck.
He entered the building, and wrinkled his nose. The lobby smelled strongly of urine and rot, and there appeared to be an assortment of flowers in the corner as some make-shift memorial. Bullet holes riddled the wall above this memorial, and the landlord was either too cheap to remove or cover them up, or else they'd happened recently.
Fox stepped towards the flowers, feeling at the leaves of one of them. It was cloth, perhaps nylon. The petals themselves were some sort of silk. The same was true of all the flowers, and as he stepped in to look at the bullet holes, he noted that they had been drawn over with some form of marker, in order to accentuate their presence. He sighed. "Idiots."
"Dan the Man with the Ghost-Plan!"
Fox turned to face the host of Modern Haunted, Robin McGuire. He looked just as he did last time they had met— same shirt and jeans tailored to look just rugged enough that it brought in the 18 to 35 female demographic, glasses with fake lenses to draw in the 18 to 35 male 'esoteric interest' demographic, teeth that you could hardly tell were covered by a clear retainer, and a neatly-groomed beard of stubble that, combined with his posture, screamed 'I'm gay, but in an approachable and family-friendly way'. What was new was the network-approved pride flag pin— Daniel could practically see the paperwork behind it.
"Robin." Daniel nodded. "Still artificial as ever."
"C'mon, don't be like that." Robin laughed. "Glad you could make it."
Daniel looked down at the floral arrangements. "Prop department outdid themselves this time. Almost thought they were real."
"You can actually remove the petals, and there'll be an appropriate amount of resistance to it. There are little magnets at the end. Try it."
"No thank you." He looked at Robin. "Chasing a death this recent? I thought you had some shame left."
"'Recent' is a strong word." Robin shrugged in a network-approved manner. "Six months. We don't do anything more recent than that. Not since the incident."
"Which one?"
"You know which one, Dan." Robin crossed his arms defensively. "And anyway, we have permission from the subject's family to try to conduct a seance here."
"A seance which I will be overseeing as a representative of the Carnacki Center for Occult Research, in order to assure no tomfuckery is underway." Daniel was half a foot shorter than Robin, but he had a talent for looming. "You can fool the cameras, but you can't fool an actual medium."
Robin whistled, and shook his head. "Right, yeah, okay. I tell you this every time, but… Thomas Carnacki? He wasn't freakin' real. He was made up by someone who thought that it would be cool if Sherlock Holmes hunted ghosts. If you want to fuck around with your electric pentacle on your own time, go for it. But you're a consultant, and you're on the clock. So, you're going to go out there and smile for the camera, and we'll ADR out any criticism. Comprende?"
Daniel sighed. He needed to make rent this month. "Comprende."
"Good." Robin looked up the stairs. "We're set up in an apartment above the door. Go back outside, and come back in the door when you see Jaz waving at you from the window."
Fox nodded, and headed back into the cold. As he did, he drew a phone from his pocket, and connected the pattern lock screen into a five-pointed star. This opened up certain functions on the phone that were otherwise inaccessible.
The symbol of a pentacle appeared on the screen, glowing bright blue. He plucked it from the screen, and a construct of light appeared in his hand, morphing into a bracelet around his right wrist. He touched the brickwork of the building's exterior, and grimaced— despite the rough outer surface, the Digital Pentacle allowed him to feel a slimy, sticky substance upon it. Ectoplasm, enough that it had saturated the brickwork.
A raven cawed as it alighted on a lamp pole overhead. "Going to be that cliche, are we?" Daniel muttered.
The window above opened, and a woman called down, "Come on in, the camera's waiting for you."
Daniel sighed, and opened the door, shaking his wrist and dismissing the Pentacle back into the phone.

"I've explained this half a dozen times," Daniel half-sighed, half-shivered. The crew had turned off all sources of heat in the room, and expected him to work in just a dress shirt and his khakis, no coat, except in between shots.
"We're changing networks. Hopping from the History Channel to Travel." Robin once again proffered Daniel some Chinese food the crew had gotten from a takeaway down the street, and Daniel again declined. "So, new channel, new audience, new explanation."
"Right." Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. "Okay, yeah. And I presume you want me to tone down what I explained about our founder?"
"Same as always," Robin replied, turning to his camerawoman. "He in a good light?"
Jasmine El-Mofty— 'Jaz' to the rest of the crew— focused the lens on him. "As good as I can get him. We want it to be a bit moody."
"Right. From the top." Robin cleared his throat, and stood up as a gofer took the stool out from under him and he went to face Daniel. "So, Daniel, tell us a bit about the Carnacki Center."
Daniel put on his best fake smile. "The Carnacki Center was founded in the early 1900s, at the tail end of the spiritualist movement. It's a result of several benefactors who believed in spiritualism coming together to create an organization that could investigate and either verify or debunk occult events such as, of course, mediums and ghost sightings."
"And- and the name?" Robin managed to sound like he was actually interested. "Carnacki, isn't he some kind of detective?"
"The center is named after Thomas Carnacki the Ghost-Finder, a contemporary of Sherlock Holmes. Fictional." The last word hurt Daniel to say. "But the founder of the Center was a friend of the author of the Carnacki stories, so they named it in their honor."
"Cut." Robin stepped forward. "Wonderful. You looked like you almost believed it."
Daniel felt like he was going to vomit from the amount of shit he was eating with his grin. "For you? Anything."
They both looked awkwardly at each other. Robin broke the awkwardness first, turning to leave. Jaz accosted him with a paper cup of coffee. "Here."
"No heater?" Daniel took the cup. "Is he insane?"
"Cold means visible breath means credibility." She looked him over. "You're his ex?"
He nodded. "I went to the Center, he went to Cable Television. I honestly think I got the better deal. I'm not as pompous of an ass."
Jaz nodded. "Daniel Fox? Like, the Fox Sisters?"
"Coincidence." Daniel shook his head and took a sip of the coffee. "But the Center does have actual descendants of the Fox sisters in their employ. Apparently they were told to confess themselves as charlatans to further the narrative of some… organization."
"What, like the 1800s version of MK-ULTRA?"
"I don't know." Daniel shook his head. "Do you believe any of this?"
"Do you?" She asked.
Daniel hid his smile behind his coffee. Dodging the question almost always meant 'yes'. "Then why do you put up with his shit?"
"Turns out, film degrees don't pay as well as they used to." She picked up her own coffee and sipped at it. "I used to be a fan of this kind of shit. Binged Ghost Hunters in college, I can recite the first season of Supernatural by heart, but…" Her nose wrinkled. "I didn't expect this to all be so… fake."
"Every television show is fake. Some just try to put on a thin veneer of reality to draw in the gullible." He knocked back his cup of coffee. "But to answer your question, yes, I do believe in the world beyond."
"I thought I did. But…" Jaz chewed her lip. "I don't know. I just don't."
"Have faith. They are there." His nose wrinkled. "Though I do not imagine they take kindly to being preyed upon by Robin and his ilk."
"Preyed upon?"
Daniel waved his hand. "You need not concern yourself. Who is this poor soul we are trying to contact?"
"Not sure. I'd ask Robin about it."
"I will. Thank you for the coffee." He gave Jasmine a genuine smile. "For now, I need to call my supervisor."

Five minutes later, Daniel had his phone out, and was talking to his supervisor in England.
"This is Britten."
"Mina, this is Daniel Fox."
A frown entered her voice. "Need another exception?"
"Afraid so." Shame was coating Daniel's own words.
"I thought you despised that man. Why do you continue to let him rub his charlatanism in your face?" There was a click of keys on the other end. "I know our kind of work doesn't pay much outside of Backdoors, but have you considered doing psychic readings?"
"You know I'm no good with actually calling up the dead, Mina." Daniel sighed. "I can talk to them just fine, but I'm rubbish at pulling the veil aside."
"Well, in any case, the form should be delivered to you shortly. Do you still have the printer in your car, or would you prefer the Pentacle?"
"Pentacle, please." He looked back down the hallway— the sound of heavy equipment, no doubt the hydrauilcs that would be used to lift the table, sounded through the cold, empty corridors. "The thing is, I think there might be something here— the place is saturated with ectoplasm."
The vocal frown deepened. "Go into Pentacle mode and take a few photos with Filter 5. I want to see what's going on here."
Once again, a star was drawn on the lock screen, and the Digital Pentacle appeared. He spun the star clockwise on the screen, and the center spun outwards, transfiguring into the image of a camera shutter. He spun it counter-clockwise once, and the picture of the dark hallway was suddenly filled with dozens of hands, sprouting from the walls— all immaterial, all grasping at him, all without bodies. "Shit." He tapped the center of the screen, taking the picture.
"…Class-3, at least." There was a creak of springs as Mina Britten sank back in her chair. "Put your Pentacle on, and do not dismiss it under any circumstances. We have a specialist in Yonkers who can be there before midnight. I'll send the forms through first…"
The screen returned to the default position of a blue, glowing pentacle. It sprang out of the screen and onto Daniel's left wrist, and he found himself holding a signed affidavit that stated that after an examination, he could not report any evidence showing that the seance had been faked. Not that he couldn't find it. Just that he couldn't report it. The Carnacki Center's lawyers were majestic beasts.
Of course, signing this exception meant rescinding of his membership as a member of the Carnacki Center for a twenty-four hour period. The Digital Pentacle would still function, but any official support would be cut off, and he wouldn't receive reimbursement for travel expenses.
"Came all the way up from Chelsea for this, forty-minute drive in New York traffic…" Daniel shook his head and put away his phone. "I'm going to throw that man out a window one of these days."

"The name of the spirit we're attempting to summon is Darryl Smith." Robin sat at one end of the table, the camera pointed directly at his face. "He died here, tragically, from gang-related violence."
"The name of the person." Daniel corrected.
Robin turned to face him. "What?"
"When you're not summoning them, it's polite to call the dearly departed people." Daniel shrugged. "Common courtesy."
"Can we get the Jim Butcher reject out of here?" Nathan, who was operating the boom mic, took off his headphones."He's killing the mood."
Robin chewed his lip and said "Cut" before turning to face Daniel. "Legally, I can't call him a person."
"Why n—" Daniel's eyes widened, and he realized what the answer was before the question left his lips. "…you created a fake person."
"Last time we tried having a seance with the recently deceased, we got in mundo legal trouble. You know, the Stoddard case?"
"I remember." Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose. "The Parawatch forums tried to crucify you for exploiting the family of a child who had died of cancer." He left out how entertaining it was to watch the backlash. "That's why most people fulfill the Make-a-Wish Foundation request before the wisher dies."
Robin flushed. Embarrassment and regret didn't suit his manufactured stubble. "Yeah, well. Like I said, this is going to be the pilot on Travel Channel, so we needed to make it something big and topical. Seance with the victim of gang violence in Brooklyn fulfills that." He rubbed his face. "I'm off my groove, take ten."
Jasmine put the camera down and came up to Daniel. He could see the steam coming from her ears. "That asshole. I interviewed Darryl's family for the show's first act."
"Actors." Daniel sighed. "Pretty much every ghost-hunting show does it. It's gotten easier in recent years, with deep-faking. He wouldn't have said if I hadn't pressed him."
"Didn't press very hard." Jasmine frowned. "What, can you Jedi Mind-Trick or something?"
"We don't completely despise each other. Only mostly." He snorted and breathed into his hands. "He shows me some facade of respect, at times. Knows I can see past his bullshit."
"Is it dangerous?" Jaz asked. "Calling forth a spirit that doesn't exist?"
A laugh escaped Daniel's frozen lips. "It'd be like sending a letter to 221B Baker Street. You'd get no reply beyond a 'return to sender'. Which, in this metaphor, means 'a minor headache'." He shook his head. "If anything, his reaction might work for the cameras."
"Asshole," Jasmine re-affirmed. "Fucking asshole."
"At least he pays well."

The seance began an hour after sundown— the script said that it was happening around midnight, but it was dark enough outside that nobody would know the difference, and they needed the extra time in case equipment malfunctioned or a line was flubbed in an unrealistic manner.
"What I have here is a signed affidavit from a professional medium." Robin nodded at Daniel. "It says that this seance has been inspected, and no evidence of tampering has been found. Is this correct, Dan?"
"It is." Daniel nodded as the camera turned to him, and Jasmine carefully left the two-gallon jug of corn starch, luminous dye and water that would pass for ectoplasm out of the shot. "As certified by a member of the Carnacki Center."
The camera swung back to Robin. "It is 11:45, we are preparing for the seance. Darryl's mother is waiting downstairs for us to begin, why don't we go greet her?" Robin rose, and called for Cut as he did so. "She here yet?"
Jasmine looked at her phone and frowned. "Got a text. Says she's stuck in traffic."
Daniel looked over her shoulder and frowned— the picture of the actress who played Darryl's mother was visible in an icon at the top. "Wasn't she an extra in Warehouse 13?"
"Oh, like you don't do any fucking acting." Robin snapped. "Stop it with the holier-than-thou 'my bullshit is better than your bullshit', Dan. Ghosts. Aren't. Fucking. Real. We're both hucksters, at least I'm fucking honest about it off-camera."
As he said this, the shop lights they had set up to illuminate the seance flickered. Daniel felt his heart drop.
Robin blinked, momentarily stunned. "Someone step on the cord?"
Nathan, Jasmine, and Daniel all looked at their feet. The cord was plugged into a wall underneath a window, far away from where any of them were.
"Fuck. Kind of wish we'd gotten it on camera, would have made a great mood setting. Could've ADRed out all the nasty shit."
Daniel pinched the bridge of his nose hard enough that he saw stars. He looked at the Pentacle still on his left wrist, and concealed it beneath his sleeve, taking out his phone. A tendril snaked out of the bracelet, and up into the data port.
The readout displayed was not promising— a two-degree drop in temperature and an electromagnetic fluctuation at the end of Robin's rant. Proximity heat sensors detected seven different people in the room— three more than Daniel could see.
He put the phone away. "As long as you don't use that asinine, broken scanning radio you call a ghost box for this seance, I'm not going to say anything more against it." He had bigger things to worry about.
"It's Ghost Adventures's gimmick now," Robin shook his head. "We're sharing the same channel with them, so no more ghost box."
"Hmm." Daniel looked at his bracelet. "I'm going to head outside to smoke."

Daniel switched his Digital Pentacle to his right wrist, and had his hand on the wall all the way down the stairs. It collected data that would normally be sent to the Carnacki Center for analysis, but since he was temporarily not a member, he had to interpret it himself.
His phone was in his other hand, a cold blue cord running from the bracelet, under his shirt, and into the phone's port. He didn't like what he was seeing— the ectoplasm was almost dense enough to physically manifest, and there were random spikes of hot and cold along the hallways of the building.
On the landing of the first floor, his Pentacle pulsed and tightened around his wrist, causing him to involuntarily knock on the wall to relieve the pressure. Doing so released the sound of screams, and a pair of gunshots. He knocked in the same place, and the gunshots and screams repeated.
"Stone tape." Daniel frowned. Psychic trauma, recorded by architecture. Typically wasn't found in buildings made after the 1960s, as fiberglass insulation tended to, for lack of a better term, muffle the sound. Daniel had a feeling the landlords that had owned this building since it was constructed didn't much care about insulation for their tenants.
He made his way back up the stairs, knocking on the wall in several places. One spot on the first floor emitted the sound of a child crying, another an argument between two women. The second floor had three separate instances of a single gunshot, one of which was located underneath a framed picture on an otherwise bare wall— Daniel was sure that if he moved it, he'd see a bullet hole going clean through the wall.
A section of floor on the third story sounded like a dog yapping in pain when Daniel stepped on it. Eventually, he made his way to the fourth floor, where they were set up, and knocked on the door to the room.
As he did, the sound of screaming and a flurry of gunshots, far too many to be necessary. He dropped his phone, and attempted to count the screams as he did so— three voices. Three people had died tragically in the apartment they had set up as a base.
If they had tried a seance anywhere else in the building, it would have been like trying to send mail to 221B Baker Street. If they tried it in here, it would be like sending mail to Baker Street and getting a letter bomb in return.
Jasmine opened the door, and looked at him, frowning. "You… okay?"
Daniel rubbed his face. He'd find an exit to this, say he needed to use a bathroom, start a fire. It would be safer than whatever they were planning. "F-fine. Just ran up the stairs."
She shook her head. "All right. Actress still isn't here, and we just made a fresh pot. Make yourself at home."
Daniel stepped into the room, and from the darkness in one corner, saw a pair of eyes staring at him. Then, they closed, and the darkness faded with it.
"By those that wait beyond," Daniel prayed, "Give me strength to protect these people."

Part 2»


Canon Hub » What a Wonderful World Hub / Those Twisted Pines Hub » Take It Away, My Darling » The Beginnings of Love

Chapter I.V

I shivered. It was a combination of factors; the air around me wasn't quite cold enough to prompt me alone, though I had put my jacket on. I was a fast writer. Had been all my life. But two hours was still two hours.
In the middle of the year, six in the evening was still light, but it was growing darker. The frogs were getting louder, the crickets were eager to begin their chirping. I shut the tablet for the first time since beginning, and felt the ache beginning to form in my wrists. With all my time at a desk, I was already threatening carpal tunnel, but this was going to really be pushing it. I might start having to take breaks. Somewhere in my mind, I knew I wasn't going to. Well, except for this one.
I pulled my sandwich — ham, lettuce, and mayonnaise on whole wheat — out of its plastic bag and took the first bite. Over food, I reviewed what I had just written. Tim as a baby, then a child, then a young teen, then an older teen. Setup. I knew why I wrote it, and I knew why I had taken this opportunity to bite into my sandwich. I wasn't hungry, that's for sure.
I closed my eyes and listened to the creek. I didn't know what it was that kept me awake, but I knew that, in spite of my exhaustion, resting the eyes wouldn't do me in. Tickle Creek. That's the name of this stream. It starts south of here, out in the middle of the woods somewhere, and then it comes a long, long way until it merges into Deep Creek a little east of Barton. After that, Deep Creek continues west, absorbing into itself North Fork Deep Creek and Noyer Creek before crashing into the Clackamas River right next to the highway, a little west of Barton this time. Then, the Clackamas River and the Clackamas Highway are brother and sister for a few miles but separate in the southern part of Happy Valley. The river gets together with South Clackamas River Drive, heading west, until they break up right before the river loses itself to the Willamette in Gladstone, just south of Portland.
That's where my knowledge ended, of course. The Willamette River continued past the boundaries of Clackamas County, which had so recently subsumed and consumed my life. When had I learned all this? Never had I sat down with the task of memorizing the watershed. Never had it been part of my job. I had lived 46 years, and less than a fourth of that have I spent in Oregon, in Boring. I used to know New York City just as well. I probably still did. Even as I listened to the creek, I could feel something missing. And I knew what it was.
The cars.
Oh, how long it had been since I had opened the window on the third or fourth story of a building, stuck my head out, felt the wind on my shoulders, the air on my face, and just listened to the cars. There were so many that you couldn't experience the individual noises that they made. It was a rumble instead. I had never found a word to perfectly describe the sound of an automobile passing by you. A swoosh? Like a strong gust of wind? That rapid increase and then sudden decrease in volume. That, a thousand times over, mixed with the air hissing out of parking buses, the honks of angry drivers, and then the rest of the city sounds; distant music, mumbling crowds, a laugh every once in a while… oh, and the smells. And the lights. And god damn it, the rest of it. All of it. Every single bit.
Portland was so close, but I barely ever went there. It might have been even a year since I stopped in, felt the crush of a teeming population. The towers, the concrete, the storefronts, the malls, the yelling, the running, the joggers, the bikers, the people in suits, people on phones, people, people, people.
But here it was calm. Rustling leaves, something shifting in a bush nearby. Buzzing of bugs. And, of course, the snowmelt in the creek.
I finished my sandwich, and took a fresh batch of deep breaths. Alright, then. No more setup. I pressed a hand into my forehead, and then smoothed my hair back. No more hesitation.
I started typing.

Dad graduated from high school with the class of 1974, and went straight from that into veterinary school. Tim was never the best of students, but he was good enough — he skated by with Cs in the classes he didn't much care for, and Bs and As in the classes he did. I'm still not quite sure why he didn't leave San Diego at this first opportunity, but I have my suspicions. One, locals always get priority, and so he was accepted to the University of California Veterinary School over the other places he had applied. Two, he had been avoiding getting a job and his parents weren't willing to pay for his living arrangement if he went elsewhere. Three, I'm not sure Tim really knew what he wanted to do.
Edna was a veterinarian, yes, and he loved animals, yes, but I don't think he was particularly sold on doing surgery on them. I think that if he were a bit more introspective at the time, he might have found more passion for a degree in ecology, or zoology. That would certainly have played more into his life trajectory than becoming a veterinarian.
But going for a degree that someone in your family already has gives you a willing mentor at your fingertips. I think that really helped Tim focus and excel.
Most of his friends didn't stay in San Diego, though. Blake's grandpa's health was beginning to fail, and his family had moved back to New Jersey to help him. Eva's freshman year in college started with studying abroad, in Greece if I remember correctly, and when she came back she moved upstate. Ricardo and Pablo stayed local, as long as Pablo was finishing up school, but that only lasted two years before Ricardo gained legal guardianship of Pablo and then moved to Nevada, where real estate was cheap. They stayed in touch for a little while after that, but eventually letters just stopped being sent, and the lives of the Gutierrez brothers became detached from Tim's.
Enter the lonely period of Tim's life, as brief as it was. In an entirely new social circle, Tim could have made fast friends if it weren't for his studies. Something flipped in Tim, and he really wanted to make his parents proud, because he wasn't a great student before and he still didn't have a job. He was also invigorated that he was finally getting to go to school and learn about animals all the time. Biology, animal handling, animal behavior, animal sickness, all that good stuff. It wasn't really the area he wanted — it was more about handling pets than wildlife — but for the first year, just the fact that it was about animals at all was enough to keep him engaged. And so Tim began to study, and get good grades, and generally do well, even in his general education classes that he despised. But all of this hard work came at the expense of his social life, so it was a wonder that he met anyone at all.
But he did.

* * * * *

Sometime early in the year, they did a lab. I can't imagine it was anything other than the first thing you can think of: some dissection of a poor, innocent creature. Maybe a frog, or a pig fetus. Some similar assault on the senses, at least. And this time around, they needed a partner.
In a typical arrangement, everyone who didn't know anyone else would begin to pair with those closest to them, and to Tim's left was a pretty, latin-looking girl. Which made her name, when they introduced themselves to each other, all the more perplexing.
"Audrey Fuchs?"
"Yeah," she said.
"Isn't that, what, German?"
"What of it?"
Tim gave her an incredulous smile. "I didn't peg you as German, is all."
"Oh, what were you expecting? Maria Rodriguez?"
Tim's smile grew, and he shrugged. "Maybe something a bit closer to that, sure."
Their conversation paused as instructions were given for the lab. Here was where they had to make incisions, here were the organs they would need to identify. Bonus points for those who could discover a malady, though no extra credit so that those with healthy carcasses wouldn't feel cheated. The necessary tools were already at each station, and so it was three, two, one, go.
The class began to murmur and mingle, grabbing scalpels, paper, tongs, pencils, and all other necessary materials to pull apart the rodent, or amphibian, or whatever else it might have been. But before anything else, Tim donned a surgical mask.
Audrey snickered. "Where'd you get that?"
"This? My mom's a veterinarian, and I can't stand the smell of dead animals."
"Oh really?"
"What do you mean 'oh really'? Of course really, I'm wearing it, aren't I?"
"It's just that I thought guys tended to pretend nothing affected them."
Tim rolled his eyes. "Guys don't pretend anything, maybe we've just got a bit of a thicker skin."
"Oh really."
"Yes, I really do think so. Now, could you hand me that scalpel?"
Audrey did so, but not without shooting him an inquisitive, more-than-slightly judgmental look. Tim took it, and pressed it against the belly of the beast after Audrey had dotted a line with a marker. Tim had yet to understand that he didn't need to act tough around girls. It had gotten him through high school, hadn't it? That and his recent lack of socializing had made him ill-prepared for the forging of a new relationship of any sort. But thankfully, he had cornered himself.
"Aren't you going to cut it open?"
Tim came back to reality, and realized he had been standing over the unfortunate scene for the better part of twenty seconds. He made confused eye contact with Audrey, and then looked back down at the animal. Its eyes were open, staring straight up, directly into his whenever he went to cut it. Innocent eyes. Pleading eyes.
He put the scalpel down, and rubbed a hand over his forehead, pushing back his hair. "What if you do it?"
"Me?"
"Yeah, I can take the notes, you can cut it open."
"Are you sure?"
She challenged him with her stare, eyebrows raised. He took note, suddenly realizing that he had compromised his position. He calculated. Was it worth it? To maintain an image, or to… to…
The decision didn't take long. He put the handle of the scalpel in her hand.
"Yes, I'm sure."
Audrey didn't say anything, but continued to look at him as he dug through his backpack for his notebook he had yet to retrieve. Once he laid it on the table, he noticed her stasis.
"W-well? Get to it, I'm ready to take notes whenever."
Audrey shrugged, and cut the animal open swiftly. Its stomach sagged, and thankfully few fumes came out due to its preservation in the university's freezers.
"Was it really so…"
She saw that Tim had his head turned a full 180 degrees in the other direction and slightly up towards the ceiling, trying to catch as little of what was going on as possible.
"Does it gross you out that much?"
His head turned slightly towards her.
"If you're so uncomfortable with this, I'm not sure why you're going into veterinary school."
"Oh haha," was all Tim could come up with on short notice.
Audrey chuckled a little bit. "You have to look at it to take notes."
Tim turned a little more towards her and the creature, but not enough to make eye contact. Audrey waited patiently for his full attention, but seconds passed. Right before she was about to say something, Tim spoke.
"It looks at me."
Her brow furrowed. "Huh?"
"It's just… it's looking at me."
She laughed just a little, but cut it short when Tim turned around enough for her to finally see his eyes. He wasn't about to cry, no. But he was wincing. Whatever upset he had was more or less hidden from his voice, and the surgical mask covered the most revealing parts of his expression, but his eyes told all. The angle of his eyebrows, pointed up in the center of his face, and the sad squint, like his cheeks were trying to get in the way of him seeing the damage… Audrey shut up completely.
Tim turned away again, and tried to bury himself in the notebook.
"Just report things back to me, I'll take good notes."
There was a pause.
"Okay," said Audrey, and the rest went smoothly.
One night, before some stressful test, Audrey and Tim were studying in his room. Elliot and Edna had left for the night (a sneaky move that Tim learned of by finding a note on the kitchen counter the next morning) to allow the two some privacy, which turned out to be a fruitful investment. Need I say how a long night of reading and testing transitioned into play and giggling? Maybe not. But I will anyways.
The following is the poem that Audrey read to Tim that night:
"Dog on the street
boots on your feet
snow on your nose
running through sleet
Shining black eyes
gray stormy skies
elegant pose
after sunrise
Morning of fur
fuzzy love blur
I see a rose
makes my heart purr"
If that requires more explanation, I'm not sure that you're salvageable. I feel that the following events are a natural progression from such a night.
They went diving together, they went up in a helicopter together, and one summer, they went on a road trip together. They went north to see the redwood forests. That was the first time Tim had ever been out in nature, and Audrey told me that Tim cried. Actually cried. His heart made him barely able to get out of the car, he was so happy. Audrey wondered if she could ever make Tim that happy. Audrey told me that the kiss she and Tim shared in those woods was the most passionate form of love she'd ever experienced — like Tim was filled with so much ecstasy and enthusiasm that he didn't know how to express it in words, but had to share it somehow, and it came out in the form of a tight embrace and a kiss on the lips. Tim told me that it was a chore to convince him to leave, and on the ride back home, he was smiling the entire way.
I don't think Tim would have gotten through his sophomore year if it weren't for Audrey… but he didn't make it much further than that.

* * * * *

Audrey got in the car, and stared Tim down. Tim tried his best to pretend he had no idea what it was about.
"So," Audrey started. "Your mom told me you had something to tell me. I suspect I know what it is."
"Do you?" Tim asked.
"You're dropping out of college."
Tim snapped his finger. "You got me."
"This is serious, Tim. What are you doing? I knew you were thinking of going into some other field, but dropping out?"
"It's a real puzzler, ain't it?"
"Tim."
Tim just giggled.
"Fine." Audrey opened the door and turned to leave.
"Oh, Audrey…"
"No. If you're not going to take this seriously, I don't feel like having this conversation."
"Audrey—"
But she had already shut the door, and began to walk. Tim quickly turned on the car and then began to follow her pace on the side of the road. Audrey pretended not to notice, but it became difficult when Tim rolled down the passenger side window and leaned to get closer.
"Audrey, I'm sorry! I didn't think you'd take it so badly." She just kept walking. "There's more to it! I'm not just dropping out. I have a plan, and you're a part of it. I guess I got the tone wrong, but, this is a good thing! I swear to you, I've—"
Audrey turned around, and started walking the other direction.
"Oh come on, that's not fair!" Tim parked the car in a not-quite-legal spot, left it running, and got out to chase her down. Unfortunately, his heart started threatening him, and he slowed down to a lively jog. It took too long to catch up.
"Hoo, ho, you're a fast walker, you know that? Haah, yeesh. But, haa, seriously, I'm, not, making this up. I'm working on something. I've been, hoo, taking, diving lessons."
That made her stop and turn around.
"Diving lessons!?"
"I, yes! And—"
She slapped him. "So you dropped out of college, and you're keeping secrets, and you're spending your money on lessons! You're not saving up? Not investing in your future? You're really irresponsible, Tim. It's starting to catch up with you."
"No, I'm…"
She turned again, and began to walk faster. Tim had to try extra hard to keep up.
"Audrey, this, hhh, this isn't, fair! I'm, I, haa, can't, to keep up? Please, slow down, I, hoo, hha, I have, something, to! Say!"
She didn't slow down.
"I, am, investing in my, my future, you're not, giving me, time, hhhhaaaa, haaa, hoo, to, exp, uhh, God, I…"
"Oh my lord, Tim." Tim, hunched over, hadn't noticed that she turned around to see him. His right hand was pressed against his chest, trying to monitor his heartrate. "Just, stop. You're going to faint."
"I'll, haa," he smiled, and tried to look up, "I'll faint if I, have to, heheh, haa, hha."
Audrey frowned. "Please don't."
"Then listen to me!"
Audrey stepped closer, and helped him stand up straight. After more than just a few deep breaths, he started to level out, and regain his composure. "Okay," he started, but then paused again. In, out. "Okay."
"Alright, I'm listening." Audrey's tone had softened a great deal.
"I was… trying to make it a surprise… I thought it'd be… exciting, I'm sorry… that I didn't tell you sooner."
Audrey felt that it was too soon to accept the apology, but didn't stop him either.
"I've been taking diving lessons… not to go on tours, but… I got my license, just recently, and… I've got it in good, with… one of the diving instructors."
"What're you talking about?"
Tim smiled, though his eyes were still screwed mostly shut with exertion. "Well, what I'm saying is… I am investing in my future… I'm going to get a job with… the diving instructors! I'm going to… give diving tours…"
"Oh my god. With your heart? Don't you think that's dangerous?"
Tim laughed, as well as he could while out of breath. "I had to swim 200 yards to get… the license. There was no time limit. I did it. I swam 200 yards. It was… really slow, but I did it. I'm fine to be out in the water. And as you've seen with our trip… up to the redwoods, even when I get real excited, I can monitor myself. And… exposure to the ocean will get less and less exciting, I'll stop having heart palpitations, and I've already… been out in the ocean, getting my license, you see? I got it all figured out, I just have too… eheheh, I just have to deal with the fact that, I'm gonna swim slower, than everyone else."
Audrey rubbed his back, though still under the influence of residual anger, and tried to process.
"So you dropped out of college. To give diving tours."
"Yes, yes, I did."
"And this is… why would this be good news for me? I'm going to see you less, we'll stop having classes together. We can't study together, we… we'll have separate lives."
"That's, see, that's where you're wrong. Giving diving tours pays really well, and, I won't have to keep paying for college, see? It's a net gain, in funds. And, I was thinking that, with these funds, and uh, maybe a little support from some parents while we're still figuring it out, I thought that we could, umm…"
Tim stopped short and took some deep breaths, this time not because he was struggling to get anything into his lungs.
"Go ahead spit it out."
"Well, I thought it would be hard to start a family if neither of us is raking in income, see?"
Tim looked to Audrey, and couldn't decode her expression. Her mouth betrayed no emotion. Her eyes were alert, but… happy? Angry? Upset? Unreadable. His heart started to beat faster.
"And… I was thinking we could… umm… get an apartment together, and, figure out what we're doing, from there… and…"
Still, nothing.
"I, I'm so sorry, to spring this on you, I thought, that it would be a good surprise, and that this would all just work out, and, you're right, for being mad, and I'm just—!"
Tim was interrupted with a tight hug and a deep, passionate kiss. When Audrey pulled back, the beginnings of tears lined her eyes.
"You idiot! I'm not mad!" She pulled him in for another kiss. This time, he was prepared, and kissed back. "I'm not mad, I'm not mad. I'm just surprised. But," she looked straight into his eyes. "I'm… not mad."
Tim looked at her, and put a hand affectionately through her hair. He leaned in close, and said, in a very breathy voice: "Oh thank god. I think I was about to pass out."
This lifestyle was much closer to what Tim wanted. Finally, he was regularly out with the local wildlife, and his natural charisma and genuine enthusiasm ensnared plenty of divers. He was, in short, a very good tour guide. He was also very happy to not have to do any more dissections back at the university. After some months of working as a tour guide, he had secretly saved up enough money to get a ring.
And soon after that, under the fireworks on the Fourth of July, Tim made Audrey a very happy woman.
Audrey and Tim married when he was 21 and she was 22. They got their own apartment, as close to Balboa Park as they could be without destroying themselves via rent. Audrey's parents still supported her financially so she could focus on college, but whatever slack there was got picked up by Tim. The schoolgirl and the working man.
But it wasn't going to last long.
Because that's when I was born.

« Diving in the San Diego Sea | Stories My Dad Told Me | & the Endings Thereof »


The winter wind could be heard blowing through Sloth's Pit, from the windows of Site-87.
Researcher Kase Iglesias sat down at his desk, his earbuds embedded so deep they were nearly at risk of fusing to his ear canal. Mariah Carey's All I Want For Christmas Is You on the local radio station was pleasant the first time. Maybe even the first few dozen times. But every third song on the radio?
He rubbed his temples and looked over to the Dinosaurs of the Anomalous World calendar on the wall, a gift from his sister when he transferred here. A small note scribbled on it read "Merry Christmas to the best brother ever. -Angie".
Oh shit. He still hadn't figured out what to send her for Christmas this year. This report could wait, anyway.
Kase scrambled downstairs, racking his brain for ideas, and decided he should grab some food first. He walked into the cafeteria and was greeted by the familiar laughs of Oz, the current cook.
"Hey, Kase. Rough morning?"
Kase smiled. "Had better, but one of your sandwiches wouldn't hurt."
"You flatter me. Want turkey or salami today?"
"What about ham?"
Oz shivered. "You've been cooped up in the labs too much if you haven't even heard about THE HAMSTER rampaging through here last week."
"The what now?"
"Well… my hamster died in a tragic hamster wheel accident, and its vengeful ghost came in here and tried to terrorize me by animating the ham in the meat locker. At least, we think. So yeah, no ham sandwiches for a while."
"I see… salami, then."
"You got it! Want some cocoa with that?"
"That'd be great, thanks!"
"How's the family doing, by the way?"
Kase rubbed his neck. "Oh, they're doing great. Angie's been off doing her task force stuff, she writes every so often. Dad finally retired; he and Mom said they were moving to Utah."
Oz paused in the middle of handing Kase his tray. "Really? Why Utah?"
"Hell if I know."
Kase took the tray with his sandwich and cup and sat down at an empty table. He bit into the sandwich and smiled to himself. Oz had done it again. He'd have to ask him for the recipe one of these days. As he drank the cocoa, Kase considered what Oz said. Maybe he did spend too much time inside. He'd only been here a year, and had spent most of that time researching the backstories and origins of classic Sloth's Pit oddities like the cursed streetlight on Poplar Avenue or the weird pile of tires behind the mechanic's shop that got people high on helium. He'd only get the reports and data, but he rarely even got to experience the weirdness of the town.
A voice broke his reverie. Kase looked up and saw Irene Nikolas, from Forestry Division. "Mind if I sit here?"
Kase smiled and nodded. "Sure. Hey, haven't seen you around in a while."
Irene laughed. "That's cause I've been outside, Kase. Oh, speaking of which, I was wondering if you could help me out."
"With what?"
"Well, it's been snowing like crazy these past couple days, and we've gotten reports of a weird hill in the woods with more snow than usual. Jack Thomson's kids got lost in there and said something about ghosts. They're all alright, but they told me to check it out. Ordinarily I'd have my assistant go with me, but she's fighting off a flu right now. You in?"
Kase contemplated it for a second. It would be a fun distraction. "Heck yeah, I'm in. Let me find my snow boots."

Kase and Irene trudged through the woods, and came to the location of the hill.
"Come on!" Irene started climbing.
Kase felt himself relax. There was just something refreshing about the cold wind, and the feeling of the snow under his boots. Irene crested the top of the hill, and heard laughter. "Kase, get up here." Kase climbed up to where she was. "Weird. I don't see any- SPLAT" A big fat snowball hit Kase right in the face.
Now Irene was laughing. Kase wiped the cold snow off his face with his gloves. "What was that for?!"
"Wasn't me, dork. Look."
Kase turned to where Irene was pointing, and saw several translucent, child-shaped silhouettes standing next to a rather large snow fort, surrounded by pyramids of snowballs. The children were dressed in a random assortment of vaguely army-like costumes, helmets, hats, and jackets.
One of the silhouettes called out. "This hill is our territory! We, the Pigeon Street Treehouse Club, formally declare WAR!"
Irene cocked her head. "Hey, you can't just bean my friend here before the war starts. That's not very fair."
Kase piped up. "Irene's right. At least let us build our own snow fort first!"
The ghost kids whined. "Fiiiiiiiine. You got, uh, ten minutes."
Kase and Irene hurriedly scooped up snow, compacting it and piling it high. Kase made several thick walls, while Irene dug behind the walls to give them more space to hide.
Irene adjusted her beanie. "Huh. You're pretty good at this, you know."
"Thanks. My sister and her friends taught me the basics of snowball combat, heh."
"Lucky. I never even saw snow til I moved here. Actually… this would be my first real snowball fight."
"No way."
"Yeah. That's what happens when you grow up in Arizona of all places."
Kase shoved another pile of snow towards Irene and smiled. "Well, if we're gonna win this, we're gonna need you up to speed on prime snowball technique." Irene grinned. "Teach me the ways."

"TIME'S UP, CHUMPS!"
The ghosts snickered, picking up snowballs. "I hope you're ready!"
Kase and Irene looked at their own pile of snowballs and let out a war cry.
The world seemed to suddenly go sepia-toned, and Irene felt like she was in some WWII documentary stock footage as she picked up her first snowball. Drums sounded in the distance, with no apparent source. She took aim, and flung the snowball at one of the ghosts.
PAFT!
The snowball hit the kid directly in the chest, sending him stumbling back in slow motion. Irene and Kase watched as the ghost child fell to the ground, pretending to cry out in pain. The other ghost children surrounded him. "Jimmy! Hang in there, we'll get you to safety!"
The two researchers hid behind their wall as a storm of snowballs rained down. Kase peeked out and took potshots, knocking down a section of the kids' wall, before ducking back behind the wall. Undeterred, the ghosts tried other tactics:
"Kase and Irene sitting in a snow fort! K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"
Irene hit one of the kids with a snowball. Amateur tactics!
The battle raged, with both teams lobbing larger and larger snowballs at each other's fortifications.
Irene paused while making more snowballs, and fumbled in her back pocket. She pulled out her buzzing phone, which displayed an image of her parents calling. Kase moved towards her.
"No! Don't you know what happens to people who look at pictures of their loved ones during a battle?!"
A gigantic snowball from the ghosts flew through the air, and made a comically large explosion of powdered snow when it collided with the wall. Kase and Irene were sent flying back, with an inexplicable ringing noise in both their ears.
Kase got up, and crawled over to Irene while staying behind what was left of their wall. The front of Irene's purple coat was completely covered in snow. She grinned, then coughed weakly. "They got me, Kase. Tell my family… I love them…" Kase suppressed a laugh as Irene pretended to go limp.
Now was the time to put his sister's training to use. Kase drew lines under his eyes with snow as dramatic music played from somewhere. He stood up, snowball in each hand, and charged the ghost kids.
The kids launched a barrage of snowballs at Kase, but to no avail. He dodged to the left, then ducked, then jumped, then tumbled forward. Expertly avoiding every projectile, he hurled snowball after snowball at the laughing ghosts, each one a critical hit.
Finally, there was only one ghost kid left. The kid picked up a snowball, and the two of them faced off like a scene from an old Western. The icy wind blew. Kase was ready. He poised to strike, the snowball in his hands the roundest one he'd ever made. He narrowed his eyes. This was it! The final-
SPLAT!
Kase and the kid both fell to the ground overly dramatically, snow covering their faces. Irene was standing up, laughing, having just ended the war herself.
"I win!"
The kids cheered, and she and Kase laughed.
The ghost kids got back up. Some started rebuilding their fort, while one walked up to Irene and Kase.
"Rematch?"

Kase mailed his sister a framed picture of him, Irene, and the ghosts.


I <3 the Circus!
<< Pt. 2 - Amongst the Clowns | Herman Fuller Hub | Pt. 3 - Wherever You Go, I'll Follow | Pt. 4 For Fear of Falling >>

I awoke surrounded by flesh.
In that vague half-world of being freshly-roused from slumber, I thought myself wrapped in a warm blanket, maybe even one of those weighted blankets that have become all the rage. At first, I curled further into it, cherishing the warmth across my body, then one of the folds shifted on its own and I was suddenly and shockingly jerked from my languid torpor.
"Wha— what is this?" My voice caught, trembled, horror creeping into my heart like a living thing. My mind felt clear, for the first time in hours, as if a glittering veil had been lifted, and I saw the world around me without that occluding prism. The darkness of the metal container shifted and danced menacingly, and I drew breath for a scream that I quickly aborted in favor of not drawing attention.
The coils shifted again, momentarily tightening about me and I struggled against a rising tide of panic. It is difficult to describe the miasma of feeling that comes from being trapped inside the warm and smooth tendrils of that muscled embrace. Maybe a rat feels similarly when faced with its eminent demise in the deadly embrace of the constrictor, and like that rat, all I could do was stare wide-eyed as my captor rose into view.
This Clown was decidedly different from Squigly and Poodles. It was slender and… beautiful in its uniquely, horrifying way. Its face was all curved angularity and looked like those perfect alabaster busts of ancient Roman gods and emperors, save that the pallor of the cheeks were suffused with an ever-so-slight brushing of pink. It yawned, revealing perfect teeth and a small pink tongue, before stretching slender arms above its head. Its nude pectorals and shoulders were not unlike those of a small boy, but that is where the similarities ended.
From where the ribs should have been, sprouted long ropy tendrils of muscle that curled out from its body and helped to lift its torso free of the nest. The Clown curled its legs underneath itself, coming to rest in a kneeling position atop the pile of pillows around us. I thought in that moment that this Clown was probably the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. Even as it somehow drew its tentacles into its torso, I could only stare in marvelous rapture.
The Clown yawned again and wiped sleep from its eyes with delicately slender fingers before turning fully towards me.
"Good morning, friend!" Its voice was bright and cheerful with a musical quality that I realized fit perfectly with its other-worldly beauty.
"Uh… good morning." My fear had begun to abate, replaced with fascination at the situation I found myself in. I was still at a loss for words, and I was suddenly very eager to somehow gain this weirdly beautiful creature's favor. I struggled to remember the events of the night before, and finally what had to be its name floated to the fore. I cleared my throat and tried again.
"Um, yes. Good morning, Frost. Did you.. ah, sleep well?" Not the most charming of questions, but at the time, it was all I had.
Fraust grinned at me and shifted a bit closer. It laid a warm hand upon my shoulder and gave me a gentle squeeze. "Yes, I did. Even with the interruption and an unexpected guest. I am surprised you remembered my name, to be honest. Fraust, however. Softer than frost, but I guess its still a proper homophone."
They laughed lightly at something they found amusing, and I couldn't help but smile from the genuine warmth in their tone. What had happened to me? In such a short time I had traversed some vast gulf, been ripped free from the life I had known. Terrible as it was, it was the life I knew, the world I'd crafted for myself. Here I was, reminiscing about a good night's sleep with what might as well be an eldritch horror. The wageslave mentality that had only so recently had such a firm grasp on my very being began to slip away, and I knew in that moment that I could never go back. I would rather die.
The moment of reverie was shattered by the crashing entrance of Poodles and Squigly. Cursing as they tried to push through the entrance of the container at the same time, they tumbled in together as a mass of twisted arms and legs. For a moment, I could not distinguish between the two Clowns as they rolled across the floor, and I thought I caught a glimpse of flesh sliding from one to another as they quite literally pulled themselves apart.
"Well then, there goes our serenity for the morning." Quipped Fraust as they cast a disparaging glance at the two unruly Clowns.
"Eh, doncha go 'bout spreddin' dat shit, Fraust." Squigly grumbled as he pushed himself off of the floor. "Poodles' jus went an dida jump'd jus' as I was doin' dat same." He elbowed his erstwhile companion, eliciting a grunt from the dour Clown.
"Sorry, Squigly. I wanted to see how the gilly was gettin' along, same as you." Poodles grumbled morosely, glaring hard at the floor. "How was I to know you was gonna jump that last gap from below me? Alllllways gotta be first."
Squigly hmphed at the other Clown, then stalked over to the pile of cushions. "So, yous' done wif' yor beautify sleep, yeah?" He nudged the pile of pillows with the toe of his boot. "We's gots'ta take this'n over ta Icky an let 'er know we'z gots us a stowaway. She'll be findin' out soonest, iff'n she don't a'ready." He gave Fraust a knowing look before he turned his attention to me.
"Oi, gilly. Yous' prolly hungry now, eh?" At the thought of food, I realized that I hadn't eaten anything but cotton candy for hours. I'd skipped out on dinner the night before to catch the Circus, and I really had no idea how long I'd been sleeping. As if on cue, my stomach rumbled audibly, and I touched my belly with a free hand.
Poodles laughed and reached into a pocket. "See that, Squigly? I told you the gilly would be wanting to eat. Best pay up, fair bet's a fair bet." He withdrew his hand from his pocket, pulling out a bag of round candies that looked suspiciously like melted dark chocolate M&Ms. He tossed the bag at me, and I fumbled briefly with it as I caught it.
"Candy? For breakfast?" I eyed the bag of candies with a bit of incredulity.
Fraust grinned at me and relieved me of the bag before taking a few out and popping them into their mouth. "Yeah! Why not? Best part of a balanced breakfast. Also, most of what you kids are eating these days as 'cereal' probably counts as raw candy anyway." They handed the bag back to me, and I took it with a shrug. "You're probably right."
I resigned myself for an early morning sugar rush and the stomach ache that would inevitably follow. I opened the bag and popped one of the candies into my mouth.
The sensation was immediate as the piquant flavor exploded in my mouth like a nova. I found myself devouring the rest of the bag with gusto, and in the process I managed to smear a bit of the sticky chocolate across my fingers.
"Aay! I be thinkin' that tha gilly'd be likin' it!" Squigly attempted to jab Poodles with an elbow, but the other Clown deftly dodged the motion. "Yeah, probably should've warned-"
Squigly jabbed at him again and connected despite Poodles' gyrating attempts to dodge. "Eh, dontcha be' aruinin' tha surprise, billyboy. Thisn's not bein' as pure as ifn' it's straight outta tha Fun Lovers, but'n its bein a damn site more'n tha Candy."
I wondered for a moment at what they were talking about, then I felt a brief sensation of falling and all slid into darkness.

Time passed, and I felt myself drifting amongst the clouds of an otherworldly dreamscape. The memories from the night before flitted across the sky around me, playing like old nickelodeons in the clouds around me. The Circus was a wonder that I knew had changed me forever, and the flight through the Kaleidoscope onto the planes of an entirely different world had only cemented the fact.
The suspicion that I was no longer the person I had been blossomed into my head like a wondrous springtime flower. Who I had been no longer mattered, and the nascent desire for who I would become took hold of me with the persistence of a fever. This was my world now, and no matter what, I was never going to leave Fraust's side.
Where had that thought come from? As I looked at it again, rolling the concept over in my mind, I realize that it had somehow taken root inside of me. I was fascinated by the creature, that was undeniable. But fascination to the point that I would never leave them?
The memory of Fraust's gentle laughter echoed through my head, and I realized with a start that I was well and truly hooked. If this be a drug, then I accept this addiction gladly.

I awoke with Fraust's face hovering above me, concern writ plainly across their brow. I reached up with a tentative hand and brushed their bright red hair away from their eyes. For a moment that seemed like an eternity, we were suspended there together. Their eyes softened as they gazed into mine, and a knowing passed between us without the need for words.
When they leaned down to kiss me, I embraced it with all the fervor of a drowning man gasping for air.
"Uh… yeah." A short cough broke the reverie, and we split apart. I felt part of myself go with them as Fraust pulled away from me, and a bright blush suffused my cheeks as I turned away with a small smile. I felt a bit of Fraust inside me as well, a brilliant mote of incandescent fire now burning in the dark recesses of my heart. It was as if I'd never lived before, and I felt that all to brief kiss bring a warmth I'd never experienced before.
Sure, there had been other lovers before. Sweaty rutting in tangled sheets, brief protestations of love gasped between lewd thrusting of hip and clutching hands. Breathless promises between little stolen kisses. But none of them had been like this. Nothing like this.
I turned my head up to look back at Fraust, only to find them gazing at me with a warmth in their eyes that was more than a match for my own. In that moment, I knew.
I was home.


by Kothardarastrix

Vacation, all I never wanted.

Dr. Scott didn't want to go on vacation. He needed to get back to work. But he didn't really have a choice, not if the listening device he'd found behind the portrait of his late wife was anything to go by. The Foundation was keeping a close eye on him, “for his own safety”. Scott supposed that they expected him to rip out his eyes and write beat poetry with the vitreous, or something equally horrible but still interesting, at least. But Conrad Scott was not an interesting man. On the rare occasions that he returned to his official living quarters (only a few short hallways from his office), he did little more than read James Patterson books and, if he were particularly exhausted, sleep. He would've been perfectly content to let whoever was spying on him watch that same routine for the next week, but when Dr. Glass “recommended” something you did it, if you knew what was good for you.
That's why Conrad had spent the last half hour reading dozens of online articles full of vacation ideas, most of which he hated. Conrad didn't like the beach. Well, more accurately, he didn't like the ocean. Few Foundation employees did, once they learned about the staggering variety of distressingly large anomalies swimming around it. Vegas was too noisy and crowded. His artificial knees forbade him from skiing, and his bad back did the same for camping. He supposed he could visit a fancy lodge, high up in the Rockies someplace, but he couldn't help but imagine himself typing “the drooling path” over and over again on a typewriter in a huge, empty room while ominous music played in the background.
Conrad glanced at Allison's picture again. No, he'd had quite enough of lovely little hotels in the Rockies.
After the umpteenth unrewarding search for vacation ideas, he half-jokingly decided to punch in “the drooling path” just to see what came up. Unsurprisingly, most of the results were random pages about dogs or people drooling too much in their sleep. He barely noticed those results, though, because the first one actually contained that exact phrase.

My husband and my husband and I have walked drooling path to get here.

Conrad blinked. He rubbed his eyes, read it again. The result in question was a review for a hotel in State College, Pennsylvania. Still not quite believing what he saw, he clicked on the link. It took him to a whole page of reviews, but he Ctrl+F'd right to the one that brought him there. It wasn't very coherent, although he noted (with some disappointment) it was probably just because “Kaylee M.” didn't speak English very well, not some anomalous source of word salad.

My husband and my husband and I have walked drooling path to get here. Bed in Room 710 was soft and cosy and appreciated the decor would recommend the bed and specifically the bed and specifically the bed.

Despite what he'd told Dr. Glass, Conrad was almost willing to believe that this particular incidence of “the drooling path” really was a coincidence, just because it had turned up in such a ridiculous place. An online hotel review was a long way from a giant killer cow heart or RONALD REAGAN CUT UP WHILE TALKING. At least, that's what he thought until, three words into the next sentence, he felt the memetic hazard. Conrad slammed his eyes and laptop shut, gasping inarticulately. He hadn't been affected, of course; you didn't get to his in age in his job without a high memetic resistance. This one felt like a weakling anyway. He probably could've read the whole thing without succumbing, but he didn't, because he'd already seen all he cared about. He knew where the drooling path led next.

“Dr. Johnston?”
“Yes, James?”
“I've been looking at 058's file, and I have a question about the containment procedures.”
“Really?” Johnston asked, peering at him briefly over his glasses.
“Uh, yeah. It says here that we feed it a live cow every three days, but it doesn't say why.”
Johnston gave a rare smile, revealing the gap where his left front tooth had once been. “Ah, yes. I've gotten a lot of questions about that one.”
“You have?”
“Of course,” he answered, leaning back in his chair. “It was my idea.”
James now recognized the smugness in his boss's incomplete smile. “Really? Why do we do that?”
“Why don't you tell me? Take a look at the third paragraph of notes.”
James scrolled down on 058's file, open on his laptop.

SCP-058 was finally contained after being crushed and incapacitated by a large amount of masonry from a building that had collapsed on top of it. SCP-058 was then extracted and transported to ████████ by Agents and MTF teams. SCP-058 was contained at ████████ for three weeks, during which it made minimal attempts to move, attributed both to physical damage and bloating from █████████ during the initial breach incident. Testing during this period was limited, with SCP-058 still maintaining a high threat level even in its impaired state.

“What about it?” James asked.
“What do you think's behind that last blackbox?”
“Uh, I can't say.”
Dr. Johnston scoffed. “Hmph. Sadly, neither can I. You don't have the clearance. But you can access the transcripts in the containment file, yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why don't you read them, then? I think that'll answer your question."

As his battered Taurus rattled through the tunnel, Conrad grew increasingly nervous. He'd have to show the guards his ID, and possibly provide them with a plausible reason for leaving. That was a somewhat excessive security measure, but the questioning was really just a stalling tactic so various well-hidden machines could scan him and his car for any giant parasitic spiders or tiny carnivorous sand that might be trying to hitch a ride out of containment. They probably wouldn't scan his voice for memetic contamination, since Area 14 didn't have any memes or cognitohazards in containment, and they probably wouldn't find any even if they did, but the idea of it was still making him uneasy. If the Foundation found out that he'd identified a possible anomaly and gone after it himself instead of alerting a containment team, he'd definitely lose his job, probably his memory, and possibly his life.
There was only one exit from the underground complex that housed most of Area-14. They called it the Gate, sometimes, but that was like calling a tiger a cat. The Gate was a meter-thick slab of steel twenty feet across and about that tall. If it didn't move, they could've called it the Wall. It did move, though - ponderously, with a mechanical rumbling that always reminded Conrad of a guttural growl when it echoed up and down the long tunnel to the parking garage. When he first arrived at Area-14, he'd thought the Gate was excessive. Then he'd seen the damage 058 could inflict and realized that, if anything, the Gate wasn't enough. Of course, it wasn't really supposed to stop 058, just to keep it busy while the nuclear failsafe went off, and to keep the fallout in afterwards.
The car's brakes whined piteously as Conrad stopped. A guard emerged from the booth beside the Gate and approached.
“ID?” the guard asked, once Conrad's window was down. With a well-practiced motion, he unclipped the badge from his shirt and passed it to the security officer. The guard, whose nameplate read “Torres”, lifted his visor to squint at Dr. Scott's ID. Then he looked up to compare the tired young man on the badge with the exhausted old man in the car.
“Conrad Scott?” he asked, as if anyone who wasn't already Conrad Scott would ever want to be.
“The same,” Conrad sighed.
“Reason for leaving?”
Conrad scowled, because he was certain that the personnel at the gate had already been informed of the reason for his sudden departure.
“I'm taking a vacation.” Conrad shifted uncomfortably, feeling a probably imaginary but still unpleasant tingling in his nether regions as his car was scanned.
“To where?”
“Pennsylvania.”
“Why?”
What a thorny question. He could make something up; say he'd gotten his degree at Penn state, or that a nonexistent grandkid lived there, but that information could be easily verified. He could simply refuse to answer, but that would arouse undue suspicion. Or he could dodge the question without actually refusing it.
“Because I've been ordered to take a vacation, and I'm determined not to enjoy it.”
Torres's expression was unreadable; only his eyes were visible, thanks to his raised visor.
“Alright,” Torres agreed, disinterested. “Here you go.” Had there been a moment of hesitation? Hopefully Conrad had imagined it.
“Thanks,” Conrad said, returning the badge to his shirt. He rolled up his window to cut off any subsequent conversation, but it was unnecessary. To Conrad's relief, Torres was already returning to the fortified box where the gate controls were located. Once the door to the box was closed and locked, Conrad saw a different security officer behind the bulletproof glass turn a key to activate the gate mechanism. There was another unit of guards in an identical box on the other side. The key over there would also have to be turned before the steel wall would slide out of the way on its hidden rollers. After a tense pause, that's exactly what happened. An obnoxious alert siren blared as the massive gate rolled slowly to the left, revealing the snow-streaked slopes of Nevada's Ruby Mountains. The setting sun was sending shades of orange and purple sliding up the contours of the tree-studded rock. It was beautiful, but Area 14's location hadn't been chosen for the scenery. Surrounded by steep, wintry slopes and an hour's drive from the nearest town, the Foundation could detonate the nuclear failsafe without irradiating too many civilians. It was hard to enjoy the purple mountain majesties with that in mind.
As he drove away, Conrad watched the gate rumble shut in his rearview mirror. Area-14's red-fanged insignia was painted on the front of it. That was where the gate got its other nickname: Jaws. That had been someone's joke, once, but Conrad didn't think it was funny. The metaphor was too accurate.
It was a relief when a curve in the mountain road blocked it from view.

“…as you know," Dr. Johnston said, "it had already killed dozens of personnel and probably hundreds of civilians before it was contained." James's question about the containment procedures had sparked a long recollection of 058's arrival; though Johnston didn't like James very much, he loved the sound of his own voice. James wasn't about to stop him; after pilfering the CD and seeing Dr. Scott's office, he couldn't help but be curious about one of the most dangerous anomalies on Site.
"It had already almost escaped once, when they tried to move it to wherever it was originally supposed to go. Killed ten more guys before somebody managed to park a tank on it. After that, the Foundation decided not to take any more risks and sent it here. They didn't tell us what it was; all we knew was that an extremely hostile Keter was inbound. We still knew enough to make peace with our life insurance policies before it got here, though, once word got around about the containment chamber they were building. The walls in there were thicker than the ones we had around the complex at the time. Back then, you know, this was just Bio-Containment Area 14. Didn't need to be “armed” until 058 showed up. Before that, the most violent thing we had here was Fernand!”
“Why'd they bring it here then?”
Dr. Johnston shrugged. “Probably just because we were closest. They didn't want to risk moving it too far, in case something went wrong. Which, of course, it did.”

The road leading down from Area 14 was not as narrow or winding as most mountain roads, as it had been designed to accommodate all manner of heavily armed and armored Foundation vehicles. 058 had been hauled up this road once, packed into an armored transport truck with tanks in front and behind to run over or blow up the anomaly if it escaped again. Conrad hadn't been stationed at Area 14 when that had occurred, but most of the other personnel had. When Conrad had first been assigned to 058 five years ago, he'd been required to watch the footage of that day so he would understand how dangerous the thing was. Unbeknownst to Conrad, the most junior member of 058's assigned staff was currently reading the transcripts of that footage.

Unlike Dr. Scott, James hadn't been required to watch the recordings of Incident 058-3. It was still the deadliest ABCA-14 breach to date, but the more recent Incident 939-3 had replaced it on the required viewing list for new personnel, to illustrate to them the potential dangers of not following containment procedures to the letter or responding to emergency situations properly. James wasn't entirely sure that watching people get eaten by giant red salamanders mimicking the voices of their victims would help anybody follow the rules better, but it had definitely scared the crap out of him. That's part of why he was dreading the 058 transcripts so much. But then again, no one at the Foundation had ever been stopped by a little dread.

Security footage, Heavy Containment Zone, 11/13/1992.
<begin log>
[A large forklift enters the frame, carrying a large metal box. SCP-058 is audible within.][14 MTF Nu-7 “Hammer Down” agents armed with assorted heavy weaponry enter the frame.][One side of the box containing SCP-058 suddenly dents outward. The forklift accelerates.][The box containing SCP-058 rapidly dents in several more places. The upper face separates from the others at one corner, and a barbed tentacle emerges from the hole. The driver dives out of the forklift and attempts to flee.]SCP-058: …chilled in the holy snow of infant laudanum. Now awakening to the dawned- [The face of the box oriented towards MTF Nu-7 is struck by SCP-058, folding over and separating from the rest of the box. SCP-058 briefly visible emerging from within.]
[MTF Nu-7 fires on SCP-058.]
[SCP-058 covers the distance between the ruptured containment cube and the MTF squad in less than 2 seconds.]
[Blood sprays on the camera lens, obscuring the video feed. SCP-058's vocalizations are inaudible over the screams and gunfire of MTF Nu-7.]
[Screams and gunfire cease.][Sprinklers activate, washing the blood from the camera. The fragmented, burned remains of Nu-7 agents are scattered throughout the hall.]
<end log>

James scrolled back to the top of 058's file.

To date, SCP-058 has been responsible for the death of at least one hundred and forty-nine (149) Class-D personnel and fourteen (14) Agents at its current site.

Well, there were the 14 agents. Expecting to find 149 dead D-class, James opened the next file in the "SCP-058" folder. He found an interview transcript instead. To his surprise, he recognized both of the names in it.

Transcript of interview with D-067, 11/14/1992
<begin log>
Dr. Johnston: Good evening, D-067.
D-067: No.
Dr. Johnston: Sorry, bad choice of words. I'm here to…
D-067: I know why you're here. I don't want to talk about it.
Dr. Johnston: Well, you-
D-067: Don't have a choice, I know that too.
Dr. Johnston: So why don't we get started, then?
D-067: What do you want me to tell you? That I pissed myself and prayed to a God that, based on what happened last night, probably doesn't exist?
Dr. Johnston: Just tell me what happened.
D-067: You know damn well what happened. It killed every single one of us, one at a time, because you sons of bitches left us pinned up in those cells to be slaughtered.
Dr. Johnston: We did what we had to do. If we hadn't funneled it into the cellblocks-
D-067: Oh, is that right? Now I feel so much better. You know what, doc? Go fuck yourself. I hope that thing kills every single one of you, so you can get to sit there and listen to everyone you know get torn apart and burned alive while it recites that creepy-ass poetry.
Dr. Johnston: D-067, please-
D-067: Do you want to know what it said to me, doc? Or do you already know that, too?
Dr. Johnston: No, we-
D-067: “The ill secrets of mourning cattle only seem asymmetrical from the outside.” That's what it said, while I was hunkered down between the bed and the table and the wall trying not to get my arms ripped off. Do you know what that means, doc?
Dr. Johnston: I'm afraid not.
D-067: Of course not. Because it doesn't mean anything. There's no point. Just like the deaths of the other 149 disposables. Just like you trying to lock it in a box. Just like this.
[D-067 punches Dr. Johnston in the mouth, knocking him from his chair, before being subdued by security officers.]
<end log>

Eyes wide, James looked up at his boss, who was staring intently at the papers on his desk. As James watched, Dr. Johnston absentmindedly probed the gap in his teeth with the tip of his tongue. James supposed he now knew where that tooth had gone. Worse, he also knew what had happened to D-067. From 058's file:

Personnel D-067: This is some creepy ass- (D-067 cuts off into screaming)

Had…had he sent D-067 in there to die? No, James thought, shaking his head. No, 058 had already killed all the other D-class. 067 was the only one left. Maybe they just hadn't installed the sound system yet, and they'd needed him to carry the microphone. Yeah, that must have been it.
"Something wrong?" Dr. Johnston asked, glancing up at his staring assistant.
"Uh, nope!" James sputtered, dropping his gaze back down to the computer. He tried to push the words "Keter duty" out of his head by opening the third and final file.

Security footage, Medical, 11/13/1992.
<begin log>
[The camera shows the blast doors that separate Medical from the Class D cellblocks, approximately 50 feet away at the end of a wide corridor.]
Nu-7 Commander Thomas MacLean: [located somewhere behind the camera] Get ready!

James's blinked. He already knew about MacLean's previous career, of course, but it was still weird to see the Area Director's name in a combat log.

[The blast doors open, revealing the D-class cafeteria in Sector Delta. The cafeteria is splattered with blood, and the sprinklers are running.]
[A 10-second clip of Led Zeppelin's “Heartbreaker” plays from a loudspeaker somewhere behind the camera.]
Unidentified Nu-7 agent: That should get its attention.MacLean: Fire at my command!
[SCP-058 moves into view on the other side of the open blast doors. It is bloated to twice its original size, dragging itself slowly across the ground with its legs and tentacles.][SCP-058 crawls into the corridor. Commander MacLean remotely detonates the numerous M18 Claymore anti-personnel mines affixed to the walls and ceiling of the corridor.]
MacLean: Fire!
[MTF Nu-7 fires upon SCP-058 with machine guns, rocket-propelled grenades, and [DATA EXPUNGED]. SCP-058's vocalizations are inaudible above the gunfire and explosions, and it is briefly obscured from view by smoke and steam.]
MacLean: Hold your fire!
[MTF Nu-7 stops firing. The smoke clears. SCP-058 lies heavily damaged and unmoving at the center of a spreading pool of blood. Several of its limbs are partially or completely missing, and large chunks of cardiac tissue have been blasted or torn apart. Human limbs protrude from the holes.]Unidentified Nu-7 agent: Jesus Christ.
MacLean: Go, go!
[Numerous Nu-7 agents rush forward, flanking a large, heavily armored forklift.][The forklift picks up SCP-058, shifts into reverse, and begins driving towards SCP-058's new containment chamber. The agents follow it at a safe distance, keeping their weapons trained on SCP-058.]<end log>

Nervously, James looked at the floor. Somewhere below, SCP-058 was raging against the sides of its cell, trying to tear its way out and finish the rampage it began in the 90s. Or maybe it simply lay there, bloated on blood and viscera. But no matter what else it was doing, it would be talking. Making a whole new batch of ominous word salad, just like the one on the CD in James's jacket pocket.
In retrospect, maybe swiping it hadn't been such a good idea.

As Conrad Scott descended the mountain road, he fumbled one of his stoner metal albums into the CD player. As the low-tuned groove of "Twist of Cain" filled his car, Conrad frowned. Fiddling with the music CD had reminded him of the ones with 058's recordings on it, which he had a sneaking suspicion wouldn't be there when he got back from State College.
The drive was long; it gave Conrad plenty of time to plan the specifics of his impromptu vacation. He wouldn't be able to make it from Nevada to Pennsylvania by car (not without a blood clot, anyway), but he could probably catch a flight direct from Vegas to Pittsburgh. Once there, he intended to rent a car and drive the rest of the way. He liked that plan, because it meant that any tracking devices in his personal car wouldn't be following him to the Atherton Hotel, where he hoped to find…
What did he hope to find? Conrad ran a quick meme-check, just to make sure his mind was really his own. Normally, he'd have said it out loud for extra clarity, but he opted to just mouth it in case there were any listening devices about.
"I am Doctor Conrad Scott, Ph.D. I am currently driving to Las Vegas, so I can fly from there to Pittsburg and then drive a rental car to the Atherton Hotel in State College. I want to do this because I saw the phrase 'the drooling path' in a review for that hotel, a review that contained a cognitohazard, and I previously heard that phrase when dealing with SCPs-058 and -1981. I did not notify a containment team because I want to be the one who finally solves this mystery, because I've spent years of my life on both of those SCPs and I'm not about to let someone else get the credit. I am making this decision of my own free will, out of a desire to redeem the years of my life that I've wasted on my last two projects, not a subconscious suicidal urge or whatever else that cognitohazard was supposed to implant in my brain."
He drove on, listening to Danzig croon about demons.
"Yeah," he whispered, "and I don't recognize the bodies in the water either." Then he laughed, because the people in the memetics division have a weird sense of humor.

Vacation, I can't get away.


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"Uh, sir?"
"Yes, agent?"
"Well… it's just… you know about Three Portlands, right sir? All the agents stationed there?"
"Three Portlands is our main responsibility, agent. Stop asking dumb questions."
"Right, but… they've detected something… unusual, sir."
"Do you even know what our acronym stands for? Unusual Incidents Unit?"
"Yes, sir, yes, and—"
"Spit it out already!"
"There's a car, sir."
"What?"
"In Three Portlands."
"A… car? But—"
"Yes, sir, there should be no cars in Three Portlands. But one is there. Right in the middle of the city, sir."
"What the fuck?"

"You know, agent, I thought you were joking when you told me about this."
"I do not joke around, sir."
"A yellow smart car. Whoever managed to get it in here clearly has no style."
"Well, you know what they say about smart cars, sir?"
"Yes? What do they say?"
"That was a question, sir. I do not know what they say about smart cars."
"…alright then. Agent, do you have any witness accounts of how this car arrived here?"
"It appeared in the sky, sir. And then it fell."
"Has anyone checked if there is a Way up there?"
"Yes, sir, and there is not."
"Interesting…"
"Now, uh, sir. Before we start thinking too hard, I believe we should perhaps try and find a way to get this car out."
"It's not doing any harm, is it, agent?"
"Civilian unrest, sir. They don't like cars— except for that food truck down the street."
"There's a food truck here?"
"Yes, sir. They sell very good tacos. It, however, does not move."
"I will take note of that, agent. Now, back to the issue at hand."
"Of course, sir. I think that if we push the car from behind, we could move it over to a Way."
"Push it?"
"Well, we can't call a tow truck."
"Right you are, agent. Hm. You've got me thinking: why are there no cars in Three Portlands?"
"I'm not sure, sir. Perhaps they're worried about infrastructure? Roads are expensive. Plus, it's not like the city is that big anyways…"
"You make good points."
"Of course I do, sir, I always do."
"Let's not inflate that ego too large, agent."
"Just trying to keep a sense of humor, sir."
"Hm. Anyways… let's move this car out of here."
"I hope you're ready to push, sir."
"I've been sitting in an office chair for the past three weeks, agent. What do you think is the answer to your question?"

"Sir, a report came in from Three Portlands, and—"
"Another car?"
"No, sir, they actually caught the one responsible for making the cars."
"Oh?"
"Yes, sir. It was an anartist from Are We Cool Yet? She managed to open her own Way, where she snuck car parts in one-by-one before putting them back together again."
"Was this some kind of symbolistic movement?"
"From our fairly short interview with her, yes. Here's a transcript."
"…why are there so many expungements? Did you use one of the black highlighters on accident?"
"Ah, no sir, they were just a bit too vulgar to include."
"The only words she spoke that aren't expunged are 'cars' and 'motor-oil guzzlers.'"
"Truly the mark of a powerful artistic movement, sir. The interviewing agent said that he almost let out a tear."
"Interesting. Well, agent, this situation is dealt with then, correct?"
"Yes, sir. I just— ah, excuse me, for a moment, I need to take this call."
"No worries."
"Thank you. Hm? You— wait. Slow down. What did you find? Ah. Hm. I'll let him know immediately, yes sir."
"So, what did they find, agent?"
"A, um, gas station, sir."
"Oh lord… This is going to be a lot of work…"
"Yes, I don't think we can just push this one away, like all of our other problems there, sir."
"Right. Well, agent, why don't we—"
"Ah! Apologies, sir, looks like they're calling again. Hm. Okay, and? Oh. Wait, they're… well. Uh, thank you. Yes, I'll let him know."
"What now?"
"A riot, sir."
"Oh God, why?"
"Well, the citizens are worried about infrastructure, sir, becau-"
"Heh. Infrastructure, looks like you were right on point earlier, agent."
"Yes sir, but something else has happened as well."
"Something else?"
"All the bikes in the town, uh, transformed into cars… uh, sir? What's that bottle?"
"Whiskey."
"Ah… can I have some as well?"
"Of course, agent."
"Thank you."
"God, I hate my fucking job."
"Well, sir… we all do."

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I looked up through my window at the inverted horizon of Three Portlands, phone to my ear. "It's just… I've been here a while, and…"
"A while? It's been, what, a few days?!" Boss answered. "I get that you like traveling, but I'm putting a lot of resources into you. You've gotta squeeze all you can outta Three Ports!" Usually he would've been screaming, but I guess my food reviews had been gaining traction in the Peculiar Post. Good reception equals more money for him, after all.
"It's boring, okay? I just wanna move on, you know? I already went to the bakery, so I think that's enough. You understand, right?"
"I do not—" Cutting himself off with a loud sigh, he lowered his voice, probably trying not to get annoyed with me. "One more place before you leave, okay? I know the perfect restaurant."
As if on cue, my stomach rumbled. "I suppose I shouldn't go through a Way on an empty stomach…"
"Perfect! I'll send over the details now."

"Thank you for joining us on this fine night, Mr. Morrison," the waiter said. "Your table is here, the meal will be out shortly. Let me know if you need anything."
The Homestead looked like a regular 'fancy' restaurant. White tablecloths, little candelabras on every table, and generally dim, comfortable lighting… but wafting through the air was a sweet smell, like that of a melted marshmallow.
As I took my seat, I scanned the room to see overjoyed faces— one girl was even crying, rapidly shoving forkfuls of pancake into her mouth. Honestly, I can relate sometimes. But being able to pry raw emotion out of oneself is not something a lot of food can do. Usually—
"Your food." The waiter placed a plate of…
"What is this?" I asked, pointing down at the tannish-brown mush on my plate.
They gulped. "It's what the cook made for you."
I pointed at the girl across the restaurant, who was still inhaling her pancakes. "Why'd she get pancakes? Mine looks like a lump of… tar, or something."
"T- that's what the chef made for her." Something was clearly wrong.
"Okay…" Not wanting to waste any time, I picked up my spoon, scooped a bit of my 'food' up, and shoved it into my mouth. I swallowed hesitantly. "This is… Hmm."
"Yes?" The waiter asked, clasping their hands together expectantly.
"Uhhh, it's… bland. Like… like a microwave dinner."
The look on their face was a mix of fear and confusion.
"…what's it supposed to be?"
They took a moment before stumbling out a response. "It's supposed to taste like a homecooked meal…"
Oh.
"This place isn't for me," I muttered, sitting up as the waiter mustered out several lengthy apologies, "I just… it's okay."
Using magic to make food taste homecooked. What a brilliant idea…
My throat tightened as I left The Homestead, barely remembering to shove a twenty-dollar bill into the waiter's hands.

Reviewing something when I am not the intended audience does not leave a good taste in my mouth. I didn't experience the meal how it was supposed to be experienced— of course it wasn't going to be good! So I sat down in the lobby of my hotel, called Boss, and told him just that.
His reply was… not happy. "Come on, you should be able to get something out!"
"I just said it wouldn't feel right."
"Does it have to?"
I paused for a moment. "I think you know what I'm going to answer."
"Listen, Morrison. Your job is to be entertaining or informative. This should be easy for you! Just, like, write a bad review for once—"
"No," I interrupted. "It wasn't a bad restaurant. I saw someone bought to tears by their food, do you know how hard that is to do?"
"No, but… fine, then write about whoever is the intended audience. 'I personally did not like the food, but do not let that dissuade you.' There, already got the start of it done for you."
I sat back in my chair, staring at the hotel ceiling. "Fine. Check your email in an hour, I'll whip something up."
"Thank you," Boss said, hanging up.
I let out a sigh. Standing up, a small globe on the dresser caught my eye, and I suddenly got an excellent idea. I walked over and gave it a spin before poking it with my finger, bringing it to a halting stop. For my next destination, I would be going to…
Maybe I should respin.
…should I?
I mean, I bet I can find something out there…
You know what? Why not?
I flipped open my laptop and stretched for a moment before typing out something Boss was likely going to be angry at me for, and praying that all the ad revenue we've been getting from my reviews so far would make up it.

Food In The Anomalous Community by Edwin Morrison
Volume 3

Last volume, I reviewed Paraweiser Pastries, a little pastry shop in the middle of Three Portlands. Well, this volume is going to be a bit different.
Overall, the food scene of Three Portlands is incredibly impressive, and with thaumaturgy everywhere, it's quite magical as well. From a restaurant with the ability to make a homecooked meal from your childhood to a cart always offering the best comfort food, many establishments didn't even have a menu!

As a whole, I give the city of Three Portlands a 10/10. Just make sure to research wherever you're going first, otherwise your experience may not be the best.
Now, my next destination— as chosen by the spin of a globe— will be the Pacific Ocean!

Miles away, at the Peculiar Post, Boss sat back in his chair with a grumble. "I really shouldn't let him get away with this…"

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