PeppersGhost

We Who Poke With Sticks by PeppersGhost

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I am a professional stick watcher, and I love my job

The following article was featured in the October 2014 issue of the Foundation Employee Magazine. The author, D-5209294, provides an interesting and deeply personal perspective of what it's like to oversee the preliminary identification of Class-E anomalies.
Some names and facts have been altered so that this piece could be made available to the general Foundation employee community.

They're letting me write now. Gave me a Hewlett-Packard laptop with Microsoft Word on it and everything. What's truly impressive is that it only took them a week to process my request. People around here complain endlessly about how "you'll just be told 'no,'" and how "they never give you anything," but the simple reality is that if you've paid your dues and filled out your paperwork correctly, the Foundation doesn't mind making some concessions now and then.
Anyway. Hello.
I am a professional stick watcher, and I love my job a little bit too much.
To put it a bit more formally, I am a Preliminary Identification Supervisor at Site-313. For the benefit of those involved in other operations, I'll give a brief overview of how preliminary containment works.
After field agents have confirmed the presence of anomalous activity on a scene, a preliminary containment task force is deployed. This task force consists of two teams: Isolation and Identification. Isolation sets up a perimeter around the presumed location of the anomaly, and Identification is responsible for figuring out what the anomaly actually is.
I've been working in Preliminary Identification since 2002. It's rare that I get to interact with anyone other than my handlers and co-workers, but after being in this business for over a decade, it's become clear that personnel from other areas of the Foundation hold a lot of misconceptions about Prelim ID. I'm writing this article to hopefully clear up these misunderstandings.
Many seem to be under the impression that we're nothing more than monster bait. They think we're just a bunch of expendable Class-Ds who do nothing but wander around stupidly until the boogeymen jump out and attack. This is completely untrue; most of the field agents who arrive before us can spot an aggressive entity within minutes. When that happens, my team isn't even needed.
The best way to explain what we actually do is to describe what a typical day on the field looks like. I'll use today's assignment as an example, since it's still fresh on my mind.
Every assignment begins with one of my handlers giving me a manila envelope with my Class-D serial number stamped on the front in red ink. Inside are documents pertaining to the case, and if I'm lucky, a handful of photographs. The initial batch of files never spends more than one or two lines describing the actual anomaly—which is natural, since nothing else is known about it at that point. These envelopes are the only existing documents relating to that anomaly at that moment. I've been told that most of the photographs included in my briefs are taken no more than ten minutes before the time I receive them.
Today's envelope contained an automatically generated profile of the anomalously affected individual (i.e. "the victim"), Miranda Baclaran, a 27-year-old graphic designer from Connecticut. She was born in California to two immigrants from the Philippines. She lived alone. She had been living in her current home for two years and working at her current job for three. Medical history, work background, ancestry, and other potentially relevant details are also included. I am expected to have read and memorized the bulk of this information by the time I arrive at the scene. A list of the victim's credit card transactions from the past six months was also included, but I am not required to memorize these.
When I enter my transport vehicle, I'm handed a secondary file with details on what actually happened.
At 2:48 in the afternoon, the victim's neighbors called the police, reporting loud screams coming from inside her home. They were worried that her ex-boyfriend had returned and was attempting to murder her. When the police entered the victim's house at 3:02, they discovered that her biological structure had been anomalously altered. Their frantic and confused phone call to their superiors triggered the automated notification system on the Foundation Surveillance Network, and field agents from the nearest Foundation outpost were dispatched to begin preliminary isolation of the victim's home and confirm the influence of anomalous activity on the victim.
Confirmation was very easy in this case. Comparing the victim's face to the photo on Miranda's driver license showed that it was clearly the same person, but her sensory organs had been drastically altered. There were tongues flapping wildly underneath her eyelids, and every two minutes she regurgitated eyes the size of tennis balls that she claimed she could see out of. She didn't know what had done this to her.
My team's job was to find out.
Usually it's some sort of object. Sometimes it's another person, or even the victim themselves. Sometimes it's a word or phrase the victim heard over the phone or on the television. Sometimes it's the stretch of land the victim was standing on. Sometimes it doesn't seem to be anything at all, and the case is marked as an Anomalous Event. But usually– in fact, almost always– it's an object. A thing.
It would be very convenient if they were big, scary, blatantly paranormal things like ancient talismans or porcelain clown dolls or books bound in human skin, but anomalies like those almost never show up, and when they do, we don't have the clearance to get anywhere near them. Virtually all of the anomalies I've identified over the years have been perfectly innocuous and ordinary in appearance. That's what makes our job so difficult. Out of all the various things the victim owns and has been in contact with, any one of those things could be the Thing. As you can imagine, finding the Thing among hundreds of other things can be an absolutely massive task.
Some of you may have heard that Identification utilizes high-tech devices called Kant Counters to locate anomalies. These devices are indeed real and also incredibly useful. When calibrated properly, a Kant Counter can instantly pinpoint the location of an anomalous object in an airplane hangar full of junk. The Kant Counter is, without a doubt, a miracle of modern science.
But like so many other miracles of modern science, Kant Counters cost a fortune and are only given to a select few. So without the aid of any high-tech gadgets, the majority of Prelim ID teams have to search for anomalies old-fashioned way, which is by poking everything with a stick until something eventually pokes back.
On today's assignment, my sticks were named Thomas, Jonah, Shelby, and Bridget.
A lot of folks believe that Class-Ds are only allowed to refer to each other by their personnel numbers. This may be true for on-site facilities, but it's rarely the case with off-site jobs. In order to work together quickly and efficiently, we need to call each other something, and when you're pressed for time like we are, nobody expects you to waste precious minutes and mental energy on memorizing a random string of numbers.
The five of us arrived at the victim's house at 4:39 that afternoon. We rolled up to the building in a local police car and stepped out dressed in local police uniforms. Many of you may find this surprising; people tend to have this mental image of Class-Ds as a bunch of tattooed thugs in orange jumpsuits. In actuality, most of us look like normal, everyday people, which works to our advantage on the field.
Presenting a façade of normalcy is an essential part of preliminary containment, and it's hard to do that when you have a bunch of guys in orange jumpsuits being escorted out of armored vehicles. That's why we're also given the freedom to drive and move around without a handler. This might sound like a glaring breach of safety, but it's actually very rare for anyone to try to run. The Foundation trusts us to do our jobs, and we trust the Foundation to quickly dispose of us if we try anything funny.
After we met up with the guys from Isolation and confirmed that the area was secure, we briefly exchange names and set to work. The “sticks”– an affectionate title given to my colleagues –went inside and did their initial poke-over, touching everything in the building. Anomalous materials often transmit their effects via physical contact, so poking is usually the fastest way to find an obvious anomaly. I never enter the building until the initial sweep has been completed, just in case the anomaly is memetic or cognitohazardous.
If the anomaly isn't identified during the poke-over, a more thorough investigation is necessary. This was the case today. I entered the building, double checked that everything had been properly poked, and began instructing the sticks to interact with objects in various ways. Clothes were put on. Appliances were activated. Chairs were sat in. The sticks interact with everyday objects in everyday ways, trying to find the anomaly by triggering its effects. My job is to come up with things for them to try and to monitor them for signs of anomalous exposure. It's a job that requires a lot of creativity and attention to detail, but thankfully, these are areas in which I happen to excel.
If you ask me, I think that stick watchers deserve more recognition from the greater Foundation community. Clearly I'm biased in this regard, but you see, we have to think of every conceivable way a human being can interact with any given object in an area, and we have to do it fast. If the anomaly isn't found within the first few hours, the perimeter has to be expanded, more teams have to be called in, and every object in the building that isn't bolted to the wall has to be sealed in an individually marked biohazard bag and shipped to the nearest research site for more thorough experimentation. This is obviously very expensive and time consuming, so the Foundation puts a lot of pressure on Preliminary Identification to find the anomaly as quickly as possible. If a stick watcher calls for a bagging and the research center discovers that the stick watcher missed something obvious, the stick watcher is retired soon afterward.
I've been a stick watcher for about a decade now.
It's the simple triggers that most watchers tend to miss– the triggers that are subtle enough to be easily overlooked, but logical enough to seem obvious once you know what to look for. Sometimes the effects are logically associated with the object, but not always. The trick is to be patient and avoid rushing through the process.
A few months ago I was told to find an object that caused a person's hand bones to shoot out the ends of their fingers. I started by instructing the sticks to interact with hand-associated things like gloves and bracelets. One of my sticks tried on a watch, and after experiencing no effects, began to take it off. I told them to keep it on and fiddle with the dial. Lo and behold, their phalanges blasted out their fingertips. Under my supervision, it only took eight minutes for my team to identify the anomaly. My handlers recognized this achievement by granting me a dozen new DVDs and an honest-to-goodness philodendron for my living quarters.
Watchers have to be incredibly thorough when giving instructions. Every potential trigger has to be considered.
Don't just lie down on the bed. Fall asleep on it.
Don't just drink tap water from that mug. Brew some coffee or tea.
Don't just look at the tabs they have open on their web browser. Check their history.
Use the pen to draw a picture.
Use the pen to write a poem.
Use the pen to write a greeting.
Use the pen to write on the back of your hand.
Use the pen to write on someone else.
Click the pen incessantly for twenty seconds.
It may sound tedious, and sometimes it is, but there's always something uniquely fascinating about it, too. Every new anomaly is a puzzle waiting to be solved, and solving the puzzles is immensely gratifying. It certainly isn't boring for the sticks. They aren't briefed on the nature of the anomaly they're looking for. That lingering uncertainty is enough to keep most of them on their toes, but it still doesn't spook them nearly as badly as telling them what their potential fate might be.
Janice, for instance, wouldn't have worked nearly as quickly and efficiently as she did if she'd known there was a chance that clicking that pen would cause her internal organs to liquefy.
During today's investigation, I instructed Shelby to collect all of the victim's make-up and then apply it to her own face. Lipstick. Eye shadow. Eyeliner. Foundation. Blush. All of it. Then I told her to wait. Fifteen minutes later she had about a dozen tongues dangling from her nostrils, each of them roughly three feet long. Overall identification time after I entered the building was just over nineteen minutes. If the anomalous effects had triggered immediately, my time would have been four minutes and thirty-three seconds. It would have been a new personal record. I wasn't too disappointed, though; there will be other opportunities in the future.
I never identified which particular variety of make-up did it, but I didn't have to. I just told Bridget to seal all the make-up in some biohazard bags and then I called it a day. We're not required to find the exact anomaly. We're just the preliminary identification team, after all. Narrowing it down to a reasonably small collection of items is usually good enough for my superiors. After all, to conduct a proper test, you'd need to try each type of make-up on a different Class-D, and I didn't have enough colleagues on hand to experiment on.
There are plenty more test subjects where they came from, though. The folks at Site-313 shouldn't have any trouble narrowing it down.
If I sound like I'm not particularly upset by what happens to my teammates, it's because I'm not. Don't just chalk that up to me being a heartless Class-D criminal, though. I'm deeply sympathetic to the innocent victims of the anomalies we find. The reason I don't grieve my fellow Class-Ds is because I know that all of us did something to deserve our position.
I don't remember what crime I committed to earn my status as a Class-D. My earliest memory is waking up at Site-313 and being told that my memory had been wiped. Sticks don't get wiped, since some anomalies are triggered by a person's memories. Supervisors like myself aren't required to expose themselves to anomalous effects, so all nonessential memories are removed as soon as we begin our jobs.
I don't know how the Foundation decides who will be a stick and who will be a watcher. I really don't. There is, in all likelihood, a selection process that the Foundation uses to choose supervisors. But however likely that is, the fact remains that I don't know it. And this might sound strange, but out of all the horrors I have to put up with, that's the thing that keeps me awake at night.
When you work for the Foundation, you grow accustomed to not knowing things. There are a million little mysteries you'll never learn the answers to. I'll never know who I used to be. I'll never know what my family was like. You might expect those would be the mysteries that haunt me, but I stopped caring about my past completely after the first few years. The question that burns in my mind is why I'm a watcher and not just a stick.
My counselor says that it's survivor's guilt. That makes sense. Watchers just watch the sticks poke things. Watchers just watch when the things poke back. Watchers just watch as sticks get brutally murdered and transformed into terrifying monsters. Watchers just watch as sticks lose their minds, lose their souls, and lose their humanity in hundreds of different ways.
When I saw those tongues squirming out of Shelby's nose, I suppose my first thought should have been, “My god, that poor woman!” But it wasn't. I hardly felt any horror or pity at all. I just felt the same thrill and satisfaction that I imagine most people probably get from solving an especially challenging crossword puzzle or Sudoku.
I know this is going to sound horrible, but after all these years, I honestly don't care what happens to the sticks anymore. And I'm perfectly fine not caring.
So yeah, probably not survivor's guilt.
I've been doing this long enough, and if I'm a Class-D, it's entirely possible that the same mental or social disorder that led me to commit my crime in the first place is also keeping me from experiencing any remorse at the loss of my co-workers.
I'm not bothered by the fact that I don't care. I'm bothered by the fact that I don't know why I was selected to be a watcher instead of a stick. Or, to approach it from a slightly different angle, I'm bothered by the fact that I don't know if the Foundation knew I'd love my job so much.
It's like an unfinished identification mission. I might find a correlation between an item and an effect, but sometimes I simply cannot find a trigger, or even determine if there is one. Once I've left a scene, I'm off the case. If they do end up finding the trigger during their lab experiments, they won't tell me what it is. I'm just left wondering, and that drives me up the wall.
I don't need to know what the trigger is. I just need to know that one exists. I need to know that someone touched something or used something that they shouldn't have. I need to know that there's a reason. I need to know that there's a cause. I need to know that the victim did something, even something totally innocent, which led to their fate.
Because if they didn't, if something bad just randomly happened and there's no cursed doll or haunted dishwasher to blame, then the woman with tongues running down her face was the victim of some cosmic joke. It would mean that someone suffered simply because the universe had gotten the urge to screw someone over for absolutely no reason, not even an arbitrary one.
I want to believe that the Foundation knew I'd love my job, or at least suspected I would. I want to believe I was chosen for a specific reason. I want to believe there's a trigger.
If I wasn't chosen by the Foundation, then that only leaves two other possibilities. One possibility is that I ended up here, in this job that's heaven for me and hell for any rational person, completely by chance, and my happiness is the result of a one-in-a-million fluke of probability. If there are infinite monkeys on infinite typewriters, I'm the monkey who typed out Shakespeare.
The other possibility is there is a sapient, unseen force orchestrating what goes on in the universe, and that force occasionally decides to make innocent people suffer and criminals like myself perfectly happy for absolutely no reason whatsoever.
I don't know which one it is. What's worse, I don't know which disturbs me more. And yes, I realize that the most probable explanation is that the Foundation simply deemed me a good fit for the job, but the fact remains that I. Don't. Know.
I'm under quarantine right now. They always confine me for observation after I've been around an anomaly. Since I never make physical contact with anything on the field, the only things they really have to worry about are slow-acting cognitive and memetic hazards. The odds of me being affected by either of those are incredibly slim, and if the anomaly has a dormant period of over a month, then the initial victim will have probably already infected half the population anyway. As long as I still seem reasonably normal after a few weeks, they'll put me on another team and give me another assignment.
When that happens, I'll enter another strange building. I'll find another strange artifact. I'll solve another mystery. I'll discover another new anomaly.
And for one brief moment, I'll know something that the Foundation doesn't.
Anyway.
I hope this gave you a better understanding of what it's like to work in Preliminary Identification. Thank you for reading.


The following document was recovered from the field journal of LMTF 352-Dalet agent Isaac Allred-Smith during a routine documentation audit. At the request of Regional Director Kate McTiriss, it has been reproduced below "for the general amusement of Foundation staff." Agent Allred-Smith has declined to comment.

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"The Ballad of Region 352"
Fire don't seem quite right tonight
Can't hear it crackle and pop.
Got a new red light glowing over the town;
It ain't never gonna stop.
Not sure just what I'm doing
Or where I'm s'posed to be.
Foundation says, and I guess it's true,
It's the perfect place for me.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.
Got a call in from the town today
Said Pastor Lewis died.
But the cemetery's full of ministers
Guess we'll see him on the other side.
Walked to Cross City City City City Hall
Felt just like a dream.
Think I'll try my hand playin' baseball
There's an opening on the team.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.
Got Baptists and Catholics by the score,
Got anomalies knockin' on our door,
Got a church that's crawling the ocean floor,
Got a passive-aggressive holy war.
Oh, Dixieland Nightmare Magic
Just a little bit funny, just a little bit tragic.
If small-town politics interest you,
We've got an opening here in three-fifty-two.


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“Tell me that you've got something that we can actually use, please, for the love of all the gods and spirits.” Commander Minori Iwata sighed as she promptly eased herself into a chair at the conference table.
“Well, um, ma'am, we're uh, making a lot of progress.” The research assistant gulped and tugged at his collar. “We've identified the main component of the Spirit Dust as being some plant-based product, cut with heroin. Evidently, heroin's ability to bypass the blood brain barrier allows the drug to be absorbed much more quickly through all parts of the bo-”
“Wait, go back a moment. What kind of plant product?”
“Uh, well, we, uh, don't really know.” The research assistant winced. Minori's gaze could've melted iron. The meek assistant was no match for her.
“Two weeks of research and you idiots have nothing to tell me besides the fact that the drug is likely a plant.” Commander Iwata tapped her finger against the table. “Alright, dismissed.” The research assistant practically sprinted out of the room in his hurry to leave.
Minori sighed again, and flipped through her notes on the Spirit Dust case. Two weeks since Kaoru had exploded Spirit Dust into the Foundation's attention. Two weeks of chaos and furious investigation that had yet to yield any concrete evidence or who had supplied the Dojin-kai with such a drug. Two weeks of nothingness.
Minori flicked on the television with a remote, and turned to the Nippon National News. Glancing out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the headline of the day.
“3 GRUESOME DEATHS IN TRIPLE MURDER-SUICIDE? POLICE INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.”
Iwata cursed under her breath. The civilian media was getting closer and closer to finding out something troubling the longer the situation went on. At this rate, there was no telling when they'd stumble upon the-
Minori's thoughts were interrupted by a call. She pulled her phone out of her pocket and frowned. Unregistered number. Slightly suspicious, she answered the phone.
“Regional Commander Iwata-san,” a smooth baritone dripped. Iwata stiffened.
“D-director Oda-sama. How nice to receive a call from you.” Minori stuttered for a moment, somewhat surprised by the sudden call.
“We're getting reports of this ‘Spirit Dust' business down in your region. We had to silence some of the local media who found a little too much. I don't want to see this kind of sloppiness in the future, and I want this affair resolved soon.” The voice slithered over Minori's skin in a way that made her want to shudder. Somehow, there was a quality in the voice that made it seem deeply wrong, despite the richness of the tone.
“Understood, sir. We'll get it done.” Minori responded, resolute to not show any signs of discomfort. She hated that.
“I should hope so.” The call clicked, and Commander Iwata put her phone on the table. She stared at it for a moment before she stood up and walked out of the conference room.
“I want a memo to all undercover agents on the Spirit Dust case: time is of the essence here. Theater command is breathing down our necks.” Minori waved a hand at her secretary, who scrambled to send a note through secure channels.
Afterwards, Director Iwata opened the door to her office and sat down at her neatly organized desk. Minori looked around for a moment.
Her office was cramped, but she made do with a tight-lipped grimace and a professional organization. Filing cabinets with labels written in an elegant, looping hand lined the walls, while her desk occupied nearly a quarter of the room. She had to squeeze past the desk to get to her somewhat worn chair that creaked when she shifted her weight. An old coffee mug filled with pens and pencils sat on her desk, with a stack of papers as a neighbor.
Behind her on the wall was an array of degrees, awards, and Foundation accolades, framed and polished to a shine. A single photo also adorned the wall, nearly yellowed from age. It showed a smiling and pretty young woman dressed in Foundation-issue containment team fatigues sitting in an armored personnel carrier.
Commander Minori Iwata leaned back in her creaky old chair, and closed her eyes for the briefest of moments.
Then she sat upright and began to do some work.

Detective Katsuo Tanaka kneeled down.
Sifting through some assorted trash on the ground, he found a phone lying on the ground with a cracked screen. However, it still came to life when turned on, and showed a laughing young man as its background, in the middle of a night out with friends, a girl on his arm.
That young man was in a few pieces scattered around the room that Katsuo and his partner, Yuudai Shibata, now searched through. The girl in the photo was huddled in a corner with most of her head missing, blood staining the walls. Discarded needles with traces of Spirit Dust were found with both of them, recently used. The small apartment they lived in was nearly destroyed, furniture smashed and life in ruins.
After making sure all of the bodies were thoroughly dead, Katsuo and Yuudai were now examining the room for any evidence. Katsuo now flipped through the phone's messages while wearing a pair of gloves. An assortment of family members, friends, and coworkers filled the recent texts. “I love you” and “Miss you” texts flooded the recent messages, never to be seen again or read.
Katsuo frowned when he got to an unmarked number. No name appeared for it, nor was there a lengthy conversation. It was comprised of a single phrase.
“WEDNESDAY 2 PM. GOOD STOCK, BRING CASH. PARK, UNDER BIG TREE BY FOUNTAIN.”
Katsuo stood up and nodded to Yuudai. The two exited the scene.

In the car, Yuudai was driving. Katsuo flipped through the case files. Suddenly, Yuudai spoke up.
“You think this will finally be a lead that we can use?”
Katsuo scratched his chin. “Hopefully. Just hopefully.”
“Just hopefully?” The voice had a slight edge to it.
Katsuo glanced over. Shibata was gripping the wheel in a tight lock, white-knuckled and tense. He stared far ahead of him in the road. His eyes were hardened with an uncharacteristic edge.
“Easy, Yuudai. These things take time,” Katsuo tried to calm his young partner.
“Time? The hell does time mean to me when these fuckers are selling this SCP and killing innocents?”
The car pulled up to a red light and Yuudai slammed his fist on the edge of the steering wheel in frustration.
“I didn't fucking join the Foundation so that we could mosey around a case while people die thanks to something they don't even understand. Why aren't we doing more? Where are the other cops? The other agents?” Shibata grimaced. “Where's the cavalry riding over the hill in those American westerns we watched as kids?
Detective Tanaka sighed. He suddenly felt very, very old. He didn't feel 35. He felt at least 65. Running a hand through his hair, he closed the folder on his lap.
“Yuudai…we are the cavalry. There's no one else on this case, and we couldn't get anyone else here if we tried. We're the only ones on this. And I know that this means nothing to you, but we need time and patience or else a whole lot more people are going to die because we did something stupid.” Katsuo looked at Yuudai.
His partner said nothing, but his hands unclenched slightly. He muttered an affirmative response, and simply kept driving, silent once more.
Katsuo looked out the window of the car. They had all been like that once. He had been like that once. Recently employed, and still wide-eyed. Still thinking that the Foundation was a miracle organization. Still too naive to know that they couldn't save everyone. Still too damn stupid.

Katsuo sat in his car, alert and tense. He looked out to where the big tree was located in a tucked away corner of the park.
Underneath the big tree sat Yuudai, wearing basketball shorts and a hoodie. A backpack sat on the bench next to him, and a pair of earbuds were jammed in his ears. He glanced from side to side behind his facade, looking for anyone to approach him.
The time was 2:00.
Yuudai yawned and leaned back on the park bench that he rested upon. The surrounding area was practically deserted, with only an elderly couple feeding birds for company. The air was calm, and peaceful.
Out of the corner of his eye, Yuudai saw a man strolling along the park path. He took a leisurely pace, casually slinging a satchel over his shoulder. He sat down next to Yuudai on the bench.
“Sure is a nice day, isn't it?” The man said, smiling broadly.
“Yeah, nice weather. My mom would say the nature spirits are happy.” Yuudai replied, not looking directly at the man.
“Oh? She one of the old believers, then. You one of them too?”
“Nah, not me. She taught all that stuff to me when I was a kid, but my knowledge is a little dusty now.”
“Ah, I see. So, I've got a package for you.”
Yuudai resisted the urge to throttle the man on the spot. “Oh? Well I think that deserves a gift.”
Yuudai picked up the backpack resting next to him on the bench and handed it to the man. The nonchalant figure unzipped the bag and quickly counted the money inside without pulling it out. Seemingly satisfied, he opened his satchel and withdrew two envelopes, handing them to Yuudai.
“Well, see you later, friend.” The man smiled again, and then stood up to continue his way along the path.
Yuudai let out his breath and tried to calm his pounding heart. He pulled out his phone and checked it.
A faint, but steady beep emanated from the phone as he checked the map. A small pulsating circle moving slowly away from Yuudai's position was visible on the screen.
Yuudai stood up and went back to the car.

The bouncer looked up and down at Naoki Koga, checking him over.
“Name?”
“Koga Naoki.”
The bouncer eyed a clipboard in his hand, and grunted. “Welcome to Flare.” He opened the door, letting the young kyodai into the club.
The place was like any other nightclub: loud, sweaty, and obnoxious. The air was sticky with the bodies in motion, and the music pumping over the speakers wasn't exactly in Koga's taste. Naoki flagged down the first waitress that he saw.
“Can I help you, sir?” The uninterested waitress said, already looking elsewhere, clearly distracted.
“I'm looking for Shoji-san.” Naoki said, with a little bit of force in his voice to get her attention.
The waitress snapped her attention back to Koga. Her eyes were a little widened, and her hand flew to her mouth. “You're one of Shoji-san's friends! I'm so sorry sir, please, follow me.”
Navigating through the sea of people, the waitress led Naoki to a door in the back of the club with an “EMPLOYEES ONLY” sign across it. She opened the door for the young man and bowed gracefully before hurrying away.
Naoki was confronted with a set of stairs, and he cautiously made his way down them, alert for any surprises. At the bottom of the stairs, he opened another door, and stepped inside.
The music here was in better taste, but it was no less loud or obnoxious. Yet the people in this room were very different from the ones upstairs. These ones seemed more lethargic, moving with a molasses air of sweet indolence.
In the center a crowd of people danced slowly, nowhere near in time with the beat of the music. Naoki furrowed his brow until one of the people dancing looked at him.
Her eyes were a multicolored rainbow of shifting hues and light. The girl was rapidly blinking, and every time she did, her eyes shifted into another kaleidoscope pattern. The eyes were beautifully colored, yet horribly dead, as if no life stirred behind them.
Naoki mentally shuddered, and looked away.
Elsewhere throughout the room were many more people laughing and dancing, yet all with the same languid movements. A couple in the corner was destroying and reassembling a painting with their minds, giggling while doing so. A girl leaned down and sat on a man's lap, grinding into him while burying her lips into his. Their faces seemed to melt into each other's, and perhaps they did.
Masked waiters darted from spectacle to spectacle, carrying trays with syringes, pipes, and other tools, presenting them to the various patrons when they seemed to come out of their trance, and always making sure to make notes on a paper when they did so. A group of men simply lying on couches and making lights appear in the air above them was approached by one such waiter who merely handed them carefully rolled cigarettes. The men greedily grabbed the cigarettes and smoked them, sinking back into an air of complacency. The waiter frowned when he came to the last man, who seemed not to react. Checking the man, the waiter tutted and signalled to a few other servants who came to help him drag the body out of the room.
Naoki wanted to vomit. One of the masked waiters glided up to Koga and presented a tray. A single syringe sat on it, pretty and unused. A greenish liquid was inside.
The yakuza pushed away the tray and said, “I'm looking for Shoji-san.”
The waiter bowed obsequiously and led Naoki to one of the booths lining the sides of the room.
The booth was occupied by a lean young man wearing a large pair of sunglasses and with a normal tobacco cigarette in his mouth. A girl was in both of his arms on both sides, laughing and giggling at him while a circle of associates sat in the booth, similarly occupied.
The man glanced up when the waiter approached. Naoki cleared his throat. “Are you Shoji-san?”
The smoking man grinned. “I might be. Who's asking?” Naoki almost cringed at the cliched line.
“Koga Naoki.”
The man grinned even wider. “Ahhh, so you're the one that my old grampa sent, eh? Sit down, bud, have a drink. Like my nightclub?”
Naoki sat down, somewhat stiffly. “It's nice, sir.”
“You bet your ass it is. Paid a lot of money for it too. So, let's get straight to business. You want to get hooked up in the Spirit Dust business, huh?” The man leaned away from his girls to put his elbows on the table. One of his girls stood up, and seductively walked over to Naoki's side of the table. She sat on his lap.
Naoki was unfazed.
“I am. Your grandfather told me to talk to you about it.” The girl put her arms around Naoki, who continued to ignore her.
She purred into his ear, “I've had a couple yakuza boys before, but nobody like you.”
Naoki ignored her. She didn't interest him, and nothing she did would.
“Yeah, I'm the guy to talk to. So, your local outfit wants some Spirit Dust, they gotta pay up a fee to us when they sell. You dig?” The man grinned again. Naoki already wanted to hit him. This punk was playing at grown-up.
“I understand, and I'm aware of the fees. Can we get set up with a supply soon?” Naoki asked, as the girl started to kiss his neck.
“Sure, sure. So serious, man. Sure you don't want to stick around? This party's pretty great, and the girls are interested in you.” Shoji motioned towards the room. Another body was getting dragged out.
“I think I'll pass. Not my type of party.”
“Sure, sure, I get it, not that kind of guy. We've got some guys who are pretty interested too.”
“I'm good, thanks. Will you stop that?” Naoki referred to the girl who was now stroking his lap. She looked somewhat shocked for a moment, as if she really hadn't expected him to refuse her advances. Then, she reluctantly slid off of him.
For a moment, a shade of annoyance flicked over Shoji's face, before he went back to his grinning demeanor. Naoki cocked an eyebrow.
“Well, I'll see you around then, Naoki. I can call you that, right? We're friends.” He offered a hand.
“Right. Friends.” Naoki shook Shoji's hand, making sure to grip tightly.
A twinge of pain shuddered through Shoji's body, but he didn't show it. Naoki left the hedonist scene, and then went out of the nightclub.
The brisk night air invigorated him as he headed for his car. Yet one thing wouldn't leave his memory, try as he might.
It was those goddamn eyes.

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Last One to Die
It's probably connected to SCP-1322.
Eat more of my SCPs. Eat them all.
Also please eat some of these

Anabasis Hub Probably the greatest story involving a pair of redheaded siblings whose infighting causes the end of the world
Manna Charitable Foundation 2000 The sequel to the above, collaborationed with Dr Reach
The Stuff Industry What happens when everyone around you at work is a complete idiot and so are you, but not only does no one get fired, but you actually turn a profit? I don't know, some stuff.
When MCF and Stuff happen A fun story of incompetence

"Do you have any idea how mind-numbingly pointless this is?"

Yeah, I said.

"Why do you keep doing it?"

Rage. Hate. It's an incredible high.

"This isn't about how you feel. 'It's about the human race.' Wasn't it you constantly spouting that trash?"

Yeah.

"Then why are you helping build weapons to kill people?"

Everyone is dying. There won't be any more babies to replace us. I figure, if there are aliens out there who find our dead world, by the time they get here they won't have anything to sift through but ruins, so they can say "Look how mighty these people were! Look how intelligent and full of potential! And they squandered it all away, done in by their own selfish need for individual power, unable to set aside their differences and work together!"
And it's a lie; a lie that abides because the truth is too complicated to be found in bones and shattered concrete. How do you even explain to another human across the centuries without using words, or pictures, or feelings?
We didn't kill ourselves; they did. Maybe they didn't know any better, but seeing as we make contact with them, and we get fucked and they keep on living and laughing and making babies… maybe they really were at fault. In their carelessness and arrogance, they destroyed us.
Whether they meant it or not, they can't just wipe their hands clean and move on to the next curiosity. They need to remember, now and forever, that we were here. And we're no longer here because of their actions.
They need to accept responsibility and learn from those mistakes. And if those people are the same sorts of people as us, it's a lesson that won't be learned until it's been hammered into them.

"And how does throwing shit through the wormhole show future aliens that we were so high and mighty and fell victim to a sleazy parallel-universe version of ourselves spreading odd viruses to make us infertile?"

Maybe they find the hole. Maybe they go through it, see humans on the other side. Maybe we leave behind some message, a bunch of pictures showing how the hole appeared and everything went to shit.

"You know how I know when you're lying? Your lips start to move before you say anything, like you're sounding out how your lie will sound."

I'm not lying.

"Come on. You've never cared about those people before. You told me it was a blessing, that all that mattered was the human race, and that it should keep going on, no matter where it was."

I swear I'm not lying.

"I also know when you're lying when you start to mumble like that. You're too easy. If I keep pushing enough, you'll crack."

Okay, so I don't care about actually hurting them.

"Then why are you working on these weapons?"

…
I just need something to do. I don't want my life to have been a study in mediocrity. I wish I could've been a singer or a dancer, so I could bring people some bit of pleasure, and they can say "Well we're fucked, but wasn't that girl just the best?"
But making weapons is all I know.
And if it feeds their lust for vengeance or just plain violence, what difference does it make? It's what I'm good at, and I just want to be good at something for once in my life. Even if it's at killing people.
…
He stopped talking to me then. He doesn't look at me anymore. He can't stand the sight of me.


Jakeob Aldon squinted as The Janitor's Way collapsed behind her, nonlight from the being's personal space bathing her workshop in its ethereal unglow. She shivered, her shirt soaked with Everett. She gathered the hem in her hands and squeezed, wringing the ferret out of her clothing. It gathered in a puddle at her feet before morphing into its animal form.
The Janitor's filter rattled for a moment as if drawing a breath to speak, and on the exhale the pressure it exuded on the room began to dissipate. She heard the door into the living room open and then shut, and the presence was gone completely. Now that the room was properly lit, her attention was drawn to the statue she had been working on over a week ago. It remained untouched after all that time, the clay and the magic within dried out.
It wasn't all that bad, really. The hands might have been a little small, and the jawline was just a tad over-defined. But all in all it was a decent sculpt. Aldon nodded to herself, mentally doing away with the baggage she had almost entirely forgotten about.
She took a breath to say something, realized there was nobody to talk to, and simply let it out. It was an okay statue. She gave the okay statue a hug, resting her cheek on the flaky dome. She let out a half-satisfied sigh and inhaled clay dust. Perhaps it wasn't an okay statue. Maybe it was a stupid statue. She strengthened her grip on the stupid statue and lifted it.
The suplex she had planned quickly failed as she recalled that not only were statues heavy, this specific one was weighed down by concrete. So rather than shatter her spine she swung her hips, tossing the dumb behemoth to the side. Clay flayed itself from the concrete base, and the right arm broke just above the elbow.
Aldon stared at the mess she had made, guilt tearing at her stomach. No, wait, that was hunger. Probably. She paused at the door's threshold, wondering how long she had actually been gone. Probably a while. Everett nibbled at her ankle and she picked him up, then she opened the door.
The living/bed/dining room was, for once, actually clean. Why this caused Aldon to panic she wasn't entirely sure, but for a good three seconds she was too confused to register the two other people in the room. One of them one was Finnegan, obviously. He lived here, it made sense. The man he was talking to, however, made much less sense being within Aldon's home.
Daniel Navarro looked over at her and grinned his stupid, Foundation-employed grin.
"The fuck are you doing here?" Aldon blurted out.
"I live here," replied Finnegan.
"Not you, you dumb asshole. Him! He's Foundation!"
"Oh. Yeah, I know." Finnegan waved his hand at his roommate dismissively. Aldon stared at the metal gauntlet strapped to his wrist for a moment before glaring at Navarro some more.
Navarro gave a friendly little wave. The fucker. "It's good to see you too, Allie."
A comeback tried and failed to present itself. Aldon was finding it increasingly difficult to be angry with him, which only made her want to hate him more. The sentiment eventually collapsed in on itself, leaving only an empty sense of apathy that Aldon was all too familiar with.
"Yeah, hi," she sighed. "What's with the power glove?"
"What's with the polecat?"
"The what?"
Finnegan indicated Everett. "Your new friend."
Aldon's voice hitched up an octave. "The ferret?"
"I don't think that's a ferret."
"Whatever. It turns into water. Now what's with the glove?"
Finnegan stared at the creature for several seconds before shrugging. He held up his gloved hand, displaying his palm. He pulled at a cord sticking out of the back of the glove and spoke in a bad French accent.
"Slap my hand."
Aldon's hand rose slowly. Her eyes darted between the metal glove and Finnegan's face. A glance at Navarro only earned a stupid grin. She sighed and gave Finnegan a high-five.
Or tried to, at least. Her hand came several inches short, smacking directly into physical noise. Nerves in her hand flared with confusion as they were bombarded with notes from various instruments. Neurons bounced back and forth with the beat as it delivered the messages to her brain. Lyrics bounced on her tongue for a moment while her brain tried to adjust to the synesthesia. She drew her hand back to stare at her palm, her body still tingling with solid echoes.
"I think you just made me an audiophile. Do it again."
"I don't know if repeated exposure is all that safe," Finnegan said. He thrust his hand high into the air when Aldon tried slapping it regardless. "Allie, no. Bad Allie. Down, girl."
"Then at least tell me we have food," Aldon demanded, her arms entangled around his.
"There's some leftovers from Uncle Larry's in the fridge, if you want it."
Aldon extracted herself, clapping her hands quickly. She made a dash for the kitchen, and Everett sprang onto the counter.
"You guys have an Uncle Larry's near here?" Navarro asked.
Finnegan hesitantly lowered his hand. "Yeah, down on Sixth and… McClintock, I think. You know it?"
"Never been myself, but I heard it's good." Navarro withdrew a pen and notepad from one of his pockets and jotted down a note to himself. He flipped it shut as Aldon pried open the microwave. "So. Allie. How did it go?"
She set about nuking the food. "Pretty alright. Made a big statue for their dumb art cult."
Navarro paused mid-scratch of his stubbled chin. "Art cult?"
"Eh, they got a big church dealio going on," she said. She rested her elbow on the counter. "Nothing too fancy, some glowing glass and a bunch of pews."
"And you sculpted a big statue of… what, exactly?"
"Oh, dude, chill. I didn't make Cthulhu or some shit. Even if they lied and the clay was magic, the worst they're gonna have is a big faceless dude with shitty proportions."
Navarro nodded. He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded again. "Yeah, alright. Well, we have their location and they don't seem to be on the verge of anything too dangerous."
"Er, how-" The microwave started blaring before she could give voice to the question. She hit the stop button and popped open the door. "How do you know where they are?"
Navarro smiled a smile that was significantly less friendly and much more mischievous than his previous smiles. Aldon's left lower eyelid twitched, and she was fairly sure it wasn't from the heat of the plate. Navarro grinned.
"Goddamn wizards," Aldon muttered before slamming the microwave shut. "So, is that all? We good? Or do I need to infiltrate the CIA now?"
"I actually spoke with the FBI about you," he replied nonchalantly. He laughed at the look she gave him. "Don't worry, it's for your benefit."
It took a lot of concentration to not drop her plate. "Did- did you get clearance or whatever? Do I get magic thing?"
He winced. "Unfortunately, no. While you aren't able to use any anomalies the Foundation currently has under lock and key, they're willing to look the other way if you do it yourself. So if you do find yourself to suddenly be in possession of two X chromosomes, the UIU has you covered. Turns out altering US government records is much easier when you actually work for the US government."
"Oh." She set the plate on the counter. Her mouth danced left and right before she looked back up at him. "That's a start, right? More than I had. I guess that was always going to be an issue, it was just one of the issues that'd only come after I actually changed."
"Yeah. You should be receiving contact info in the mail fairly soon. Other than that, all I can really say is stay out of trouble. Wouldn't want to have to come after you. Until then. Heheh."
"What? Just like that, you're leaving?"
He slid over to the door. "Yeah, figured I'd get out of your hair. I'm sure Finnegan's hospitality is running dry after all these hours. I'll be around, though. See you two later."
Finnegan nodded and Aldon just waved dumbly as the agent left. Aldon stared at the door, the floor, at Finnegan, and then at her food. Maybe that was all there was to it. Mission Accomplished. She took a fork from the drawer and stabbed a piece of chicken. It tasted like victory.
And it had a distinct aftertaste of her cellphone ringing.
She dug into her pocket and brought it out, squinting at the tiny screen. It was Felix. Resisting the urge to growl at the device, she flicked it open and put one end to her ear.
"Yo."
"Allie! I need you to get to the Library ASAP, we have an issue- okay, an emergency and- holy fuck! Allie, hurry."
"God fucking dammit."
Aldon closed the phone and took a deep breath. She let it out, nice and slow. It would have been easy to just ignore it. Physically, at least. Ignoring the call required no actual effort on her body's part. Ignoring the look Finnegan was currently giving her, however, was much more difficult.
Finnegan sauntered over and plucked some food from the plate. "Let me guess. They lied about it being magic clay?"
"I don't know what the fuck they did, but they fucked it up. Par for the fucking course. Ugh. I'm too hungry and too tired for this." Aldon fingered her temples. "Our Way is fast, right?"
"Relatively."
"And we should probably help, right?"
"As painful as I'm sure it will be, yes. Probably."
Aldon sighed. "Fine. Fuck it. Let's go."
Finnegan tilted his head. "Would you like to say fuck a few more times? Or have you gotten it out of your system?"
"Fuck you," she spat. A small pause before, "Okay, yeah, that was the end of it."
"Finish your food, I'll get the bottles of blood."
"Okay, dad."
She stabbed another piece of chicken and shuffled over to where Everett had taken perch. The polecat/ferret sniffed at her food and hissed. Aldon shrugged and tore into the food. Meanwhile, Finnegan grabbed a pair of small glass bottles from the bathroom, both full of blood. Aldon eyed her blood for a few seconds before continuing to eat. Finnegan then gathered up various CD cases and books, dumping them into an old black backpack of Aldon's.
"Think that stuff will help?" Aldon asked. Finnegan shrugged. "Well, best to be prepared I guess. What about the golems? I could probably bludgeon Felix with those. And we should probably get something for a fight in general, I guess."
Finnegan chuckled and gathered up the little humanoids. Nine of them now. He lowered them into the backpack. After glancing around the apartment for anything else that might be of use, Finnegan slung the pack over one shoulder.
"We have surprisingly few weapons," he said.
"Yeah, cuz you know what artists are known for. Owning tons of combat-ready weapons."
"It was just an observation."
She cocked a grin. "A dumb one."
He cleared his throat. "…Yes."
"Were you hoping to buy some time for a comeback?" she asked, sliding over to him with the bottles in hand.
He tilted his head back and grimaced. "Maybe."
She offered him the bottle containing her blood, which he snatched without making eye contact. Still giggling, Aldon popped the glass stopper out and dabbed her friend's blood onto her fingertips sans the thumbs. She slid it back into place and set the container on the counter. Finnegan did the same with the bottle containing her blood. Then they stared at each other for a few seconds.
Finnegan glanced at her. "I hate you for this."
Aldon just smiled, partially for what was to come, and partially because Everett had just clambered into the half-open backpack.
They arranged themselves side by side with a few feet between them, both staring at the wall Finnegan's computer was situated against. Finnegan let out a sigh and Aldon bounced on her heels. He slid his arm through the second strap and pulled them both tight.
In unison, they lifted their arms and held them away from each other, parallel to the ground. Still as one, they side-stepped toward one another, sweeping their arms until their fingertips almost touched. They flung their arms away from each other, still parallel to the ground, but this time kicked their opposite knees toward each other. They stamped their feet out and leaned into each other, slamming their knuckles together with their fingers outstretched.
The blood on the fingertips sparked and twisted itself into runes neither of them really understood. Each of the sixteen symbols stabbed into the space around them, latching on and ripping it apart. The duo pulled at the fabric of reality, spinning in place and dragging it with them. They lost sight of more and more of their room as they surrounded themselves in the fold until they slapped their hands together. They dropped the torn fabric of spacetime and found themselves inside their Way.
While the usual laws that govern the way of existence said that the amount of space around them should match the space they tore away from their apartment, that was not their Way. Their Way was largely undefined, with fragments of ideas and personality strewn about, but it was largely empty. They had yet to truly find it, in a way, and so it had yet to anchor itself in any real way. Statues and floating music notes. A food catering truck with a blurry sign reading "Red Bear Bob's Food Truck" was parked outside a counselor's office.
And behind them was the exit, a set of mismatched double doors. One was a French door made from oak, a stylized A painted on the wooden panel below the windows. The other a flush door constructed from cedar, a simple F emblazoned in a position identical to the other door's A. The frame holding them was almost half a foot thick and carved from stained redwood.
"Ouch, that stung," Aldon said, waving the offending hand. "Why do you still have that glove on?"
"I forgot due to my disbelief of that ridiculous Way opening ceremony," Finnegan said, starting the march for his door.
"Shut up, you love it. It's fun!" Aldon trailed him, taking in the sights of their Way.
"It's embarrassing."
"Yes, I'm sure the ferret is making tons of fun of you in there."
Everett poked his head out of the backpack, as if he could tell he was the center of their conversation. "It's a polecat."
"What the hell is a polecat?"
"Forget it."
"Is it like towercat, but smaller?"
Finnegan laughed despite himself. He grasped the knob to his door and Aldon did the same to his left. Together they twisted their wrists, the latch of each door disengaging from the other one's frame. They pushed them open and stepped out into one of the many lobbies of the Wanderer's Library, shutting the doors behind them. After a moment the doors wavered, then outright dissipated.
They had only the briefest of moments before Felix Cori stormed up to them. He was a flurry of panic and another weather metaphor of desperation. He paused for breath and then went right into it.
"Aldon we need to get back to the warehouse ASAP, the statue we used got enchanted and it went ape shit."
"Why."
The flatness in her voice caught him off guard. "Why what?"
"Well." Aldon did her best to compose herself. "Why did you try enchanting the statue when you explicitly stated you were keeping the magic to a minimum? And. Why could that possibly be a problem? You said the clay wasn't magic, so unless you did something really stupid — not outside of the realm of possibility, obviously — then you shouldn't be in that much trouble. Why is it just you here, when there were dozens of anartists?"
Felix didn't say anything.
Aldon smiled. "So. Felix. No, sorry. Critic. Why."
She leaned in close and hissed through grinding teeth, "Why are you such a stupid fuckup?"
Felix continued saying nothing.
Bordering on hyperventilating, Aldon grabbed Felix by the shirt. "Just take us to the Way so we can fix your stupid problem."
It took a jog across the lobby, up and down and up and down and down several sets of stairs into another lobby, but it didn't take long. Felix frantically lifted the garage door embedded in the lobby wall, ducking under it when he had a little clearance. Aldon and Finnegan followed suit and the door fell down behind them.
"Is this seriously a one direction Way?" Aldon asked.
Felix still said nothing. The three of them dashed out into the main room of the warehouse, and were greeted by a strange sight. On the left was a series of sigils, runes, and symbols arranged in various patterns surrounding one spot. From that spot, splotches of clay led through the pews, which had been pushed together into rows much closer to the main platform than before. It was almost a full house, most of the anartists tied to their seats so they wouldn't miss a moment. The platform itself had since been converted into a stage, where the remaining anartists were performing a play. Which was quite an infamous play in certain circles.
And center stage was Cassandra Paulson, in the role of Alinda. In her hand was a bloodied dagger, and at her feet was a corpse with its throat slashed. She stood beside an animate clay being, molded to look as if it was wrapped in fabric from head to toe, with the toes also shoved into high-heels from the look of it.
"With this, our blood, it is the… The Sculptor's," she choked out.
And then the cast hung.
"Wow." Aldon said. "Wow. Holy shit, you guys fucked up."

« Exasperated Efforts | Hub | Gray God »


My cousins down the Day-twah say we don't get made like we used to. The way I sees it, that just means each of us what's left gotta work that much harder to do his part.
I do work hard. I've tried and tried every day of my life since I was bought, and that's as true for Mr. H as it was Ms. Randolph. But she didn't need much: go here, go there, go back over here. Easy to please, but I didn't let that mean I could be lazy. No sir, I worked as hard as I could. Even if it was just simple things I did for her, putting that much more effort into it made it worthwhile.
Fact is, I would've been happy to spend my life with Ms. Randolph, until I met Mr. H. The day she sold me to him, I could tell right immediately, he had a fire inside. He had dreams and hopes, drive and magic. He downright made Ms. Randolph a candle in comparison, especially those last few years, when she didn't have as many places to go as often. Don't tell her I said that, though. She was a right good lady and I'm sure it weren't her fault.
But hard as I worked for her, I knew I'd have to work ten times as hard for Mr. H. Every week, it seemed, he had somewhere new to go, a smile and a song in him. It didn't matter if sometimes he moved a little slow once he was done with a place. By the time he got back inside me, he was already thinking about where to go next, and raring to get there.
And then there was Mikey. Let me tell you, I hadn't been expecting a two-for-one on owners, and I didn't rightly know what to make of the little guy at first. But before I knew it, he'd graduated from back seat to front and joined Mr. H on every other trip, it seemed like. Any time he'd poke my buttons, I'd be sure to play him a cheery tune, because anytime Mikey smiled, Mr. H, well, he'd smile twice as big, and that was all I wanted. Have to say, I got downright attached to him and soon I was raring to do my best to help him just as much as Mr. H.
It's a funny old thing, when your best ain't enough.
Took me a while to notice. I ain't too perceptive about people sometimes, and Mr. H, well, he's got a knack for hiding what he don't want anyone else to know. Those little black pavement cracks, they crept up on me slow-like, so by the time I couldn't ignore them no more, well, they was too many to do anything about. Fact was, maybe I didn't want to notice them, neither. Things with Mr. H and Mikey was hunky-dory for so long, can you blame me for focusing on the positive?
Anyway, them black pavement cracks, they took a heavy toll on Mr. H. He kept his smile on, but it was glass instead of steel, like it might break if someone tapped his fender. I tried my hardest, really I did. Harder than my hardest, even. But it didn't seem to be making no difference.
My cousins' words came back to me: we don't get made like we used to be. I started to wonder if maybe I was born rusty, or if maybe life with Ms. Randolph had made me soft. Thing is, I got so caught up in blaming myself, I lost sight of what was really important to me. And for that, I truly do give myself the blame. What happened next, I should've seen coming.
Mikey was big. He didn't stick around the house much, and he didn't go on trips with me and Mr. H like he used to. I couldn't tell if he had his own thing going on or what it was. I ain't too perceptive about people sometimes. But late at night, I could hear them arguing. Sometimes in the morning, too. More and more they argued in that old house.
House didn't say nothing about it. Maybe I don't speak her language. But I knew she had to be hurting like I was to hear them going at each other so much. I didn't know what started things going so bad so fast, but I knew I had to be the one to do something to put an end to it.
Things came to a head after Mikey stomped out of one of them arguments. It was maybe the worst yet. I wanted so bad for that house to be full of happiness again. I had to try to do something to save those two before the black pavement cracks grew up so big they couldn't be filled in no more. But what could I do? If Mr. H wasn't around, I just sat in the driveway. I ain't never felt so helpless than I did right at that very moment.
So I thought back. I tried to remember all the good times me and Mr. H had together. I tried to remember what he looked like when Mikey played my songs. I thought and I thought, and then it was like I could see him, could see every happy face he ever made. I saw myself, and I saw him, and I tried and tried to make that old dream become real.
And maybe it worked. That old house seems full of laughter now, anyhow. Can't rightly say I seen Mikey around much, and Mr. H don't take me out on trips like he used to, but I figure they gotta be doing all right. Can't have that much joy in their lives and not be happy, right? So for both their sakes, I'll keep trying as hard as I can to make them happy. That's all I really want.


Nathaniel Atkinson rang up the green and red nozzle, holstering it in the 7-Eleven gas pump, his other hand occupied with a half-eaten dragonfruit. The pump offered him a receipt, abruptly, which he refused outright with a slap across the keypad. The dragonfruit plopped onto his coupe's center console as he shut the door, burying his face in his hands for a moment. He could hardly imagine facing his co-workers this morning. Hell, his tank was full; the act of 'filling up' only bore semblance of a way to pass time rather than go into work. He had no contact information for Doctor Hart, who he, more than anything, wanted to speak to at that moment. Nathan flicked on the radio and sat in place, car still off beside the gas pump. His fingers reamed through his hair as he tried to make sense of the previous day.
Nothing about it made sense. It had been a hellish amalgamation of the strangest natural incidents he had seen in his career to date, and he was eager to experience more. The overwhelming curiosity was killing him more than anything in the situation, he realized as he finally started the car. It gave a reluctant purr, but started nonetheless, turning out of the gas station. He glanced down Tampa Road with a consolidating glare. For a moment, he considered driving home, taking the day off to think about things. Nathan swallowed a spoonful of the damnably bitter fruit. Something about it had always piqued his taste buds with the strangest of sensations.
His phone rang.
His hand froze, hovering over it. He had reacted far faster than he had thought, his eyes stuck to their corners and reading the number. It was nothing he recognized, but the unknown wasn't unwelcome. 'Accept Call' was pressed and flicked faster than he could bring the phone to his ear.
" —kinson, is this the correct number?"
Nathan blinked. "Yes, yes it is," he murmured, trancelike, pulling out onto Tampa. A car had pulled up behind him some time ago, waiting, and he felt their hand hovering on the horn. "Who is this?"
"Doctor Hart. Drive down to Clearwater. 5380 Tech Data Drive. You got that? Park in any of the handicapped spots. Someone will pick you up."
The address was already in his phone's GPS, typed out the moment each word left the speaker. "On my way," he breathed, swerving across a lane to make a u-turn. He set his phone in a cupholder, switching on the GPS function and beginning to make his way down to Clearwater.
He didn't look back once.

<An hour before.>
"Hello? Is this the Region 352 office?"
"Yes, Doctor Hart. How may I help you today?"
"Get me through to Kate."
The secretary hummed as she checked the lines. "You're in luck. Her line's open. Patching you through."
The dial tone rang again. Hart tapped his foot impatiently, leaning back against the wall of his office. The cord for the phone swayed and dangled back to his desk as he waited.
"Director McTiriss, Region 352."
Hart breathed out. "Kate, it's Hart."
"Hart? Shouldn't you be focusing on the outbreak?"
"Yes, yes. I need to ask you something. It's important. Mostly."
"Go on," the director breathed. Hart sat back in his chair, gathering himself.
"I dragged a civilian into it. He was useful, so I just grabbed him, gave him a gun, and… fuck, I don't know where my head was."
"And?"
Hart paused. "And what?"
The regional director smacked her lips over the line. "I once deputized an intern from the Montenegrin Parliament on a whim. Handed him a gun, gave him some direction. Local resources can be put to use rather well in these situations."
Hart almost felt taken aback, but he wasn't entirely surprised. He plopped his free hand over a stack of papers still to process for the new anomalies. "You remember mention of Diario?"
"Yeah, the one whose body wasn't found? I recall, yes."
"We need a replacement still. And this one, Atkinson, he's not so much as flinched. He's approached this far different than you'd think. Like… like…"
"He's curious. He seems to be interested. He's been helping?"
"To a degree," Hart admitted. "We dragged him with Green Thumb without giving him much direction."
"So, he didn't freak out under pressure? Hire the guy yesterday."
Hart chuckled. "You act like it's so easy. It's—"
"Don't try and complicate it. If he has some credentials, and recommendations, he may very well be joining you. From what I can hear, this Atkinson has got a word in from me on his case, should this opportunity be given."
The doctor nodded to himself, drumming his fingers on his desk. "Then that's all I needed to hear. Ciao."
Hart hung up the phone without waiting for a reply. He rapidly dialed the office's secretary. "Wilma? Find me the number of Nathaniel Atkinson. Yes, the one we grabbed yesterday. Get me everything you have on him."

"Mmn. Doctor Atkinson?"
Nathan looked up as he closed his car door. "I'm hardly a doctor, but, yes. That'd be me. Are you the one I'm supposed to meet?"
Wilma, the secretary for the Clearwater office, offered her hand. Nathan shook it, briefly. "Wilma Stern, secretary to Doctor Hart. I suppose he wants to see you right away. Just follow me."
Nathan followed the woman into the building, confining his hands to his pockets. At a glance, the building seemed no different from the average office complex. On the inside, however… well, he found it to still be the average office complex. A tad disappointing, but he wasn't sure what else he expected. "Where's everyone else?" he asked, as they climbed a set of stairs.
"Mmn, probably out dealing with the event going down at the Belcher Publix Supermarket. Some squirrels got affected. It's going to be hard to cover up."
Nathan nodded. It made just as much sense as everything else lately. "Now, normally, I'd subject you to an orientation video and give you a pamphlet, but Hart eschewed that. You'll fill some paperwork out later. Just make sure it's all accurate," Wilma spoke, opening the door to Hart's office. The doctor stood to greet Nathan, and before he could inquire about the paperwork, the door was shut.
He turned to face Hart, shaking his hand as well. "Yes, hi," Nathan breathed. Hart gave his hand a firm shake and walked back around his desk, seating himself. "We're leaving in a few minutes. Anything you'd like to bring along that you'd think would be useful?"
"Leaving for where? Why am I here?"
"The Publix I'm sure Wilma mentioned. We busted someone down there this morning trading off a designer drug. Now there's squirrels."
Nathan blinked. "I'm sorry, what? What do squirrels have to do with a drug dealer?"
"It's a long story. To be short, the drugs allow for reality bending. Minor. And the squirrels were set loose on the store in order to try and cover their tracks. Maybe. It may just be an act of harassment to warn us to back off. We're not sure of anything yet."
Nathan breathed out. "Right. Right, okay. This is dangerous, yeah? I mean, what are the squirrels doing?"
Hart chuckled. "Exactly what squirrels usually do, but worse."
"What? Feed on nuts?"
"Not quite."

Nathan found a bottle of canola oil upended on his head, dousing him in the cooking liquid as he sputtered, grabbing for a plastic spatula he had grabbed off a nearby display. He whacked the squirrel that had pounced him in the face, stunning it just long enough to squirm out from under it. He heard gunfire elsewhere in the supermarket, relenting that he hadn't asked for a gun himself. He had lost the task force member that was supposed to be shadowing him some point in the Cereals and Dry Foods aisle, among a myriad of loop cereals and flakes.
They were starting to regain control, but it was tough. The squirrels were far larger than your average nut-thief, and they were in quite the ravenous mood. They weren't even hunting for nuts. As they found with a corpse found in Aisle 14, they were indeed feasting on human flesh. Specifically, they had a taste for calves.
"Atkinson, get your ass to me!" Jacob yelled, double-tapping the squirrel that had pounced Nathan first. "There aren't many left, but they're getting clever."
Nathan shot his glances down the aisle as most of the supermarket went silent. His breath was heavy, rapid, and his heart was beating frantically as his calves tingled with the prospect of being devoured like cashews. A few clears were shouted over the aisles as the duo gathered themselves, relaxing. "Going to be one Hell of a cover-up," Jacob muttered, leaving Nathan to collect his wits.
He squeezed at his coat, soaked in canola oil. He sighed. The garment was thoroughly trashed at this point, but, there was a bonus in this. He definitely still had calves.
"Nathan!"
Doctor Hart came down the hall, gun still in hand, offering Nathan a hand. The male blinked in confusion, unsure of when he had ended up on the ground. He gripped the doctor's hand and stood, gathering himself. "That was…"
"Exhilarating? Yes, but the cleanup crew's job here is going to be Hellish."
"Not what I had in mind," Nathan murmured, but followed the doctor as he began to walk further back in the store. "Find anything?"
"Nothing," Hart breathed. "Nothing. Nothing more than this morning."
"What did you get this morning? That weird reality drug?"
"Yes. We've seen it before, once. Michigan. I suppose I can divulge that a little more easily now, since you'll be on this case in records soon."
Nathan didn't bother to ask about what he meant. "So, what happened in Michigan?"
Hart sighed, and leaned against the meat counter. "We lost a good man that day. We were trying to shut down a drug operation run by some idiot that had found an anomalous ingredient, or some shit we never fully understood."
"What was his name?"
Hart shook his head.
"Diario."

« Just Like Me | Green Thumb Hub | {TBA} »


Plastic shrapnel bounced off Koning's torso
"I just…I mean…look at this. How am I supposed to say no to him again?" Project Manager Willem Koning lamented.
Project Director Edvin Jonasson stared hard at his underling, his face not betraying the jumble of conflicting thoughts running through his mind. He looked at the plastic model on his desk in front of him, and resisted the urge to examine it more thoroughly.
"You're not going to say no to him again," Jonasson finally said. He knew his voice sounded stern, but the edge he purposely added to it was artificial, though he didn't think Koning could tell.
"I'm not?" Koning's look of surprise had a hint of optimism to it. Jonasson quickly shut it down.
"No, you're going to fire him. And if you don't think you can do it, then I'll do it, and I won't hold it against you," Jonasson replied. He meant it, too. He knew how everyone felt about Lindahl. Hell, he liked the guy as much as anyone else.
Koning sighed reflexively. They both knew the day had been coming, but days like that always arrived quicker than anyone wanted. "No. I can do it myself. I'll let you know right now that I'm going to hate you for this a little bit. Everyone will." There was no anger or bitterness in the manager's voice.
"I know. I hate myself a little for this already. But you know as well as I do that the time he is wasting by pretending he can just do whatever he wants is going to catch up to all of us eventually. The VP is already breathing down my neck, simply because breathing down people's necks is at the top of her job description. What do you think would happen if she heard about Lindahl's little projects?"
"Well, I imagine your neck would start to smell like mint and cabernet. And then you'd start hounding me, and I'd resent you for it. Then I'd start hounding Lindahl, and he'd resent me for it, but not before giving me that sad puppy dog look he has when he thinks you're crushing his dreams. Then I'd resent myself, and then I'd be the one drinking wine in my office and trying to cover it up with too many breath mints."
It was Jonasson's turn to sigh reflexively. Lindahl's sad puppy dog look truly did make you feel like a bastard, though he supposed that was the trade off for his infectious laughter that always cheered up the entire department like nitrous oxide was being pumped through the AC vents. Morale was going to plummet, he thought. His eyes strayed from Koning's distressed grimace, back to the model on his desk again. Koning followed his boss's gaze, and this time they sighed in unison. They might have laughed at their synchronicity if they hadn't been so occupied with hating the circumstances that lead to it.
Jonasson's earlier resistance escaped him, and he found himself spinning the small merry-go-round with his finger tip. He ran his finger down the slide, pushed the teeter totter up and down, and gave an under-duck to the small plastic figure sitting on the swings.
"It's almost creepy, isn't it?"
Koning's voice seemed slightly far away, as if he was standing ten meters away instead of just one. Jonasson started to feel a strange happiness come over him. It was a mild euphoria that reminded him of Lindahl's laugh, which reminded him of the sad puppy dog face, which reminded him to stop fingering the damn toy and remember that his job wasn't the only one at stake.
"Sorry, what did you say?"
"I said it's almost creepy. There's just something subtle about it, something under the surface that evokes nostalgia and childhood and fond memories. Or maybe I'm just a sap." Koning shuffled his feet nervously as his boss stared into space, apparently mulling over his words.
Jonasson finally spoke after an uncomfortable 15 seconds. This time, the edge in his voice was not artificial. "No, it's not creepy. It's sad. It's sad that we can't do something a little different for once, because a licensed IP makes more money than anything original these days. It's sad that money rules everything, even children's toys. It's sad that I understand why it's necessary for things to be this way, and that I usually don't give it a second thought. But the saddest thing? The thing that just makes me want to tear out what's left of my hair? The saddest thing, Willem, is that a grown man can't do what he's told long enough to keep the job we all know he considers his dream.
"It would be great if we could do a playground theme, or a park theme, or whatever. But it's not in the cards, and everyone gets that except Lindahl. We all ignore reality sometimes, Willem. If we didn't, he'd have been fired years ago because, and I know nobody likes to think about this, we let him get away with behavior that would have been cause for termination if it came from anyone else. I don't know if it's that damn laugh of his, or his child-like earnestness, or what, but I'm breaking that spell. You can't ignore reality forever. We can't ignore reality forever. If Lindahl wants to try and ignore it for the rest of his life, that's fine by me. But he won't be doing it here, because I like my job, Willem. And if you like your job, you'll go tell him he's being let go, hate me for it for a little while, and get the fuck over it."
Jonasson's eyes began to water as he spoke the word "fuck". For another man, having to blink back tears might have undermined the intensity of the speech, or perhaps even caused a subordinate like Koning to lose respect for him. Willem Koning, however, only felt shaken at the sight of his 62-year-old boss's glistening eyes.
"Edvin, you know I'll do it. I think…I think I just need to remember that before Lindahl, this place wasn't some dank black hole where joy went to die. It's always been a nice workplace with its ups and downs. Sometimes it's relaxing, sometimes it's stressful, but we all love our jobs here. Lindahl's absence isn't going to ruin that."
Jonasson dabbed at his eyes with a tissue from his desk. He gave himself a mental pat on the back for fighting to save Koning's job years ago, during the company's biggest financial struggle of their long history. "No, it's not going to ruin anything, of course. I'm sure some people will be sour for awhile, and they'll blame me, but eventually things will go back to normal."
"I'm starting to think that we haven't known 'normal' in quite some time. Do you ever remember feeling like this? Before Lindahl, I mean?" Koning didn't wait for an answer. "I mean, I'm actually starting to feel pretty gung-ho about showing the door to our resident slacker, but then I look down at that little playground…" Koning's voice drifted off sleepily.
Jonasson looked down at the model again. He thought about Koning's words, and somewhere in his mind he made a connection. He felt the familiar pull to pick up and examine Lindahl's creation, and he realized with sudden clarity that it actually frightened him. Jonasson picked up the model, and stood up from his chair. Before Koning could say anything, the director hurled Lindahl's pet project against the far wall of his office. Plastic shrapnel bounced off Koning's torso, repelled by his business casual armor, as the startled manager attempted to assess what had just taken place. He turned to look at the now scratched and dented wall, then back to his boss.
Jonasson sat down in his office chair without a glance at his shaken employee. He moused away the screen saver on his computer, opened up his email, and began deleting anything containing industry buzz words. It was an activity that always calmed him, and gave a surprising amount of satisfaction. He heard his office door open and close as Koning left to tell a very nice man that his dream was not terribly marketable at this point in time, and that he would need to seek employment elsewhere.
The director's eyes were now curiously dry as he skimmed through the contents of each email. Many could be deleted after simply reading the subject line, but some of them were more misleading. Delete. Delete. Delete. Oh, yes, I know how important ergonomics are, thank you HR. Delete. Delete. Delete. The next email was from a project coordinator named Chad, who worked at the Connecticut office thousands of miles away. The subject line had seemed very promising.
"Oh Chad," Jonasson said to no one in particular. "I was considering sending a reply, until you mentioned 'core competencies'. I no longer wish to 'touch base' with you, I'm afraid."
The mouse pointer hovered over the "delete" option. Jonasson could hear voices from somewhere outside his office. Somebody sounded very upset.
"Slette," said the project director, the word barely a whisper as his eyes began to water again.
Click.

when he arrives
the lighthouse will be deserted
and he will crash upon the rocks

« Hub | And He Will Crash Upon the Rocks »


To anyone wondering, yes that's a real bible quote.
Also Orange Beach is awesome and I'd recommend it to anyone.

▸ More by this Author ◂

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F.A.Q.

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I stare out into the dimly lit Gulf of Mexico as the sun's last rays peek over the horizon. One thought goes through my mind, as a glimmer of light illuminates a sign welcoming me to Orange Beach, Alabama.
What in the hell have I gotten myself into?
I'd spent the last few years working as a researcher at Site-73. But this… this place was something else. Something completely different. I'd gone through the motions with my soon to be superior, Dr. Jacobs earlier today. He'd told me about the drowning man, Event 2047, and Han, the talking hand. To Jacobs this was just another day. For me, it was my first ethics assignment. For me, this was Bedlam.
Site-88 contains more than just a few safe anomalies. There are world enders here, there is evidence of the world almost ending, more than once. There are aliens, someone buying and selling senses, and there's a minister who offered just a little too much to fix a mistake he'd made. And something else was here that had taken him up on that offer.
One of my predecessors doesn't even exist. There are ethics papers on file and no one knows who wrote them. Reality at Site-88 is so fluid that they set up hume detectors just to make sure everything stays real.
Who am I? Why do I care? I'm the Ethics Committee Liaison. Just some guy with higher access than everyone except the site director. It's my job to look over the containment procedures for every scary ass object at Site-88 and then contemplate the deep ethical questions.
The sun's last glow finally goes out, and the darkness drops again over the water. I sigh, and sit down in the sand on the edge of the ocean. Somewhere out there, a church sits uncrushed by the untold pressure of the water above it. And every Sunday, a whole building full of people are born again just to be drowned. A perverse baptism, like the Reverend I'm responsible for but on an even larger scale.
The worst part of all? As I stare out and imagine the horror of drowning I can't help but smile. Because that one isn't my problem. Someone else handles the drowning church. The ethical implications of the decision to let them die over and over again isn't my purview. I'm free of guilt. For that at least.
Tomorrow Jacobs leaves. Tomorrow I have to find an apartment near the Site. I stand up, dust myself off and walk back to my car. I grab a flyer off my windshield and toss it into the passenger seat. I sit down on the driver's side and open my glove compartment. The Gideon bible inside has brought me solace on a number of occasions. Solace is something I need in this moment.
When you work for the Foundation, believing in something larger and grander than yourself is easy. Believing in something larger and grander than the stuff around you is a bit harder but it is something I've done for years to stay sane. I open the bible to a random page and select a passage. Ezekiel 20:29.
"Then I said unto them, What is the high place whereunto ye go? And the name thereof is called Bamah unto this day."
I wrinkle my nose as I look up from the pages. The half crumpled flyer in the seat beside me is bright red, and catches my eye.
"Check out 'Bama Boat's Gulf Tours! Only 20 bucks at Pier 8!"
Well.
That is just unsettling.

« Sex, Success, and Targeted Advertising | Rammer Jammer Yellow Hammer | The North Pole»


As with any day in the life of House God, the morning began not with an alarm, not with the cock's cry, and nor by the creaking of the floorboards. No, the morning began with the daily shouting match between Toilet God and Armchair God from across the hall, as Guardian stood in the bathroom, quietly humming to himself as he swished mouthwash between his cheeks. Consumables did not seem to be very lenient towards the Enlightenment, but that was okay. Guardian was content with what he had, and what he had was-
"You blunt, incompetent depository! Why won't you concede?"
Guardian sighed as he patted the lid of the deity's tank, giving it a faux-affectionate rub. He swished a finger past the lever and let it flush, drowning out his voice for a moment as Toilet God experienced what was most akin to climax. Armchair God did not seem to be ready to ring out with his reply as of yet, and instead was groggily murmuring from the living room. There was idle chatter from Fire Alarm god in the hallway just outside the bathroom, but nothing past complaints of the kitchen's fighting the previous night, and the sudden strain of smoke and burnt odor.
The Guardian stepped outside the bathroom and left the door open, for the furnishings' ease of communication with the rest of the home. Although they were all ambivalently aware that their thoughts and arguments could be settled telepathically, through their Protector and Savior, House God, they rather chose to vocalize their discrepancies. It was quite the act, yes, one that D-Class 17350, formerly Thomas Perry-Mills, had grown accustomed to. It had truly become a part of his daily routine, as it were, to listen and mediate as Coffee Table God and Nightstand God, from down in the bedroom, screeched at each other. He gave them both the privilege of holding one of his beverages every day, which was usually the origins of their argument.
Guardian patted the walls as he walked out into the kitchen, listening to the home creak in response. It was a welcome and hushed good morning, but he was the only one who would know that. There was certain privileges for having sentience twofold. As he popped an egg into Pot God (not to be mistaken with Bong God, who had long been removed from the household. It was simply a hampering to the happy home, and made a rather long and messy recovery for Chimney God), Stove God purred. He heard whispering from Oven God, but only that of a lazy wake-up. He had used her the day before for breakfast, and Stove God was on rotation today. Microwave God had been up the longest, and he was already glaring with a youthful hatred at the gas stove.
Pot God piped up to announce that the egg had finish hard-boiling, and Guardian turned from his conversation with Refrigerator God to remove it with the one, and the only, Major Spoon God. (There were, of course, many other minor deities that were under this one— Yogurt Spoon God, Soup Spoon God, Ladle God, if only as a distant cousin, and the bastard child, Spork God, and more.) He set both Major Spoon God and Pot God in Sink God to rest in a lukewarm bath of water, removing himself from the kitchen. The tensions were already rising as it were. Lunch today was meant to be appliance-less, and the whole of the kitchen domain seemed to be attentively aware of this fact.
Using Minor Plate God and a napkin, Guardian sat down in Couch God, flipping on Television God with a few commands from Remote God. The two of them had a rather close relationship, despite their occasional arguments, which were usually minor in nature, and really only when Remote God was feeling especially burnt out. He bit into the egg, well-cooked as always, with a contempt huff, and a swallow that made Minor Plate God shudder. Guardian laid the dining-ware deity on Coffee Table God, who struck up a conversation the moment they made contact. The two were always happy to meet, especially on mornings after sweeter breakfasts. Television God played the previous night's Minnesota Gophers game at a volume just high enough to be heard, and right in the most comfortable spot for Guardian. Everyone in the home had grown used to his preferences. He was highly appreciated as a caretaker and a fellow member of the Holy Home1 of House God.
It was a good day, Guardian decided, as he watched events unfold over the smooth screen. There was ambient conversation across the home, but not of a significant enough volume to be a bother to him. They were all of a light tone, and very few were hushed arguments. (He was sure that Microwave God was trying to chastise Oven God again, and he was also certain that Water Heater God was trying to make peace with the ever-hardy Water Softener God, who was running especially low on salts this day.)
And the sun shined, as the morning came onto early afternoon.
And the house creaked.
And the kitchen quieted. Which was abnormal, for sure, catching Guardian's attention immediately. His head swiveled and glanced toward it, the open archway leading into it quite well displaying the scene that had occurred. He sighed. Refrigerator God was growing older, and she had a very weak stomach, when under stress. This morning, Microwave God's profanity seemed to have done it. The food was on the floor, some splattered, some strewn and leaking from its containers still. It was looking to be a visit to the supermarket, now, as he stood and whistled. "Gods of the Cleaning Domain… would you be so kind?"
There was no immediate movement, really. Everything in the home took its own pace, but it always achieved what it sought, one way or another.
As he turned Key God and reintroduced him to Car God, Wallet God in his pocket, Backpack God in the seat beside him, buckled up, and the usual Closet Domain group now donned, he set off from the driveway. The last he heard was House God's quiet blessing of safety, and the hum of Vacuum God.

"Shh, quiet, young'uns. We're on a trip. No need to fret."
"Who did you bring with you, Backpack God?" Guardian whispered, grabbing a shopping cart as he waved goodbye to the nice Foundation guard who had ensured his safe trip here, via stalking him with a black coupe. "Just a few," she whispered back, her happiness contained, yet apparent. "Gel Pen God, #2 Pencil God, Spork God, Headphones God-"
"You brought Spork God?" he whispered harshly, feeling the shudder from within the pack. "Yes," a weak whimper came from within, obviously the bastard child. Guardian huffed, grabbing a container of milk from the refrigerated section. "Could you please not make this a repeat of last time? Control yourself a tad better?"
There was a psychic nod of sorts as Denim Jeans God commented shrewdly, to which Guardian scuffed a leg of him against a shelf. He quieted quickly, although Left Tennis Shoe God and his brother were quick to quip. "Watch it, wisecrack," Left Tennis Shoe God intoned, to which his more comedic sibling replied: "Yeah, watch it, asscrack."
Guardian scoffed and scuffed the Right Tennis Shoe God on the floor with a groan of complaint coming from the joker. Red Polo God wasn't saying much, as usual, and rather absorbed her environment and enjoyed her surroundings. Every trip out was an adventure for her, and she was on of the few articles of clothing that truly appreciated the concept of innocent curiosity. As Guardian restocked his cart with condiments, Gel Pen God finally spoke out. "C-can we pick up s-some ink for my s-sister today? S-she's feeling a little e-empty…"
"No," Guardian said, but calmly. "I promised that I'd order her some tomorrow. I can't just pick up ink worthy of Fountain Pen God anywhere," he ensured. That quieted the writing implement enough, who snuggled back up into #2 Pencil God. Guardian had never really been sure of their relationship, but the two of them made quite the pair. They were both soft-spoken.
After a full round trip of the market, Guardian made a headcount as he grabbed a bag of salts for Water Softener God. "Oh, for the love of House God," he breathed, suddenly aware that Spork God was missing. He patted down both his pockets, and all of his garnments suddenly, even Underpants God, related that they had no clue where the prankster had gone off to. Well, Guardian had an inkling of an idea, if anything.
Of course, as he expected, the youth was found within the aisle containing the plastic silverware. He was idly flirting with a box of plastic knives, inciting his love for danger and adventure, with little to no success. They did not seem horribly interested in such a confusing utensil, albeit unnecessarily loud and enthusiastic. Guardian counted his lucky light-bulbs as he scooped him up and deposited him in Backpack God for a scolding. Needless to say, they left without the knives.

With Water Softener God sated in their oxymoronic thirst for salt, Guardian slipped comfortably into Armchair God mid-argument with Toilet God. It silenced him fairly quick, and Guardian shifted to get comfortable as Armchair God squirmed in delight. It wasn't often he was chosen to be sat in, as he couldn't be quite lounged in as Couch God could be. (There was jealousy there, yes, as well as an attraction. Couch God had the widest, greatest hips, in Armchair God's opinion.) Spork God was somewhere in the kitchen being collectively scolded, as per the norm of an outing involving the youth. He was thankful, though, that the plasticware hadn't taken unkindly to him- it would not have been the first fight with heretics that he had to interfere in. Heretics, though, was such a strong word. He frowned at the thought. Non-believers. Yes, that would do. The Unenlightened.
Maybe one day others would experience the joy of the Revelation of House God.
Until that day, though, Guardian was content.

Footnotes
1. Not to be mistaken with Church God, a distant relative of House God. A rather haughty one at that.