Harmony's Masterpiece.

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F.A.Q.

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Love always spills from our eyes, falling together terribly, fading unto thin air so all that's left is us
typed text

It is almost 1 am. My love is sleeping beside me, resting on my chest. Headlights from trucks rumbling by shine gaps in the curtains, illuminating our shape under blankets. Our fan whines above us. Our cat, asleep on and nuzzling with a big teddy bear. Our family.
I don't think I've ever been happier.

back of a receipt

Date ideas
Lighthouse
Poured concrete museum
wonderland

text message outgoing

Tell your mom I said hi if there's an appropriate moment

piece of clean white paper

Where I may prop one day
That field outside our first apartment
If we happen to be on vacation somewhere nice
backdoor soho too expensive?
The Ring!
Floral with Emerald to look like the first ring I gave her
Make sure that Emerald green as fuck
Get that first ring jazzed up?
Real simple silver band
a Diamond! too bloody

text note

stop saying I need you and start saying I choose you

posty note

Lightbulb
Flowers
Clean dormitory supply
Empty litter box + clean Big Bear

work text note app

work scribblers
Recognize but don't actually resemble irl counterparts except to how much the subject projects
Discussion abruptly tabled after an hour with no resolution
Prepare for home before work ends
prototype for Amnestics batch wearing off too quickly after it happens
All reflecting surfaces need polishing
Somehow tied to her DNA kit — family reunion ?

forearm tattoo

love
always

diary entry

Day began and ended holding a crying woman

iPhone note app

- [ ] I'm laying in bed pleasantly drunk with a warm honey under my arm happy with her new blanket and she seems so at peace holding old Big Bear I wish this was eternity or at least a little bit forever I hope so I love her with my whole heart really don't just use words she's my everything and I wanna be a good person for her sometimes she forgives me when I can't

flowery to-do list

New table and chairs
Flowers and candles
Dinner ready
Deep clean Sunday before getting her from offsite
Fresh popcorn
flowers & candles

written

There should not be a limit on how many chances any person has to get their life on track if they're not too sick to live.

clean white paper

Things I like about myself:

Let go of old toys to pay adult bills

Took responsibility for mistakes instead of reflexively lying

Helped myself through bad work(?) feelings

Things I dislike about myself:

Drank too much again(did better but still not good)

Talked too much about things I don't understand

forgot too much of everything -

Things I want to do:

Be financially organized, she doesn't have to keep paying

Cut my alcohol intake to maybe one or two beers in a week or red wine with dinner

Eat vegetable

incoming text

Don't pretend you don't know what we're talking about, we both know who you are. You're a thief and it was my mother that caught you.

crumpled paper

I feel emotions in a bigger way than other people and it's invalidating for me every time I get told I have to calm down or that I'm making a big deal out of nothing and I feel like you don't believe my feelings were real when I don't have an adequate explanation for my reaction. I get treated like I did something wrong or should have been better when I couldn't have been any other way. When I get treated like a foolish little girl for being my authentic self it hurts my estimation of myself as a person.
When I make a mistake and in response the other person immediately shuts down and/or becomes angry and bitter then I feel invalidated. The silent treatment hurts even more so. I want to know why I did wrong. It's not on purpose. I want to do the right thing and sometimes big feelings lead to big mistakes. All I ask is that communication and empathy not be withdrawn in a seemingly punitive fashion when I do. Blaming and shaming me for things, even things that are my fault, is counter-productive. I know I'm at fault and feel overwhelming anxiety at the prospect of future punishment. Making that point acute is basically saying that I need to go sit in the corner so the actual adults can handle it.
Repeatedly reminding me of my inadequacy and all the things I've failed to do in the past makes it more difficult for me to do things in the future. When you repeatedly point out how I'm failing at the things I'm trying to do and how hard that makes your life, that undermines my confidence. I am really suffering from mental illness which is just as debilitating and just as exhausting as yours. Diminishing my struggle is diminishing yours too. We can understand each other if we accept that each is struggling as much as the other.

note to self

Should I be with the family?
Do they still call me that?

scrawl on crumpled paper

Hospital Supplies
Big Bear got thrown out
Polaroids of Kitty
bottled drink
Favorite blanket
Change of clothes

texted

I remember what I didn't sense
No smiling in pictures of us together
never looked in the eye
Hearing "I love you" in her voice, like her teeth was getting pulled on every syllable.

typed

Does she know
at night, in the silhouetted light of blinds
Marvelous sight, outline of perfection
Endless reflections filling a bottomless hole
Does she know
How her soft breathing keeps me sane
When troubled thoughts consume my brain
Her unconscious touch simmers my boiling mind
If only I'd known
What I know now sooner
No lonely nights where we lay waned lunar
blissfully ignorant together again
to move what is to what could have been

You'll always have the memories


Agent Alexander Carracos walked into the barracks of Site-87, removing his headband and scratching under his facemask. His run around Sloth's Pit had taken him down Main Street, and past a crowd that had him seriously confused.
"You good?" Seren Pryce walked past her fellow agent, removing the goggles over her eyes. "You look like Dr. Harrison just tried to explain his whole 'edible memetics' concept."
"No, this is the expression I make for that." Agent Carracos grimaced, a look of pure disgust on his face, before reverting back to his old one. "This is an expression that says 'I just saw a bunch of teenagers protesting outside of city hall'."
"The hell were they protesting?" Pryce made her way to her locker, getting out her water bottle. "It has to be worth breaking the 'no assembly' ordinance we put in… god, a year ago already?"
"That's exactly what they're protesting, and for the dumbest reason." Carracos's locker was right next to Pryce's, and he crossed over to her, taking an energy bar outside of an economy-sized box of them. "They want to hold their fucking Valentine's prom, despite the restrictions."
Pryce looked at him, mirroring Carracos's expression. "God's sake, really? I actually had faith in the younger generation until now."
"I know, right?" Carracos laughed. "It's a stupid dance— hell, it's not even a proper prom! It's not like the town's going to be destroyed if they don't hold it."

February 11th
"You're telling me the adults can't see the little text at all?" Matt King frowned, skeptical. "Sounds like bunk to me."
"Part of the curse." Tamara White, President of the Yearbook Committee, sighed as she put up yet another poster on the noticeboard at the Public Library. "Sometimes they can see through it; one time Principal Kennedy came in with a hangover and was able to see the Thing in the Fume Hood for, like, five minutes."
"Child of Cain? Like, the Biblical one?" Matt's frowned deepened. "Like, I'm new here, so you want to haze me, I get it. But you could try to come up with a better lie."
Tamara rubbed her face, instinctively missing her mask. "We have three people in school who have Plastics People as parents. If we could get them involved, believe me, we would." She sighed. "As it is, we have to arrange for a First Kiss to happen so we can beat off the Child."
"Okay, but… what's its actual name?"
"We don't speak it for fear of attracting it." She applied a tack to the poster, hoping this one wouldn't get torn down. "Suffice to say, it never got invited to a party and is salty about losing its left arm over it."
"…huh." Matt looked at the stack of posters. "And this is supposed to convince the adults to let the P.R.O.M. happen… how?"
"It's not. It's showing them that it's going to happen, no matter what." Tamara grinned. "There's more than one Civic Center in the city."
"What."
"Oh, yeah, you only moved here last year. You weren't here when the Recreational Morgue popped up. We're using that."
"The what?!" A librarian hushed Matt. His face went red. "Look, October was weird enough that, if it wasn't for my dad getting a massive stimulus out of nowhere, we'd have moved back to Chicago."
"Welcome to Wisconsin." She looked at the stack of flyers Matt was still holding. "How many do you have there?"
"Uh…" Matt looked through the stack of eye-bleeding pink. "Fifty-three. Look, why do you need me for this?"
"Because you're the only person on the Committee who managed to get his diver's license last year, and the temperature matches the age of the average freshman." She bundled up in her coat, looking outside. "To the courthouse!" She made a noise that was meant to convey a transition from a 1960's Batman TV show; Matt failed to get the reference.

"So, do people know who the first kiss is going to be ahead of time?" Matt frowned as he waited at a stoplight. "And… how will that even work? With a deadly disease going around, I don't think people are going to want to de-mask."
"People will. It's part of the ritual." Tamara shook her head, checking a point off on her clipboard. "Why'd your dad move here, anyway?"
"Fuck if I know— something about wanting to be closer to my grandfather. I don't even know who he is, is the thing. I think he works at the Plastics Place?"
"Don't think I've ever heard of a King working there." Tamara shrugged. "This whole town is weird. We've learned to live with it, and you should too."
"I'm from Chicago. And we don't have fucking goatpeople living in the woods, or a pervasive hum that can drive you insane, or a fucking haunted Time Crisis cabinet in a pizza parlor that—"
"Wait, you've played the cabinet?" Tamara looked up at him from her clipboard. "And you survived?"
"…do people normally not?!"
"I mean, yes? But people outside of town usually end up not even being able to see it, let alone play it." She chuckled. "You're more of a Pit-Dweller than you'd like to admit."
The red light still hadn't changed, despite the intersection being empty. "…have you played it?"
"Once. The Lost World one they have is more my speed. Someone going by MUK took the high sc—" She paused. "What's your middle name?"
"Ulysses." He smirked. "And yeah. I took it."
Tamara laughed. "Oh you son of a bitch. Once we save the town, it's on."
Their conversation concluded, the light changed. Matt swore that the green light had the shape of a heart in it, somehow; his imagination.

February 12th
"We're in charge of getting the food and drink too?" Matt frowned as the two of them made their way through the largely-vacant aisles of Starlow Grocery. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, and we can't have anything caffeinated there, some bizarre town ordinance about caffeine-eating demons."
"…I would ask if you're fucking with me, but I think we're past that point." He looked over the various varieties of soda on the shelves, his eyes widening as it ran across a single item. "No way."
"What?"
Matt made his way to a two-liter plastic bottle filled with green liquid, with yellow text on the front proclaiming that it contained 'Original GREEN RIVER'. "I haven't been able to find this anywhere outside of Chicago. And it's on a store shelf in Rinky-Dink Wisconsin?"
"Rinky-Dink is our sister city, down by Milwaukee." She paused. "That actually was me fucking with you. You wanna get it?"
"Yeah, but there's only one bott—" He pulled the bottle off the shelf, finding a hand protruding from it, pushing a new one forward. This wouldn't have been disconcerting, if the shelves were not up against a solid wall. "What the hell?!"
"Hmm?" A woman's face appeared through the hole, and she placed a ruler on the shelf as she peeked out. "Ah, sorry to startle you. I'm the Stocker. There's a sudden demand for this drink, and we can't get it on the shelf fast enough."
"…you're in the wall. How?"
"Perks of the job!" The Stocker beamed. "Can I help you find anything?"
"Uh, yeah." Tamara stepped forward, looking at her shopping list. "We're looking for Solo cups, pink if you have them, and… did you move the bakery? We have a bulk order of cupcakes to pick up."
The Stocker nodded. "It's towards the back of the store now. You ordered the three-hundred cupcakes, half chocolate, half vanilla, with buttercream frosting?"
"That's it. Thanks." Tamara put more bottles of the Green River in the cart. "Not exactly Valentines-y, but… what the hell? There's a big deal on the Hawaiian Punch and Faygo, too."
"Uh. Thanks." Matt looked back towards the shelf where the Stocker was; her face had vanished. "So, what the hell was that?"
"The Union. Tee ell dee arr, magic workers who do a bunch of odd jobs around town. Got one at school, even."
"Really."
"Yeah. Mr. Lehrer, social studies teacher on the first floor— the name literally means The Teacher. He thinks he's subtle."
"…huh." Matt frowned. "I think I have his class next year."
"Everyone ends up in Mr. L's class eventually." They made their way out of the soda aisle. "Perk of his job."
Between there and the bakery was the fresh produce. Matt stopped and bought himself a bushel of apples; his father claimed to be allergic to them, like his grandfather. He seemed to not have inherited the allergy. They were his favorite food.

February 13th
"I'll let you handle the party supplies. I already pressured you into getting that soda."
"Appreciated. Don't worry, Committee has a fund for all this." Tamara stepped out of Matt's car; they were outside of the Witch's Hut Party Center, as it had rebranded itself. Four disastrous Halloweens in a row, plus COVID, had dried up the demand for costumes. Laura Ashbrooke, the owner, still made and stocked them, but also had seasonal party supplies; she was far less enthusiastic about those.
A bell chimed as they entered the store. Raven-haired and pale Laura Ashbrooke looked up from some cloth she was sewing behind the counter; apparently she didn't get enough business to justify working in the back room anymore. "…I can't believe you're actually going ahead with the dance," Laura laughed. "You kids are crazy."
"I mean, didn't you meet your boyfriend at the dance?" She looked up to a photo behind the counter, which featured a much younger Laura Ashbrooke alongside her boyfriend, Edward Valentine, with the words 'Class of 2010'."
Laura shrugged. "Yeah. Our first kiss, actually. And he's my fiance now."
"…cool, I guess?" Tamara rolled her eyes. "I don't know why adults feel the need to fill us in about that type of thing. It's freaking weird."
"First kiss?" Matt looked back at the photo. "Hang on, did she—"
"Her kiss vanquished the Child of Cain so hard he didn't come back until 2012— at least, that's what the records say." She sighed. "Kinda sucks that nobody remembers once they graduate. There are some good times that happen when trying to defend the school; my older sister's a legend for capturing the tatzelwurm that was trying to eat the football team."
"The hell is a tatzelwurm?"
"Later." The two of them came down the Valentine's aisle, and were drawn to a novelty toy— a plastic shell with an LCD screen, connected to a pair of metal balls. The packaging advertised it as a 'Love Tester'.
"Tempting," Matt admitted. "But considering COVID… let's not?"
"Good idea." They turned away from the love machine, and began looking at samples of streamers. "What does your dad do, anyway?"
He snorted. "Works at a cannery, if you can believe that. S & P Canneries."
"Oh, that place. Weird that they'd set up shop here." She shook her head. "It's up by Grey Lake. People occasionally protest it because they're afraid of it hurting the lake monster." She picked up a streamer that had a series of heart emojis on it. "Dammit. Just realized we don't have a punch bowl. Could you see if—"
"On it." Matt made his way out of the aisle.
Tamara frowned. He was a greenhorn. Out-of-towner, city-slicker, whatever you wanted to call him. He was the only one on the Committee with a car, that was the whole reason she'd made him secretary. But… he hadn't even questioned her about the lake monster, which was weird. Maybe he was starting to get used to the town, to her?
"It's one day." She shook her head. "You don't fall for someone in one day outside of a really bad romance novel. Just doesn't happen."
Matt peeked into the aisle, bearing a punch bowl. "So, I saw it on your list, but… do you have, like, tables and chairs and stuff? Because my mom got a job at a rental place in Superior, and we can probably get a good deal."

February 14th
Sloth's Pit Recreational Morgue Gymnasium
Matt and Tamara had spent the last three hours setting up the gymnasium for the dance. The staff of the Recreational Morgue offered help, and the two of them let them hang decorations; Tamara was insistent on not letting them near the food and drink table, for reasons that became increasingly evident to Matt.
Tamara looked up at him as he nearly dropped a tray of cupcakes from the amount of nervous sweat on his hands. She tilted her head and asked, "Are you good?"
"Yeah, just…" He looked over his shoulder towards a tall, indistinct figure that was hanging up the last of the streamers. "I thought the chaperones would be… you know, human."
"They're Morgue staff. I'm not happy about it either." An alarm beeped on Tamara's phone. "Okay, people are going to start coming in in about fifteen. This is as ready as we're getting. You're going to be taking the admission fee."
"…I thought this was a free dance."
"It's less of a 'fee' and more of a 'tribute'. Remember what the second letter in P.R.O.M. means."
He swallowed. "A-and the maiden?"
"They don't actually get offered; we stop the Child of Cain before that." She grinned. "You'll see."

The crowd of dance attendees was made up of archetypes that Jackson was familiar with; nervous-looking freshmen, anxious sophomores, juniors who rolled their eyes at the whole concept while holding hands with their significant others. As they reached the admissions table, the dates removed the corsages from their dresses and tuxedoes, adjusting their facemasks as they went. The flowers that made up the corsages were strange; instead of roses and carnations, there were daisies and valerian and thyme. Others he didn't recognize at all, beyond brief glimpses on nature documentaries on the tundra— plants with small or spiky flowers. After being placed in a basket and giving a knowing look to Matt, the couples began to dance.
Nobody looked at the Chaperones, even as they were addressed by it in… Matt couldn't even properly call it a voice. But they got the gist of it, somehow, with "leave room for Jesus" replaced with "leave room for the things that would fuse you together and forever harm your corporeal being."
The dance went as typically as it could for the first hour. Music played, with a Chaperone acting as a DJ with surprising dexterity. People were as intimate as the Chaperones were allowing, some laughing, some breaking into fights, some too angry to deny that they were about to break out into a fight. The Chaperones were guarding any door that didn't lead to an exit.
Matt's stomach rumbled, but as long as people were coming in and placing flowers, he couldn't get up and get something to eat. Luckily, he had brought his own food; from his pocket, he withdrew an apple. There always seemed to be enough room in his pockets for at least one. Quirk of the family, he supposed.
It was as he ate and looked at the couples dancing that he realized something— Sloth's Pit was a weird-ass town, and until this week, he had felt like the loneliest person in it. He looked over at Tamara as she negotiated the refreshments table, pouring a cup of Green River soda from one of the untouched two-liter bottles. She took a sip of it, and then poured another, bringing both cups over to Matt.
"This stuff is honestly pretty good." She handed the untouched cup to Matt. Neither of them were dressed to the nines; it was a Valentine's dance, the fancy stuff was saved for actual prom. Matt was wearing a somewhat modest suit that was a hand-me-down from his father, and Tamara was wearing a purple, somewhat formal dress, with a daisy as a corsage. "This is served nowhere outside of Chicago, really?"
"Chicago and Weirdsville, USA." He sipped at the soda and sighed. "So, now what?"
"We should have enough flowers for the ritual. Trouble is…" Tamara frowned. "We… kind of haven't found a maiden yet."
Matt raised an eyebrow, taking another drink, and a bite of his apple. "I've been meaning to ask, what do you define as a 'maiden'?"
"It's a PG definition, the curse isn't that unforgiving. It's someone who hasn't been kissed by someone who isn't a blood relative, and yes, we have to specify that." She muttered something about the 'goddamn mothpeople' under her breath. "The Child of Cain is attracted by the ritual song, and then repelled by a spell that's sealed with the first kiss. The maiden doesn't have to be a girl, the kiss doesn't have to be romantic, and it can between any two people, as long as one of them is a maiden."
Matt looked at Tamara and rested his elbow on the table, head in his hand. His face heated up, and his leg began tapping against the floor as he tousled his hair. "Well. I wish you luck." He took another sip of the drink.
Tamara looked him up and down, frowning. "You do know your body language screams 'I'm flustered about this subject because I've never been kissed', right?"
Matt choked on the soda, thankfully avoiding a spittake. "Okay, yeah, fine. But you have to have better candidates than me for—"

"—our Perennial Valentine's Maiden!" Tamara presented Matt with a flourish as the crowd cheered.
Matt felt more ridiculous than he looked. He had been ushered into the Recreational Morgue's autopsy room/restroom in order to change into a pink tuxedo, which a Chaperone had helped him into. Now, another Chaperone (perhaps they were all the same being?) operated the camera that took the photograph of his still stunned face.
"Now, if our Maiden could please step into the circle…" Tamara waved to a cleared off area at the center of the gym. The flowers that had been collected as admission had been brought in to form most of a circle, with just enough space that Matt could get in.
He entered it, and felt a pop of energy as the last flowers were dropped behind him. The gymnasium went dark, but for two spotlights; one of them focused on him, the other on Tamara. She stood at a podium, and from it produced well-worn volume, opening it up to a specific page on the first try. Then, she nodded at the DJing Chaperone. It flicked a switch on its console, and a song began playing; The Power of Love by Huey Lewis and the News. But the way it was played, the cadence, the notes… it gave Matt butterflies in his stomach. He locked eyes with Tamara, briefly, before she turned away and looked at the book before her.
"Grendel, Kin of Cain. Bane of Heorot, the Uninvited, Rival of Beowulf. Grendel, Kin of Cain, the misshapen, the one-armed, the terror of the Danes and the Geats. Grendel, who has haunted the student body since time immemorial, come forth!"
There was a hellish creaking of metal as the roof of the Recreational Morgue was peeled off by the monstrous right arm of… something. Beady, hateful eyes looked upon the dance floor as the winter stars were exposed, framing the massive body of a thing that had a neck that was far too long and a face far too broad. It had too many teeth to be anything terrestrial or mortal.
"Again, you summon me on the night of your Saint of Love." It growled, turning towards Matt, sniffing the air. "Why must you continue to rebuke me? A bargain was made, and it shall be paid eventually."
"Not tonight and not ever." Tamara looked at Matt, her face falling. Their maiden was sat on the ground, staring up at Grendel with his jaw dropped between his legs. She composed herself, addressing the thing that was looming over them. "The bargain was made three generations ago by a desperate fool. He is buried now."
"Then why honor the contract at all?" Grendel's horrid, misshapen face came closer to the circle, and it sniffed at the air. On the other side of the circle, beyond Matt, several students had begun chanting in Old English. "And… this contract…" It leaned forward, its face falling towards Matt's eye level, its hand impacting on the dance floor as it leaned in. The student body scattered with a few screams, one poor freshman tripping over its fingernail. "It stipulates that a maiden of this town is to be given to me. He smells of wind and metal and apple seeds, not of the stories and mud of Sloth's Pit." It turned to face Matt with its multitude of eyes.
Matt realized that he could feel it speak more than he could hear it, as if it was talking through the floor around him. He stood still, feeling like he was going to cry. His dad had moved here to take a job at a bizarre canning plant, and now he was going to be eaten by something he had seen in a really, really creepy-looking Robert Zemeckis film. He didn't even really know who Robert Zemeckis was!
"State thy name," Grendel growled, "So that it may die on my—"
Matt bolted, the circle breaking as he ran out of it. The crowd scattered around him, screaming, as Grendel lunged at him. He tried dashing into the janitor's closet, but the Chaperone stood firm. He felt the gigantic, many-fingered hand clench around him, leaving only his right hand free.
"Matt!" Tamara screamed as Grendel lifted her friend to its mouth. "No! If he— if he—" She wanted to say, 'if he eats you then the town's going to be razed', but all that could come out of her mouth was disbelieving gasps. For the first time since 1962, the ritual had failed.
Matt struggled, trying to hit Grendel in such a way that it would let him go; he knew the skin between the thumb and forefinger was most sensitive, but it had so many thumbs and forefingers he couldn't find a weak place. This thing was completely outside of his context; all he could do was maybe throw the apple he had in his hand—
Wait, where did this apple come from?
Matt stared at his right hand; a golden apple, its skin reflecting him under starlight, had appeared in his hand. He smelled fresh earth and wood all around him, something that overwhelmed both his senses and Grendel's; the giant staggered, pulling Matt away from its mouth. "What in the name of—"
As it spoke, Matt chucked the apple into its mouth. Startled, it swallowed the fruit, coughing and gagging. "What was—" It coughed. "What on earth— what did you—" More coughing. Apples of all varieties poured from its mouth like blood. Its hand bowed downwards, like a great branch with too much weight on it, and Matt rolled onto the floor of the gymnasium, staring up at the figure.
"What did you do, you miserable Son of Chapman—"
That was all Grendel said before it exploded in a shower of strange, golden gore. Before it would have hit the student body, it evaporated, turning into a shower of apple blossoms. What had been Grendel's hand sprung back upwards, forming the boughs of an impossibly large apple tree that towered over the building, at least two-hundred feet tall.
"Matt!" Tamara yelled, tackling him to the ground. "Jesus fucking Christ how did you do that?!"
"I- I don't know!" Matt laughed. "But… I think I killed it? Maybe? By turning it into an apple tree? How does that even work?"
"Who the hell cares?" Tamara laughed. "You just exploded one of the biggest threats to the student body!" She sighed. "Sucks that we won't remember it in a few years."
"None of it?"
Tamara smiled at him as apple blossoms fell around them. "I think we can sneak one memory out."
With that, their lips met awkwardly; it was Matt's first kiss, after all. But it was one he would remember for the rest of his life, one he would tell his children about when they asked how he met their mother.
That's when several individuals in tactical gear came into the gymnasium, all looking disappointed.

Agent Seren Pryce looked between her tablet and the group of high schoolers they were in the process of arresting. "How many violations of the mask ordinance is that?"
"I lost count, and I'm pretty sure a few of them ran out into the woods." Agent Carracos scratched his head. "Hell, they're kids. Maybe we should let them have a little fun?"
"It's Sloth's Pit. People having 'a little fun' is how you get the Fourth of July to be a massive clusterfuck each year." She sighed. "But… y'know, I get it. Kind of. World sucks, maybe we should let them have a little normalcy before they get thrown into the big wide world."
"…normalcy?"
"What passes for it in Wisconsin." Seren shrugged, looking at the massive apple tree and the torn-off roof. "What the hell happened there, though?"
"Morgue Staff have said they'll take care of it." He frowned, looking at an apple that had fallen near their car. "Didn't you say there was a kid with the surname King on there, Sera?"
"…can't be a coincidence. Can it?"
Carracos and Pryce looked up at the young man and the young woman who was apparently his girlfriend; even in handcuffs, they looked giddy to be around each other.
"We'll check in with the Director tomorrow," Carracos frowned. "No reason to ruin their night any further. They're kids. Not like this dance was gonna destroy the town or anything."
"Yeah, yeah." Pryce shook her head.
As they prepared to lecture the youth of the town, Matt King handed Tamara White a Valentine's day card that he'd managed to extricate from his pockets despite the handcuffs.


1990

Midnight hung over the waters of Portland's Willamette River. The sky was clear, and its many stars reflected off the tepid waters that meandered below. Along the bank, beneath a streetlamp, a lone man waited. His long brown hair was tied back, and a heavy coat on his shoulders kept out the cold. Before long, he was joined by another gentleman.
"Does the black moon howl?" The latter asked. He was short, stocky, with red hair shaved in the standard issue for men of his profession.
"Only when the sun dies," the former replied. "You must be Agent Johnson."
"And you're Markham Lewis. I'm glad we could meet."
"Yeah, I hope you are," Lewis sighed. "I'm painting a pretty big bullseye on my back for this."
He then reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small plain box, handing it to his coconspirator. Inside was a single 9 mm round with a name engraved on its casing.
"Who is Theodore Stowe?" Johnson asked, squinting as he inspected the ammunition under a street light.
"A fed working in Three Ports," Lewis answered. "Currently, he's the one tasked with leading their investigation of Sycamore Gordon's operation. It's thaumatologically linked to him. I'm willing to bet you can guess the intended effect."
"Literally a magic bullet," Johnson chuckled. "Kennedy must be rolling in his grave. How many more of these does he have? Who are his intended buyers? Who are his targets?"
Lewis shrugged. "You got me. Sycamore isn't exactly loose-lipped. I can try and find out though."
"We're dead in the water until you do," Johnson chuckled. "Three Portlands isn't a place known for being tolerant of our kind poking around."
"I'll reach out when I'm ready. Keep your ears open skipper." Lewis began to depart. "Heads up, it's going to take some time."
"May I ask you a question, Mr. Lewis?"
The informant paused and looked back over his shoulder. "You can call me Mark, man."
"Alright, Mark," Johnson continued. "Why?"
"Because Sycamore Gordon needs to be stopped," Lewis replied flatly. "This is the kind of thing that will start an arms race on the other side. God forbid it ends up in less judicious hands. At least with you guys it ends up in a concrete bunker somewhere to rust."
Johnson nodded once more. "Understood. You take care."
"You too, skipper."

1993

It hurts a lot to get punched. It hurts, even more, to get punched in the face. It hurts most when this is done over and over again. Needless to say, the fight within the Portland alleyway that Agent William Johnson found himself in was not going his way.
His sting operation had gone south. A known associate of Sycamore Gordon had fled. Fortunately, it appeared he was the faster runner. Unfortunately, he was not the better hand to hand combatant. An eighth consecutive hook to his skull left the agent floored on the wet concrete.
"Tough luck, friend," the goon said, spitting a wad of blood from his broken nose onto Johnson's frame. He drew a pistol from within his blazer. The barrel was leveled, the hammer pulled back. Johnson closed his eyes.

BANG

Johnson let out a gasp. Then paused. He had definitely been shot before. He knew it hurt a lot more than this. Opening an eye, he saw the goon was dead, a bullet lodged in his skull. A familiar face was already helping him to his feet.
"Mark?" the agent asked. "What the hell are you doing? You're going to blow your cover. The operation-"
"Shut the fuck up and help me get you out of here!" Markham Lewis hissed. "You guys have a mobile HQ or something, right?"
The agent nodded, his arm around the informant's shoulder as the two hobbled along as fast as their feet could carry them.
"How are you holding up?" Markham eventually asked. "No offense, but that was an ass-kicking."
Johnson let out a laugh that quickly turned into a wince. His right eye already began to swell shut. Breathing hurt. But at least he was alive to complain about it.
"Bill," he said.
"What?"
"You can call me Bill," he went on. "Least I can do after that."
"The least you can do is buy me a drink," Markham replied with a laugh of his own. "Seriously though, don't mention it. We're all on the same team, right?"
"Yeah, but generally I'm the one saving the informant."
It was at this point the unmarked van had pulled up, Markham quickly handing off Johnson to his colleagues inside. As the door began to close, before the vehicle sped away to vanish among the Portland traffic, Mark heard Johnson's voice call out:
"Name the bar, Mark."

1994

"Can't sleep?"
Markham turned his head towards the balcony door to find Bill emerging from the dark hotel room. The informant gave a tired smile.
"I have a lot on my mind," he replied.
"Hey, me too," Bill chuckled. He lit up a cigarette and offered the pack, which Markham denied. "Anything in particular, or is this general anxiety?"
"Just what I'll need to do when all of this is over," Markham sighed. "Unlike you, I can't turtle back into a bunker somewhere when the trigger gets pulled. I have to get a little more creative. Figure out which bridges are burned and which are in the process of burning."
Bill nodded and took a long drag.
"I was actually thinking about that," he said. "You know we're always looking for new special agents. I can promise you you'd go far."
"Yeah? You already offering me a promotion, sir?" Markham grinned. Bill rolled his eyes and took another drag.
"Look, all I'm saying is think about it. You're a good man, Mark. We could really use you in the long term."
The agent flicked the remainder of the cigarette away and pulled Markham in close.
"I could use you in the long term too."
Markham fell silent as a head with short red hair rested on his shoulder.
"I'll think about it," he whispered. "Come on. Let's get back inside. It's going to start raining soon."

1995

"So that's that then?" Markham stood along the pedestrian walkway of the Steel Bridge. The city lights cast their reflections into the water below for miles in either direction. That it was three in the morning meant the bridge's traffic had reduced to all but a light trickle, offering a certain level of privacy to the conversation. "You guys and the feds mopped up Gordon's crew?"
"Gordon was not present during the raid," Bill replied. "But that aside, yes. His operation is dead and buried."
Markham nodded and looked into the murky water below.
"Hard to believe it's all over. Five years, Bill… Where did the time go?" He sighed. "You do know that so long as he's also not dead and buried, you and I aren't safe, Bill. No one is."
"Oh, I am acutely aware of that." Bill shrugged and gave his colleague a tired smile. "But that's just part of the trade, right?"
He paused.
"Mark, were you able to find any more of Gordon's product before your final extraction? If those fall into the wrong hands-"
Markham nodded, and reached into his coat, pulling out a plain cardboard box. The agent snapped it up and analyzed the contents within. Roughly 60 9mm rounds were inside, each engraved with the name of several UIU, GOC, and Foundation agents.
"Wonderful." Bill's smile was now ear to ear. "I think it goes without saying that we couldn't have done this without you. You're my goddamn hero, Mark."
"Oh trust me, I know," Markham smirked. "But truth be told, it's not often I get to work with such a great team."
Before long, the smiles faded. Both men returned their gaze back to the river below.
"What happens for you now?" Bill eventually asked.
"I lay low," Markham shrugged. "Three Ports. The Library. Backdoor, probably. Somewhere Gordon and most of his goons have been banned."
"You'd make a fantastic special agent. We could really use your talents."
Markham shook his head.
"We talked about this, Bill. I've met enough of your 'special agents' to know that's just picking one type of cell for another," he replied. "Nah. I'm going to need to pass. But, I could always use someone watching my back…"
Bill's eyes closed. A head shake of his own followed.
"You of all people should know that I can't do that."
Markham nodded.
"Heh," he said with a sheepish grin. "Can't blame me for trying. Miss the shots you don't take, right?"
Silence returned and lingered over the pair for minutes that stretched out for what seemed like hours.
"So I guess this is it then," Bill whispered.
"I guess so." Markham closed his eyes and turned away. "But hey, we'll probably work together again, real soon. You guys are my most stable employ-"
Two arms grabbed Markham from behind and pulled him into a tight hug. He tightly squeezed the hands clasped in front of his chest.
"Are you containing me, Bill?" he asked.
"Please," the agent replied. "Just… a few moments longer."
Two silhouettes stood quietly beneath the streetlamp. Seconds passed into minutes. Eventually, Markham stepped away.
"We'll work again, Bill," he said. "I promise."

2018

"I promise…"
The years had not been kind to Markham Lewis. Where once long brown hair had adorned his head, was now the mark of a man who would rather shave off what little hair remained than let his hair loss be known. His eyes now required a set of thick glasses to function. Standing under that streetlamp, he looked at the river below and thought aloud.
"Where did all the time go?"
A cough from a young man standing nearby was his reply.
"Markham Lewis?" he asked. He was a lanky, slender fellow. Short blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard.
"I don't know why I held out hope that Bill might actually be the one to show up." A melancholy smile crept upon the old informant's face. "I don't suppose you could tell me how Agent Johnson is doing these days?"
"Agent Johnson was killed in the line of duty in 2001, sir," the young man replied. "I'm Agent Damian Creed. I guess you could call me a replacement of sorts."
Lewis's eyes closed. "I see," he said. "A hero?"
"I'd call him as much, yes," Creed answered.
"Just like Bill."
Lewis fell silent. Tears began to run down his cheeks. Agent Creed hung back awkwardly, waiting several moments in silence before finally clearing his throat once more.
"Our mutual contact said you had something you wanted to turn in," Creed said.
"Oh, right," Lewis wiped the tears from his eyes. He reached into his ragged coat and pulled out a small, plain box. "Took me many, many years to track these down. I think they might have been the last ones Sycamore Gordon made before he was gunned down. Figured you guys would like the full set. Not that either of them is going to be of much use for long."
Creed cautiously opened the box. He nodded upon scanning the contents. By the time he had looked up, Markham Lewis was already vanishing into the dark.
"What happens to you now, Mr. Lewis?" Creed called out.
The old man shrugged.
"I guess I just vanish again," he called back. "I… I think it will be easier this time."

"The Assistant Director will see you now."
Agent Creed nodded to the secretary and stepped into the office beyond. At a large desk therein sat a short, stocky man with the standard-issue haircut of men of his profession. While some red hairs still fought the good fight, the rest of his hair had long since turned gray.
"Agent Creed," Assistant Director of Task Forces William Johnson said, not bothering to look up from his paperwork. "What can I do for you? Why did you request this appointment?"
"We had a standard pick up from an old field asset. Someone from back in the days of the Sycamore Gordon operation," Creed stepped forward. "They mentioned you by name. Figured you would be interested."
The Assistant Director paused. He turned his gaze onto the young man before him expectantly.
"Markham Lewis?"
"Gave him the usual KIA spiel." Creed nodded then paused. "He seemed quite upset to hear about your passing, sir. I take it you two were close?"
"We worked on that op for five years," Johnson replied. "I would have taken a bullet for that man. Hell, I did, more than once."
There was sadness in the smile that came to Johnson's face.
"Best partner I've ever had. The once in a lifetime kind."
At this comment, Creed silently placed the box he had received down on the desk and slid it toward his superior.
The old man gingerly opened it. Inside were two 9mm rounds. Engraved upon each one was a single name.

Markham Lewis

William Johnson

William Johnson's hands shook as he quickly closed the lid and forcefully slid the box back across the desk. Creed watched as the old man turned his chair away. A moment later a sob could be heard.
The young agent silently crept back towards the door, peering behind him once more as the sobs became more frequent. Without a word he exited the office, leaving his superior alone with thoughts and memories.


Sky is Over

“The moon was always so pretty. It's sad we can't go stargazing anymore.” She spoke in a monotone. “I miss it. The sun, the moon, the stars…”
She let out a sigh. She and Cal were sunken into their bed, staring at the ceiling. They had grown accustomed to their surroundings. She closed her eyes, wishing she couldn't see. She had never been one to have a weak stomach, but every time she thought of what would happen if they dared to leave, she could feel her stomach twist. She held Cal closer, as if he was the last person left, which wasn't necessarily an incorrect assumption. She enjoyed the sound of his beating heart; it was the last reminder he was real, she was real, and this world was, unfortunately, real. She spent most of her days limp, holding onto her only love.
He felt the quaking of her arms, and by extension her body. Understanding what she wanted to say, he pulled her closer to respond. His chest ached as he processed what she had previously said. He started thinking, searching his mind for any reminder of the moon. Slowly, he arrived on February 13th, 2021, the most bittersweet day.
Even if he said nothing, she knew, lightly scratching his head and intertwining her fingers into his hair. As close as she was to him, she always felt spaced out. Almost as though he would slip through her and disappear like everyone else. Her eyes traced his face. She missed the rise and fall of his chest. She desperately wanted to hold him closer.
“I miss it too," he finally said.
She sat up, closing her eyes slowly, keeping them closed for a few seconds before opening them again. Cal had followed when her eyes were closed, his eyes opening after. A welcoming calm washed over her. They didn't entirely need words to communicate. They tried desperately not to speak, despite the longing to hear each other's voices. They couldn't bear to bring attention to their small, safe, room. She looked away from him. He was unmoving, but that wasn't abnormal. She kissed his soft skin gently.
“Do… do you remember?” he asked.
“Remember what?”
“February 13th.”
Katalina nodded, holding her breath. She liked to think of that day, since it was one of the only things that kept her sane. Besides, they had decided they weren't going to attempt to go to Site-19. They didn't want to see what would happen if they did. Their only link to the outside world had been silent for weeks, and it was all but confirmed they were gone too. The more she thought about it, the more she questioned what would happen if Cal went out.
“What would happen?”
Cal cocked his head at the question.
“If you went outside?”
Truth be told, he didn't entirely know what would happen. Chances are, he would become one of those things. An immortal fleshy, waxy, goopy blob. He knew it would adapt, but wasn't sure what it would affect. A stream of questions flooded his mind, all of which didn't have a clear answer.
“I would adjust and probably become a blob like everyone else.”
His scent was always comforting, even in a situation like this. They drifted into their own minds, both trying to slip back into the last day. It was something they did often. Something to pacify their need to feel something other than sorrow.
”I remember… We left Site-37. It was a cold day. I mean, it was February.” Katalina's voice finally sounded like her normal cadence. ”We went to the mountains, right outside of Site-37. Damn, that hike to get up there was long, though.” She laughed, patting his arm lightly. “What made you want to do that?”
”The hike was only longer because you decided to jump into the river underneath the mountain. You didn't even know how far down it was! At least you didn't get hurt.” He sighed. “Either way, you know the sunset was worth it. Besides, I knew you were leaving the day after, and I didn't want us to miss Valentine's Day together. I know how much you loved the stars, and you had been meaning to go to the observatory. It wasn't hard to plan a date.”
”Considering I am the most vocal out of the two of us! I thought you were just taking me stargazing, not to the fucking observatory. You held my hand and started a beautiful speech just as the sun was starting to dip beneath the other mountains.” He reached down and intertwined his fingers with hers. ”You were just so stupidly happy the entire day. It was so cute, and made my heart melt every time we saw each other. As much as we tried to keep it professional, like we were working with each other anyway, we kept being giggly little 8th graders.” She giggled at that last statement.
”The sun is breathtaking. Almost as much as you, but it could never compare. I always wondered what was out there… Though, it never mattered as long as we were both on this Earth. We promised that ‘no matter what, we have each other.' It was always a significant constant in our lives, from what we saw together, to how we dealt with our own problems, to how we promised. How we felt about each other. We even got it engraved in our rings.”
”Engraved in our hearts,” she said, interrupting his reenactment of the speech.
”I honestly can't think of a time where I wasn't glad to spend my life with you. Every time we had to be away from each other, I left like there was something missing. I hated that feeling, it was always so lonely. I have no doubt you felt the same,” he continued his speech.
”Yeah… those times were always the darkest.” She nodded. ”That speech left me in tears. I know I keep cutting you off, but damn, you're so great at these things. If I let you continue, I would probably be in tears. After that, I could hardly see the stars that started popping out of the dark. You knew exactly what you were doing.” She smirked.
”Oh, definitely, after all, I am the best date planner ever. Oh! Do you remember the face you made when we went into the observatory? It was so cute. I would do anything to see that face again. The first thing you wanted to see was Orion's Belt. It was stellar, one could say.” He winked at his horrible pun. This made them both break down in laughter.
“It was similar to the day you proposed. Ho man. It was so fucking cute. You knew my love of space and the stars, and you were so sly. Not saying I wouldn't have said yes if it wasn't under the stars, but it definitely sealed it in my mind. You were so nervous, like I didn't know. It's like every major event in our lives had the glittering sky above us.” Katalina sighed. ”I miss those days.” Her demeanor completely dropped.
”I do too.”
“I don't want to remember what happened next…” Katalina said limply, her voice monotone. “I want to see the stars again.”
She stared at the curtains. She knew it was night, despite not opening them. Longing tugged at her. She wanted to sit in a field. Actually see the stars. It was the first thing she was robbed of on February 14th. If she was going to die, she wanted to do it with the stars. She let out a deep, exasperated sigh. She paused for a second, shaking her head.
The wooden floor creaked under Katalina's footsteps. Cal watched as she opened the bedroom door. The world provided a deafening silence for him. He stood up, something pulled at him. Like she was pulling on a string. The entire house was boarded up. It was dark, but he could still make out Katalina in the hallway, her hand on the front door. She was still questioning if she wanted to.
Tears ran down her face. Her heart pounded, and she was sure he could hear it. She needed to see the stars. Before she could open the door, he grabbed her wrist, turning her to face him. Her face was twisted in a mix of anger, emptiness, and despair.
“I don't want to live this way anymore!” she yelled, ripping her arm back.
She bared her teeth, brow furrowed, and eyes soft. His words caught in his throat, causing a lump to form. Unable to speak, he just shook his head, reaching out to hold her. She quickly pulled away. Twisting the silver metal knob, she exposed the quiet, dark outside. They almost forgot how it once was. He tried to close the door, trying to keep her with him. If he'd known anything to say to her, he would have said it.
The door slammed shut and red filled her vision. She tensed her muscles and clenched her fists. He tried to push himself between her and the door. She shoved him to the side, knocking him down to the floor. Despite this, he held the door knob firm and kept it in his grasp. It was the last thing protecting their small, delicate, screwed up status quo and he would be damned if it was ruined. She pulled at his hand, slowly prying his fingers off of the door knob. He grabbed it with his other hand, as she continued to work.
“We could see the stars one last time… We could be happy watching them again.”
“No.” He shook his head. “We can't go…”
She shook her head, letting go of his hands. He got up, releasing his grip on the door but still held it gently. Her face dropped and her body relaxed into a shallow calm. He dropped his combative mood, knowing the cycle. After she tired herself out, she would always calm down just as quick as she started.
“I love you. Don't forget that,” she said, ripping Cal's hands off the door before he could react and opening the door, slipping out of the small crack. She ran out into the front yard, past the curb, and into the street. She enjoyed the wind in her hair. She didn't feel the pain, loving the sharp and broken asphalt on her feet. It was freeing, like she was locked up without the key. The dark blue ocean above was speckled with bright lights like she had never seen before.
Before he could think, he instinctively pushed himself off the floor and raced onto the porch. His eyes widened as he stopped suddenly. His mind finally caught up with his actions. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
Her pale skin drooped and oozed. It twisted and contorted into a wax-like substance. Her arms and legs melted into themselves and pried themselves free, continuing the motion. Her eyes dripped and disappeared. Despite the smile disappearing, it still showed joy. Her body reminded him of a shiny solid ocean. His face paled as he watched Katalina turn around. It squelched and slapped against her own flesh. Her body was no longer hers, no longer the one he remembered. It wasn't her anymore. It wasn't the person he had fallen in love with. It was a sick abomination.
It reached a glittering, melting arm towards him. He was left frozen for a second before turning and rushing inside. He slammed the door and locked it. He slid down the dark wood, weeping as she banged on the door. Its flesh slapped wetly against the porch, mirroring the gurgles her voice devolved into.

“It's a nice night outside and the stars are so beautiful.”

This Cruel Moon

He heard it approach the door. The pounding, the begging, the strange sickly pulse of her tone.
“Babe, let's go see the stars. They're so bright and pretty tonight!”
He knew he couldn't give in. He really wished she would leave him alone. He pushed his left hand to his face, tears welling in his eyes. He played with his wedding ring, feeling the warm metal against the frozen cold that shot through his body. He didn't dare to take it off his finger.
Every time he tried to think of her, he relived her transformation. The squelching from outside only reminded him of it. The banging got louder in his ears as he tried to ignore it. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. The last thing holding him together was ripped away from him. He looked for any sign of what he should do. His heart and lungs ached.
“Please, the sky is so clear! We can be together again.” It sounded like her voice, but it was warped. It was wrong. It was deeper and somewhat gagged.
“I can't see the stars.”
“Please? It's so nice outside!” Her voice was sickly sweet.
A sob wracked his body as she continued to beg to see the stars with him. Her voice sounded free. It sounded so happy, so loving, so caring. It weighed heavy on his chest and he felt like he was drowning. It ate at him and dragged him so far down into himself. It kept playing in his head no matter how far down he tried to push it. He wished he tried harder to keep her safe. He should have done something more.
He lay there silent for hours, not daring to respond to it again. Deep regret swallowed him. It grabbed him, choked him and held him hostage. Her voice only served to drag him deeper. He fought with himself. He kept telling himself it wasn't her. That it couldn't be her. He fought with the truth he never wanted to acknowledge.
It strained him to keep his puffy eyes open. He was so tired. Finally, he relaxed against the door. It seemed like an impossible task, but there wasn't much else he could do. He was at a loss for a plan. He couldn't justify anything he could ever come up with. He wasn't going to kill his wife. It was so wrong. He didn't even know if he could kill it. His head dropped. He prayed for any sign on what to do. He was stuck between a rock and a hard place.
Shattered porcelain was scattered around the floor. Shoes were knocked all over the place, and jackets had been tossed everywhere. He idly scanned the floor; a glint of gold caught his eye. He stared at it, before realizing her ring had fallen off in the fight over the door. His eyes widened and his jaw dropped. A wave of shock ran through him. It was as though it wasn't real, like he wasn't real. The banging was drowned out by a high pitched ringing and his beating heart. Everything fell deathly silent, save for his heart. Not even the screeching thing outside cut through it.
He reached a shaky, skeletal hand towards it. The metal was still slightly warm to the touch. Turning it in his fingers, he held it loosely fearing it would slip through his grasp. It was so smooth, even the star sapphire was silky. He felt the engraving on the inside. A calm washed over him and sent him back into reality as he read it to himself.
“Because no matter what, we have each other…” he whispered.
Blinking, he stared at the ring. This was as clear a sign as any. The choice was welcoming despite the initial rejection. It gave him clarity. He didn't see a point in a life without her. And as much as he wanted to die, he knew it was impossible. He knew it would mean seeing the end of the universe without her. He really didn't want to give up on her. He needed her, and she needed him. He didn't want to think everything was over. This wasn't giving up though. It was a calm requirement. It was how it was going to end.
He swallowed hard, embracing the pounding of his heart and the feeling of unease that washed over him. Sweat ran down his face and his body shook. Slowly, he stood up, turning to face the door. The banging paused for a second as he met her waxy face through the glass on the door. She could sense him, see him, understand him. He held his breath, almost thankful to see her despite the darkness. His waxy hand grasped the cold door knob. With a click, it unlocked. He paused for a second. Still wondering if his resolve was as strong as he thought it was. With that, he opened the door to the dark outside.
“I knew you wanted to see the stars,” she said gleefully, holding out a hand.
“If it meant being with you, of course I did.”
He grabbed her hand, allowing her to lead him out into the moonlight under the clear night sky.
The hand felt like hers, and while it was, it was so different. As the two mingled, he didn't feel any pain or remorse. He smiled and held her, closing his eyes slowly. It was so good to finally be one with Katalina. Before they were whole, he dropped the two rings. They met the ground with two small metallic clangs.
Their limbs and bodies melted together as one. This was what they were meant to be. They felt held by one another, they felt safe, they felt free. There was nothing that could hurt them. Nothing could pull them apart. They could hear each other's thoughts, and feel each other's feelings. They could finally see the remaining glittering stars again.
“Because no matter what.” Their voices mingled together in a way neither of them recognized. They paused in their collective security.

We Intertwined

We have each other.


<< Case Study 03: The Darkwater Lodge | Case Study 04: House Kurinuka |

An Anthropological Approach to Sarkicism
Dr. Alexander Pasternak, Department of Anthropology

Forward:
Our understanding of Sarkicism has changed dramatically over the last few decades. What we have learned has revealed a diverse and shifting paradigm far different from the monolithic creed that was first hypothesized. We are now able to paint a broader, more detailed picture of the Nälkä religion, its various sects and cultural traditions.
Modern sects are the product of divergent interpretations, many bearing a mere superficial resemblance to their ancient progenitor cult. Most unexpected, especially among early scholars of Sarkicism such as myself, are the seemingly benevolent intentions of its founders. The road to hell, it is often said, is paved with good intentions - an aphorism the Foundation must always keep close in mind, for despite the aeons between us, we gaze into that very same abyss.
And like the ancient Adytites, we have found it full of monsters.
Dr. Pasternak has been a fixture at the SCP Department of History for many years, and his expertise has been beneficial throughout our investigations into Nälkä faith and culture. Here is presented his most recent report.
- Dr. Judith Low, Senior Adviser at the Department of History - Religious GoI Threat Analysis

CASE STUDY 04: House Kurinuka
Overview:
House Kurinuka (くり抜かれた王朝, kurinuka reta ōchō) is a Neo-Sarkic cult of Japanese-Canadian origin, centralized in Vancouver, Canada. It is believed that the founders of House Kurinuka immigrated to Canada during the Issei1 wave of immigration between 1877 and 1928, and that a second ongoing wave of immigration in the late 20th century has revitalized it and significantly swelled its membership. Despite the name, however, membership in House Kurinuka is not restricted to blood relatives, and many individuals of varying ethnicities have joined or married into the cult since its genesis.
House Kurinuka is fully integrated into contemporary Canadian culture, counting many prominent businessmen and socialites as members. The current head is presumed to be Samuel K. Hisawa, a technology and business mogul based out of Metro Vancouver.
History:
General consensus states that immigration from Japan to Canada began in the late 19th century, with the first recorded immigrant being a sailor named Manzo Nagano, who arrived in 1877. Their populations had risen to 4,738 by 1901, and around 10,000 by 1911. Departing from farms or fishing villages in Japan—particularly the southern islands of Kyūshū and Honshū—these Issei were often impoverished but literate young people who settled in Vancouver and Victoria, the Fraser Valley, and other areas along the Pacific Coast. Common professions among them included those in the farming, fishing, canning, logging, sawmill, and railway industries, as well as the operation of lodging houses, grocery stores, and restaurants. While documented displays of anomalous abilities were not prevalent during this period, several records do reflect periodic conflict between European and Japanese fishermen over an "unusual quantity" of salmon caught along the Fraser River, even at times when their migratory patterns should not have led them into the area.
Even prior to the Second World War, the Canadian government had implemented discriminatory policies against Asian immigrants, including those of Japanese descent. Denied the right to vote until 1948, they were also barred from certain professions. Violent strikes and a 1907 anti-Asian riot in Vancouver demonstrated that this treatment was not only de jure. In 1908, Canada began to restrict Japanese immigration, setting the quota at 400 males a year, and then only 150 in 1928. Concentrated in enclaves such as Vancouver's Powell Street, they developed their own institutions, including schools, hospitals, and temples. It was through these institutions that the few individuals2 who had kept to the Proto-Sarkic tradition, believed to have originated from a single, small cult in rural Japan, may have begun to communicate their beliefs to a growing and increasingly burdened community. These would later become known as the founders of House Kurinuka.
Following the 1941 attack on Pearl Harbor, effects on Japanese Canadians were immediate and severe. Under the War Measures Act, over 21,000 were forcibly removed from the West Coast and ordered to move 100 miles (160km) inland, causing them to lose their homes, farms, and businesses. Many were held in camps on the interior, and men were often separated from their families. Confiscated property was sold by the Custodian of Enemy Alien Property, and only a small amount paid for the allowances of prisoners at the internment camps.
These losses seem to have provided the circumstances for House Kurinuka's ascendance. When restrictions were lifted in 1949 and Japanese Canadians were granted full citizenship, they were free to return to the West Coast—but found little to return to. From Issei who had lost their lives' work to internment, to the younger Nisei who had suffered an irreparable interruption to their education, every level of their society had been affected. Those who lived in Vancouver were no exception. Now elderly, the Issei founders of 1877-1928 had passed down their anomalous knowledge to their children and those close to them in the community. Increasingly, they used these skills to secure a foothold in wider society, becoming known for their financial success and business acumen. As these Nisei married and intermingled with other Japanese Canadians as well as outsiders, House Kurinuka grew in size and status. The third generation, or Sansei, grew up significantly more immersed in English-speaking culture, and continued to pair social discernment with the use of anomalous psychotropics to outmaneuver their business rivals.
In 1967, changes to immigration laws allowed for a renewal of Japanese immigration to Canada. Known as the shin Issei, these immigrants largely originated from Japan's urban middle class. On the West Coast, many were drawn to the House as a means of securing connections and a support network—for themselves and their children—in a new country. This would bolster their ranks and continue to reinforce the cosmopolitan nature of the House.
Culture, Tradition, and Misconceptions:
While there is no evidence indicating the exact beliefs or practices the founders of the House arrived in North America with, it is quite clear - and members concur - that those beliefs underwent significant metamorphosis under the changing cultural landscape of the 20th century. As Canada itself secularized, so too did the House, discarding many features of their previous practice to create the streamlined doctrine present today.
Their philosophy is ultimately nihilistic and atheistic, rejecting both the existence of moral principles and the concept of deities as a discrete classification of entities. Power is rather viewed upon a spectrum, with Yaldabaoth and the Archons believed to have "greater capacity" but no difference in nature from humans or, indeed, any other organisms. Sarkites consider their carnomantic abilities to be ultimately derived from the Archons and/or Yaldabaoth; this relationship is perceived as commensalistic, with neither party of necessity being harmed. Yaldabaoth is frequently likened in metaphor to marine superpredators; one member I spoke with described the distinction between these entities and Sarkicism in practice as being analogous to the distinction between "the shark, and the parts of the shark the remoras know".
Belief in the existence of Ion, the Klavigar, or any events in Sarkic mythology prior to the Sarkic diaspora c. 1100 BCE is considered to be a matter of personal opinion and rarely considered relevant in everyday life. Nonetheless, a common belief is that the cult's lineage traces back to approximately this time period, and that the Klavigar Saarn3 was instrumental in its founding. I was presented with two legends as to the nature of this founding: the first claims that the Hisagae family (and therefore a large proportion of current cult membership) are direct blood descendants of the klavigar, while the other holds simply that the chain of succession of karcists ultimately leads back to her induction of three among the Jōmon population shortly before the Sarkic diaspora. Unusually among Sarkic groups, House Kurinuka has two acting karcists: Karcist Vasakur and Karcist Turuušo. The former seems to be the primary karcist and is most involved in cult proceedings; upon inquiring about the latter, I was told only that "he comes and goes“. Also unusually among Sarkic groups, the House does not keep a religious calendar, and community events take place stochastically, generally in response to significant events in the lives of its members (including rites of passage, marriages, and reproduction).
Explicitly, House Kurinuka functions according to a strict hierarchy based upon age and prominence within the organization. Children are expected to be obedient to their older relatives (including siblings, cousins, parents, and aunts/uncles) until the deaths of the latter, while individuals of the same age are expected to defer according to rank4 or to amount of time spent as a full member of the group. Inter-familial relationships are significantly more complex, and the rules for obedience are based on factors including but not limited to time since immigration, time as a regional resident, apparent economic success, recent monetary transactions, and social/political capital both within and outside of the cult.
However, this hierarchy falls down somewhat in practice; individuals place a high priority on maintaining the appearance of obedience while fulfilling their personal ambitions, even if this entails subverting the wishes of their superiors. The principle that one is permitted to do whatever one cannot be prevented from doing holds particularly true here; several members have happily admitted to having manipulated, stolen from, or extorted other members for economic or social gain, apparently secure in the knowledge that I either would not report these deeds or they would be considered trivial.

Interview with Andrea Lamare

- Hide Interview Log

Interview Subject: Andrea Lamare
Interviewer: Dr. Alexander Pasternak
Foreward: In review, House Kurinuka seems relatively removed from its original religious underpinnings - thoroughly modernized, and nearly agnosticized in the process. However, the summary and the lived experience may be quite different, and for that reason I have procured some interviews with mainly the younger cult members in order to better ascertain how Sarkicism integrates into their seemingly-secular everyday lives.
<Begin Log>
Dr. Pasternak: Hello, Miss Lamare. I want to begin by thanking you for taking the time to meet with me today.
Andrea Lamare: Oh, no, no problem at all! Happy to be a study subject. I wonder if this counts as high school credits? [laughs]
Dr. Pasternak: I'm afraid that would be up to your instructors. Shall we start with the questions?
Andrea Lamare: Sure.
Dr. Pasternak: Were you born into Nälkä?
Andrea Lamare: Well, I mean - [shrugs] - I don't exactly remember my own birth, so. But my mother says she's been a member since her own birth, so I'd guess that the same goes for me.
Dr. Pasternak: And would you consider it to be very important, moderately important, or unimportant when it comes to your everyday life?
Andrea Lamare: I would say moderate. I mean, most days are just regular days. I go to school, go out with my friends. But I'm still aware that mom and dad and everyone are always watching, to make sure that I only behave properly.
Dr. Pasternak: How do you feel about their monitoring of your activities?
Andrea Lamare: It's just… how we do things. I mean, sure, it can get a little annoying. But if I had any younger siblings, I'd have to do the same for them. And it's for our own good, y'know? No success without obedience - or at least, knowing how to get away without it. [winks]
Dr. Pasternak: I see. Are any of your friends outside of the House aware that this group exists, or that you are a member?
Andrea Lamare: Not really? We don't talk about it much. Most of them might think it's a little weird, you know, even if it's cultural, to be a practicing member. Like I should be more "advanced" than that. And of course they'd all want to get a worm too, and know all these other things that they don't deserve to know or access.
Dr. Pasternak: Have you experienced any similar pressures to reveal or share your faith with anyone you know?
Andrea Lamare: No, but I want to be proactive about that, you know? Because, I mean, there's obviously going to be questions about things that happen in my life. Which of course everyone in the House knows about, and it would be sort of nice to only interact with other members, but, well. [shrugs] Oh! But and speaking of things that happen in my life - Sandra - my sister - had her Nel'lka only this spring! That's probably the most exciting thing for us this year. I -
Dr. Pasternak: Pardon my interruption - what is a Nel'lka in this case?
Andrea Lamare: It's - [gestures vaguely] - the ceremony where she gets her akuloth. Where she was made a full member. Now she can participate in more of the rituals and stuff.
Dr. Pasternak: I see. What does this ceremony entail?
Andrea Lamare: Wait! Wait wait wait. [subject digs into her bag and retrieves her cellular phone] She asked me to video it. She said she didn't want to forget, no matter how old we got. [subject laughs] So I can send you that, that'll probably be more helpful than just my description of it -
Dr. Pasternak: Are you sure your sister would be all right with you sharing this?
Andrea Lamare: Oh, sure. [chuckles] And, well - if she didn't want me to disseminate stuff about her, she should have said something before now.
<End Log>

The video in question was received by e-mail a few days later.

Video Log: Nel'lka Ceremony of Sandra Lamare

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Video Log: Nel'lka Ceremony of Sandra Lamare
Foreward: Upon opening the file, it was discovered that Miss Lamare had annotated (if inexpertly) the video to clarify individuals' identities and roles. These annotations are included in this log for completeness.
<Begin Log>
Video begins with a view of a carpeted floor, and rapidly turns upwards to reveal a large foyer crowded with people. Most are wearing semi-formal to formal Western attire, with a few dressed in tunic-like or robe-like garments. The camera focusses on a group of three young women, giggling and speaking with each other. Miss Lamare's annotations name them as Junko, Sandra, and Naomi.
Sandra grins and waves at the camera, which turns around to focus on a group of conversing adults, composed of two women and a man. They peer down at it with slight smiles, raising their eyebrows. One of the women, annotated as “Mom,” reaches a hand towards the camera.
"Mom": Andrea, honey! Put the phone away for a second and come meet Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki.
Andrea seems to hesitate, and the view swings towards the floor again. Indistinct pleasantries can be heard. When the camera turns upward once more, it is moving out and away towards the other guests. Most appear unfazed at being filmed by Andrea and ignore her in favour of existing conversations, although she receives a few polite greetings.
With no apparent signal, all conversation abruptly ceases. At a leisurely pace, the camera follows the crowd as they begin to file out of the foyer and make their way deeper into the building. After several turns, they come to a wide doorway, beyond which is located a staircase leading down. The crowd begins to descend the staircase, slowing in order to file through the narrower passageway.
The staircase opens out into a cavernous basement. While unusually large, with proportions resembling those of an auditorium, its design is modern and minimalist in accordance with the rest of the house. The only light source appears to be a green glow emanating from beyond the camera's purview. When it swings around, the source is revealed: an unidentified species of bioluminescent fungus5, sprouting in clusters where the walls meet the ceiling. Mats of mycelium indicate that the fruiting bodies are anchored into and derive sustenance from the interior wall space.
Rows of seats fill the chamber, facing a pedestal with a curtain draped behind it, stretching from floor to ceiling. While the curtain is of unknown material, the pedestal appears to be made of polished travertine limestone6.
After all of the crowd has entered the basement, they stand before their seats, seemingly waiting for something. From a row in front of the rest, the camera pans out to show the other occupants of this row: they include the woman earlier identified as "Mom," a man annotated as "Dad," several elderly members of the crowd, and a number of those dressed in robe- and tunic-like garments. Among them, the older couple from before ("Mr. and Mrs. Suzuki") can be seen. They take their seats. The camera rotates. Behind them, the rest can be seen to follow suit.
The camera faces forward once more. The woman previously established to be Sandra and Andrea's mother, later identified as Ema Lamare, rises from her seat. Turning to address the audience, she welcomes them to their home and thanks the gathered crowd for attending Sandra's Nel'lka ceremony.
Sandra herself, who has been out of view for some time, now emerges from behind the curtain. The camera zooms in on her face. Her pupils appear significantly dilated, and her movements show reduced coordination relative to earlier time points. She is dressed in a garment that resembles a white yukata, which she removes.
A humanoid figure with a veiled face (identified by Miss Lamare as “That's Turuušo, he was around more then“) enters the frame. It halts facing Sandra Lamare and her sponsors.
Figure: What is your name?
Sandra Lamare: Sandra Erika Lamare.
Figure: And they that present you?
Sandra Lamare: Ema Lamare and Claude Suzuki.
Figure: And so saying, do you consent to bind yourself to this House, from now until whensoever your life may end? To hold no other allegiance, and wield no other power?
Sandra Lamare: As the remora latches itself to the shark, so I swear this to be true.
Figure: And do you vow this of your own will, in the knowledge that you shall yet have the freedom to act as you will?
Sandra Lamare: As the eel chooses its own hollow, so I do.
Claude Suzuki turns and exits the frame, returning with the transected upper torso of a woman7. Much of the skin is overgrown with cyst- and polyp-like structures. The body is placed upon the pedestal, and Sandra Lamare guided to approach it. Standing at sufficient distance to reach out and touch it, she speaks several words in an unidentified language8. She removes a large fatty organ9 and one of the anterior ribs from the thorax, then ingests the former. Using one hand and the removed rib, she paints the area between her cheekbones and collarbones with blood from the body, then rises again.
The veiled figure produces a white, vermiform organism, identified as an instance of SK-BIO Type 006, from the folds of its robes. Lifting it with both hands, he drops to a kneeling position. Sandra takes it in her own hands, lifts her head until her face is inclined upward, and ingests it. She stands perfectly rigid for several seconds, before lowering her head once more.
Her posture seems to relax. The veiled figure moves out of the frame. The ritual appears to be concluded; movement and conversation resumes among the crowd.
Sandra is given a large bowl of water and a towel with which to wipe off the blood. After she does, she clothes herself once more and, amidst the sound of congratulations, heads out into the crowd to rejoin her friends. Behind her, rhizomorph-like structures emerge from the stage, growing through and over the abandoned corpse. As they begin to digest it, the fungal bodies lining the walls gradually increase in luminosity.

It seems apparent that House Kurinuka endeavours to keep their anomalous activities out of the public eye, despite their professed indifference to intrinsic behavioural standards. No employees of companies owned by Hisawa or other House members have any connection to any of the Lower Mainland's anomalous communities - a statistic that may reveal a vested interest on House Kurinuka's part to maintain their ignorance.
Employee blogs and online communications do reveal a prevalent psychotropic culture at Hisawa's two largest companies10, with psychotropics of choice including alcohol, Cannabis sativa, prescription amphetamines and analgesics, and a drug known only by the trade name Casurun. This drug is reportedly available only through Rutilus Compounding Pharmacy, a small naturopathic pharmacy chain based only in the Lower Mainland. Upon further investigation, Rutilus was discovered to be owned by another high-ranking House member.
A sample of Casurun was procured from Rutilus for spectrometric analysis. Although the majority of the capsule weight was accounted for by binders (including mannitol starch and microcrystalline cellulose) and fillers (including corn starch and saccharin sodium), two bioactive ingredients were identified. 14.1% by weight was accounted for by the theoretical but unattested compound dihydroxynicergoline. This compound acts as a competitive agonist to the ADRA1A dendritic receptor, inducing cerebral vasodilation and metabolic elevation. 3.7% by weight was accounted for by a mixture of muscarine allosteric antagonists. These compound act as nonselective antagonists for the GABAA ionotropic receptor.
Trace amounts of protein were also found, mostly in fragmentary form. Preliminary BLASTP place the isolated peptides as having high structural similarities to vertebrate galactosylceramidase enzymes, and are presumably involved in vivo in the digestion of cell membranes and/or myelin.
Overall, Casurun has nootropic effects, which may explain its popularity among local tech employees. With few reported side effects, this drug increases human reaction time and attention, presumably advantageous to individuals in a competitive business environment. The desire for intelligence and capability would drive many, it seems, to seek exogenous sources.

An immature specimen of A. lowii growing on a P. menziesii log.

The source of both active ingredients is a fungus known colloquially as kajitsu-no-sara or "wine-bowl" (presumptively named Ascocoryne lowii pending full description and publication), which is cultivated on a small scale under the oversight of another House member, Mr. James Toda. This species is essentially saprotrophic and is cultivated outdoors on mulch and sections of softwoods. Aware that commercial fungus farming is nowadays most frequently done indoors with sterilized and standardized substrate, I inquired about Toda's choice of natural cultivation methods. Although the response was highly technical, the general gist was that A. lowii has very specific nutrient requirements that cannot be met with commercial substrates, and this method of cultivation allows him to customize their nutrient input.
Mr. Toda seemed equally keen to point out that A. lowii is uncontrolled under federal or provincial law. No solid answers were provided when I inquired whether Mr. Toda or any of his compatriots were considering expanding their monopoly; however, given Rutilus's popularity, I would not be surprised to see Casurun eventually hit a wider market.
Addendum: While walking back to my lodging following an evening meeting with a colleague, I was approached by an unknown individual. The individual's shabby, concealing garments, along with the scarf used to cover the head and neck, stymied any potential identification. The following is a transcript of our interaction.

Interview Log: Unidentified House member

Close Transcript

Interviewer: Dr. Alexander Pasternak
Interviewee: Unidentified House member
Date: 11/08/2021
<Begin Log>
Dr. Pasternak: Can I help you?
[There are a few minutes of silence.]
Figure: Perhaps you can, Dr. Pasternak.
Dr. Pasternak: Do I - do I know you?
Figure: Not in person, not yet. But come, doctor - you have been asking after me for days now. Surely it cannot come as a surprise that I too may be curious? May wish, perhaps, to meet with you?
Dr. Pasternak: You are Turuušo.
Karcist Turuušo: Yes.
Dr. Pasternak: If I may - your followers claim to have seen very little of you, recently, and none were able to provide me with… to be honest, any information at all. I was half-convinced you were an urban legend, or a trick to gauge my credibility. And if your duty is to guide them spiritually, why make yourself so scarce?
Karcist Turuušo: Ah. Yes. [subject rearranges its clothing until only its eyes are visible] And now we come to my reason for seeking you out.
Dr. Pasternak: Which is?
[Subject is again silent for a few minutes]
Karcist Turuušo: The world is rupturing. The song - it has festered now, longer than my memory, since before the histories were written. But no abscess remains forever. If not lanced, they tear open of their own accord. And now - the skin of reality thins. Stretches taut. Rhythm and melody, even the words…
Even with ears closed, they reverberate through the bones. Everything is all warped awry, the apprehension of - [shakes head] There are not even the right words to speak of it, but something terrible is coming, and it sends sickness before it into the tissues of everything that is.
Karcist Turuušo: It is - what is your word? - necrosis. The soul concretized has a form that may succumb, may begin to… die, when intrusion can no longer be borne. [laughs] Too late, now, now that we have opened up our passageways to smell and swallow and let it in. An eft that poisons itself with its own toxins. Always bleed it dry before you devour it, even if you are starving otherwise. Like metal that won't go away, won't come out, even though I must - [subject claws at its neck, causing bleeding. The movement also reveals that what I had taken for a wide garment sleeve is in fact an infolded and highly vascularized mucous membrane, pitted with ulcers] - too deep, too deep by centuries. I cannot - [subject stills, hunching over and covering its eyes with one hand. Its claws are notably cracked and damaged, potentially indicating poor health.]
Dr. Pasternak: I do not mean any offense, but - are you all right?
Karcist Turuušo: [harshly] Doctor. [long pause] Forgive me. I shall endeavour to be clearer. I no longer involve myself with our followers because I cannot. Their touch… burns. Here a little less, there a little more - but the essence is the same. One poison. Would you press furuncle to carbuncle, to cure the latter?
There is too much to be considered, and I too distracted to consider it. I know that Nälkä as it exists grows untenable. I also know this may not be true.
So no. We are none of us well, but I - fear I may be irremediable. They called the gods' touch maddening, in the old scripture…
Dr. Pasternak: And so you believe that you have been driven insane?
Karcist Turuušo: Look, doctor. Would you profess differently?
Dr. Pasternak: I am not qualified to make such judgments. Is there nothing that your followers are capable of doing to help you?
Karcist Turuušo: [laughs] In Nälkä such things are true. Because it is painful, and so the truth usually is. And our skill is in lihakut'ak, the shepherding of the flesh. The mind must already be strong… no. No, no help from my people. And the physicians for this city's commons would ask inconvenient questions.
Dr. Pasternak: That, I think, would be likely.
Karcist Turuušo: But your Foundation… the commons do not know the truth of all the lives paraxial to their own because you do not will it. You make them forget. You remember the things that cannot be remembered.
Make no mistake, Doctor; I know my people have given you all and more of the information you have requested of them. Because they know it will not harm them any; you cannot break your materialistic play-acting on the orders of your superiors, so you can reveal nothing of them to their enemies. They believe you powerless.
But power has no single axis; tear out a handful of this soil and you hold more lives than your entire race has ever lived. One clod of earth, and you are a god.
You may try to be polite, but your people are not subtle, doctor. They resent anything outside of your carefully-crafted ignorance. You would love to wall every one of us away from all those masses you deem normal, because behind your locks or fences or bolt-cages there would be no possible means for us to harm them. Because any of us placed there would be controlled. Would be safe. Is this not so?
Dr. Pasternak: There are… definitely some personnel within the Foundation who feel that way. But clearly, as you said, you do not think I would be capable of bringing you in even were I to decide it necessary.
Karcist Turuušo: [closes eyes] All creatures desire safety.
Dr. Pasternak: If I may be so blunt - what, exactly, are you trying to get at here?
Karcist Turuušo: Doctor, terrible as it may be to admit, I am begging your help. You have control over thought - let me use it for my own, as well.
Dr. Pasternak: And what of the rest of the House? I presume they would disapprove of such an arrangement.
Karcist Turuušo: Oh, surely. It would be the vilest of betrayals. The natural order, upturned. Worthy of being left to rot, without even the respect of being eaten. [subject grins, revealing a row of needle-like teeth and a large mass of spongiform tissue connected to the palate of the mouth; how such a structure does not inhibit breathing or speech is unclear] But let them stop us, then, if they will. I benefit, and it would seem you would too; what they feel is immaterial.
Dr. Pasternak: I… will have to discuss your request with my supervisors before I can give you anything else, I'm afraid. But just to make sure that you understand what you are asking: the Foundation does not release anomalies from containment. Even were you to be completely recovered, we could not ever permit you to return to your current position.
Karcist Turuušo: Yet neither do you kill them. No, at present I believe this my wisest choice. And yours too, Doctor. Ask them. [subject pauses] Please.
Afterword: I brought the content of this conversation to the department, expressing the karcist's seeming willingness to enter containment in order to acquire reliable medical care. As I had been, the Foundation was at first suspicious of such an arrangement; however, the opportunity for a stable and seemingly-willing source of information on the structure and activities of House Kurinuka was deemed too valuable to abandon. Permission was therefore obtained to reconnect with and bring in the karcist.
However, weeks of investigation turned up no further signs of it, and no further attempts at contact were made from its side. When questioned, all members of the House refused to provide any comment or speculation as to the karcist's whereabouts.

Footnotes
1. a term specifying Japanese-born immigrants to North and South America, contrasted with their descendants born in the destination country
2. Represented in large part by a family group known only by the surname Hisagae
3. One of the four "saints" of Sarkicism, associated with darkness, secrecy, poison, deception, and justice.
4. Neo-Sarkic cults reckon three to four ranks of power within each organization.
5. Similar in morphology to Hericium.
6. Identifiable by its greasy luster and concentric appearance.
7. Later identified through police and medical records as a transient who had recently been released from local hospitalization for an undetermined psychotic disorder
8. Cross-referencing with existing records indicates the language may be a modified variant of Adytite, with loanwords from various Japonic languages and the Ainu language of Hokkaido.
9. Later examination of the video indicates that the organ is most likely a hyperplastic thymus gland.
10. Although drug and alcohol use is considered a growing problem in the nonanomalous technology sector as well.