Hmmm. Hmmm, hmm hmmm. Hmmm… Hmm hmm hmm. Hmm hm hm hmmmmm. Hm hm hm hmmmmm. Hm hm hm hmmmmm hmm hm hmmmmm hm hm hmmmmmmm. Da da… da ta da ta da dada da, a toddily da, a toddily dee, a toodily toddily a doppity da! A ta ta taa… A taa taa taaaaa… Hmm. Uh, hmm…
…
…Bear necessities, those simple bear necessities… uh… Window, to the tulips, by the garden, by the willow tree… In a land of pure imagination, you'll be… uh… I was born a unicorn, something something, unicorns are people too! A da da da, a ta da ta daddily da, ya pa teedah bah doodily do…

…

Golly gee whiz, being dead is boring. I thought, uh, that it'd just… poof. Gone. No more thoughts. This is different. This is super weird and not cool and I kind of maybe don't like it. Umm…

…

There she comes, now in veil… she's walking down the aisle… so close, now she winks, I recognise that smile… a spider and I, a fly with white gloved hands, wait! Something's amiss, but this wedding has been planned…
I'm gonna miss listening to music.
How does she know that you love her? How does she know that she's yours? How does she know that you love her? How does she know that you love her? How does she know that you really, really, truly, love her? How does she know that you love her? How do you show that you love her? How does she know that you really, really, truly, love her?
Whoops, sorry! I'm loud…

Sunshine, on my shoulders, makes me happy… sunshine, in my eyes can make me cry —
Okay, where am I? No, seriously, I am clearly not dead. I'd be super dead by now, I'd know if I was dead. This is not dead. I may have never been dead before, so I am not the expert on the matter, but this is most certainly not dead. I am very alive. Look! Those are my fingers. Hey! Those are my toes! That's my face, there's my chest, here's my hair — all my mentionables and unmentionables are where they should be, so I am not dead. Decidedly so. Good. We have that figured out. Step one to the puzzle, figure out if you're not dead. Check. Not dead. Did it. Good. Step two.
…
Uh, step two. Step two, where is Brainy? Brainy is… purgatory! Step one, is Brainy dead? Checkmark. Yes, Brainy is dead. Step two, where is Brainy? Check, yes — I mean, uh, yes Brainy is… somewhere, Brainy's in purgatory! Awaiting judgement! Oh gracious gods, lords above, please bestow upon me your heavenly judgement, help me atone for my sins and reward me for my good deeds, I have always… worshiped you…?
…
Step one, is Brainy dead? No. Step two, where is Brainy? Unsure. Step two point five, is there a god? No. Should there be? No. Not in purgatory. Start again. Step one, is Brainy dead? Unsure. Step two, where is Brainy? Brainy is in a place that is so empty it's not even dark anymore. It's just nothing. Only Brainy exists, and he's bored out of his mind, and really concerned. Where is Brainy? The world may never — !
Wait.
Summon… let there… give me a… lollipop! Woah! And another one! And another one, and another one, and another one! Mmm, kiwi watermelon. Mmm mmm mmm. Step one, is Brainy dead? Check, heck no! Brainy is, in fact, enjoying some great lollipops right now! Step two, where is Brainy? Oh I am so glad you asked, you handsome young fellow, you see… Brainy is in his Headspace! My very own Headspace! Step three, how did Brainy get here? Simple! Backup plan! I forgot about this. Plan B! Of course Brainy wouldn't fail, Brainy never fails. Instead of fails, Brainy prevails! And his rhamms neva get stale, uh, unless he does! Bi… bi… bicycle! Shimmy to the right, unh, shimmy to the left, unh, shimmy to the shimmy to the shimmy to the left again! Yeah!
What would Brainy be, without a Plan B? Brainy wouldn't be so Brainy, would he? Whenever he dies, he does what he please — because Brainy is named Brainy for a reason, ya see? With glorious speed Brainy does conceive that if he dies in the future he will need a release, so he builds himself a body out of spare parts he found and now he still can strut his stuff all around the town! Unh! That's right! Give me a… big house. Ooo! And a kiddy pool! And a landscape — think The Lorax. That's it! Give me a good song! Oh, Headspace, this couldn't be…? Oh my god, you know me like the back of your hand! Idiot Song by Idiot Flesh. Admittedly a guilty pleasure, but I have been a little indulgent as of late.
I completely forgot about this. What did I call this project way back when? It was something cliche, I remember that much. Oh, yeah. The Lazarus Model. Tee emm. Trademark Brainy. Brainy did this. I did this while working side by side with people who didn't know how to shut stall doors in the bathroom. Brainy is King! Brainy is King! King Harding, master of the Headspace! Give me a Ferris wheel, and a roller coaster, and a space ship, and a… friend.
Oh, hello, Thomas Timothy Thompson.
"Brainy?"
That's me!
"Where are we?"
We're in my Headspace, 3T! There are two possibilities right now: you are dreaming and I'm really talking with you, or you're awake at this very moment and what I am seeing is a figment of my imagination. Isn't that cool?
"Brainy, aww, you didn't have to bring me out here! This is so good of you. I didn't even know you had a Headspace. How much did it cost?"
Nothing, I made it myself.
"That's cool. That's the coolest cool thing I've ever had the privilege of calling cool. You're really good, Brainy."
Oh I know. Don't need to tell me twice.
"You have no sense of humbleness."
And proud of it — look, 3T? The thing about this, is, uh, you're not gonna like this, but I'm… dead.
"Dead?"
Yeap! Super dead. Took the gun to my head, and uh… Bang. Pretty 100% certain I'm dead.
"Oh my god!"
I know it sounds bad now, but I was in a pretty bad place. I'm better now. Being dead and all. Thing is, I'm not really dead. In fact, I have a new body. I look the same, but I took the liberty of clearing out a few cosmetic issues, you know?
"Why did you go and do that?!"
Shush, 3T, you're not letting me get to the good part. See, I'm in my Headspace, and my body isn't really… real. Right now. I only exist in my Headspace. Isn't that cool?
"Why did you k-k-k-"
K-k-k-kablammo my head right open? You'll find out, look, you are really interrupting my thought process, you know I think better when I'm talking, so please shush and hush alright? My Headspace, right? Usually the exit is where I'm dreaming from. But I ain't dreaming. That means the exit doesn't really… know where to exist. For anyone but me, that'd be a bad thing, because you'd never be able to get out. But I'm not anyone but me, 3T, I'm me! I'm Brainy Brian! I've stumbled a few times as of late, but I am flying with adrenaline, and I have backup plans on backup plans on backup plans. I am… oh gosh I've been a bit mean, haven't I? I'm sorry. I was just so excited. I start losing all my sense of social workings when I get all excited like that.
Anyways, the point that I am trying to make is that nobody will believe that this dream happened. Brainy couldn't possibly have a Headspace, you aren't going to get to management with the news of this dream before the news gets there normally that I've kicked the hay. They'll think you've either made it up or had it because of the stress of losing a friend.
But believe me, 3T, I am not gone, and this is not the last time we will meet. Continue with business as per usual, make your toys and make them well like you always have, I have more hugs to give and kisses to share and I love you, Thomas. We will reunite. Wait patiently. I have a plan. I can't go back to Wondertainment — like I would want to. I've always been meant to perform, and that's just what I plan on doing, Thomas. I plan on living life to the fullest and going out and experiencing the world. Next time you see me, I'll be on stage. I love you like a brother. You know that.
Happy trails. Smooches. Bye!

Thomas Timothy Thompson awoke with a start. The world was never dark in Wonder World!™, but it was dim and hard to make things out. His bed teetered and tottered this way and that as it rode down the Sleep with the Fishes™ creek. He was in a long tunnel, and soft glowing caricatures of cartoon sheep glowed and blurred as they frolicked silently on the walls. 3T turned over and let his left arm dangle into the water, feeling a bed of moss and Sugar Weeds™ on the bottom of the canal. He picked one and began to chew on it — it was at once bitter and sweet, tasting faintly of some strand of persimmon. He tried to make sense of his dream. He wondered if it really was a dream, or if it was what Brainy had said. He wondered what could have driven Brainy to sh… sh… he couldn't even bare to think the word, the whole ordeal was a terribly alien concept to the innocent mind of 3T. He floated out of the tunnel, and saw the cityscape. The place glowed with faint pinks and blues. For a city, it had a very minimal nightlife — everyone had a bedtime and followed it religiously.
3T sat up, and let himself be perplexed. He knew it was bad, but it just seemed to be getting worse. At the next convenient stop, Thomas crawled out of bed and onto the shore of the ride. He stretched and yawned, and guessed the time was something close to midnight. He went to the lockers by the entrance and got his clothes out (the lockers had no locks, because of course nobody would steal; that would be indecent of them). He didn't bother to put them on, though. Still in his pajamas dotted with T's, which were a gift from Battery a year or so back, he strolled down the big grassy hill and past the Wonder World!™ suburbs' Lifesize Gingerbread Houses™. There were no cars to fill the streets, though bumper cars lay abandoned at every street corner, so he walked in the middle of the road. He had never been up this late. It was an odd feeling, but he simply couldn't fall back asleep. Not in a mood like this. He passed down all the candy stores, toy shops, Ferris wheels, mini marts (you sent tiny mouse people in to retrieve your goods for you), roller coasters (the Flying Fire™ in particular), and some other various rides. He walked by big curvy hotels and small pudgy motels, big fancy restaurants, small dingy diners, and the Multiverse's Biggest Ball Pit™. It really was, by the way. With the light outside so dim, all colors were muted and gave the place a lonely look. 3T had never seen the world so empty before. The pink and blue glowing orbs ((I Wish I May I Wish I Might Wish Upon the) Bright Night Lights™) floating above the city cast only the most basic of light over the buildings. No logos of anything could be made, no real concrete details. Everything was only shapes and impressions. 3T had never thought he could feel that Wonder World!™ was so foreign to him, but his whole perspective felt strange. Thomas felt odd. He needed grounding.
Finally, he arrived at an apartment complex. He walked through the door and into the small lit up lobby area. He stared down the buttons by the elevator — Billy the Magical Bean, Sammich, Marvelous Marvin, Elepant, and Percy Pinwheel. He clicked and held the very last button, and began to speak softly into it.
"Pinwheel? I'm in a bad place. It's me, Thomas. I need a friend."
3T stepped back, and waited for a response. His leg bounced, and his clothes, hung over his arms, jingled softly. Nothing. Thomas approached again, and held the button again, and then he spoke again.
"I know you're a light sleeper. Are the fans too loud? I want some company. Please."
3T stepped away once more, and sat on the bench next to the lift. If nothing else, he could sleep here, he thought. Maybe use his clothes as blankets. That would have been nice enough. He drooped under his own weight, and began to nod off before the elevator dinged. The doors opened and beckoned him inside. 3T sauntered into the tiny room, and the doors closed. The machine whirred to life (though fairly silently), and took him up to the topmost floor. The doors opened, and he heard all at once the sound of tens of fans all going off at once. Myriads of pinwheels were strewn all about the room, spinning at incredible speeds and creating a soft flapping hum. Percy appeared from behind a corner, wearing only a bathrobe and holding a plate with two cups of tea.
"Chamomile?" Thomas asked in a croaky voice, red eyed and cheeks sunken.
"Dream Catcher Chamomile, tee emm."
3T took it, and sipped on it. It was already drinking temperature, just like any Wondertainment tea. He knew that Pinwheel only kept this in stock because he liked it. Percy was a greater fan of Pillow Pecker Peppermint™, which 3T knew must have been what she was drinking. Her apartment always smelled like peppermint. She wouldn't have been a Candy Catalyst without her pervasive peppermint smell. She sat down on the couch and patted the seat next to her. He sat with her, and they sipped on their tea in the dark. Only the sound of wind and pinwheels was present. They enjoyed each others warmth and company, and drank in silence. After they were done, Pinwheel opened her arms, and 3T clambered on top of her and used her right breast as a pillow. She wrapped around him, and he closed his eyes. She smelled wonderful. 3T began to frown, and shivered. She played with his hair and rubbed his back, nuzzling into his forehead and kissing him there. Thomas hugged her tight and nuzzled back at her, into her chest. Engulfed in warmth and comfort, he spoke.
"I don't think this world is a happy place."
They shifted and curled around each other even more, sharing emotions wordlessly through strokes and pats and squeezes. She knew just what to do with him. Sometimes, 3T thought, Percy knew him better than he did. He pulled away only enough to look into her eyes, which he could only make out in the darkness as two sparkling stars in the corners of her pupils.
"I want to leave."
"Where do you want to go?"
"…I don't know."
They breathed each other's breaths, felt each other's heat, and loved each other's company. They were two links in a chain, unbreakable and stronger together. Pinwheel and Thomas fell asleep and awoke the next day, bombarded with the news that Brainy had been wiped from the earth, and they decided to call in sick.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome to the ring our naughtily nautical naked Nereid: Nixie!"
The bright red curtains pulled back and revealed a large glass dunk tank, swimming with piranhas of neon pink and greens. High above the tank sat a mermaid, clad in naught but three seafoam bracelets, on a wide sky blue diving board with her back to the audience. Many an "ooo" and "ahh" emanated from the audience, along with a couple nervous squeaks at the harrowing series of events that were sure to play out within the next few moments.
"Not to worry folks, Nixie's an expert at evading serious and terrifying problems. I would know, we used to date."
She turned, waved, and winked, and then pulled herself backwards off of the plank and gracefully into the open air. Her rainbow fins shimmered and glistened as she spun and pulled off three full back flips before diving into the water with not so much as a "sploosh". As soon as her first fingers had touched the water, the glowing ravenous fish had been magnetized to her position, creating a swift moving flesh eating light show that danced within the confines of the tank. Nixie didn't stay underwater for more than a split second before she had lunged out into the open air above once again without a single scratch. She repeated this trick several times in quick succession, adding minute flourishes and tricks into her every swivel and curve. Almost imperceptibly the cartoonishly curvaceous Ringmaster had shimmied onto the edge of the diving board above and dropped a large red ball that threatened to disturb the perfectly contained dunk pool. Before it could grace the surface of the water with its presence, Nixie batted it perfectly back from where it came with her tail. The spectacle also tossed a small crowd of neon piranhas into the air, which threatened front seat audience members into fits of frightful tremors. Thankfully, they fell harmlessly onto a small pit of wooden spikes that surrounded the tank, making shish kebabs that stage hands quickly picked up and began to cook.
After the ball was effortlessly kept from its downward descent by increasingly spectacular motions, it was sent flying up to the woman on the board. The Ringmaster's violet eyes followed the ball as it rose above her only for a girl to pop out from under her top hat and burst the ball with a pin. After the loud noise that followed and the confetti that broke out, something else began to fall. Out of the popped ball a long black eel, highlighted with color changing lines down its side and on its fins, coiled and twisted and hissed (eels hissed?) before splashing into the dunk tank. Nixie, looking thoroughly confused and frightened, collided with the frilly oily serpent in mid air and fell back into the tank with a slap sound. The audience let loose short, wondrous, concerned gasps. The piranhas seemed to swarm on a single spot in the tank, and shimmers of the golden fins of the eel were caught at glances in the spots between the hungry school of fish. For a full four seconds, nothing seemed to happen. The crowd was held in horrendous shaking and horror as they perceived themselves to be witnessing a horrible carnival accident. Suddenly, the piranhas began to circle, yet didn't seem to swim — soon, the whole tank was spinning, and the water threatened to spill over the sides. Nixie shot out of the very center of it, shaking a few fish off of her tail effortlessly onto the shish kebabs below. She returned to the whirlpool and swam in circles, leaping out while the eel followed her like an iridescent shadow. The crowd cheered and hooted and hollered, throwing their voices at Nixie in glad celebration and relieved ecstasy. Suddenly, however, Nixie looked concerned once more.
Something distracted her from the uproarious applause and the tricks and sports. The eel had given up chase, and the piranhas had all gravitated to a dark spot in the water, and — by god, was the water turning red? A hand with sharp nails, covered in bites, scratches, and blood, shook itself out of the water and tried desperately to hang onto something. Nixie acted on instinct and dove towards the figure, the crowd continuing unknowingly in their obnoxious loud approval. She swam towards the fish feast and pulled the eel off of the being's neck, chucking it out of the water and up and over onto the skewers. The thing twitched and flailed before succumbing to the spiny wooden death. Soon enough, something else sputtered out of the water. Nixie, carrying the man with piranhas flying off of them, flopped disgracefully onto the side of the stage, where she feverishly pulled fish off of (or more likely out of) the man in an orange and black pinstripe suit.
The curtains closed on the emergency, and Nixie heard the Ringmaster trying to control the crowd in their confusion. She called for Dr. Tinkles while two stage hands came and picked the man out of her arms. The man, soaked in his own blood and pricked with teeth that had broken off of the fish, coughed and wheezed and yelled.
"I'm so sorry! I'm so so sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt your show! You were great! You were -" hack "- so great, keep it up! Ow, HOLY jimminy cricket! Gosh diddly CHRISTMAS! I'm really, so — AUGH — sorry, fudge! Fiddlesticks, barnacles, CREPE on a STICK and call me SUNDAY, GET ME TO A MEDIC!"
The man moaned and writhed as they brought him out of the tent and off into the circus. Nixie pulled herself further off stage and into the wings and clambered onto a chair. The bastard had ruined her act. What the hell kind of asshole just goes and appears in your tank like that? What kind of idiot teleports himself into an aquarium of hungry flesh eating fish? A speed walking Man with an Upside-Down Face appeared from behind a corner, furrowed brow (though it really came off as more of a furrowed chin) and all, inquisitive as ever.
"What just happened?"
Nixie took another couple deep breaths, glaring at Manny and attempting to regain her composure.
"Nothing good."
Nixie grabbed a fish kebab and crunched on the colourfully crispy characiforme.

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w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


I was nervous. Shaken and nervous, terribly so. The past few nights I had awoken to the sounds of helicopters, and I thought I imagined there to be voices reverberating through the space. The great dark woods outside of my window suddenly felt less like a wall between me and the rest of the world and more like a great suppressor of my senses. I stared between their bars of bark and their perfect ever blossoming greenery and felt uneasy. I couldn't fall asleep like this. I rose, closed the curtains, and then crawled back into bed. The mobile that hung over my crib tinkled softly, and the glow in the dark stars around the room twinkled and sparkled at me. I had closed the curtains, why couldn't I fall asleep? I pulled my blankets closer to me. I wished that Mom were here to tuck me in. It was cold. It was a cold dark night, and I had work to do in the morning.
I decided that if I couldn't get to sleep then I would just get up and do it. I turned on my bedside lamp, and stared across the room at the empty beds. This room was too red for my tastes. I was going to have to move. I opened the big candy cane door and exited into the hall. The kids' room's door was ajar. I peeked in, and saw the six little guys fast asleep. They were all so cute. So precious. I gently pushed their door closed. There was a soft rustling once I had done that. Maybe they weren't as asleep as I had imagined. I silently locked their door. Didn't want them to wander the house at night. I limped down the stairs and flipped on the kitchen light. I opened the oven and took out a cinnamon bun. I hobbled over to the couch and laid down. It was hard to move now that I couldn't feel my right foot, but work had to get done as always. There was always work to get done. Another product to make, another hand to shake, another cookie to bake… I should have been a poet. I imagined that poetry would have been an easier occupation than toy making.
Of course, you have to follow your heart. My heart was in tiny gears and wind up keys and making education fun. I hated my heart. My heart had chosen wrong, it was broken. How stupid did a heart have to be to choose to work with children? I hit the arm rest a couple times. I was slowly rubbing the bony part of my left wrist raw. It was pink and flat. I didn't think it was supposed to be flat. To my knowledge, bony parts of wrists weren't supposed to be flat. I breathed heavily on the couch before standing up again. I almost fell back down due to head rush, but held onto the back of the couch to stop myself. Walking towards the bathroom, I tripped on a Lego creation by one of the kids.
"AAaaah!!"
I caught myself on the fireplace, but not without hitting a rib on the cobble. That hurt. I think I woke up the kids. There was a commotion upstairs, and the door was jostling. They were ignoring their bed time. Again. I was going to tell them all about that in the morning. All about it, yeah. All about it. I stumbled towards the bathroom, but changed my mind. I had gotten up to do work, I was going to do work. Near the stairwell I opened a door that looked like a closet. It opened into a staircase that led down. Down into the basement. Down into my workshop. They were moving again. This wasn't any good, they weren't supposed to move at night. They could climb the stairs, and that would be bad. No kid wants that. No kid at all.
What was that?
I stood absolutely still. The house was quiet, the house was still. There wasn't even a ticking clock, or a dripping faucet, or a wind outside that jostled the windows. There wasn't a bird chirping in the night, a wolf howling at the moon, a squirrel that just so happened to be on the roof. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. All was calm. Very, very calm. I must have imagined it. Or must I have? There was one noise now. My heart was pumping, as it usually did. It was pumping hard. It was so loud, it felt like I couldn't have possibly heard anything else. I felt unsafe. I felt absolutely caked in a thick, muddy paranoia. Justified? It didn't matter at that point. I closed the basement door, and slunk to the real closet by the bathroom. I took solace in having a cold, metal rod in one hand. I felt like a man. I never noticed that I was living life as a boy… but, but I was! I had been, for the longest time. I might not have worked by kids, but my whole life I had spent working by children. I was moving up in the world. I was —
No, no I wasn't crazy, because there it went again. A… a something, it was so slight that whether it was a sound or a feeling was indistinguishable. I felt watched… I felt that every window was a liability, every corner hiding something sinister and disagreeable. Sweat ran down my forehead like heavy rain. I felt completely in the open, but simultaneously unable to move. Frozen in place. My muscles felt like concrete. Even the kids upstairs had fallen totally motionless.

Crash

I'd… I mean, it's no secret, is it? I knew when I was done for. It was a quality I liked to pride myself on. When a project just wasn't working out, I wasn't the person who would power through anything. I couldn't do that to myself, not when I knew there was something better I could put my energy into. That was besides the point, but still. I wasn't much a fighter. Not really. Not ever. As soon as the gas started filling the room, I knew there wasn't a point. I covered my mouth, only inhaling enough to wrack me with coughs. There wasn't a point. I didn't know if there was ever really a point. I guessed that it was all subjective. I started leaning towards the stairs, hearing the clear yells and grunts of men outside. They weren't a problem. I knew where my priorities lied. I needed to check in on the kids.
The sun was coming up. Dawn of another day. I winced. Did I ever really amount to anything? Was monetary value all that I strove for? What were my goals? What were my ends that I needed to make meet? The sun was coming up, and it glared at me.
"Do you see the sun, kid?"
The stairs were quite the obstacle at this hour of the day. To think I had stayed up the whole night, just because I had been hearing helicopter blades before. I guessed it wasn't so silly, but it was pretty silly. I needed to not stay up that late. It was bad for me. I began to cry, climbing that stairwell felt demeaning. Just another hurdle to cross. Nothing ever came easy. I guessed that was life. My feet landed on the landing.
"You see that big ball of gas and fire?"
That was a door being thrust open downstairs. I sauntered towards the kids' room, trying to pay it no mind. The door handle was rustling. I could hear the children as they clambered at the door. Like little dogs, chewing on the bars of their crate. It didn't do them any good. At the very least, things were finally getting resolved.
"It's circling you, kid."
It felt like I had spent my whole life waiting for things to figure themselves out. Spent it all just hoping that the next thing would be the last thing. Life was just a long complicated list of things, and I never realized how tired I was of things. Needing to eat, needing to drink, needing to make money, needing to make friends. Needing the newest smart phone. Needing to be the best toy maker. Needing to need. Needing to live.
"You're the star, Brian!"
I unlocked their door and opened it. They were all so… cute. They must have been so scared. I tried to smile at them, tried to show them it was all okay. It was a white lie. Maybe it would make things easier. I certainly hoped it would. All these children I had rescued from their unfortunate situations, to give them an occupation. They were going to travel the world. They were going to be able to share the joys of childhood with kids anywhere and everywhere. They looked very concerned. It must have been the tool in my hand.
"Life's a show kid."

"Stop crying."

Bang.

"Stop moving."

Bang. Bang.

"Stop screaming."

Bang.

They were on the stairs by now. I sat down on the bedside, and wiped the tears from my eyes. It could have been so magical. It could have been so grande, so complete, so artistic, so tasteful. It could have been Wondrous. There was never anything more tragic than what could have been, what was so close to being, what wanted to but ultimately couldn't come to fruition. I tasted the salt and enzymes as they ran down my cheeks and into my mouth. There wasn't time for that. There wasn't time for anything anymore. Really, there just wasn't any time at all. Just as I heard people outside the door, I held that horrid contraption to my chin.
Life was a show, and I was the fucking star.

B a n g .

Baxter turned the corner just in time to see the tall, skeletal man fall backwards onto the bed. He was wearing a black and orange pinstripe suit, and his big top hat with cat ears lied next to him. His fingernails were long and sharpened. His face was painted to look like a tiger. The gun laid on the floor. As others searched the house up and down, trying to find co-conspirators, Baxter just stood there. The room was coated in blood, and the viscera of a handful of children. Baxter slowly stepped into the room and checked behind the door to make sure he wasn't set up for an ambush. The space was thankfully empty.
He turned back to the room and thought that he caught movement behind the second bed. He rushed over to find a small Indian child caught in the side. He immediately radioed for medics to come to the second floor, and held the child in his arms. The kid was in shock. His eyes were wide, his breaths were inconsistent. Baxter was never good with kids. He picked up the child and carried him downstairs just as the rest of the Strike Team was confirming that the house was empty. Baxter yelled for medical assistance, but nobody came. He didn't know what to do, or how to react, until… until the kid just stopped moving. He gave three short coughs, and then his head rolled back. Baxter stood with the child for a long while, just holding him, hearing the "all clear"s go through his head one after another. He laid the child down on the couch, and somberly stood upright.
Baxter glanced to his left, and saw the outline of another child standing in the doorway to the basement. This one just seemed to stare at all the people moving around, and soon someone had knelt down next to it — keeping a gun on it at all times, of course. It seemed genderless, and… shiny. Plastic. Baxter walked over to it, hearing the other operatives gathered around asking it questions and making sure to never get too close. Its movements were stiff, its eyes were doll like. Its mouth kept opening and closing. It was making a small "ah" each time.
The operatives glanced between each other, trying to find hints at what to do. The thing took two jerky steps forward, using only its left leg, and then fell onto its face. On the back of its head was a small switch. The thing jerked and shook and banged against the floor before going still and just waving its right arm. On its back, its painted on shirt read "Vend-a-Friend™ by Wondertainment!" The team shared looks, and then Baxter shot the poor thing. He snuck down the stairs into the basement, with two operatives following close behind. The whole space was filled with an inky black, and a noxious fetid smell. Baxter flipped on the lights.
Baxter had seen worse. It didn't make the scene any better. They — or, some of them — stared at Baxter and his crew. They didn't all have full bodies. They didn't all have full heads. They didn't all have eyes, and they didn't all have mouths. Many abandoned projects lied around the room, twitching and struggling to get up. One doll kept swerving and bumping into walls until it fell again, showing that its face had been melted. There were scraps of plastic and parts sitting on shelves. Tools, both familiar and enigmatic, were hung on the south wall above a big… well, it used to be a green workbench. Most concerning were the husks left in the corner, rotting and being picked at by flies. Baxter motioned the team away.
"I'll take care of the dirty business. Soak the place in gasoline."
The operatives nodded softly, and backed out of the basement, back up the stairs. Whichever ones out of the dozen or so that could look followed Baxter everywhere he went. Some began to walk, some stumbled, some crawled, and some could only try to move in his direction. Baxter wouldn't sit long enough to let himself get attached. He pulled out his rifle and aimed it at the first one. His finger fondled the trigger just as he felt a tugging on his back leg. Turning around, he saw the little one. A legless one, pulling on his pant legs. It was a smaller one, with darker skin tone, and a green shirt painted on it. A green shirt that read "Keep Calm and Read a Book". It tugged a couple more times. It didn't have a lower jaw to speak with, and it only had one eye. It was pathetic. It was terribly pathetic and hopeless.
Baxter lowered the rifle, and stared. Some others had made it up to him and were silently softly tugging on his clothes. He slung his rifle on his back and picked up the small legless green one. He picked it up and looked into its eyes, and it held its stiff arms out and repeatedly patted the breather on his gas mask. The small crowd of disfigured plastic children, some making small "ah"s and others squeaking slightly as their plastic parts rubbed together, clung onto Baxter's legs while he held the toy. They held eye contact for a long time, ignoring the ruckus upstairs, before Baxter took the thing closer and embraced it. The little things arms waggled at his sides, its tiny immature hands pulling on his straps a bit. The grunting of men upstairs, combing over the place for hints and materials and pouring fuel over the whole thing, slowly faded into white noise. Baxter breathed heavily. Baxter closed his eyes. Baxter squeezed the little thing, and stood in place without any intention of ever moving again. A voice over the intercom.
"House searched. Awaiting your command, Baxter."
Baxter sighed. A heavy, angry, agonizing sigh. He put down the little boy, back into the crowd of malicious toys, and felt a weight fall upon his shoulders. The mission was over, but there was still work to be done. They didn't wait to see the bonfire to its end.
On the way back, the team was boisterous. Another mission come and gone, another story started and stopped, another item on the paycheck. Hearing that the mission was over, Lynn had called from her infirmary bed. She wanted to know how things had went: if the bastard was dead, if anyone got injured, if anyone was rescued. He assured her that the kids were alright.

The windows were gorgeous, overlooking the city, showing the rides and the bright cheery landscapes. The Frite Lite Roller Coaster whizzed past, and shook the room slightly. The committee sat in a terrible, pervasive silence. A couple sniffles, and some blows of noses, were the only sounds currently heard. Around the table sat many colorful individuals — Mr. Ribbit, Golly Molly, Mrs. Ribbit, Dr. Quack, Judy the Tongue, Cheese Louise, George Georgeson, Bob Bobson, Moccasin, George Bobson, Bob Georgeson, Smoke Ferguson, Tailor Itkin, Jetfuel, Jimmy the Jello Fellow, Forgan Meeman, Bill Sipmann, Vira the Party, Potato Reginald, Parry the Seamstress, Beryllium, and the current company head, CEO Holly Light (who held the honorary title of Dr. Wondertainment). Their usual goofy grins had all been wiped from their faces and replaced with various states of despair — some stared blankly at the table, others wept profusely, some twitched with anger, one leaned back in their chair and looked at the ceiling, but Holly was the loudest. She wailed and moaned on her big purple and yellow throne that stretched nearly to the cathedral high ceiling. Her usual well kept illustrious mile long white hair was entirely untouched today, matted and tangled in places and covering her face. Her towering, wide figure was curled over into a shivering, weeping ball; the left armrest on her throne had an automatic tissue dispenser, which she was threatening to deplete. Such a stature hid her face, but her perfectly circular eyes showed when she looked up in one of her many great moans.
It was a long time before the meeting really officially got underway.
Holly Wondertainment's right hand woman, Tongue, ultimately took over the meeting in her place.
"It ith to everyone'th thurprithe that we gather today to discuth… Polly'th Grow-N-Know Piano Plant. She hath refuthed to continue working on it, and… and we have workerth who… we… have workerth that have no projectth to work on. We need to figure out how to… put them to work." … "Any thuggethtionth?"
"I don't like dodging around our problems, Tongue," Smoke spoke up, "just tell us the bad news and what we're going to do about it."
Tongue looked at Holly for guidance, but just found her chugging a water bottle to keep the tears flowing out of her face. Tongue wasn't good at big crowds like this, but if she wanted to be Holly's successor — which she did — she was going to have to get good at it. Why did this have to be her test run? She cleared her throat, licked her lips, and shifted her tongue out of Tailor's leg space. His foot and her muscle had collided a couple times and it was getting uncomfortable at this point.
"…Wondertainment, the company, ith arranging an honorary funeral on New Years Day, 92nd Wonder Year, for Brai- for, uh, for Brian Harding right now. It'th… not many people are invited. It'th eckthpected to be jutht me, Holly, 3T, and Polly. Anyone who knowth of it ith invited, but our main conthern ith that… people will dithrethpect him."
"And why shouldn't they?"
"We're all thtill people… we're holding a more public funeral for all of the kids we- he… he hurt. All of the families of those kids have been invited. We're thtill unthure what our public thtatement on the matter will be. That'th what we're all really here for. We're all here to figure out what we're going to thay."
The room lay in contemplation for a long stretch of time. The Frite Lite Roller Coaster was making its second round, and shook the room once more. The sobbing had quieted down since the beginning of the meeting, but the room was flush with red cheeks and watery eyes. Mrs. Ribbit croaked, Smoke exhumed, Tailor hummed, Potato curled into a ball. Judy sat back down, and let the room sort itself out once more. Until somebody else was ready to say something, there was nothing to be said. Soon enough, Mr. Ribbit raised his head and his voice cracked as he spoke.
"'We're sorry'?"
He looked gravely around the room, and then buried his head back into his arms. Mrs. Ribbit came up to him and hugged him as he silently shook in his seat. Then followed Beryllium, Jetfuel, and Party. After that, G.G., B.B., Cheese, B.G., Quack, Jello, Tailor, Sip, Forgan, G.B., Moccasin, Potato, Molly, Parry, and even Smoke got up and huddled around Mr. Ribbit. Judy took Dr. Wondertainment by the hand, letting Holly use her tongue as a tissue, and walked her over to the growing pile. Pulling up pillows, blankets and bean bags, the group entered a cuddle puddle for emotional support.

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w/ Wondertainment Theme

w/o Wondertainment Theme


It's day 50 of freeze-dried beef stroganoff. Doctor Beckett swallows the meat and rice with a grimace. He's made a challenge out of it, seeing how long he can eat the same meal without cracking. This is probably as far as he'll go with this dish, beating his previous record with the chicken curry. At least if he stops here, he'll have plenty of the beef left to break up the nutrient paste and vitamin pills, once the rest of the prepackaged meals run out.
I'm not looking forward to that day when I find this swill a treat.
He looks out of the porthole, imagining the ventilation fans as a breeze blowing across the lunar plain. Not for the first time, he wishes he had tried to smuggle in just one pack of cigarettes. It wouldn't have done any harm, in the end. Werner would have lost his mind if he'd found out, though.
Werney, the sour-faced, stuck-up bastard. Of all the people to be shot into space with, the O5s had to send me with Site 19's tie-on-casual-Fridays Werney, the guy who thinks putting sugar in his cereal is the height of adventure. Maybe it's for the best he went off. Living together, one of us would have by now.
Not a word. Not even an I'm-just-going-out-and-may-be-some-time. You didn't even shake my fucking hand before you left.
God damn you, Werney.
Beckett thinks back to that day a few months ago, seeing Doctor Werner walking through the craters, heading towards the horizon. Opening a radio channel. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?”
The last words of Man. “Hey, Werney, where are you going?” Jesus Christ.
You didn't have to explain yourself, or say something deep and meaningful. Hell, “Goodbye” would have been deep and meaningful enough for anyone. I'd have been satisfied with that.
If I'd gone after you, would you have come back?
No, you wouldn't have come back. That's why I didn't say anything else.
God damn you, you bastard.
It was ironic, that gloomy, unsmiling Doctor Werner was the first one to snap, because in the end, it was because he was the positive one. He was the optimist. He believed the briefing from the O5s, that they were to get ready for the next wave of staff, the pioneers of New Humanity rising from the ashes. Even when they both knew no more shuttles were coming, he still thought the Foundation had something up its sleeve, that some portal would appear and the O5s would pop out to give them medals and take them back to the world as it was before.
I guess the day he walked out was when he knew we were the last ones left. I'm still here because, in the end, I was less hopeful than sour old Werney. What was the point of hoping, after they launched LEGIONNAIRE?
Beckett thinks back to the day when everything changed, when it started ascending from the gases of Jupiter. The President on television with the Overseers beside him, the wailing in the streets. The day he told Adrienne where he really worked.
And then, the miracles. Watching LEGIONNAIRE's first test launch. Jimmy Kimmel making electromagnetic pulse jokes. His nieces and nephews, drawing crayon pictures of rockets and explosions and arguing about which missile was the best. The Pope leading the faithful in prayer to the world's nuclear bombs in St Peter's Square, the Lord's angels made metal.
An end to wars. An end to pointless squabbles and petty politics. All the negative energies of mankind turned to purpose, with an outside threat so faceless, so impersonal, that all vitriol and hatred directed towards it became noble.
Most of the job involved disgust, fear, and at best, grim satisfaction, if things were well done. But those few months – I was proud of the Foundation. I was proud to say I worked there. I was proud to be a human being.
Maybe that was worth it.
Maybe I should be grateful to Werney. Now I can say I'm the last man on the moon. The anti-Armstrong to your anti-Aldrin. One small step for a man, one giant end for mankind.
Another half-remembered memory, of a bright-eyed graduating class at MIT, as Aldrin walks in, telling America's newest engineers about dreaming and boldly going, cheers and screams from the crowd drowning out any substance of the speech. Shoving past friends and holding out a pen and scrap of paper, the prize following him to Boeing, Cape Canaveral and Site 19. Now returned to dust, like everything else. Suddenly, Beckett has an idea, and heads to the base storerooms.
It's not like I have anything better to do.

A few hours later, the rover is loaded with supplies, and peels out of the garage, the door silently sliding closed behind it. A set of footprints trails into the distance, but the rover bounces in the opposite direction.
He dreams of the first time he went into space, and the last time. Armstrong, Aldrin and Collins are with him. Armstrong, Aldrin, Collins, Beckett, Werner. The last manned mission to the moon. The last mission anywhere.
The rover comes to a stop, the beep of the autopilot waking Beckett from his slumber. He straps on his helmet, tapping the seals. The airlock opens with a hiss, and he bounds down the stairs. The lander is in front of him, flag standing stiffly at attention beside it. Beckett runs a glove over its metal legs, so awkward-looking to modern eyes. His hand comes to rest over Aldrin's signature.
Did you ever think something like this would happen, Mr Aldrin?
If you'd gone ten years earlier, would it have changed anything?
What if you'd never gone at all?
Beckett suddenly feels weary, and begins to wonder why he came. He stands there, imagining the Stars and Stripes fluttering and the anthem playing, until his oxygen warning begins to sound, beneath a black sky and brown Earth.
He sleeps again on the journey back, dreaming of drawings of da Vinci's flying machines, Florentine streets, chapel ceilings, drinking red wine with Adrienne.

When he returns, it's one o'clock in the morning, Greenwich Mean Time. He's missed his daily call, not that it makes a difference any more. Still, it's best to keep to routines in this place. He boots up the base computer, cycling through the Sites. The live – well, one-second-delayed-live- camera feeds are still active, and he wonders why he needs to see the pictures as he calls, as if they were placed there by a mocking tormentor. Beckett brings up Site 19. The entrance guard tower has collapsed on top of the central building, and it looks like the cafeteria is now gone. The sky is a swirling, roaring mass of dust and sulfur, masonry and debris bouncing past like tumbleweeds, the leftovers of the human race.
Same ol', same ol'.
He taps the transmitter button.

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

Hello, Site 19. Hello, overseers. Still not coming to get me, yeah?
Maybe Werney stepped into that portal and found his way back there. Maybe he finally found his sense of humour, and messed with the computer before he left. Everything's back to normal there, and everyone's sitting in the cafeteria right now, preparing my surprise party.
Werney, can you hear me? I know you can hear me, you bastard. Go back into that portal and come back here right now, you hear me? I want you back here.
“Werney, you bastard, I want you back,” Beckett mutters. “O5s, you can come here too, you hear me? You've got some explaining to do, and I don't give a shit how much more you get paid or what super powers you have.”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want fucking Werner and the Overseers!” Beckett shouts.

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want my old job back! I want my desk and my office!”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

“I want my house and my car and – and my lawnmower! You can buy me a new fucking lawnmower! I want to see my brother and mom and dad! I want Adrienne back! I want a bottle of wine to drink with her, I want to see Italy again, I want – I want to see a real fucking ocean again! Not a fucking moon ocean, a real one, with real fucking water!”

THIS IS AN AUTOMATED MESSAGE FROM SITE NINETEEN. WE HAVE A CATEGORY ONE SITEWIDE FAILURE. CONTACT ALTERNATE COMMAND FOR ORDERS.

Beckett slumps over the computer console, shaking with sobs.
“I want to turn on a TV and – and – and – see you say Legionnaire worked, it blew up that alien piece of shit, and it's not the end of the world any more, it's just es-see-pea two-three-nine-nine, it's neutral – neutra – neutralized, and we sent that thing to hell.”
“I want my fucking world back.”

RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.

Beckett sits bolt upright. He sees the camera view has changed, and grasps the seat armrest to steady himself. A colossal mass of alien machinery is on screen, hovering amidst the roiling atmosphere, covered in scorch marks from a thousand atomic blasts.

NEW VIDEO FEED ACTIVE.

He falls back into the chair. Not his miraculous deliverance, just the ever-fickle voice-recognition software.

RECEIVING TRANSMISSION.

Another surge of adrenaline lurches him forward. With trembling hands, he presses the transmitter button.

All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted
All primary systems destroyed: Mission aborted

There is nobody around who can tell if the last man on the Moon is laughing or crying.


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Hub

This is a story with no endings. There is no closure, nor resolution. It is only a story of evolution and expectations. As the author grows, as the characters grow, as the readership grows, so too does the story and its lasting meaning.
In every conceivable way, that is the best ending possible.

Year 2,999,765

Talloran dragged their dissected body across the world, finding bits and pieces that were torn off after they had broken everything. Once again, it was a deafening nothing, with only the parts of them in this space. It was to be expected. By this point, nothing was worse than something. At least here, they had some company; a burnt left pinky here, a loose nose there, a fragile rib somewhere else… really, each of the body parts more of an actual being than Talloran could claim to be now. Nah. They earned the right to be a human being by this point.
Limb by limb and bone by bone, James Ari Talloran clumsily sewed it all back together, with nothing more to work with than cloth and nails. They were a hideous, revolting mess, but they were at least taking form.
In the vast none, they found the final body part they needed lying a few hundred meters away from the right eye; their tongue. Of course.
It had taken days to work up the mental fortitude to put their tongue back in, and practice not to gag to death every time an attempt was made. After months, it was able to be accomplished. It was a skill that they had hoped was only applicable in this fucked up Hell, and not in the real world. As if anything like this could even work in the real world. That was one point in favor of the real world.
Exhausted, the shambling body that is Talloran collapsed, and dreamed. They dreamed of nothing, a different kind of nothing, one full of brightness and possibilities. It was a nice reprieve. There was just… so little to do, and yet it was a new form of torture. If they didn't do something, anything, this would be their true eternity. Damned to be bored to death. Isolated from everyone, even themself. That may be the worst of it all. Action had to be taken. So they decided to do the thing they were best at doing.
They waited. They waited and planned out every possibility, hoping they wouldn't need to keep being recollected. It was the only thing to hope for, now.

Year 2,999,766

But it had happened again.

Year 3,000,002

And again.

Year 3,000,044

And again.

Year 3,002,093

The joke was on That Fucker, though. Talloran could wait as long as needed be.

March 5, 2017

1:20 P.M.

Talloran and Yamada lounged outside, free from the frantic monotony of the day. Considering the hour-long break given to them, it was put to surprisingly effective use.
As the coin tumbled in the air, ascending to the peak of its arc, Talloran picked up an end of the tablecloth, Yamada watching with keen interest. The plates and mugs moved a minuscule amount, and Talloran caught their breath; it was off by a single millimeter. Yamada caught on and applied the pressure.
"If you mess this up, I won't pay for it." Talloran nodded in response. They knew exactly what to do. No sweat. As the coin reached its peak, they pulled the cloth out from underneath all the tableware, and everything shifted a few more millimeters. "Ooh."
The coin fell. They both held their breath now.
It bounced off of the edge of her mug.
"Ooooooh."
It landed cleanly in her cool coffee.
"Ooooooooh! You did it!"
"Hah, I sure did. What side did the coin land on?" Yamada looked in the mug at their request, and frowned. They grinned. "Lemme see that ten." She sighed, moving to rummage through her purse, looking for enough ones to hand them.
"It's nice that you were this stoked about doing your trick! But I have to know; how did you do it?" She dramatically pulled the dollar bills out of her purse and waved them in Talloran's face, faux-hypnotizing him. "The audience must know how you pulled it off!" They snapped the money out of her hands and put it in their pockets, setting the cloth back up. It would be bad to just be lazy after all.
"A magician never reveals her secrets." The way they said it, it was clear how much they were enjoying spouting bullshit. "But yeah, like. It was a thing I was looking forward to all day so I'm glad I got to actually pull that one off. You don't mind if I —"
"Nah." She bit into the burger and stuck her other hand out. "What's your plans for the rest of the day? I want to organize a group dinner for the end of the month with our colleagues to start forming tighter relationships. Also to suck up a bit." Talloran gave her a cigarette and lighter. She put down the burger and nimbly twirled around her fingers and over her hands, her art form coming to life. It amused both of them, and for a simple parlor trick, she pulled it off with enough flair, even when doing it real casually.
"Well, I uh, am interviewing some new anomaly they just brought to our site. They haven't even given me the details yet. I just know it's Keter, they wouldn't have told me otherwise."
"Above your level, or they just didn't tell you?"
"Maybe both, who knows."
"So that's going to be your whole night? At least tell me you have tomorrow!" Yamada stops twirling the lighter around, opens the cap and lights it, letting the cigarette come to a halt as it dangles over the flame. "I really want to get this to happen, you know." The cigarette is lit, and Talloran takes it.
"Thanks."
"Of course." She goes back to eating her burger.
"I'll see if I can get tomorrow to work, but I can't promise that. If this project is as secret as it is, then I probably might be busy for a bit. Maybe tomorrow over lunch, as opposed to after work. Who do you wanna get dinner with anyhow?" They started to take a drag.
"There's Professor Hannah, as well as Researchers Gomez, Walker, and Kirby." Yamada sounded excited, but Talloran felt a bit more apprehensive. Senior staff always came off as intimidating, and they heard stories about Walker.
"I'll. Yeah. I'll see what I can do."
"Thank you! Can you do me a favor as well, when we finish?"
"Huh?"
"Can you head over to the Shark Punching Center and buy me more pillow cases? I won't have the time to go get some, since I work right after this until night." She did work some of the longest shifts of anyone at Site-118; to have the energy to plan group dinners was unreal.
"Sure, sure. I'll have time to do so after my interviews with the uh, whatever anomaly they want me to talk to. I'll get it done!"
"What a relief! Any extra you buy you can keep, girl." They both smiled. The wind flew softly above.

Year 3,002,111

All Talloran had to do now was simply will their body into their own control, and it'd come back. Simple as that. They finally were able to wrest control, be the master of their own limited domain. Still it was dark, and there was nothing but themself, so they did the only thing that could be done.
Lie and wait.
The first step to self-control was to reclaim their surroundings for their own. Most of the time in the nothing was spent in fear, a rotting mind slowly doubting itself. Now, with the limiter off, they could use the space to their advantage.
Their body healed.
They broke the floor below, glass embedded into their skin.
Perfect.
Talloran closed their eyes and waited, dreaming again. This is how their years would be spent; practicing and drifting into the dreams within the dreams.

January 5, 2017

9:30 A.M.

"DRAVEN, SLOW DOWN!" The car was doing donuts in the parking lot at a ridiculous speed, and though Talloran found an intense thrill in it, Draven's antics involving thrills could get worrying, especially when they involved cars. "IT'S BEEN ALMOST TEN MINUTES AND I'M FEELING SICK!" Draven immediately slammed his foot on the brakes and almost sent the both of them flying.
"Shit. Sorry bun. I got uh, lost in the moment there."
"It's fine. You really do have to be more careful about that, but your face when you get excited is just —" head kiss "the —" cheek kiss "best!" lip kiss Draven returned the favor.
It was nice to get some time like this before Talloran had to move. Touch conveyed so much more to the both of them than words or even looks ever could.
"We have to go to the airport to drop you off in a few minutes don't we."
"Yeah."
"I just want you to stay. Maybe we can both move, even." Draven said it, knowing full well that it'd never be the case. Rarely does the Foundation relocate couples to the same site unless they work in the same fields. And Talloran always understood that they'd never be able to keep up with Draven's task force work.
Silence passed between them. They sat in the car for 20 minutes, a whole ten minutes longer than they should have stayed in the lot.
"Hey, bun."
"Yeah?"
"My father… he wrote this before he died. And he, he wanted me to give this to you in case we ever moved sites. I don't know what possessed him but. Yeah." Draven took out a manila envelope and placed it in Talloran's lap. "So, whenever you get on the plane, read it. I don't even know what's in it."
"An oddly specific thing for your dad to do. Alright hun, I will."
"I just don't want you to like, think he was weird for —"
"It's okay, I get it."
"I don't want you to think I'm weird for him being —"
"No, I understand. Tell me more on the way to the airport, we're almost 25 minutes past when we should have gone."
"Oh fuck!" Draven immediately yelled as he took his head off of Talloran's shoulders, turned on the car, and immediately rushed to the airport, going as fast as he (legally) could.

2:30 P.M.

Talloran allows themself to cry for the first time that day.

December 4, 2017

Sunset: quick question
Friend: ?
Sunset: unrelated to hearthstone
Sunset: if i write characters thats trans and gay is it bad form to kill one off
Friend: mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm
Sunset: i understand the social context and issues behind it but
Friend: i dont think it counts as a bury your gays trope if like literally all of the other gays stay alive
Sunset: i mean i am writin a series about someone who will inevitably die, or at least seem to
Sunset: and theyre trans
Sunset: but i write a lot of other trans characters
Sunset: i feel guilty, i guess, but also it should be fine right
Sunset: did i fuck up though by even goin down this path
Friend: "Additionally, the problem isn't merely that gay characters are killed off: the problem is the tendency that gay characters are killed off in a story full of mostly straight characters, or when the characters are killed off because they are gay."
Friend: from tvtropes, the bible of trope
Sunset: i dont wanna be part of the problem
Friend: i don't think you're being part of the problem
Sunset: is it weirder if the character is an allegory for myself
Sunset: (i mean im a little fine now im just asking)
Friend: no, in fact its even more acceptable then imo
Friend: exploring thoughts n shit
Friend: im not sure if i can even explain it that well tbh.

Year 3,003,998

Talloran opens their eyes. The perfect sight has revealed itself to them.
It didn't even have time to speak before Talloran rose and brought a cord around the both of their necks. Intense pain shot up through Talloran; enough for twelve people. And it was worth every bit.
"Y-You, do you know what you are trying to —" The cord got pulled tighter, and they both gagged.
"S… F-Fuck you. I… shit. I'm, gah, I'm gonna end m-my life and erase you with me, you — ugh, you Fucker. T-The first time I tried, I only thought to end myself. But now I have you."
"Talloran, do you understand what you are doing?" It screamed in agony, attempting to wrest itself free from the grip.
"Yes, I absolutely do." Talloran pulled harder, and It stepped through the cord, its form sliced almost wholly and cleanly open. "You're just some… shitty part of me. I'm fueling your shit. Might as well kill two shits with one cord."
The scene shifted drastically, and The Being shambled over to them, pus and brain matter draining by the gallons. They were in Draven's Site-17 apartment, rotting and growing unidentifiable organisms. All the photographs on the wall were replaced with pictures of Talloran's parents, seagulls, and guns.
"I have had no intent to let myself die along with you… let alone you kill me. Your attempt didn't work. Do you understand yet, the position —"
"Do you understand this, that, fuck." Talloran leaned back against the moss and worked their way to the refrigerator, arriving after a minute of adrenaline keeping them up. When their legs gave way, they collapsed inside of the fridge which had long since stopped working. Food and drinks spilled everywhere, and their blood got on everything.
"I don't understand shit, my guy. If I did, I wouldn't have been in this position. Fuck. Dumbass." They rummaged through the fridge, or what was remaining of it, before finding years-old milk. "I'm not an action hero. I'm not that impressive. What am I, however many kilograms overweight? Who remembers anymore. I can barely think or see right now. The only thing I understand right now is how bad of a spot we both are in right now."
Talloran chugged the carton, trying not to give into its taste. Rancid. Vile. Another thing they hoped not to have to worry about in the real world. The milk crawled its way down their throat, as a variety of sensations overtook every sense they had. It was wretched; it was a state they truly had never felt before in any point in time. Gradually, they could feel their body shutting down to protect itself. It was a new era.
“I — gggh,” they couldn't even finish the sentence before turning over, clutching their body and crying. Oh, how they wish they could puke right now. They had nothing left to puke up. All they could do now was speak at a snail's pace. “I — I, I can't hear you. You self-absorbed Fucker. N-N-Nothing you have done or could do matches the… the shit I put myself through. Don't you.. don't you understand?” Talloran could only laugh and dry-heave as they reached for a disintegrated apple, taking the least tangible bite of it that one possibly still could by that point. They swallowed. Filthy.
"I can't, can't physically see it, but I know. I know what look you have on your face now. Yeah. That's right. The rules of this place shifted. I… I don't have to kill you. I just have to make my will stronger than yours." Talloran cackled, hacking up phlegm and blood. The body was continuing to shut down, and they never felt more powerful or more in control.
"W-What was the plan? To poison my mind of my boyfriend? O-Of my family? My dad was abusive b-but not as much as other parents my friends had. Of seagulls?" They coughed up a laugh. "Death was never something I was scared of. Not as long as it was by my own hands." The grin on their face expressed far beyond what a normal person's grin would, as they took the cord in their hands.
"See you in Hell." And they pulled and pulled and pulled. There was mild resistance, but it didn't take long before the world shattered around them.

December 9, 2017

One of every 100 or more nights have dreams that aren't nightmares. Tonight was one of those nights.
Sunset awoke in a place of nothingness. Only stairs leading up or down. She headed down. Down is traditionally more scary, but up was always a more frightening prospect to her. You leave the Earth's safety, and unlike down, there's not even a theoretical limit to up. You have to trust that whatever is up won't hurt you. So she walked. She descended flight after flight, with no end in sight; only down to go.
Eventually, down started to become up, and she froze on a platform in the cardinal middle of it all when a dream guardian called to her.
"Jump."
You don't defy the dream guardians. So she jumped straight up, and fell down.
She landed on an escalator moving right and the same guardian spoke behind her again.
"I won't show you my face. You have problems looking at the guardians. Why do you feel lost?"
She didn't know how to respond.
"Is it your writing? Here, let's look." In a flash, she reached out and touched a screen parallel to where the escalator moved. She saw her characters, lined up on a conveyor belt to be tossed into their own special incinerator. "Is this what you expect to be? Don't worry. Things will work out if you simply let them. When you daydream again and forget about time around you, help will arrive if you're in need of it. I can assure you when you wake up, this nightmare of yours will cease to be one."
The guardian spoke more about… something. She didn't remember what it was. About her writing, it had to be. Guardians existed in and out of the dreamspace's internal logic; they simply kept it in order.
"Are you actually a guardian?"
"Do you doubt me?"
She looked back. Her eyes went blurry and she threw up.
Now she woke up. No puke on the bed (as usual).
It was the best sleep she had gotten in a long time.

March 5, 2017

9:43 P.M.

Talloran arrived at Cell-902 in the Keter wing. Four armed guards stood outside of it. Talloran swallowed. There weren't normally this many guards surrounding a cell, especially for Site-118, one of the more relaxed sites for containing Euclid and Keter objects.
"U-Uh, anything I can do for you? I was told that Researcher Walker would be informing me of —"
"Change of plans. We're here to provide you with backup." What a loaded statement. At least this guard was willing to speak. The others remained stone-faced.
"Me?"
"These are the questions you'll be asking SCP-3999. You are only to introduce yourself on-record with your last name. Any deviations from these questions must be both minor and related to the other questions on said list. If at any point the anomaly acts, you will most likely not know. We will be on hand to provide extraction and question you about its abilities." The same guard handed Talloran the list of questions. "Mr. Walker and his crew will be watching from a close distance, but the anomaly will not answer questions unless directly interviewed." One of the other guards pressed a button, and the cell door unlocked. "You may step inside and begin the interview."
"W-Wait, what does it even look like?" No one responded. "I. Okay, fine. I'll do it. At least tell me how prompt you'll be able to respond if shit goes south."
"19 seconds in the most optimal circumstances, 47 in the worst."
That didn't help soothe their mind.

Interviewed: SCP-3999
Interviewer: Researcher James Ari Talloran
<Begin Log, 21.46.32>
Researcher Talloran: This is Researcher Talloran. I am here to do an introductory interview with SCP-3999. Hello, 3999.Talloran: When you were captured by Mobile Task Force Omega-8, you had just finished depositing the bodies of [SYSTEM ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]Talloran: Right. Is it also correct to state that you took the form of his mother as well?Talloran: …where did you come from again?SCP-3999: [SYSTEM ERROR: DATA CORRUPTED. PLEASE SEE A NETWORK ADMINISTRATOR FOR MORE DETAILS]
Talloran: But when you were found, what you had stated to the task force was that you originated off the shore of California. Yet the location you give indicates Queens, New York. What accounts for this discrepancy?Talloran: Excuse me?Talloran: I know that it used to have concerts, yes, but —Talloran: Security, you're needed right —

Talloran: What?Talloran: Oh, I see. I saw then and now at once. Your uh, your mindgames.Talloran: No, but I can guess enough of it. Why bring that up now anyway?Talloran: Right… right. This is, I guess… it. I will kill us both, and this terror ends. There's no more of any of it. No more me, no more you, and the Foundation and the world moves on. I just don't know why you wanted this to happen to me. All of this. You… you goddamned asshole. Why?Talloran: The most what?Talloran: Please. Stop with this cryptic riddle shit. I'm so tired of this. We both know what will happen. That's why I brought us back to this cell. So just tell me. What do I have the most of?Talloran: …oh. So it's just like that voice said.Talloran: Were you XK then? ZK?Talloran: Yeah. I guess so.Foreword: Researcher Talloran gets up from their chair and pushes the table aside, proceeding to wrap their hands around SCP-3999 and "choke" it. Talloran indicates signs of asphyxiation as well, indicating that they are able to feel the effects of the choking as well. After 50 seconds of struggling, well past the point where passing out would occur, Talloran closes their eyes and walks into the cell's wall, where Talloran and SCP-3999 exit and fall into the world's abyss. After another two minutes of this occurring, with neither party moving or changing, everything breaks.

James,
First you take up the heart of my boy, and now you move sites? Just like that!? Hah! Give me a break kid. Not even my friend, the Devil himself, could do such a cruel thing to his flings.
But no, you're too good. Too fucking good. Draven… he's been happier than I can remember ever since you showed up in his life. This Foundation shit was worth it if I got to see my boy love you. But if you're getting this, then you're clearly moving, and I don't know why but if it's your fault and you broke his heart, I'll possess 682 and get you in its stomach.
I'm too drunk to write much, and yet I'm writing this so carefully. Just know how much of a shit I give about you for me to do that. It's a little bit. When I'm dead, you should have been taking care of him, but now that you're moving, it's your responsibility more than ever. Don't let him fucking take care of you. Don't be a pussy, James. Sorry, and happy whatever day it is.
BK

December 15, 2017

10:19 P.M.

Alarms rang at 10:20 P.M. when a hole as wide as a containment cell and twice as deep as the height of one appeared out of nowhere at Site-118, with a barely-breathing body found at the bottom of it, clutching several pages of SCP Foundation documentation. It took medical staff seven minutes to get to them and hook them up to medical equipment; any longer and the body would have most likely been dead moments later.
One of the doctors on the scene was Hikari Yamada, the first responder. Pulling the body out of the hole with the help of staff members on the scene, it wasn't immediately evident who it was. Dirt and debris covered the face and body, and the amount of blood and wounds made them look like garbage. It wasn't until she put them on a stretcher, ran them to the Medical Wing, wiping the assorted mess off of their face, and further cleaned the body in preparation for emergency treatment that she came to the nauseating realization that it was Researcher James Ari Talloran, who had gone missing 285 days ago out of thin air.

10:47 P.M.

Draven Kondraki took an emergency flight to Site-118.

11:58 P.M.

> To: Wei Zhong (pcs.811s|gnohzw#pcs.811s|gnohzw)
> From: Maria Jones (pcs.asiar|60senojm#pcs.asiar|60senojm)
> Subject: RE: 3999

Greetings Director Zhong,
There has been no SCP assigned to the 3999 slot since RAISA formed, and it is 99.998% likely for this to also be true in the history of the Foundation. With a margin of error of "too insignificant to matter". Send copies of those documents over to RAISA as soon as you can. Thank you.
Maria Jones
Director, Recordkeeping And Information Security Administration

December 17, 2017

8:37 P.M.

Draven Kondraki and the rest of Talloran's friends received confirmation that they were stable.

December 22, 2017

4:13 P.M.

"It's fine hun, I promise." Talloran visibly ached and winced even slightly moving in the hospital bed, but they were alive. They were alive and that was all that mattered.
"Do you remember anything that happened? You were gone for so long, for G-d's sake, we were going to declare you legally dead in a couple months, and, and —"
"No, I don't uh. Remember. I was gone and then I was just. Here again." Talloran had to lie. What was happening now… it wasn't trustworthy anyway. No, it'd be a very long time for it to be trustworthy to any degree. Maybe it'd take a whole eleven months before their spine snapped in half and the façade was broken. Maybe Draven's empathy was fake. Draven could be fake.
Talloran looked to the right, and saw Yamada talking to other doctors outside the room. Maybe they were all fake. What else could explain this? Millions of years being gutted, and then peace? There's no such thing as peace. There possibly couldn't have —
"That's a relief. I'm so glad you're back bun, fuck. I don't even care about what happened for now. Maybe not ever. I don't know. You're mine again, and if you leave, I'm going to neutralize the son of a bitch stealing you."
Their heart fluttered as Draven gently draped his arms around their body. It hurt, but it was a relief. To feel this specific kind of hurt at the gentle touch of another… if it was all made up, if this was just another delusion, why not enjoy it? At least Talloran can claim to have won the battle of the minds at one point.
"I just have to make sure. You're… y-you're still Draven, right? Draven Kondraki, son of Benjamin Kondraki? Jewish, bisexual, snores horridly?" Draven looked at them curiously, as if the very notion of questioning was absurd.
"The snoring's improved. You're right otherwise. Are you o—"
"Yeah… I guess so. Just shaken up is all. Please hug me and keep telling me about what I missed in the last number of months. Tell me the world's gotten better."
James Ari Talloran continued to cling onto life. For now, they won. And that was all that mattered.

December 15, 2017

Sunset got to talk with her therapist about almost nothing in particular for an entire hour. But the "almost nothing" was pretty productive at least.
It was about writing. Lots of it. How writing helped; how it soothed the soul; how it got her through tough times. She even thought to mention the SCP Foundation, and got her therapist to read the Wikipedia article on it.
Why did writing help so much? After all, simply getting out your emotions isn't enough to fully help, or address the core problems. So why was it so important?
It's… it's a way to put succinctly emotions and experiences that can't be described in a straight manner. How can she describe the way in which a waterfall makes her feel, except to say that 'As Jaine fell from the waterfall towards Earth, she became the ruler of the world'? Or, when trying to describe the way trauma impacted her, wouldn't it be easier to say 'Every time Derek tip-toed out into the world, he was living the lives of three different, incomplete people at once'?
It's not so much the process of writing itself as how it can be conveyed and interpreted. That's part of the fun after all. You write for yourself and see how you yourself takes it, and if you so dare, share it with the world and see how they take it. It's the ultimate form of self-expression, in her opinion, arguably more than even music-making itself.
When Talloran first came into her life after all, it was just a character in a very long and confusing narrative about the mental toll an author was facing. And soon, that shifted, and Talloran now became the ever-present star of her immediate life, a way to accurately nail the troubles she herself had burdened. For her, it was unanimously easier than simply talking about it. Fiction is more true than reality in many ways.
"I'll find the time to read some pages on this site before we have our next appointment together."
Maybe she was accomplishing something, if only one step at a time. Though it all should have came together the day before… ah well. No one would mind a late delivery if the product was high-quality. At least, I guess so, she thought.

December 17, 2017

She hit save.

« I'll Try Living Like This | I'll see you all down the road. Until next time. »
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When the knock on the door came, Kit had just put the finishing touches on his Christmas tree. It wasn't a typical Christmas tree – instead, it had been carefully painted on the wall of his living room, with the cream paint already purchased to banish the festive item come New Year's. The star on top, the final piece, gently trailed glitter, and Kit rubbed a weary, paint-smeared hand across his face, which promptly became a splattered mask of greens, reds, and gold.
He stretched out, grunting in satisfaction as his back cracked. He wasn't expecting anyone and Kit wasn't exactly swimming in visitors these days, so he decided it was probably a mistake, especially this late in the afternoon. So, he took a leisurely walk to the front door, opening it to find -
Nobody.
Huh.
He was about to turn back and close the door when his eyes fixed on the floor. A cardboard box, and inside – a baby.
He quickly looked up and around himself to see if this was some sort of prank. The baby in the box gurgled and stared at him. It wasn't teeny-tiny like the kind he had seen held in slings by parents who cooed and rocked them, but it wasn't so big that it had teeth yet – not that Kit could see, and he wasn't about to stick a finger in there to check. Its face was still chubby and much more baby than toddler, with a head of short, dark hair that seem mismatched against its ocean-coloured eyes.
Finding no-one in sight, the hallway quiet, he bent down to find a scrap of paper safety-pinned onto the baby's purple sleep suit. He freed the note, careful not to hurt the baby, who was contentedly watching this new human with a look of distant amusement. Kit smoothed out the paper, then studied it carefully.
The note, in neat, festive red and green script, read -
'You don't know me, but I know you. Don't ask You see things other people don't see, but you're still here. They haven't caught you yet. They may be I think you can deal with this situation better than I can right now. I trust in you to look after her, over everyone and everything else I know. Her name is Matilda. She likes being sung to and cuddly toy rabbits.
Merry Christmas.'
Carefully, Kit juggled the box into his hands and shut the door behind them. Someone had meant this baby to come to him, for some reason he couldn't imagine beyond what the piece of paper told him. He couldn't just leave it – her, he corrected – out in the hallway, no matter what else happened. He took the box, holding its precious cargo close to his chest, and carried her into the kitchen, aware of the paint fumes in the living room, because he had been breathing them in all day. Still, he didn't think this was an inhalation-based hallucination. Probably.
He set the box, with the baby, on the counter, and looked at it blankly. The baby stared back with big eyes, somewhere between blue and green in their colouring. "Um…I'm Kit." He was one step away from sticking out his hand to shake, like he had learnt to do at the parties Gabriel used to force him to go to. The baby kept staring, and then squealed, moving her arms just for the sheer delight of, well, moving her arms.
"…And you're Matilda." He concluded, awkwardly. His experience with babies was minimal, at best. He thought he remembered maybe holding someone's baby a few years ago, but he couldn't remember whose baby it was or why he was considered safe enough to hold it. Then again, years ago, he had been a Normal Person.
Some lucid part of his mind instantly thought the sentence he was always terrified of - 'Phone the police.' But the police, Kit had always found, were more a hindrance than a help, and it scared him what they may do with her. Someone had entrusted this baby to him because he was no longer a Normal Person, and there had to be a reason behind that. Did Matilda see things too? How could you even tell with such a small human that seemed to have no significant vocal capacities as of yet? What about the anonymous note-writer? Did they see things too, and were those things putting Matilda in danger? He had certainly seen a stall at the Meat Market called 'Pied Piper's Preemie Pies' that more than hinted that at least one person would want a baby for more nefarious purposes.
It was then that Kit decided he would take care of this child - a split second, impulsive decision, but the best ones always happened that way, in his experience. He would bring her up right. He would be there for her. He would make sure she wanted for nothing. He would -
His thoughts were interrupted by the loudest screaming that he had ever heard. And probably the loudest his neighbours had ever heard, too.
"Shit! Shit, why are you making that noise?!" His first reaction was to put his hands over his ears in a pathetic attempt to protect them against a noise that most humans recognised as a sound of intense need from a creature that had no other way of communicating. He stared down at the baby, then realised the cardboard box she lay in was very gently rocking back and forth. After a short time, the crying turned to hiccupping sobs and Kit was able to hear himself think to puzzle out what the thing wanted. The rocking? He would deal with that later – if it needed to be dealt with.
Kit came close and very cautiously picked up the baby. He was pleasantly surprised to realise the handling came back to him, and that this baby was much more firm than the child he held so long ago. She could support some of her own weight, it seemed, including her head, which she turned to nuzzle at Kit's chest, seeking something, seeking - as Kit figured it out, he found himself, unusually but furiously, blushing.
"I don't have… I mean, I can't…"
Well, that was one puzzle figured out. Matilda was hungry. But Kit wasn't exactly built to provide food on the go, and he doubted that she would want – or should have, really – the stock of Halloween sweets and Christmas chocolate in his cabinets. Feeling hopeless because he already knew what was in his cupboards, but feeling just as anxious and desperate, Kit carried the child over to the cabinet and freed one hand to open it.
To his surprise, next to a tub of candy floss, there was a well-known brand of banana porridge for babies around the age he had guessed Matilda to be. Balanced on top was a small plastic bowl (green) and a tiny plastic spoon (blue) with a plastic, teated bottle (purple) next to that. Digging around, behind his spare advent calendar, Kit found a tin of branded formulae.
"Now, I know I didn't go that crazy that I got baby food and I don't remember," Kit mumbled to himself. Or, more accurately, he mumbled at Matilda, which went a long way towards him already feeling less crazy, just like when he spoke to Peaches in that absent-minded way that really only hid he would otherwise be talking to himself.
"Did you…?" He looked down at the baby, who looked up at him quietly, chewing on her fingers with a chin covered in drool. She was the face of innocence, and she offered no answers. Regardless, all that mattered was there was food he could give the baby.
He settled her back in the box, grabbing a cushion to sit her up more, so he could keep an eye on her whilst following the hard-to-read instructions on the back of each tin. The milk proved the most complicated to make, with a series of steps, including how to avoid the baby getting burnt by the resulting mixture of boiling water and powder. Well, no-one said this was going to be easy, right?
Distracted momentarily from the baby, he was surprised when he turned back that she was holding what he remembered to be some odd contraption called a teething ring. He was sure nothing else had been in the box – a note, and a baby, in her purple jumpsuit. Nothing more than that. "…Okay." He just mumbled to himself. At least she was quiet and seemed content. He did what the instructions said and tried the temperature of the milk on his wrist, finding it didn't burn him, so it probably wouldn't burn her. Hopefully.
He presented the baby with a bottle and she blinked at him. "Here. Take it." Kit instructed. The baby scrunched up her face, tears suddenly threatening. "Shit, don't make that godawful noise again. Okay, so you can't… uh, hold this. Okay. I guess I…" It was a struggle, but he managed to hold both the baby – Matilda, he was going to have to get used to that name business – and the bottle, which she latched on to happily as Kit's mind raced.
It was cold in here. Kit had grown used to that, not being able to afford the heating in any past winters, and this was no different. But he was pretty sure babies shouldn't get cold. And what about nappies? He didn't have any of them just around, that would be super weird. What went in had to come out somehow, and somewhere. Shit. …Literally.
Once the baby had finished, Kit gently put her in the box before hefting it up again and headed towards his bedroom, brushing past the radiator, which was… on? Wait.
Still carrying the box, he went over to the thermostat, finding that it was off. Something was making sure this baby was okay with him. Something he couldn't possibly understand. Something hinted to in the note. But not understanding was okay. Matilda wouldn't get cold, and that was all that mattered.
Laying in the box, the baby's face went red, and she grunted, and a godawful smell flooded the air. Kit reflexively put his free hand over his nose, other arm cradling the box. "…Shit." He muttered. "…Literally."
He took the baby through into the bedroom, placing her on the bed, before heading over to the locker he used to store his clothes. He must have some sort of old t-shirt that he could use as a makeshift nappy until he could get out and buy some. To his surprise, however, there was a packet of nappies towards the back of the locker. "Thanks," he found himself speaking to whatever entity was providing all this. "Mind changing her, too?" He thought maybe he heard a distant laugh.
He found an old t-shirt to lay out under the baby, and a roll of bin liners to dispose of the terrible smelling used nappy. He lifted the baby out of the box, less surprised this time to find her holding a bright pink rabbit against her chest, and lay her down on the t-shirt. "Now, how do we…"
Stripping the baby was hard – she wiggled. Removing the old nappy with as little mess as possible was hard – she wiggled more. Putting the new nappy on, even following the instructions on the back of the packaging was hard – she really seemed to be presenting him a challenging in the wiggling stakes. The little sticky tabs got stuck to his fingers, her skin (which he gently peeled free) and, finally, each other. The nappy eventually got put on, if a little loosely, and Kit sighed. This shit, in every sense of the word, was damn hard.
He redressed the baby, reminding himself to be extra gentle with her limbs, even if she fought him every step of the way and whimpered when he had to temporarily remove the bunny toy. When that was done, he had lost nearly half an hour of his life and was, frankly, exhausted. Evening was coming now, with the sky outside dark, and he was relatively aware that babies were meant to be put to sleep early on in the night.
He already had an idea where to put Matilda in lieu of a crib – she couldn't stay in the box forever, after all. But he remembered his own childhood, his parents in desperate poverty, and, if it was good enough for him, it was good enough for her. He opened a drawer and took out an armful of socks and pants, but left some as a sort of mattress. Grabbing a spare fleece blanket from the bed, he very gently wrapped the baby like she was a burrito, so she wouldn't injure herself somehow and so she couldn't get cold. He carefully placed her in the drawer, fluffing up one end of the 'mattress' to make a cushion for her head.
"Now, get some sleep." He said, very softly, gently kissing her forehead and pausing as there was this amazing, overwhelming scent that could only be described as 'baby'. Something soft, like talcum powder, and something new, like fresh leaves. It was amazing. He stood, and turned on a soft lamp, preparing to leave the room when there was a sad whimper from the makeshift crib. He turned back to the baby, finding her holding a cream rabbit toy almost as big as her, but her eyes were upset for reasons that he, as an adult, couldn't understand.
"What's wrong? Don't worry, I'm not going far. Oh, I know what will make you feel better! You like being sung to, right?"
Kit did pause, waiting for an answer, which he no longer considered impossible with all that had happened in that day.
"I remember one song my mum used to sing to me and my brother…"
He felt oddly self-conscious, with the baby staring at him, tears already pooling at the corner of her eyes and threatening to become a very loud thing if he didn't provide entertainment quickly.
"…A, you're adorable, B, you're so beautiful, C, you're a cutie full of charms…"
The baby instantly perked up at the song and her covered feet wiggled happily. As the song continued on, she yawned, and her eyes fluttered closed.
"…U, made my life completed, V, means you're very sweet, W, X, Y, Z – It's fun to wander through the alphabet with you, to tell you what you mean to me…"
Kit sung through the song twice before Matilda drifted off into sleep. He had never normally remembered what came after 'C', but something that evening pushed all the lyrics to the forefront of his mind. Gently, he tucked the folded blanket tighter around the baby, making sure she couldn't roll around too much in her sleep.
And that was how they ended their first day. Kit, exhausted, fell onto his bed, stared at the ceiling for a nanosecond, then was out like a light. But it turned out he had a lot more to learn about babies (anomalous or not) than just their daytime needs…

Onwards, to Part 2 »

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