Theresa awoke, blind, in a bed that wasn't hers.
A quick feel told her what she needed to know. She wasn't bound to anything; no one was sleeping in the bed with her. While something was encrusted over her eyelids, nothing was directly blocking her line of sight. The bed itself was of high quality, at odds with the distressingly familiar scent of rotten meat and—
Ah.
Theresa groaned, rolling out of the bed and onto what was almost certainly exposed floorboards. Between then and now, JGT must have taken her boots; this wouldn't be a pleasant walk.
The door, when Theresa finally found it, was unlocked.
By the dimness and angle of the light that crept into the second floor hallway, it must have been roundabouts dawn. Had she been that worn out? Maybe this was another one of Just Girly Things's tricks. Maybe she'd step downstairs and have a dieting magazine blown through her head by a mortar. It'd be less embarrassing than the shame-shaped blur of yesterday's memories.
There was no dieting mortar downstairs; there was, however, a suspicious sound of cooking coming from the kitchen, and a dreadfully familiar humming to go along with it.
No one was inside the (now clean) kitchen as Theresa stepped inside. Some of the empty picture frames, however, were lit up with the image of Mrs. Schaeffer, wearing a beautiful sundress and attending to the kind of kitchen you'd expect servants in. True to form, she was looking straight into the camera. "Good morning, dear. Would that you were here, I've been told I make a lovely eierkuchen."
Theresa blinked. "That's one way to greet me."
"Would you rather it'd have been the mannequins?" Mrs. Schaeffer hummed. "I would send you some food, but KeeLee's not quite a fan of German cuisine."
"Where are my boots?"
"Hm?" Mrs. Schaeffer tilted her head.
"Where did you put my boots? I—" Theresa unconsciously palmed her coat pocket, only to find that she wasn't wearing her coat.
"Ah." Mrs. Schaeffer giggled. She never looked right, giggling like that. "KeeLee can be very stubborn, you must understand. I wanted you to rest. She wanted something best never to be spoken of." Nor did it look right when she tilted her head. "You did get rather aggressive with her."
Theresa looked down at herself. It was too dark to make out much, but she wasn't wearing her old outfit. What little she saw, it looked like she was wearing some kind of dress. It wasn't a bad dress, no; indeed, it felt rather comfortable, as comfortable as you could be in a dress that didn't belong to you. No pockets.
"Not to worry, Theresa. Your electronics are sitting by the front door, untouched, alongside your flats."
"That's low, even for JGT." Theresa's fingers were shaking; hopefully, nothing else noticed. "Just… damn."
When Mrs. Schaeffer finally broke eye contact, it was to pay more attention to her cooking. Even here, her grace was unnatural, like a high-end painting sustained for the entirety of her breakfast. Theresa almost didn't notice that she wore no mittens, that she kept her jewelry on, that she chopped her vegetables with nail-biting speed.
Theresa hadn't notice that she'd been ignored until Mrs. Schaeffer next spoke. "I must say, dear, you look quite good. KeeLee really brought out your natural beauty."
"Mm." Theresa crossed her arms. "This isn't me."
"Is it not?" Mrs. Schaeffer turned back to Theresa, or perhaps just something behind her. "How so?"
"It's just… this isn't me." Theresa swallowed. "This isn't a dress I'd wear. And I don't wear flats, or a purse, which I assume you put my electronics in."
"That was KeeLee, dear. We're several thousand kilometers apart." Mrs. Schaeffer hummed. "But what is Theresa Arianna Petrucci, then? Certainly, she's wearing a dress, and wearing it well. Would it have been more natural had she woken up in a tomato-caked suit jacket?"
Theresa winced. "You know what I mean. I'm… I'm GNC. I'm a Big Sister for the Line. A professional."
Mrs. Schaeffer made a… it was that 'cracking' sound again. "Come now, Theresa. Your organization makes such a point of how the clothes one wears don't automatically make one something they're not. And yet, when it comes to your dress," She giggled again, and it was somehow worse than the 'cracking'. "Safari pants and a jean jacket hardly earned you that coveted dream job, no? And if I'm not mistaken, one could say that you didn't quite live up to the Line's expectations."
Theresa grimaced. "What do you care? That's how I dress. My closet is my business, not KeeLee's, not yours, not anyone but me. That's not going to change."
Mrs. Schaeffer smiled, turning away once more to put the finishing touches on some kind of crepe. Then, she spoke. "When we first met, you called me 'Mrs. Schaeffer'. Indeed, I was married. Thrice, actually. All for the family business, of course. Yet when it came to my third husband, Lorian, it was like a peasant's love story."
Next, Mrs. Schaeffer got to plating some kind of meat dish. "We were the picture of a happy couple, you must understand. Me, the twice-widowed socialite, him, that dashing steel baron with a hint of darkness. We loved each other like a girl loves ponies, and all that time he'd never once suspected I was a recovering lesbian."
Theresa blinked. "… what?"
"Sure, like all couples we had our—"
"No, pump the breaks." Theresa furrowed her brow. "Recovering what?"
Surely Theresa didn't deserve the perplexed condescension Schaeffer looked upon her with. Right? Like, that wasn't how… how any of it worked, right? This wasn't Theresa being paranoid?
"Recovering lesbian, yes." Schaeffer didn't grin, or laugh, or stutter, or do anything she should have done after saying… that. Just continued like nothing. "It had been quite the obstacle in my first two marriages, you must understand."
"What are you saying? You can't…" Theresa shook her head. "You can't 'recover' from being a homosexual. That's not how it works."
"Is it really so different from the reparative therapy advocated by the Line of Sisters?" Schaeffer tilted her head, like it was Theresa who'd been unrealistic.
"Yes! Yes it is!"
"How?"
"Because… gah!" Theresa slammed her fist on the countertop. "It doesn't, it doesn't work like that! How would it even—"
A sharp reverb from the speakers cut Theresa off.
"Mind the furniture, dear."
"Quit the deflection, please." Not that Theresa expected anything less. Overt hostility followed by condescension seemed to be a pattern, here. "Look: if you're homosexual, you're homosexual. If you marry a man and it works out, you're not a homosexual. Unless you're telling me you have a memetic hazard for that?"
"Not quite, no." Finished with the meat dish, Schaeffer made her way to a cutting board. "There come benefits, with the Schaeffer family secrets. Beyond the money, of course, but there's a particular 'control' one allots over their own body. Tell me, Theresa: have you heard of the BLACK FLY?"
The last two words… stung, somehow.
Theresa furrowed her brow. "I'm from North Ontario. We have a song about blackflies."
"Not the kriebelmücke, no. BLACK FLY. It's a rather potent chemical, with a variety of uses, one might say." Reaching into a nearby bowl, Schaeffer pulled several leeks onto the board. "My hesitation was not an act of deflection, I should note. I fully intend to answer every question you have on the BLACK FLY. But my, what questions to be asked."
Schaeffer's movements as she pulled a knife from a nearby block felt almost deliberate. "The simple would tell you that the BLACK FLY is a cleaning chemical, a neurotoxin. In the hands of a brilliant chemist such as yourself, however, its potential is limitless. For when handled properly, Theresa? The BLACK FLY holds the secrets to the self.
"In proper doses, the BLACK FLY induces an interesting state of suggestion." Schaeffer took her time lining up the leeks. Like she wanted to make a point. "In tiny doses, you gain surprising control over yourself, if only for a while. I could do more than convince myself I wasn't a lesbian: I could make it so."
"That's… so it's only temporary. You're still a homosexual. Self-abuse isn't 'recovery'."
"By that logic, is not the reparative therapy championed by the Line, of a quantifiably lesser efficacy mind you, also self-abuse?" Schaeffer hummed, holding her knife about the leeks. "And do note: this is but a fraction of the BLACK FLY's true potential. In proper doses,"
Schaeffer lowered her knife, and a sound like a hatchet into wood cut through the air.
"The results are markedly less temporary."
Theresa opened her mouth to respond, and shut it when the words didn't come out.
Not that Schaeffer paid it any mind, chopping the leeks with (a now silent) diligence. "I digress, Theresa. When you talk of your wardrobe, you speak of it as an immutability. Perhaps you think it fortuitous, or perhaps an inevitable abhorrence; perhaps it's merely tolerable. But your wardrobe is merely what you've chosen to wear. It is not so immutable as your body, your heart, or your soul, and indeed, all that I've listed is not so immutable as you might think."
Finally, Schaeffer got to garnishing her assorted dishes. "Thank you for indulging me, dear, but I've important guests to entertain. Feel free to pay us a visit in the near future. I rather enjoy your company."
"Right." What a waste of time. Theresa rolled her eyes, and made her way for the exit.
… except that right at the precipice of the kitchen, Theresa found herself stopped by a nagging thought in the back of her head.
"Mrs. Schaeffer?"
"Yes, dear?"
Theresa licked her lips. "Have I been dosed with… with BLACK FLY?"
The pause that followed wrapped itself around Theresa like a fungus, seeped deeper into her skin than the tomato paste ever could. It couldn't have been anything less than deliberate.
"And what reason would we have to subject you to the BLACK FLY? You're much too fun to talk to, dear, and what good is aerosol against an aeromancer?
"And besides," Theresa could practically hear her grin. "You absolutely would have felt such a thing."
And the kitchen went dark once more.

According to the clock in her car, it was some time around 11 by the time Theresa pulled into her complex. The Wombyn's March was an hour underway. Who cared? Not Theresa, not dressed like this, not ever. Good riddance.
Theresa scanned the complex grounds for anyone else. Nobody could see her like this; she could hardly stand to looking at herself through the rear-view mirror. She might as well have been naked without her boots, without her jacket, stuck in some stupid dress and carrying some frilly purse full of everything a pocket could manage. Like a hermit crab without its shell.
She nearly stumbled stepping out of the car, and the walk to her apartment was no better. The difference between the flats and the boots couldn't have been more than a centimeter or two; she might as well have been walking on stilts before, the way it felt now.
But it'd all be over, soon. Just that much longer to her apartment, that much longer to her couch, that much longer to sleeping the nightmare off, and—

There, there upon the stairs that went up to Theresa's apartment, there was Hellen.

Theresa should have been angry, honestly. There Hellen was, dressed in her marching best, carrying a big basket of gifts, locs done up like she had a date, throwing Theresa the most pitiable damn expression she'd ever seen. But what did that matter? There was enough room to squeeze past her, forget she'd ever seen her like this, steam it all out with a vial of—
"Feather?!" Theresa was scrounging through the purse for her keychain when Hellen rushed up to the landing. "I'm so sorry, I lost you in the crowd and I didn't know where you'd gone and I'd thought the worst and… and I got worried, Feather." Setting her basket down, Hellen retrieved something from her fanny pack. "What happened?"
Just Theresa's luck, she'd be accosted by the most annoying of the Big Sisters. "Nothing, Hellen. I'm fine."
Hellen shook her head, and unfolded what Theresa now recognized as a pocket mirror, before holding it up for Theresa.
Two things:

As much a violation of her privacy as it was, Theresa had to admit that the velvety purple dress she'd been gifted was rather nice.
The tomato paste from yesterday was still there, crusted over her skin like poorly congealed greasepaint.

Putting away her pocket mirror, Hellen fidgeted through her fanny pack until she procured a packet of wet wipes. For her part, Theresa wasn't sure why she hadn't yet told Hellen to screw off. Maybe it was pity.
Theresa crossed her arms. "Why aren't you at the March?"
"Can't." Lord, was it that hard to open a packet of wet wipes? How'd Hellen become a Big Sister? "We can't go forward. Weilstedt and the Tongs… when they actually work together, you can't fight it. King of Hearts, too." Finally she'd opened them. "I'm sorry, Feather."
"It's fine, Hellen. Wasn't up for it, anyway."
Hellen nodded, gently taking Theresa's chin in her free hand and… pausing. Some inscrutable expression settled into her face. "… may I, Feather?"
Theresa sighed. "Sure."
Once again, Hellen nodded, stood up on her toes, and
kissed Theresa.
Theresa couldn't remember the last time she'd been kissed; grad, maybe. Had it always felt like the palm of a hand pressed into her lips? Did all kisses taste of warm chalk? Was it supposed to feel so uncomfortably close? Kisses were supposed to feel good; this felt like nothing.
Hellen pulled away, adjusting her glasses. "Everything alright, Feather?"
"Thought you meant you wanted to clean my face."
At that Hellen startled, suddenly unable to keep eye contact. "Oh, um… right." She nodded. "Sorry, I… I'm sorry, Feather. You…" Biting her lip, Hellen made what was almost eye contact before wiping at the tomato paste, her unfocused swipes almost as awkward as the kissing.
This was stupid, actually.
Theresa's hand went for her purse, rifling through until she'd found her keys. Then, turning away from Hellen ("You should hold still, wait—"), Theresa walked over to her door, opened it, and stepped inside.
"Wait, Feather." Unfortunately for Theresa, she hadn't closed the door fast enough to keep Hellen from following behind. "I have some gifts, you know, consolation for—"
Hellen cut herself off with a scream. It took a few seconds for Theresa to figure out why.
… honestly, she probably should have been furious at the mess, or overcome with grief at the sight of it all. But… looking at Sharon's rigid and dirtied corpse, all Theresa could think was that she'd never have to spend another cent on vet visits.

The JGT house was just as haunted-looking as it had always been, but there was something different about it this time. Maybe the ominous air had worn thin after the second visit. Maybe the sun wasn't casting the shadows as harshly as it once had. Maybe it was because Theresa wasn't here to break anything.
Or maybe it was the scent of rot that pervaded the trip to the house.
Theresa couldn't help it. There were surprisingly few online resources on how to keep a dead cat from stinking without formaldehyde. Triple-bagging it hadn't seemed to work, not when it came to burlap. Maybe her nose was just too sensitive.
Well. It'd be over soon.
Someone had outlined a spot on the curb for her car in pink chalk. Theresa half considered asshole parking on its edge, though what she planned to do was tempting fate enough. Theresa knew too much for JGT to press charges; that didn't stop them from extralegal retaliation.
Whatever.
Theresa got out of the car, burlap in hand (and as far from Theresa's nose as possible). Taking the shovel from the back, Theresa gave one last look around her for anyone who might be watching.
All clear.
Theresa tossed the sack into the tallest patch of lawngrass available, before making her way to the second tallest patch and planting her shovel as far as it'd let her. That wasn't much; the undergrowth was dead-set on drawing this out as long as it could.
Damn it. How'd Theresa let herself get so weak? She'd been a damn wrestler in college, and here she was struggling to dig a hole.
The sack was starting to smell.
Maybe it was a mistake to keep Sharon as long as she had. There's only so long you can keep a dead cat before it actually starts to die. Call it sentimentality, the need for justice to be done no matter the cost. Theresa wasn't sure whether she was thinking about Sharon pre- or post-mortem.
The sack baked in the sun.
Stupid Hellen, trying to suck Theresa for all she was worth. Stupid house, trying to manipulate her like that. Stupid apartment, bending to the whims of a dead cat walking. Stupid El, getting Theresa stuck in this mess. Stupid Sharon, living and dying like she did. Stupid Theresa, thinking she could take care of Sharon. Stupid Theresa. Stupid Theresa. Stupid fucking Theresa.
And then the hole was big enough.
If there were any rites to be held for a dead cat, Theresa didn't know them. Maybe a quiet prayer to herself that the sack wouldn't burst open when she tossed it in the hole. Perhaps just the hope that no one would notice a woman like Theresa burying something in someone else's front yard.
Theresa was almost disappointed that neither came to pass. Maybe that's why, after dropping the shovel back off in her car, she went back for the house.
The door was open, and that telltale giggling was already coming from inside. At least the mannequins weren't attacking.
"Theresa, dear." From every vacant picture frame shone the image of Mrs. Schaeffer, calmly sipping her tea in that well-lit pastel bedroom. "I'm surprised to see you offering sacrifice, and doubly so towards KeeLee."
"KeeLee didn't want my dead cat in her front yard, she shouldn't have killed it." The smell of rotten flesh was surprisingly tolerable this time around. "Though I'm starting to think she's a figurehead."
Schaeffer tilted her head, and somehow did nothing else as her image flickered from frame to frame as Theresa made her way down the hall. "That was your cat, then. My, such dedication. And all for a women who can't yet appreciate what you've done for her."
Theresa groaned, stopping in place before what looked to be a home office. "I'm not in the mood for this, alright? I didn't kill Sharon. KeeLee did. KeeLee—" Theresa's unconscious gesturing had just slammed her elbow into the wall. "Sorry, sorry! Accident."
More cracking from Schaeffer. "KeeLee might have threatened to kill your cat, certainly, though she's in no state to do such a thing. How did it die, exactly?"
"And what do you care?" Theresa's legs dragged her onwards, barely cognizant enough not to bump into anything. Not like the office was any different than most of the house. "She… she wasn't bloodier than normal. Messy, maybe, but that's Sharon." Theresa swallowed. "Something killed her, and it wasn't me."
Schaeffer hummed. "'Bloodier than normal', you say. It was chronically ill, then."
"Not even the half of it." The desk was clear enough to sit on, at least. "That cat was bound to keel over any second. But something killed her, alright, and KeeLee's the only thing in recent memory that's made a threat of it."
"Could it, and I mean no offense in bringing this up, but could it be that, without your supervision," Schaeffer tilted her head, in the other direction this time. "It simply expired?"
Theresa swallowed. Her gaze fell to a thin puddle of sunlight on the floor.
Schaeffer giggled again. "I sincerely apologize, then. Had you told us you had a sickly animal to attend to, perhaps we would have been more considerate in our invitations."
"It's fine. Sharon's dead. I won't bring her back to life."
Silence, for a while, save the purring of the house. Theresa never thought such a calm could settle over this house; then again, she never pictured herself returning of her own volition. Nevertheless, Schaeffer sipped her tea, and Theresa stared at the floor.
"Something's bothering you, no?"
Theresa looked up. "And you haven't noticed? Not like you don't know my name, address, and profession."
"I only know what KeeLee shares. But even that, dear, is precarious." Schaeffer either punctuated or interrupted her words with a sip of tea. "You've seen KeeLee. She's remarkably obtuse. You're rather lucky, actually; she was quite a bit worse when I met her four years ago."
"Yeah?"
"Quite." Schaeffer smiled. "You might be surprised to know that KeeLee was once a programmer. Certainly, I was surprised."
Theresa nodded. "Pretty shocking, what I've seen." She palmed her coat pocket. "You talk about her like I've met her before. Let me guess: she's not as in-control as you'd like me to believe."
Schaeffer actually laughed.
"No guff." Theresa removed the e-cig from her coat, bringing it to her mouth. "You mind if I vape? She mind if I vape? You'll excuse me, my cat just died and…" Theresa shrugged. "… I don't know how else to process this."
"'And'." She even tutted like a storybook queen. "And what, darling?"
"Hellen…" Theresa licked her lips, taking the e-cig into her teeth. "You already know who Hellen is, right? You seem to know everything these days. Bet you already know that she kissed me."
Schaeffer blinked. How did she make something so simple so conspicuous? "Hellen Martinez. I don't know much more than her name and her… peculiarities. And you say that she kissed you?"
"Right on the lips." Theresa… didn't light her e-cig.
"Well," Schaeffer broke eye contact. "… an odd thing to bring up, at least out of the blue. Surely, you don't intend to… pursue such a relationship, no?"
"Jealous? Don't bother. I don't swing that way." Muscle memory forced an inhale. "… I don't know why I'm telling you this. Maybe it's because you're the only person I can stand to talk to. You don't feel like a brainwashed idiot. Which I guess is ironic, given…" Theresa shook her head. "… maybe I'm just… curious."
The puddle of light on the floor briefly disappeared. Theresa removed the e-cig from her mouth and mimed an exhale.
"… when you talked about black… about BLACK FLY, you mentioned permanency. But you implied… well, you told me you microdosed. Why not go all the way?"
Schaeffer hummed. "The sort of state a proper dose entails is the sort of state that, unfortunately, robs one of agency. It must be someone else attending to one's metamorphosis, of a simultaneous benevolence and competency that in of themselves occur in extreme rarity. You simply cannot trust it to go as you wish."
Theresa clicked her tongue. "Someone as rich as yourself… I mean, I don't think you should. But it feels like you could."
"I suppose you could think of it like this." Schaeffer set her teacup down. "We're of the same ideological mind, no? 'Man is not woman, woman is not man'."
Theresa grimaced. "I'm a radical feminist. We're about… we're about gender abolition."
"And I'm a traditional feminist, yet we still agree that man cannot be woman, that woman cannot be man; else, would not the transsexual be justified in its perversions?"
"Mm. I guess we're on that page."
Schaeffer nodded. "Quite. Now, let's say you're a transsexual, and you want to fix that. You've access to a chemical that can change the very nature of your being. All you have to do is find someone willing and able to reach within you and make things right."
"But… you can't trust just anyone to do that, is that it?"
"Close: it's that you can't trust anyone." Schaeffer picked up her teacup, gently swirling it with a practiced deliberation. "Your peers refuse to cure you; to do so would be to elucidate their own folly. And yet, can you truly put yourself in the hands of a doctor? One that barely understands you as a person? They're more likely to play you for a lab rat. And truly I mean no offense, Theresa, but I want you to imagine a poor little girl, sick to death with those Jewish criminals' chemicals, approaching you of all people for help."
Try as she might, Theresa's thoughts only got as far as El, trembling in her seat in a greasy pizzeria.
No. She shook her head. "I get what you're trying to say, but… I still don't think you should do it. Homosexuality's real."
"And yet a transsexual, capable of externally, hormonally, psychologically, and thaumically impersonating the opposite gender, has not a sliver of said gender in its person?" Schaeffer sighed, theatric almost to the point of rhetorical. "What is does not necessarily correspond to what should be, Theresa. I should not be a lesbian."
Right, screw decorum. Theresa switched her e-cig on, taking a careful inhale; the house's scent mingled with the vapor, but she wasn't doing this for taste.
Theresa exhaled, took the e-cig out of her mouth to speak, but the words weren't coming any faster than the cravings. What should have been a rebuttal degenerated into introspection; what should have been introspection collapsed into a stew of emotions. By the time that collapsed, Theresa wasn't sure what to call it.
"… you might be the most…" Theresa took another hit of her e-cig, nearly choking on the rot-scented lemon. "… I don't know. Nothing makes sense." She shook her head. "Nothing makes sense."
Theresa wasn't sure when exactly the picture frames went black and she'd been left in the literal dark; but at least she'd been given her smoke break. KeeLee and Schaeffer let her have that, at least.

The first thing Theresa did once she was home was tearing up the newspapering over the floor. Seeing her apartment's carpeting for the first time in years should have felt satisfying; but here, standing on the speckled shag, all she felt was out of place.
And of course, she still had to clean everything off.
Sharon had been reasonably good about pissing in her litterbox, but that was by the standards of Sharon; with that in mind, Theresa probably shouldn't have started with a bleach-based cleaner. But screw it, right? Wasn't like a little gas could kill her. Seal it in an air-tight, sort it into the shelf, back to work.
The litter was dumped into the toilet; the litterbox, into a dumpster. Cat food with it. As for Sharon's medicine… she'd figure something out.
Hours turned into days.
Hellen called often. Apologies, mostly, either for Sharon or for kissing Theresa, or something inscrutable that could be confused for one of the above. Lord, and they said Canadians apologized.
El didn't call.
Theresa wasn't sure who else she had to care about.
Days turned into weeks.
Grants came when they came. Apparently, being publicly embarrassed on live TV didn't stop you from getting paid to make art, not even for the organization whose name you dragged through the mud. As for professional callbacks, Theresa got about as many as she'd always gotten.
In fact, for a woman who'd went up against multiple mafias, Theresa went shockingly unmolested by thug or assassin. But that was for now; sooner or later, they'd strike back. As for why the thought filled her with an inexplicable giddiness, Theresa didn't have the money for a therapist.
Projects stalled; but then again, what projects was she working on? There were only so many chemicals you could write about before it'd be cheaper and easier to drive to a crafts store. She'd just make art.
She'd just make art forever.
Weeks turned into three and a half months.

Theresa had been blankly staring at a half-full vial of chloramine gas when the knock came. Singular; that ruled out Caryn (thank the Lord) and her landlord.
She sighed, putting the vial back onto the makeshift rack and heading for the door. On one hand, Theresa knew of no one she'd care to drop by, at least not among the pool of people who would. But what else did she have to do but rot away? Not like this was interrupting anything.
Theresa opened the door. "Is there a—"
Before her door stood a modest cardboard box and nothing else.
Theresa furrowed her brow. She hadn't ordered anything, and a quick examination of the package revealed no company logo. Moreover, though the return address was obviously BackDoor, it wasn't anything she'd memorized.
Sniffing the package, Theresa couldn't identify any out-of-place chemical agents. A quick tilt back and forth gave the impression of a box filled with… letters? Paperwork? Something light, packed loosely enough to slide against one another, but still far too packed to be the work of a single person.
BackTalk viewer mail? Mafia trickery? Something else? Whatever it was, the fact that it hadn't gone through the complex delivery system was troubling.
Theresa took the package over her shoulder, carrying it to the apartment commons. She wouldn't necessarily have called it "shockingly heavy", though paper took on surprising weight in higher quantities.
The office was open. Theresa could have requested assistance. Instead, she laid the box down onto a nearby table, took out her keys, and cut the tape holding the flaps closed.
… it was letters. Lots of them.
Sifting through the letters posed more questions than it answered. Not all of the letters were from the same address; many were, however, even as different hands penned various phrases of differing sentiment upon their envelopes. Some of them were directly addressed to Theresa, others to that mysterious return address, and still more to a variety of BackDoor addresses Theresa hardly recognized.
Theresa looked over her shoulder, and opened one from an address that had penned several more:

dear Toby Clarke
Hello. My name is Sofer, and I watched your show for a class on letter-writing. The episode I watched was the one with your replacement, and also the TERF that

How cute, little kid was learning lingo too advanced for its age.
Theresa shook her head. She wasn't about to get angry at a child, not in public at least. Maybe a letter that hadn't been authored by school kids.

Greetings and well-wishes from the Keaton Institute, Ms. Petrucci.
As the art scene of the BackDoor evolves, so too must its audience; yet there are times when an artist is born too early, his or her skill ill-fit with the wants and demands of the populace around him or her. We at the Keaton Institute recognize, however, that art exists for the sake of all humanity, and not just the prevailing evils of the times.
We at the Keaton Institute heartily applaud you for taking a stance against the liberal queer agenda that

Theresa tossed the letter, and tried not to think about the fact that most of her grants had come from the Keaton Institute.
This didn't make sense. On one hand, the box was full of letters from literal children shaming her for a bad TV day, and yet on the other hand, whoever compiled such a thing saw fit to include letters of praise (however questionable). Whatever it was, Theresa wasn't having a good time.
There had to be a reason for this. One last letter.
Theresa pulled a crimson envelope from the box, tore open the seal, and began reading.

[But there was nothing to read.]
[Instead, Theresa found herself assaulted by an indiscernible fractal. Chains interlocked with chains interlocked with interlocking chains, interlocked with a chain of interlocking chains, a background and foreground anchored forever inward.]
[An unspeakable calm shot itself through Theresa, rippled through her blood like dye into water. Something was missing, something was fading. She felt so unbearable light.]
[She

Theresa tore herself away from the paper and reeled at a sudden rush of feeling, an intensity beyond words. She bit her lip; it was barely enough to keep from screaming.
Someone… someone had tried to brainwash her. It should have been obvious: the sole red envelope, the way the package had been left out like a letter bomb, the soft condemnations of the fellow letters (no matter how limp-dicked). It's the only thing that made sense. But who would…
… the mafias.
It had to be them, right? Who else had this many skeletons to pick with Theresa? Of course it'd be someone with a profit motive, or else why spend the time and money for such a stunt? And Sofer… that had to be a Kosher Nostra name. Who else?
They'd made their opening move. There'd be more to come. She couldn't go back to her apartment.
She couldn't stay in the city.
But where did—

Theresa slammed her car door shut, barely checking for stalkers or onlookers as she bolted for the house.
But the door was locked.
Theresa grit her teeth. What if they tracked her here? Had she already been tracked? Was this forgone? These thoughts shouldn't have had the time to be asked. Why now?
And the door was still locked.
JGT's doorbell was still exposed; that left Theresa rapping against the door. It was too loud, someone could hear her, but what choice did she have? They had to hear her somehow. They had to.
But the door was still locked.
Theresa threw a glance back, but the clear neighborhood was misleading; for why would a stalker want to be seen, and how could she trust herself to see everyone hiding in their houses? Now was the time to be unseen. Now was the time to hide. Now was the time for the door to open, please open, I'm begging you—
Theresa fell forward onto dirtied floorboards, barely cognizant of the scent of rotten meat before the door closed once more.
No matter. She was safe.
Standing up, Theresa flipped her phone's flashlight and took stock of the entry hallway. It wasn't any cleaner than the last few times; indeed, some of the vermin looked too fresh to be leftovers. Behind her, standing against the door, was one of KeeLee's mannequins. Theresa never thought she'd be glad to see one again.
The picture frames crackled on, lit up with the image of Mrs. Schaeffer reclined on some expensive couch with an unmarked book.
"Is something the matter, dear?" Schaeffer didn't look up from her book. "I don't think I've ever seen you quite so desperate to enter this house."
"You don't already know? Thought…" Theresa clutched her forehead. "… I'm being hunted."
Schaeffer hummed, flipping a page in her book. "That's a shame, but it's not much to work with. Rest assured, we won't let any harm come to our guest, but we would appreciate a warning."
"You want a warning? You want a warning?" It was with great restraint that Theresa didn't slam her fist onto a nearby dresser. "I'm feeling left out. You're telling me you know everything about me, and in a town where you can't sneeze without hitting mob property, you don't know when the mob moves for me?"
Schaeffer finally looked away from her book, thank the Lord. "The mob is after you? Let it not be said that the Jews aren't patient." Marking her place in her book and smoothing out her dress, Schaeffer sat up. "Though why now?"
"I…" There's mouth was dry, she'd only just realized. "I don't know. But it was only today they acted. You'd know this, right?"
"KeeLee might. I trust you too much to spend a fortune infiltrating the mob." Schaeffer giggled. "But would you like me to, dear? Such brilliance deserves to be preserved."
"Is this a joke to you?"
"Far from it, dear. This is an incredibly concerning development." But not enough to keep sporting that twinkling smile of hers, apparently. "If they're willing to mobilize against you, Theresa, whose to say when they'll stop? Losing you would be bad enough, but when they get away with your murder, and they have the money to get away with it, when's to say where they'll stop?"
The roaring crowds of months past blinked through Theresa's mind.
Schaeffer dropped her smile. "There's no coexistence, Theresa. The mutilation you oppose is violence; why shouldn't they answer your opposition with yet more violence?"
"But they didn't." Theresa unconsciously palmed her cardigan's— no, her pocket was empty. "They tried to brainwash me."
Schaeffer shook her head; it somehow resolved into another one of her cracks. "Brainwashing, murdering, torturing, there's no meaningful difference. You're in the way of their master plan, and they can't have that."
A cold and uneasy jolt shot through Theresa as Schaeffer leaned forward. "Do you think they'll stop when they realize the first brainwash didn't take?" Schaeffer tutted, a sound akin to fingers tapping ceramic. "You give our enemies too much credit, Theresa. As long as you stand for what's right, they'll try to cut you down."
Theresa's hand went back to her empty cardigan pocket.
"It's a shame, no?" Schaeffer cracked again. "You're the best of the Line, the only one willing to stand up to that criminal New York agenda. The world can't afford to lose someone like you."
Theresa crossed her arms, fingers digging into her sides.
"But," and much to Theresa's unexpected relief, Schaeffer sat back in her seat. "What if the world didn't have to lose you?" Schaeffer lips curled into a smile. "What if there was an organization dedicated to the empowerment, safety, and integrity of womanhood, backed with considerable funding and managed by a woman of impeccable investigative ability?"
Schaeffer's voice seemed to drop to a whisper, and yet it was as clear as if she'd been talking into Theresa's ear. "And what if, when that disgusting horde next comes for your head, it was greeted by the BLACK FLY?"
Theresa opened her mouth, and nothing came out.
"I'm afraid we'll have to cut this short, for now, but I implore you to come back at noon tomorrow." Schaeffer's smile brightened. Her teeth were so impossibly white. "I'd like to conduct an in-person interview."

How To Remove Kerosene From A Polyester Dress

How To Clean A Polyester Dress

How To Remove Spinal Fluid From A Polyester Dress


Author's Note: The following document is the transcription of a promotional video produced by Clowning About Ranches Ltd. intended to be shown to the most disreputable companies in the clowning industry including Herman Fuller's Circus of Disquieting, Killer Klowns from Outer Space, and McDonald's.

The video opens with the logo of Clowning About Ranches Ltd. as the camera pans across an open field. A short, squat, rounded man in a bowler hat and a tweed jacket appears on the screen, emerging from the right side of the camera's field of view.
'Here at Clowning About Ranches, we believe in only the most ethical production of clowns and clown-related goods. Our clowns are hand-reared from the crib to the cradle to the grave, using only the finest clown eggs.'
The man begins walking across the field. He pauses momentarily, wiping a multi-coloured residue from the tracks of his boots, and then sets off walking again. He appears to gesture towards someone. The camera pans back to reveal a pair of unidentified workers, stuffing something into a body-bag.
'No. No. Back to me. There's a good lad. Now, where was I? Ah yes, of course, ethical production and rearing of clowns.'
'In addition to this policy, we believe in the sustainable practices of modern farming. We know how challenging it can be when you're doing your weekly grocery shop and you think to yourself: How do I know which meats and milks and eggs have been sustainably developed?'
The man holds up a package of sausages, wrapped in rainbow-hued clingfilm, that reads: "Clowning About Ranches Clown Sausages".
'We at Clowning About Ranches have made it oh-so-easy for all of our consumers! You simply look for our logo and you'll be satisfied with the guarantee that everyone of our clowns was sustainably developed; we believe in the finest products-'
The man grins as the menacing sounds of industrial grinding and slashing gradually become louder and louder.
'-which is why naughty clowns go in the shredder.'
'Now enough about that! Let's go introduce you to some of our finest clowns.'
The man continues on his journey as the sounds fade into the background. The camera zooms into a warehouse in the background of the farmland, briefly lingering on the image before returning to the man.
'This here is Bonobo.'
The cameraman pans the image towards a sickly-looking clown with pus-filled pores and open wounds across his face and body.
'Bonobo is a 4th-generation clown. Some kind of jester-harlequin mix. Our breeders aren't really sure what he is. Wave to the camera, Bonobo!'
Bonobo waves lazily towards the camera as he attempts to painfully contort his disfigured facial features into a smile. His jaw promptly falls away, landing on the floor with a grotesque slapping noise, as his hand sloughs away at the wrist.
'Ahem. Somebody please clean up that mess.'
The man continues walking, traipsing his feet through even more multicoloured and sticky residue as he crosses the field. As he enters the next section of the farm, the cameraman turns to reveal Bonobo being stuffed into a body-bag and carried off in the direction of the warehouse.
'Clowning About Ranches also believes in reducing waste and diminishing our collective carbon footprint. As such, we're delighted to announce that we now remove the clown-skin in one clean sheet, to be reused as feed for our developing juvenile clowns.'
The camera pans to a circus of juvenille clowns, all eating from the same trough. Bits of indiscernible material can be seen floating within the liquid feed.
'Haha! Don't they look happy? Of course, we've always been dedicated to the environment. Why in the 90s, we were one of the first clowning ranches to begin boiling down the bones of clowns and using the residual gruel to induce a nice calcium-positive diet for our growing clowns. We believe this keeps the meat nice and tender.'
'On the other hand, The Shredder© is intended to give our low-quality meat products a bit of gristle and bite. It really stimulates our clowns' lactic acids when death is delivered by a thousand mechanical teeth and screams!'
The camera pans once more to the warehouse. The camera is violently jolted back and forth as a loud slapping sound rings out, accompanied by wincing cry of pain.
'Pay attention, Happy Slappy. Now then, let's go interview one of our favourite workers, why don't we?'
The man enters the next field over. He makes a genial smile as he approaches one of the ranchers. The pair shake hands as the worker drops his plough. The rancher speaks first.
'An interview, sir? Yeah, I s'ppose I could spare a bit o' time for you. Working 'ere at Clowning About Ranches is just great. Great wages. Great job security. Already got state healthcare through NHS like, but it doesn't feel half as good as the private healthcare that our boss 'ere hooks us up with. Yeah, Clowning About Ranches does us - and all those clowns - good.'
The man grins and whacks his rancher firmly on the back.
'There you have it, folks. Happy workers; happy clowns. It all comes together here at Clowning About Ranches.'
The camera pans once more, settling on a picnic table covered with clown-related produce such as milk, eggs, cheese, and meat. The man sits down at the table, casually stuffing a serviette down his front, as he tucks into the feast on the table.
'So come on down to Clowning About Ranches today!'
The visual feed from the camera cuts off at this point, but the microphone manages to keep picking up audio.
'You know I hear them all saying it. "That's so inhumane," they whine to me, "you can't do that to the poor things." God, it makes me so angry.'
'So what? They're fucking clowns.'


Researcher Chen,
Down on his luck,
Took a deep breath,
And bellowed out, 'FUCK!'
He slammed the door,
To his own room,
Dark clouds hung 'bove,
Such doom and gloom!
With a loud groan,
He lay in bed,
Heard deep laughter…
…Felt trickling dread…
From out the corners,
Came two arms!
They gave 👍;
And meant no harm.
Of course, Chen gawked,
How could he not?
But would it stop him?
If he got caught!
Clutched in one hand,
Was a baggie,
Of jumbled wonders!
Sandy and craggy!
"Wanna get high?"
The hands did sign,
In no time at all,
Chen did a line!
At first, he coughed,
Then his nose bled,
Then he woke up,
In his old shed,
The bed was there,
Just like before!
Despite it all…
"Do you want more?"
The hands presented,
Thin white strips,
Placed 'pon Chen's tongue,
Just the tip.
Chen's sight turned orange,
He went, 'AAAHHHH!!!!'
Oh, the bed's plans,
It had no flaws,
Chen next woke up,
Upon his roof,
His eyes both red,
And half-aloof.
"How 'bout I give you,
One last gift?
It's green, and stinks,
But goes down swift!"
The bed produced,
A small glass phial,
Liquid green,
And a stench…vile…
Within the fluids,
Bounced green threads,
Thick and clumpy…
They looked…dead…
Oh…oh, goodness…
"Bottoms up!"
Bed's fingers snapped,
As thunder roared,
And lightning clapped.
POW!
…that's what you get,
For trusting a skip,
You piss for brains.
RIP.


Dear Bambousio Starswinger,
I am currently writing this letter because I have a few words on the subject of clown eggs. In your latest newsletter, Corruption Within The Clown Industry: A Controversial Opinion by Bambousio Starswinger you had stated “Don't” on the subject of consuming clown eggs. Frankly, after seeing this, I'm more concerned about which one you hatched from. I originally had a somewhat respectful opinion of you, but this is where I draw the line.
As an avid and locally-established Clown Farmer, I would like to point out that the harvesting and consumption of clown eggs is the best possible product from a clown, for the following reasons. Removing eggs from the nest also removes the responsibility from the mother clown, allowing her to get right back to comedy work without experiencing exhaustion or other side-effects associated with raising newborn clownlets. Additionally, ingesting clown eggs provides a safe home for the clownlet upon hatching within the stomach, and supplies the consumer with high-grade comedic material while the clownlet matures into an adult clown. While inside the stomach, the comedic routines of the clownlet can frequently be heard, giving both the host and nearby individuals entertainment for hours on end. The development of a newborn clownlet takes only a week, and the process does not impact the daily life of the host in any way. When the clownlet matures, the clown will simply entertain the host until they regurgitate their friend as a result of excessive laughter, whereupon releasing a new clown into the world.
Hosting a clownlet is a joyous and wholesome experience, and one that should rightfully be reserved for anyone who isn't a two-faced buffoon. I'll bet my house that you genuinely wouldn't be able to tell the difference between a clown and a jester if they flopped up to you, wrapped you in handkerchiefs, and left you in a prop shed to die of starvation. You are a disappointment and a travesty to any clown caretaker, and I hope you get run over by a car populated with clowns, in such a way that by the time they have all left the vehicle to contact paramedics, your corpse has completely decayed. It's completely disgusting that you would even think of criticizing the perfectly-safe livelihood of both me and many of my friends, all while trivializing it with a one-word comment.
In fact, to prove the safety and security of clown egg consumption, I am going to eat an entire carton of clown eggs the exact moment after I finish mailing this letter to your abode (which is no doubt infested with clownroaches). I ask you to tell me what could even go wrong?
Respectfully,
A Disgruntled Clown Farmer


What could possibly go wrong?
It seemed like such a harmless request. An invitation from an old friend to their social circle, one who knew about his voracious hunger for the mysteries of the world. Sure, he knew of the club's grim reputation, everyone had in those days… but he knew his friend, and he knew his own self. thought to himself, what could possibly go wrong?
Far away from his thoughts, he groaned in pain, shifting against the chafing restraints. With movement came the voices.
"Subject Alpha is seizing, hold him down. Movement will ruin the procedure."
Heavy arms came, holding him down to the table. It was always the same crew, three women and two men. Six out of seven days, they would do nothing but watch, take notes, talk to each other about arcane measurements he had no scale of reference to. Occasionally others would come in. They were always terrified of them. He had no idea who those faceless men and women were. They seemed to know him however.
On the seventh day—
The scalpel cut into him again, and he screamed. They did not hate him, or fear him. He just wasn't a person to them anymore. He was a canvas, to be shaped whatever way they pleased.
What could possibly go wrong?
He had originally volunteered for this, what felt like countless ages ago. Who wouldn't have, the way the circle had described it? He thought he would become a living god, but he became a slave instead. As quickly as they had welcomed him, they turned on him.
He caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror once. A wretched misshapen mass, no longer a man, but a tangle of twisted scars held together by sinew. Seeing what they had done changed things, he thought to himself, and he saw all the willpower drain out of him. He no longer fought, he no longer begged, he no longer cursed his captors. He just existed.
Once, he had dared to hope. He had woken from another dream of the howling dark to hear running and shouting. Then there was gunfire, explosions. Screams. Could something have happened. Could someone have come to rescue him?
He didn't recognize them, these black garbed soldiers speaking of "anomalies" and "task forces" and "subject alphas." But they were kind. They had bandaged his wounds, and carefully brought him on their helicopter. One man went so far as to help him eat a nutrient bar — he almost cried. He hadn't eaten real food in ages.
But they left, and the doctors came. They wheeled him into a strange room, taking all sorts of measurements of him. They studied the marks his former colleagues had made on him, consulted arcane books, and brought stranger after stranger to examine him and make soft-spoken remarks to be written down.
And then they picked up the scalpel, and began to carve.
He screamed again. He could no longer remember who he was, or the shape of his own face. All his world was now the cut of the scalpel. All his world was now pain. All he wanted for it was to stop.
All he wanted was to die.


Good evening to you, fellow aspiring ringmasters!
I'm delighted with the amount of traffic my blog has been receiving lately, it really shows there's a wider community out there who are just as interested in clowns as I am! This brings attention to parts of the clown scene onlookers may not understand, like Clowncon.
‘But Bambousio,' I hear you say, ‘What on earth is Clowncon?'
Clowncon is an annual convention held by clown owners, for clown owners! People from all around the world can bring themselves and their clowns to the Big Top Convention Centre to show off their pets, make connections and enter their clown into competitions. It's full of things to do, and you get to see some really handsome clowns.
I remember at Clowncon 2006 I met an owner with a purebred New Hampshire Gnome Clown, which had beautiful plumage and an astounding voice. He said he was entering it into the Talent competition. I almost shed a tear from it's song, but now is not the time to get emotional. Today, I want to bring awareness to the Time Clown.
The Time Clown: A Disgusting Freak of Nature.
Ringmasters will insist they don't have favourites, that they ‘love all breeds equally', but just know they're lying. As do I. I also have favourites, as well as enemies.
The Time Clown and what it stands for is my nemesis. It was selectively bred to have abnormal abilities around the early 19th century, and since then has been a favourable pet among the richest ringmasters around. They're hard to get a hold of, not because they're causing mischief in another dimension, but because they're damn bloody expensive.
If you own Time Clowns, you are a bitch. No doubt.
Uncalled for? Maybe. But when I start to see discussions of auctioning Time Clowns at this year's CLOWNCON, it starts to become a problem.
If you don't know, Time Clowns are a very unstable breed. When you give the embodiment of energy and excitement, clowns, the ability to hop between dimensions and time travel, things get messy. As I have mentioned before, I am against clowns having abnormal abilities or intentional deformities. It was way back then, when Lord Mudder of Castleknock attempted to cross-breed a leprechaun raised in captivity with a native Jack-in-the-box Clown, did we get what is now known as the Time Clown.
Terrible. If I had a Time Clown I'd make it travel to the past to crush a baby Lord Mudder with a hilariously small car.
Anyway, I had heard about people bringing Time Clowns to Clowncon. No big deal, right? IT'S A HUGE DEAL. There are so many things that could go wrong by bringing groups of Time Clowns to Clowncon.
The danger of the Time Clown: What it could mean for the Big Top
First of all, every good clown owner knows bringing Time Clowns together is a bad idea. When you let any clowns of the same calibre run wild, they're bound to start some trouble. Letting Time Clowns pop in and out of this reality during the convention could scare the other clowns, wreak havoc, and maybe implode the building. They could also mess with the ballpit. Nobody messes with the ballpit.
But why should the rich care? As long as they're getting money from it, it's fine, right? What could go wrong? It's not like it can DESTROY THIS REALITY AS WE KNOW IT! There are countless studies on the effect Time Clowns have on the fabric of reality. My friend is a clown historian (bless him for the info on Lord Mudder!), and was actually able to harness a Time Clown's temporal leap to research certain events in history. It left him…funny. I'm currently sitting on a whoopee cushion that he had left for me while I type.
I'm almost certain some snob paid off the Big Top hosts, but what does this mean for the centre?
Catastrophe. Calamity. Destruction. Despair. Alphabetical list of words to do with breaking things. All because of greed. Just like that, Big Top's integrity and the true meaning behind Clowncon is lost.
…But not yet. After this post, I will be setting up a petition for you all to sign and I will also message the hosts of this year's Clowncon to call off the auction. I would also like you to boycott Clowncon if you can, and refrain from buying mass produced clown milk and meat. Clowns are friends and family. We will not take this squished down into a clown car. We will step out of it, one by one. Together.
If our efforts are wasted, though, and they go ahead with the auction, my best advice is to boycott. Stay at home, and keep your clowns indoors.
-Bambousio Starswinger
Edit: Someone recently asked about the consumption of clown eggs due to my last post. I leave you with this: Have you ever heard of the myth that if you eat a watermelon seed, a watermelon will grow in your stomach? Just heed my warning. Thank you.


There were anomalies that needed attention, like the one just down the hall who kept speaking in riddles to confuse the guards. There were anomalies that needed the utmost care, like in the cell block just down the hall. Then there was Summer, and Summer had headphones.
And bitterness.
She wore them around her neck as she sat down at her bed to flip through the pages of a music magazine that featured her, however hidden away she may have been in its limited amount of hiding spaces. It was only forty-some pages long, mostly ads, and yet she had to do some serious digging to find out where she was buried in it.
“Aww, really?” she said out loud, noticing how the article didn't even bother to spell her name right. “Who the hell is Summer Ruke? It's Duke, you unbelievable assholes.”
She heard laughing outside of her cell as the guard, who was only stationed there because every other cell in the block had a guard and they didn't want to give anyone ‘special treatment,' spoke up as he was prone to do. “Gonna start calling you Ruke from now on.”
Summer offered the man a fake laugh and dropped the magazine on the floor beside her. It's not like it mattered anymore. She and her headphones belonged to the Foundation to be ‘contained' as if she was some kind of threat to civilization. Maybe if the music that came from her headphones was anomalous in some way, like a siren song luring in victims, but she couldn't even have that.
“Big Slime moving day?” she asked, unlocking her Foundation-issued phone and browsing for current events. “Think it's gonna go any better this time?”
The guard scoffed and said, “We were unprepared last time. You should see the new equipment they've got now. Never underestimate the Foundation, Ruke.”
“Mhm,” she breathed, “so many things to love about them…”
“Don't gotta love ‘em, just gotta respect what they do.”
Summer faked a retching noise and went quiet. Hours passed as more and more boots touched the ground in the hallway outside in preparation to move what everyone knew as Big Slime in the next hallway over. Orders were hollered, doors were pried open, and ultimately, failure ensued.
Agents were thrown across the halls, devoured into its slimy mass, and eventually driven out of its way only to reconvene in the next hallway over. As its massive body passed by Summer's room, its blue slime seeped into the corners of her door and puddled on the floor.
“Hey, whoa, c'mon now, we're on the same side,” she said, watching it retreat from her door as she went back to scrolling on her phone.
Dinner was late that night, seeing as how the entire hallway needed to be scrubbed down, the cafeteria tables included. She pushed the slime away from the bench with her foot and sat down at her usual table, food tray in hand. It wasn't the most talkative bunch in that cell block, so she would eat with her headphones on to block out the noise so she could eat in peace. It wasn't that she didn't like to be social, it was more that she was afraid of most of the others. Low-risk reality benders were still reality benders at the end of the day, and staying out of their way was high on her list of priorities in Foundation survival.
Luckily for her, she had her own way of escaping, the soothing wave of melodic bliss coming from her headphones washing over her, transporting her mind elsewhere to a place inhabited only by music and colors.
It was always a woman's voice accompanied by a cacophony of synthetic sounds, all of which were various shapes and colors haphazardly swirling around the steady, pulsing line that was the beat. Sometimes that line would come to an abrupt end, leaving the orbiting shapes to float off on their own before another line came to pick up what was left and begin anew. The sky was a mix of pink and blue this time, setting over a calm, still sea that met with the edge of the world on the horizon. The song's voice echoed and reverberated off invisible walls in the distance, stretching to hit its notes and flooding the world before vanishing seamlessly into several puffs of smoke.
She became reliant on them for sleeping, as the sounds of a not-prison-but-basically-still-prison cell block were about as pleasant as one would expect. The neon lights that lined the corners of her room would fade out, the world created by her headphones would seep in, and all else went by the wayside. It was a world only she could access, simultaneously giving her one of the greatest gifts of all as well as damning her to a life in custody.
Staff: 0, Inmates: 1
It wasn't often she was woken up by an outside noise, but that morning's struggle was loud enough for her to take her headphones off and peer out through the hatch in the center of her door. A maned wolf, with its long legs and fox-like face, roamed freely in the halls outside, objects swirling around it and crashing into walls like a tornado. Foundation staff was getting tangled in its vortex as Summer watched on, pushing her bleach blonde bangs to one side and eating from a bag of chips.
She needed a haircut, as well as a redye, maybe red or orange this time around to match her headphones. Closing the hatch on her door, she went to her bathroom and began brushing her teeth as the chaos outside only grew in volume. Placing her headphones back over her ears, she began swaying to the music, pointing to herself in the mirror as she did so.
Staff: 0, Inmates: 2
“Look,” the guard would say later in the day when the situation had been maintained. “It's not like there's any right way to handle these kinds of things, just gotta learn and move on. That's what this new book I'm reading is about. Self-help for the realistic, y'know? Shit's gonna happen, you just gotta learn how to deal with it.”
“Mhm,” Summer muttered under her breath.
“I mean, they want the entire hallway moved in less than a week? I'd say we're doing the best we can, given how volatile some of these things are. But hey, if they need more low-threat living space, you gotta do what you gotta do, right?”
“And what volatile beasts are you tackling today?”
The guard audibly sighed and said, “Man, I don't know…”
It was a series of toy soldiers with real, functional weaponry attached to their arms, but Summer didn't bother to watch out of fear that they might find their way through the hatch. She wasn't even sure how they could have messed that one up, as they were literally just a bunch of sentient toy soldiers, but she banished the thought. There were Twitter threads to read and music to be heard.
Staff: 0, Inmates: 3
Later that day, she came out of the shower in a bathrobe and heard the grunting of her old pal, the guard. “Did they get ya?” she asked.
“I don't know why they're all choosing this week to show us something new and dangerous about themselves, but I'm fed up with it. This week can't be done and over with quickly enough.”
“Sounds rough,” she said. “But hey, only one more day!”
“Yeah…” he growled.
The hallway was littered with pebbles, janitorial staff sweeping it up as she sat down to eat in the cafeteria down a floor below. She finished eating early and got the attention of one of the guards standing by, chatting with another guard as they leaned against a pillar. “Hey, uh,” she began, “I wanna put in a request to get a haircut. And a new color, if possible? I'll leave the details for the stylist, obviously”
The guard raised a clipboard and jotted it down, giving her a nod when she was finished.
“Thank you,” she said in return. “I love your eye makeup, by the way!”
She looked at herself in the mirror that night, wishing she had access to scissors so she could cut her bangs herself. It's what she always did back when she lived a normal life, although that felt like years ago by then. It had only been less than one. Time passed by more slowly in containment, giving her all the more time to long for the days of freedom once more.
Before she laid down in bed for the night, she listened to the noise outside as usual, looking through the hatch to get a good look at that night's guest of honor. Things… predictably went south, and quickly this time. Masked individuals, at least a dozen of them, stormed the halls and faded in and out of reality to catch the staff off guard. One such individual was making their way to her door specifically as she closed the hatch and took a step back.
The masked figure phased through the doorway and bent over forward to catch their breath. “Sorry for the intrusion,” they said between breaths.
“Hey, no problem,” Summer said with a shrug. “You, uh… lookin' to escape?”
“That's the plan,” they nodded. “I can get you out of this cell, if you want. Whoever you are, you don't deserve to be trapped like a rat in here. Come with us.”
Summer gritted her teeth and inhaled sharply, saying, “Yeah, I don't know about that…”
“What have you got to lose?” the figure asked as she took a seat on the edge of her bed.
She opened her mouth only for the words to fall out slowly. “Not… a lot. But a little.” She grabbed hold of her headphones and lifted them from around her neck. There was no way she was surviving without access to the other part of herself and she wouldn't put it past them to punish her in that way. “But, uh, I wish you luck.”
“So be it,” they concluded. “And thank you. We'll be needing it.”
As they phased back through the door, she heaved a sigh and fell backward onto her sheets. It pained her, it really did, but despite how incompetent of a showing the Foundation had put on the past week, she knew they were still the Foundation.
The noises subsided later into the night, for better or for worse, and she was left with the usual cell block sounds to block out with her headphones. She stared up at the ceiling as it transformed before her very eyes, parting ways to make room for a gravity-defying parade for her eyes only.
The next day was quieter. No alarms, no shouting, no calamity, just the normal distant chatter.
“Did they get out?” she asked through the door, the guard merely chuckling to himself.
“Of course not.”
She shook her head. “Shame. They seemed like good people.”
“No such thing.”
She wanted to say something, but pursed her lips instead, retreating to one side of the bed to get some more rest. There were no rules against sleeping in, as far as she knew.
Final Tally: The house always wins.


James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember his first day of high school, or the day he got hired at the Foundation or his Doctoral Thesis- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was on a beach, just outside Big Sur. It was colder than either of them had expected, but frankly, that gave them an excuse to hold eachother closer. They didn't much like swimming, anyways- James' pale skin burnt too easily, and Draven's hair frizzed up something nasty.
After a short walk, Draven dropped to one knee, pulled out a ring, and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered laughing that night about how his Fiancé could face down a breached Keter without breaking a sweat, but a short proposal speech left him flustered and bright red.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, even if they seemed so long ago.

James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember the feeling of his labcoat, or his SCiPNet password, or what day of the week it was- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was in a dry patch of grass on the side of the road. It was colder than Talloran had expected, but Draven yelled at him that he should have brought a coat. The sun beat down through the clouds, and James could feel his skin turning an angry pink before his eyes, and Draven's hair began to fall out in clumps.
After a short walk, Draven collapsed, blood oozing from his welting flesh. He coughed up a ring, and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered weeping that night about how his Fiancé had faced down a breached Keter without breaking a sweat, and died painfully following his short proposal speech.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, even if they seemed so long ago.

James Talloran didn't remember much. He couldn't remember the feeling of blood in his veins, or what it meant to be human, or the meaning of the word "peace"- but he remembered the day that Draven Kondraki asked to marry him.
It was on an ocean of teeth, under a raging sun that screamed loud enough to make their ears bleed. Stormclouds that gave no repreive from the sun rained down broken glass. They started coughing blood as the impossibly sharp dust shredded their lungs. James' pale skin sloughed off like pulled pork, and Draven's hair began to turn to snakes and chew at his eyes.
After a short walk, Draven dropped to the floor, his body collapsing into a pile of viscera and knuckle bones and asked Talloran to marry him. Draven had never been one for opening up, and James remembered laughing that night about how his Fiancé's body had erupted with spiders as his flesh turned to flaming cornsilk and needles in the wind.
James was glad he could still cling to some good memories, and couldn't wait to make more.


egalitarian-nonsense4 12/19/2020 (Sat) 04:23:11 #10537749

I was born in Cambodia in the early '90s as a frail little boy.
Naturalization after migrating to the US has smeared much of whatever fragments of childhood away, but religion is a different subject. Living with my grandparents had never felt so unbearable when I first came here — all their nagging about becoming a breadwinner, praying to Buddha, having children and meeting the significant other always failed to work as they intended.
In the house, aside from miniature replicas of Buddha statues and incense sticks, you would see a lot of empty picture frames, and I mean, a lot. Probably more than 15, scattered all around the house, sitting comfortably on nearly every piece of furniture. I couldn't tell chitea1 at the time, since — respect for the elders, but, I finally had the chance to stow them away for good after attaining the freedom.
I… just really didn't like them being around. Sleeping in the living room, surrounded by plain white rectangles were somehow more terrifying than a face for each one.
My elders have the habit of keeping an item that meant dearly to us — be it a pen, or a pebble they once used for a match of bay khom. Family members would keep it until they pass on, after which the items once under their care, together with their own personal antiquities, are given down to the children — a never-ending procession, as a remembrance.
I once asked chitea about why — among all things — empty photo frames.
He never gave me a direct answer.

egalitarian-nonsense4 12/19/2020 (Sat) 04:31:09 #10537749

Hazy, but profoundly popular among the rural folks back in my former homeland: a tale about the kmean phnek2.
I got along with other colleagues stationed in Cambodia for maintenance works back in 2018, the only difference being that they stayed longer than I have. They were struggling financially, especially with meager pays by the government and general neglect of common utilities, but they manage to get through with a humble smile.
Once in a while, they would share folklore and keep me up to date with local news. All were entertaining, but there was one that stood out. According to him, some of the oldest members of the hill tribes claimed to have sighted the kmean phnek; even asserting that their predecessors during the Angkorian era had also seen him.
After the defeat of the Khmer Empire in 1594, its citizens were under the fists of the Kingdoms of Ayutthaya and Vietnam. Hardship was never an unfamiliar term among the people, so they pushed on in times of adversity, seeking whatever scraps they could find on dirt paths and wats, only to be told off by the monks there. Many were considering leaving the homeland until the kmean phnek came along.
Described as a blindfolded old man wearing ragged clothing and a wooden cane in his hand, farmers and peasants would hear a loud rumble, before they found themselves standing before an elephant, towering in height and with majestic ivory tusks. The kmean phnek would hop off and approach the villagers, before shaking their hand and thanking them for their hard work. He would then rummage through a sack he slung around his shoulder and grab a few gemstones for the villagers to take. Initially dumbfounded, they accept and keep the stones in gratitude.
Asked why there were bloodstains on the blindfold, he would remain silent, smile, and hop back on the elephant, before plodding on, never to be seen again for the next few years.

egalitarian-nonsense4 12/19/2020 (Sat) 04:56:42 #10537749

Everyone would be diving into whatever hole they could find.

With the war raging to its east in the early days of 1971, it was a no-brainer for Cambodia to be dragged into the conflict. This portion of history has been extensively covered, sometimes white-washed for the purpose of inciting a spirit of patriotism. But what the textbooks never mention or touch on is the re-emergence of the old man.
Villages, irrigation plots, crops and towns were filled with craters. Most of the time, the people could duck for cover, either in their homes, or migrate from the eastern border. For a handful, some were not so lucky.
Tattered, bloodied remains of what used to be a hardworking farmer, a dedicated mother, or a resilient factory worker, are all that is left in the center of the crater. Some of the bodies are more intact, if you would ignore the thousands of shrapnel buried deep in their flesh.
One of my colleague's grandparents who were survivors of the war recalled cutting weed stalks near their crops on a hot afternoon in Svay Rieng, before the distant air raid sirens bellowed. The townsfolk frantically ran for shelter, as gunshots rang out from the woods to the western outskirts of the town. The couple waited for the rumble to cease, and cautiously walked out of their homes to see the same landscape — mere debris.
They saw one of their neighbors weeping near a child's body near the crater; they thought he had died from the shrapnel, but later grimaced in disgust and horror.
The child's upper body lay limp, hanging onto the rim of the crater, while his lower body was nowhere to be seen, except for exposed intestines and burnt masses of flesh. An hour later, the townsfolk were ordered to evacuate due to an impending aerial bombardment and crossfire, leaving the boy behind in eerie silence.
As the couple took final glances at their former home, they saw the kmean phnek stand over the body, before scooping up dirt with his bare hands and burying the body. With his arms wrapped with tourniquet cloth, he unfurled a portion of the cloth to wipe his face, before tearing it off and throwing it away.

egalitarian-nonsense4 12/19/2020 (Sat) 05:08:27 #10537749

Then came the red terror.
Armed with the hammer and sickle, the resulting government succeeding the Khmer Republic of 1975 struck down any voice who dared to oppose the Party. In fact, so many lives were lost that it was extremely difficult and taxing to find a living survivor of the regime who knew of the kmean phnek than in the 16th century.
One of the last surviving witnesses mentioned sightings of a blindfolded old man in a straw hat dragging a wooden bandwagon along deserted streets and raided homes. The main difference was how bony the kmean phnek looked — his ribcage was nearly showing whenever a gust of wind blew against his checkered shirt. The tourniquet cloth covered both his arms and legs, which shook with every step.
Coming across impoverished children playing tres, hopscotch, slipper throws, and bay khom, the old man would stop, reach over into the bandwagon and bring out several small plastic Jurassic-era dinosaurs. He squats, extends out his arm and opens up his palm for the children to take. For some reason, the kids never questioned it, and immediately snatched the toys away, fiddling with it. Kmean phnek stands and pulls his bandwagon into the distance.
He was never sighted again.
Regular broadcasts continuously bombarded citizens with the call for revolution and restructuring to build anew, to stray away from religion and enter the embrace of the man himself. Soon, scattered witness testimonies claim to have heard rumors of a "strange old man" spreading among the soldiers. More civilians began to disappear in a blink of an eye.
Following the months before the collapse of Democratic Kampuchea in 1979, the regime spread rumors of "hidden reactionary forces within the people", and prompted Cambodians to "destroy the enemy before they can even stand back up."
Several sources across the region sighted kmean phnek in his last observed attire, still trodding along with his bandwagon. He would hand out small unbranded plastic boxes, each with a plastic toy soldier inside, a rare item to find at the time. The children would excitedly pounce upon them and try to take it for themselves, leading to a disastrous tug of war that would send the toy soldier's limbs flying.
I wouldn't know since I wasn't there when it happened, and it's most probable that the toy soldiers don't exist anymore by now. But, there is a small, but growing superstition within the local populace that just maybe, one would be able to find it, somewhere. But the old man would never be seen for decades to come. Some say the kmean phnek gave up on them, just like one of those neak ta3 who were sold over to the fortunes of the regime's elitists.
Some even say that a white fog periodically forms on the surface of the plastic casing, directly above the toy soldier's mouth. And I don't yet know where my parents are right now.

Footnotes
1. "Grandfather" in Khmer, FYI.
2. "No-eyes" in Khmer.
3. For clarity, guardian spirits of nature.


Edgar opened the door with a sigh. His office was dimly lit by the lights from the buildings outside. It was enough. He walked over to his desk, taking a seat with another sigh; it had been a long day, after all. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, not caring about the rules regarding smoking inside the building.
"Fucking cocksuckers," he whispered as he opened a folder to scribble down some data. Nearly five hundred disappearances with no culprit in sight. None besides him, because it would be on his shoulders where the blame would fall if his superiors saw no progress with the investigation. "There aren't even any clues, how the fuck do they expect me to have it done by the end of the week?"
He leaned against the back of his seat, frustrated. His mind was blank, but at the same time it was a maze of ideas, like a forest on a snowy day. He was trying to find his way, he knew there was a way, but the only thing in the distance was a curtain of snowflakes.
He turned to the window, trying to see things differently. Cars were passing by, people were moving forward. A quiet night, he had to admit. But somewhere out there, in an alley, in an apartment, even in a sewer, was the the thing or the man he was looking for.
Edgar decided he wasn't going to get anywhere sitting in his office.
— - —
Henry's room was pitch black. It didn't matter. He groped his way to his bed, where he layed down with a grunt. Things were getting complicated; his game was slowly closing down. He was aware that he couldn't keep it up any longer, but he had to try. With some remorse, he got up again, bent down to look under the bed, and the darkness returned his gaze.
He reached out to pull out a small cardboard box; the recording where he watched a couple disappear into thin air. It was the only existing proof of the disappearances. With that, the UIU would have taken a different course of action. It would have assigned some specialized agent, it would have started using some kind of technology to be able to search for this thing.
Henry pulled it out, held it in his hands for a brief moment, and dropped it on the floor. He stomped on it several times, until he was sure it could never be reproduced again.
He took a black plastic bag, put the pieces inside, and went out to find a public trash can that could not incriminate him. If they didn't solve the case, they would remain as the same useless organization they had always been, and that was what he needed most at that moment.
— - —
"Boss? What are you doing here at this hour?"
"Agent Edgar? You should be solving the case of the disappearances, not taking damn late-night walks."
"I'm trying to refresh my mind. Besides, you didn't answer my question."
"I don't have to answer anything. You mind your own business and I'll mind mine."
"What's in your bag?"
"None of your concern, Agent, but if it's so important to you, know that I'm throwing out the garbage I've collected during the week."
"At this hour? Wasn't it better to do it in the morning?"
"And what's with this interrogation, Agent? You think I'm carrying a body in the bag. Go ahead, check it yourself."
"No… no. I believe you, boss. It's just… these days you can't trust anyone anymore. You remember what happened on Tuesday, don't you? When Rogers got caught taking a bribe. I used to think he was a loyal agent…"
"You're right not to trust anyone. The world is a shithole, and the whole UIU is full of shitty people. They hide like rats, watching from the shadows, interfering with operations whenever they can. Now, if you excuse me, I must be on my way, and you on your investigation."
"Of course. Good night, boss."
"Good night."
They walked away from each other. After a few steps, Henry cursed to himself. Edgar would claim to have found him in the middle of the night. He would need to get even further away from the area before throwing away the evidence.
"We'll see what comes of this case, Agent Edgar. Damn it, we'll see," he whispered, and continued on his path.


“Come now, Jessica,” the angel murmured into the girl's ear. “Get off your phone and go to sleep! You have school in the morning. Doesn't it feel so much better to be fully-rested during your studies?”
“Fuck that shit,” his counterpart hissed into the other ear. “C'mon, keep scrolling! Who cares if you'll feel nice tomorrow? This feels good now!”
The diminutive pair was plunged into darkness as Jessica put her phone to sleep. The young girl set her phone on her bedstand and rolled over, narrowly missing the little demon.
“Shit!” The demon tugged her foot out from under Jessica's cheek. “Oh, well. You talk a good game, y'know.”
“Thank you. I do my best.” The angel smiled beatifically. It wasn't a brag. Bragging was a show of pride and therefore sinful.
Now that their charge was asleep, the two of them had a free moment. They couldn't go very far, of course, in case Jessica woke up and needed some guidance. But beings in their line of work knew how to make the most of any free time they had. The demon pulled out a battered carton of hair-filter cigarettes, while the angel was suddenly holding a slim book of sudoku puzzles and a fountain pen.
For a long moment, there was no sound besides the exhale of acrid smoke and the scratch of the pen.
“Hey, Preachy.” The demon tapped her cigarette on Jessica's cheek, leaving a smudge of ash. There would be a rather painful pimple there in the morning. “I'm gonna ask you a question, alright?”
“My name is Raguel, actually,” the angel replied, his eyes not leaving his sudoku. “And please feel free. Though I get the feeling that you weren't asking my permission.”
“I wasn't, obviously.” The demon took another drag of her cigarette. The tip glowed a deep, nasty red. “So, look. I've been doing this a while. Since back in '76 when the Wanna-Be Jailors shut down the crossroads trade.”
“Mmhmm.”
“So I've dealt with a lot of your type. Snooty, prissy, upstairs bastards.”
“How flattering.” A rare touch of sarcasm. The angel jotted down the last number in a puzzle and turned the page.
“Well, okay.” The demon was having a difficult time articulating herself. It was as rare an occurrence as angelic sarcasm. “What I mean is, most angels on the shoulder beat don't really like my kind. And they don't hide it, either.”
“Can you blame them?”
“I mean, yeah,” she said, brow furrowed. “Of course I can. But you're the first one I've met who doesn't glare at me like I killed your dog.”
“We don't have dogs.”
“You know what I fucking mean.”
The angel laughed. It was, as expected, a beautiful sound. He closed his puzzle book gently. “Well, I suppose I have a certain amount of respect for what you do.”
The demon snorted. “Yeah, pull the other one. It's circumcised.”
“No, I'm serious. I'm cognizant of the role you and your comrades play.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.” The angel gracefully bounded up to the top of Jessica's head. He sat down facing the demon, neatly crossing his legs. “A few years ago, I had the odd luck to be assigned to a young lady with a rather unique birthmark on her left shoulder.”
“Super interesting start,” the demon said, her eyes lazily following the trail of her own cigarette smoke. No point in giving the angel the satisfaction of knowing that she was paying attention. “Love a good birthmark.”
“You wouldn't have loved this one,” the angel replied. “It was in the precise shape of an Akkadian Shamash solar sigil.” The demon's instinctive hiss did not phase him. “None of your kind could step foot on her shoulder without a scream and the distinctive scent of burnt hooves.”
“First off, we don't all have hooves.” The demon was especially proud of her own taloned feet. “Second off, there's no way that was the end of it. Basement HQ just let you have this girl's ear?”
“They didn't have much of a choice.”
“Oh, you must've loved that.” It was pissing her off just to think about it. The demon took another long drag of her cigarette.
“I certainly did. I helped her become a blessing to those around her. She was immaculate.” The angel's face was more unreadable than usual. “And then she was killed by a subway train while retrieving a lost wallet that had fallen on the tracks.”
“Oh. Huh.” The demon turned back to look at the angel. “No survival instinct?”
“Not enough of one, anyway. Love of the self is a gentle sort of sin.” He opened his book of puzzles once more. “I think…”
A moment of silence. The scratch of the pen.
“I think,” the angel said slowly, “that hating you and your kind for corrupting humanity is hypocritical, in a sense. After all, I certainly corrupted that young woman. Her feet had left the ground years before the train hit her.”
He turned to the demon, who was uncharacteristically lost for words. “I can't stop, of course, and let you have your way here. A demon allowed to run amok on an innocent psyche has historically been a dangerous phenomenon. But I cannot hate you for something that I am guilty of myself.”
The demon sighed and tossed the butt of her cigarette into her mouth, chewing thoughtfully. She grinned. “I get why you feel that, but you're missing the really rad part of what we're doing here.”
The angel raised a perfect eyebrow. “Rad?”
“Well, yeah.” The demon nudged Jessica's sleeping face with her foot, making sure not to nick her with a talon. “We've being going at Jessie for, what, a day?”
“Twenty-six hours and thirty minutes.”
“Yeah, a day. So far, sometimes she listens to me and does cool shit, and sometimes she listens to you and does boring shit. Right?”
“I can't say I see where you're going with this,” the angel said.
“Well, I don't think she really listens to us at all, you know?” She absent-mindedly brushed a strand of hair away from Jessica's face. “I try to corrupt her one way, you try to corrupt her the other, and it all just squashes together into noise. And that noise sinks in, and then she makes her own choices.”
“Hmm.” The angel thought about that for a moment. “That sounds very silly. If we extrapolate globally, you're implying that the ongoing war between Heaven and Hell is largely ignored by its subjects.”
“I mean, yeah, it sounds silly when you put it like that.” The demon's gaze dropped as she fumbled for another cigarette. “But it's still nice to think about sometimes, y'know? As if all our fighting lets the soul-pawns do their own thing for once.”
“Yes. As I said, hmm.”
They fell silent then. They each focused on the slow rhythm of Jessica's breath. The only light left in the room was the icy glint of the angel's halo and the deep glow of the demon's cigarette.
“It's Dicky, by the way.”
“Hmm?”
“My name is Dicky. Short for Adikia. Since you asked,” the demon said. Demonic sarcasm was considerably more common than its angelic equivalent.
“A pleasure to meet you, Adikia.” The angel smiled and extended its hand. The demon reached up and shook it before pulling back and plopping down onto the pillow.
The two of them fell silent once more, their minds turning back to familiar threads. Raguel considered how he could instill a sense of civil duty. Dicky plotted to add a seed of rebellion. And, below the angel and beside the demon, Jessica's head was filled to the brim with a deliciously human dream.


by Ethagon

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I am Hannah Wild, the current project head for this anomaly." She held out her hand in greeting.
The researcher from the Central Memetics Department didn't shake it. "This is completely pointless. I have far more important things to do than to care for some wannabe K-Class."
Hannah looked at him with bewildered eyes. "You don't even know what we're facing yet."
The researcher shook his head. "Of course I know, what you're wasting your time with. It's just concept NOO-666073."
"Noo-what?"
"The Fafnir-meme, or to be more precise an aspect of it. There was a time where it turned people into dragons. Now it just makes you eat your friends if they say That's mine now."
Hannah instinctively took a few steps back. "Did- did you just utter the cognitohazard we're researching to me, as in, to the project lead?"
The researcher shrugged. "What of it. I'm not your friend. Besides this is all overblown anyway. The actual cognitohazard could have only been originated through the phrase plus various circumstances unique to the situation where it happened. Nothing worth our time."
"Then why did you 'waste your time' even coming here?"
The response came in the most possible formal tone: "The Central Memetics Department regrets to inform Hannah Wild that unfortunately our department's time and researches are stretched too thin to support your project." And with that, the researcher turned to the exit.
Before he could leave another voice spoke up: "And you couldn't have done that by mail?"
Both turned around and saw a woman who had seemed to escape their eyes.
"The Name is Jane Smithy. I'm here from the Counterconceptual Department. Happy to help."
The memetics representative had lost interest in leaving. "Counterconceptual?"
"Surely you know what a counterconcept is."
"Of course I do! But I don't recall the need or conception of a whole department for it."
"Working as intended."
Hannah interrupted: "What exactly is a counterconcept now?"
The researcher did not turn to her. "The negative of a concept. Let a concept and its counterconcept meet in the same mind and neither remains. You forget both."
"Making the complete process antimemetic," closed Jane. "I thought you wanted to leave."
The eyes of the memetics representative glared at her. "Maybe the Central Memetics Department can salvage some time."

A few days later at their next meeting, the researcher from memetics was wearing a golden watch. Hannah immediately noticed as this was somehow the only thing about the researcher she could focus on. The person attached to the watch grinned. "Do you like the effect? Something we cooked together for the Disinformation Bureau."
"Is that what Memetics spends its valuable time on?" This was Jane Smithy, from the Counterconceptual department as Hannah had learned today.
"Disinformation can only be worlds more important than what Counterconceptual is doing."
Jane's face turned even more formal than before. "How are you able to remember me?"
The researcher with the golden watch grinned again. "It's called a thought chain. I may not remember you, but I put a concept in my head, that leads me directly to the conclusion of your existence if I think about it. Basic memetic knowledge."
Jane didn't answer.
They all took their seats as Hannah presented the recent findings. "So we discovered, that the phase has its effect only when certain conditions are met. That does give us a lot more room to narrow down the probability of its effect occurring. It also seems restricted to this city."
"Well, I did tell you as much," the golden watch remarked before turning to Jane. "Why does your department hide its presence?"
"None of your business."
Hannah cleared her throat. "We need to discuss how we are going to prevent any return of the effect."
The golden watch waved it off. "Just construct a meme, that makes you feel disgusted towards saying That's mine now. Drop it on someone in the populace. They'll spread it among themselves."
"I fear this approach is too blunt. It will definitely be noticed by civilians." Jane pointed out. "Now that we know the specifics, we could create the corresponding counterconcept to make people forget the phrase, b-"
"What the hell does your department do all day if you don't even know how counterconcepts behave? People don't understand counterconcepts. They're not natural. And people can't transfer something they don't understand to other people, which is the whole point."
"They are antimemetic, yes. I would have mentioned this problem had you not interrupted."
Hannah brooded, while the golden watch continued to argue against a now unresponsive Jane Smithy. "So if the problem is that we can't transfer the Counterconcepts themselves, couldn't we do it over the thought chain you mentioned earlier? That should behave like a normal meme, correct?"
The golden watch smiled. "Would you look at that? Something useful comes of Counterconcepts if you add a pinch of normal memetics."

"And I believe we were able to neutralize the phenomenon." Hannah put on her corporate smile. "Thank you both for participating in this project."
"Yeah, whatever." It didn't seem like Goldwatch had listened. "Fafnir will resurface under a different aspect in a few years anyway. Old concepts die hard. Let's move on to more important matters."
Goldwatch turned to Hannah Wild and said: "█████████████████████"
Hannah fell to the ground.
Jane looked at Goldwatch with an expression of shock before she collected herself again. "You won't get away with this. The cameras see everything."
"Sure, you can send a complaint to the Memetics Department. I'm sure they'll look into it."
"Why did you do this?"
"Simply so I can talk freely from one memetic resistant to another. You see it does not suit the Foundation to have more than one department concerning itself with the memetic discipline. Even parts of it. Fortunately for you, my boss agreed to assimilation instead of termination of your department. So it seems we'll have the pleasure to continue working together."
"That's nothing you can just decide. A decision like this would need to be sanctioned by the O5 Council."
"And how many Overseers do you think held once the position of Memetics Department Director? The Council can not afford to anger us. The only reason this hasn't happened is because you were hiding from us."
Jane allowed herself a small smile. "So you did work out why we were concealing us. Unfortunately for you I also worked something out."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I know the concept your thought chain builds on."
And before Goldwatch could register the implications, Jane said: "█████████████████████"
Now with how many researchers was this thought chain shared with? Jane left the room in thought. Seems like I'll have to make use of this counterconcept a bit longer.

"Oh, Hannah how was your last project."
"I mean I can't complain about the results, but one of the researchers working with left a lot to be desired. At least I got along with…No it was pretty exhausting, actually."
"Was that researcher from memetics?"
"Yeah…seemed really unfocused. I don't think there was ever any interest in the project. Apparently, the rest of Memetics didn't actually want to help the project, which is strange, since they all agreed at the start."
"I wouldn't worry too much about it. Just try not to get on the wrong foot with them, you'll never know what the Central Memetics Department might do in return."


I wake up. I get out of bed. I look at the clock. I drink water. I brush my teeth.

Going through the motions, time pushes and pulls through them. I shouldn't be surprised, it's always like this. Time catches up with me, but it's after the monotonous drive to the site. Nothing I do really feels like me though. I'm not doing it, but I clearly am. The longer I think, the longer I realize how long it's been like this. Going through the motions, none of it being me.

It's you.

Everything feels so foreign to me. The hallways I absentmindedly walk, the office I work in, the SCP I'm researching. Nothing feels right, but… it is? Maybe it's just a bad day, or the aftereffects of a particular experiment. There's a clawing at my mind, but it's dull. A pounding on my chest.

I sigh. I research. I move. I research.

My mind is blank, it never used to be. I didn't do much work, and I wasn't really able to say much. My co-workers pick up on it. I chalk it up to a lower energy day and try to move past the fog in my brain. Quotas may be missed…

They all know.

I move. I breathe. I close my eyes. I keep working.

A scream came from me, twisting my insides and scraping my throat. It terrified those around me as all I got were distant stares. I feel sick, bile rising in my throat. I shove it off, trying to finish anything today. Voices nip at my mind, gnawing at it and trying to break it.
I wasn't where I thought I was. I'm not here. Site-37 never existed. Nothing existed. Time is being taken from me. It was Friday, now it's Thursday. I need to get out of here. I need to save everyone. I need to fix everything.

I get up. I run. I claw. I scrape.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough.

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.

I push. I pull. I grab. I bleed.

Help me.

This isn't me. This isn't who I am. I'm in a trap. I'm stuck. I'm not controlling me. This is someone else.

I'm you.

I rip. I grab. I tear. I scream.

No. No. No.
None of this is me. You aren't me. You wish you were me. You're not. You're not. Leave me alone.

Trust me.

I push against the wall. I claw at it. I need to break it. Hurt it.

Break down this body.
Take what's mine.
I rip at it. Pull it apart.
I need it.
They waste.
It's mine. It's rightfully mine.
I'm you.
We're one and the same.
Stop fighting. It's over soon.
I promise it hurts less.
Trust me.
You'll be free.

No I won't…