Patrick slipped through the streets of London like a forgotten memory. Young, handsome, and free (for the moment) of both limb and responsibility, he strolled the evening-lit byways of the city with the ambling grace of a man who has nothing at all to lose. His life before this morning seemed like something of a murky memory, like a poor daytime drama. Nearly everything gone, and so quickly, and so totally…he felt he should be looking for a place to drown himself, but there was such an airy sense of freedom in his heart. Perhaps ride the cloud until it finally dumped him into the river, or a bullet. No need to rush, however, plenty of time, yet.
The city seemed to have reordered itself to better feed his giddy, masochistic high. Twilight lingered in the sky like a smear, a deep, low fog curling and slithering through the streets like a living thing. The damp and the cold seemed to be keeping people inside as well, the few figures shuffling through the fog little more them dark ghosts. This was old London. The London of Sweeny Todd, Dr. Jekyll, of Jack the Ripper and penny dreadfuls…Patrick smiled, wondering if perhaps the fates would favor his recently ex beloved with a visit to the barber, or good doctor…perhaps too much to hope for. However, as he slipped down a side street into a gloomy alley still clad with cobblestone, high row houses clustering overhead as if trying to peer at his face, he couldn't put it totally outside the realm of possibility.
The pub announced itself shortly after he entered the tiny sidestreet, a dingy, faded sign proclaiming it “The Night's Shade” with ivy-latticed block script. The door was scuffed and dull, the tiny windows clad with warped glass, too coated with nicotine and despair to let more than outlined shadows through. The wood was dark and scummy, the stone steps bowed with generations of drunks. Patrick could feel the place pull with the same nauseating allure of a high cliff. This place was an elephant graveyard of drunks, the final home for those who seemed too broken to truly die. He admired his turn of phrase as he pushed open the groaning door. That same poet's heart his grandmother had lauded had likely earned him that final “failure to perform to expectation” review as well. Well, as The Bard should have said: “Fuck'em.”
The inside went sublimely beyond even his lowest expectations. Dark, fly-spotted lighting. Grimy posters and black-streaked paneling. A formica bartop, stained to a murky nicotine gold, scratched and chipped. Split and patched chairs, leaking foam like pus. The radio warbled sounds that could only be called music by the most tone-deaf. The barman looked to be an impostor, obviously a well-fed boar who had managed to balance on his rear trotters, put on overfilled flesh toned gloves, popped a hearing aid into one ear, and wobbled out mere hours ahead of slaughter. The sole patron was a balding, sallow old crow, wearing a thick, shabby fur coat, the knobby hands holding a half-dead pint with a drunk's shivering tenderness. Judging by the empty glasses, he was already well on the way. Patrick couldn't think of a better place to drink oneself into oblivion. His suicidal bliss was nearly shattered as the old man turned, and favored him with a long, jagged, yellow-toothed smile.
“Ahh, Patrick Franklin, good lord. Never trust a man with two first names, eh? Must be why people like me so much, I've neither. Well don't stand there like some prized castrato waiting for a pat on the head, sit down, you sodding bastard.”
Patrick blinked several times, sitting on the next barstool like a sleepwalker. He had never met this man in his life. As he watched the elderly man produce, light, and drag a deep pull from a cigar in a single motion, letting the smoke curl from his long, sharp nose, Patrick was damned sure he'd remember whoever this was, if he had.
“I'm not sure-”
“No, I'm sure you're not, which is why you're here, but you've picked the worst bleeding time you could have. Oh don't make that damned face, you come by it honestly, you damned Franklin's always jumping the rotting gun. Doesn't mean I have to like it. Bah, bleeding tosspots, all…”
The old man's bizarre rambling trailed off as he took another drink, Patrick looking to the bartender, seeking some sort of aid, or at least acknowledgment. The jowly face wobbled in time with the tinny music of the radio, the tiny, pinched eyes seeming absorbed with cleaning various glasses. He didn't look to even be aware of the two. Patrick finally had a drop of real concern penetrate the dense filter of his joyful nihilism. Nobody knew where he was…hell, he didn't even know where he was. If something were to happen, this place was so isolated…his smile was still wide, but there was a growing ember of worry behind it.
The old buzzard seemed to scent it, and grinned that death's head smile after dragging on his vile cigar again, letting the smoke ooze between his gapped teeth.
“Oh don't be that way, lad. If something was going to happen to you today, it'd have been back around lunch when you popped off at that darling little strumpet of a boss. What was it you called her…oh! That's right, 'stupid bitch of a whore, who wouldn't be here if daddy didn't hand you the job'. A classic, that. More right then you know, even, you know she likes it up the rear? Makes that pup of a boy who trails along behind her wear ear binders and calls him daddy while he does the job. Bleeding idiocy, I swear.”
“H-how did you-”
“Know? It doesn't matter, but I can see that's not enough. I know everything, love, at least everything that might be worth knowing. Might forget the odd empire here and there, but the important things, that I keep. Birthdays, who killed who, favorite sweets, the important things. How? Now that really doesn't matter. I do, that's enough. Fish swim, birds fly, rabbits fuck, I know things, there you are.”
He held open his hands expansively, eyebrows raised as if he'd provided some sort of gift or magic trick. Patrick was starting to reel. The man knew, somehow. He'd known as if it was a foregone conclusion. It didn't make any sense, and he should have been more scared, or upset, but it felt more like a dream then anything else. That sludgy feeling of unreality and open acceptance of the bizarre seemed to be acting as a buffer. He knew he needed to get a handle on this somehow, and seized the chance as the old man took another drink.
“N-now listen, this has gone far enough! What…who the hell are you, and why do you know this? Have you been following me?”
The old man slumped, dropping his glass back to the counter with a weary thump. That cadaverous head turned, and glared at Patrick. The young man suddenly realized he had no idea what color the man's eyes were. They didn't seem to shift, but the color was something he couldn't place. A suppressed shiver squirmed through his back.
“You lower your voice when you speak to me, lad. I've shat better men then you. You lose your tongue with me again, and I'll drill through your teeth and have your tongue sewn to them to make sure you keep track. Follow me?”
He said it with the mild reprimand of a man admonishing a child for playing with the wrong toy. Normally, Patrick would have laughed. The old man's stare, however, filled him with a horrible certainty. He'd do it. Lord help him, he had a sickly suspicion he'd done it before.
“…I'm sorry.”
“Oh stuff it, you're not sorry, you're scared. No point to it…the sorry, not the fear, that's valid. Never be sorry for being human, love, never. Our passions make us, drive us, the only ones who bring shame to it are those who don't understand. Soulless bleeding cattle…”
“Ahh…but…who are you, if I may ask. Sir.”
The old man laughed, a snorting bark that sent smoke spewing from his face, a knobby hand slapping the bar as he chortled.
“Oh, oh, the sirs now, the politeness! Such a good lad you are, most stay snippy for a bit, have to gentle them down, parlor tricks and that rot. Good to see a few sons of the Empire still wafting about. Who, that's infinitely dull. A rotting soul, born to die, stumbling about like idiot, like everyone else. What I am, that's much better. I'm a businessman, Patrick. Now you tell me, what's a businessman?”
He looked at the young man expectantly. Patrick looked about briefly, waving his hands as he struggled for a reply. The conversation was like trying to ride a spooked horse.
“Someone…who does business?”
The old buzzard laughed again, slamming a fist on the bar. The barman nodded absently, his monotone bobbing seeming to condone the action.
“There it is! That's it boy, that! A man who does business. What business? What the fucking hell does it matter? It's business isn't it? Today a shopkeep, tomorrow a banker. Lord, con man, slaver, foreman, it doesn't bleeding matter, it's all business. That's what I am lad, a businessman. I do a lot of it, in a lot of places, for a lot of people and lots of things. Whole world runs on it, don't you know?”
“But…how do you know me? How did you know about…today? I don't…I don't understand. I'm not even sure why I'm here…”
“Ahh, there we come to it. I could tell you, and it wouldn't mean a thing. I know because I do. You're here because you're supposed to be. I'm here to help you, love. At least I would normally. Been an off day, you know. Happens to us all, I suppose, turn down the wrong corner of the heart and suddenly you're noticing the wrinkles on your favorite whore. Terrible thing for a businessman.”
The man finished his glass, ordering a pint of bitters from the barman, who pulled the glass and provided without breaking his rhythm or providing even the slightest hint of understanding. Patrick finally gripped at least something of a handle on the conversation. This was an old man moaning into his drink. The rest was madness, but that at least he could follow. At least somewhat.
“Wait, you said you were here to help me?”
“I said I would normally help you. Supposed to help you, truthfully. Not feeling it today, though, off my game and all that. Gah, but it's galling. Get it all, see men tremble, repulse ladies across the globe, boil your enemies alive in vats of molten shit, and one little black thought can trip you up. Enough to make you want to run away. Had a half-brother, did that. Ran all the way to America, joined the circus, can you believe it. Lots of good businessmen out that way, lad, make no mistake. The kind that lick up pain and find it sweet. Not a ounce of class between them, but vigorous.”
Patrick blinked, watching the man mumble into his glass, taking another deep drink. He felt like he'd stepped into some storybook, and not a very good one. He considered getting a drink himself, but had the powerful feeling that if he did, the whole situation would get even less real. Instead he leaned forward, catching the older man's gaze and holding it with minimal struggle.
“Sir, I don't understand anything you're saying. Business and…all this, I'm not following. Now, I get that somehow you know me, but…I'm just not seeing the point here. The big picture.”
The man put down his glass, and sighed. He nodded slowly, looking back to stare at the bartop.
“And that's it, isn't it. Trying to find the edges of the puzzle, get it all to fit. That's what I'll tell you, lad. It won't help. There's no end to it. There's no one truth, no one…anything. Just more and more. You get chasing it, and it's the worst kind of addiction. You learn to use it, harness it maybe, and it'll help…but eventually you end up on top of a heap of everything you wanted, and it doesn't show you a goddamn thing. Doesn't fill or help or anything. Just more cozy, pretty chains.”
Patrick shook his head. Yep, an old drunk, moaning away. Put aside all the insanity, and that seemed to be the core of it. Still, he was interesting. Probably some nutter who used to run something, until he got too old to keep up. Sad, but none too rare.
“Sir, I'm not looking to rule the world. I just want to be happy. Seems enough of a struggle just to grab that. Like you said, you get to chasing…what?”
The old man was staring, a slow smile creeping across his face like a spreading stain.
“Just want to be happy? Job's blood, but I didn't know there were any left like you. Just say it out plain like that. Too many gussy it up, paint it like a slattern whore, instead of just get their hands down in the mud like that. Bored, angry, lustful, sure…but unhappy? Never hear that these days. Not much, anyway. Is that what you are, lad? If you are, say it, clear. Say it.”
Patrick pulled back involuntarily. The old man's eyes were alight, watery from the drink, sure, but there was a burning interest there that had been totally absent before. Like a cat hearing his favorite treat bag. That drop of concern started to spread.
“I…I don't know if…”
“Say it, lad. Say it if you mean it, and if you don't, you get the hell out of here.”
He stared, those odd eyes seeming to bore into him. Patrick could feel an odd weight in the air, the same pressure he'd felt when his parents had called him downstairs to talk about his father's illness. He knew somehow that this wasn't just idle conversation. Something was tied to this. Yet, he felt a certain reckless curiosity. He'd lost nearly everything…why not take a gamble?
“…I'm not happy, sir.”
He clapped his hands, cackling with glee as he rubbed his palms together. He started to rummage in his coat, and produced a small, flat leather pouch, quickly grabbing Patrick's hand and pressing it in. He quickly stood, and Patrick was a bit shocked at how short the man actually was. He was stronger then he seemed, too, as he started to all but drag Patrick out of the bar.
“There we are! Now, you take that and get the hell out of here. Going to be a lot to do…so long since we had anything really fresh, really new, you know? Hellfire, but I have the spark, lad, I do! What the hell is the point of filling a full cup? Why not fill the empty, yeah?”
“Wait, I don't…what is-”
“Oh shut up and don't fucking spoil this for me love, I don't like that at all. You take that, and you find where it goes. You find that, and maybe you find something that might make you happy, yeah? Going to be a trick, sure, but it's not like you have a lot to lose for trying, yeah?”
He laughed, clapped the young man on the shoulder, gave him an alchohol-sodden kiss on the cheek, and sent him tumbling out the door and into the street with a rather stinging swat on his ass. As Patrick collected himself after nearly slamming into the cobblestones, he could hear a thick lock being shot on the door, followed by a roaring shout.
“Hogwood, you filth, wake the fuck up and get the phone, get the board on the line. Yes, that goddamn phone, you overbloated homunculus of pork, what other one would we use?”
The roar trailed to muffled rumbles as the voice seemed to recede from the door, Patrick left staring as the lights suddenly went out behind the windows. He tried the door, found it locked, and shrugged. One more bit of madness to stack on an already mad day. Patrick sighed, and resumed walking through the foggy streets, wondering if maybe he'd hit his head, or taken something without knowing, and just dreamed the whole madness.

It was nearly an hour later, waiting for a bus, when he remembered the leather package. He fished it from his pocket, and found it was a rather nice sleeve, like the type that holds credit cards for posh gentlemen. It felt oddly heavy, and as he opened it, he quickly found out why. Inside was a small sheet of frosted glass, etched with tiny, complex patterns. It was the size of a business card, and seemed to be one, but it had no actual information. No addresses, no numbers or names. Just a image of a somewhat blank coat of arms, with the stylized outline of a bat, of all things.
A small banner along the bottom proclaimed the names Marshall, Carter, and Dark, Ltd.
Patrick stepped onto the bus, turning the glass card over and over. Something about it seemed to ring a bell. He almost thought he'd seen it before, some office meeting with new investors, but couldn't place it for the life of him. He kept puzzling over it as the bus pulled away.
On the street a short distance from the stop, a massive, heavyset man wrapped in several thick coats and scarves watched the bus with black, beady eyes under a low pulled knit hat. Pedestrians avoided him, dismissing him as homeless, crazy, or both. He grunted once, then turned, nearly bowling over a young lady as he joined the crush of foot traffic. It'd just be time now, just time. He was the type that needed to find things for himself. Rare, but not impossible.
Mr. Dark did know his clients, even before they knew they were.


Sloth's Pit, Wisconsin
Summer 1992
"I'm sorry, but what."
This was the near-universal reaction to the fact that Site-87 had been underfunded by exactly five thousand, four hundred and twenty-one dollars and ninety-two cents, and this deficit was increasing by the day. As it turned out, accounts and asset protections had failed to locate an entire family of Crimataphagi- money-eaters- that had been feeding off of the liquid assets that kept Site-87 afloat. They had managed to dispose of most of them with toxic assets in the real estate market, but enough were around that they were a drain on the containment budget.
So it came to be that three members of Site-87's administrative staff found themselves locked in a conference room. First was Director Nina Weiss, who had just developed an entire lock of grey hair from stress in her first three years of being a director, which some of the newer staff commented made her look like an "annie-may" character; some Japanese thing.
With her was, essentially, her second-in-command, Dr. Tyler Bailey, head of the Department of Multi-Universal Affairs, a nebbish-looking man with dark hair who had a better sense of humor than most sitcoms. One pocket in his coat almost always held a flask of scotch, another his wallet with a picture of his triplets.
Also in the room was the head of accounting, Jerome Brisby, a shorter man who had a sense of humor similar to that of a Catholic who was forced to talk with the King of England circa 1529. He had a look on his face that would best be described by a phrase that would not be properly coined until over twenty years later: "I am so fucking done right now."
And then, of course, there was the representative from Site-19; as the administrative center when it came to budgeting, they had a say in this miniature crisis. Francis Wojciechoski sat in the corner, fiddling with a prescription bottle. He had nothing to do with finances, and essentially acted as a liaison between 87 and Director Moose at 19.
"How's Tilda doing, by the way?" Bailey's attempt to make small talk.
"Trying to stop rumors of the absurdities going on at 19 from spreading. Honestly, a researcher accidentally integrates himself with his pet dog, and people say all sorts of things." He tried twisting the pill cap, and watched as the entire bottle flew out of his hand. "Dammit."
Weiss picked up the bottle as it landed at her feet, and frowned at the name of the drug on it; she recognized it immediately. She helped develop it back in her parapharmacology days. It was a classified formula, and the pharmacy he had gotten it from hadn't bothered to redact or hide the name. She sighed, and walked over to Francis, undoing the cap and handing him the bottle. "Do you need some water?"
"I have some," he said, producing a water bottle from underneath his chair, where one had not been just a moment ago, "Thank you."
Weiss looked at those assembled. "Brisby, how far into the red are we?"
"At this rate, it's going to approach twenty thousand dollars by the end of the week. We need some extra income to counteract it."
"We have some surplus lab equipment that we could hawk off to the school district—" Bailey started.
Brisby cleared his throat, a noise that sounded like it was coming from a sick toad. "They don't have a chemistry lab anymore at either Sloth Memorial or Sloth Senior. Remember?"
"Right, the Bunsen burners kept getting haunted. Still no word from the Horizon Initiative if we can get an exorcism in there?"
"No," Weiss sighed, sitting back in her chair. "We may just have to cut back on the salaries of the staff until we manage to terminate all of the crimataphagi. It's ugly, and they won't like it, but it has to be done."
Brisby took out a mechanical calculator and loaded it with a strip of paper. "Site-87 has… 421 employees currently, not counting civilian E-Class employed at the upper levels of the facility… containment specialists are given a salary of…" he trailed off into a long string of numbers that only people who eat white bread with a single swab of butter, drink bitter coffee with absolutely no cream, and chuckle at Garfield are interested in.
Soon, he came to a conclusion. "Financially, I agree that's the most sane course of action. Pragmatic, but ugly. Wojciechoski, can you see what your superiors think?"
The three of them turned, and saw Francis Wojciechoski had vanished. "…where'd he go?" Bailey asked. "Director, what was that medication he had?"
"…a hybrid antipsychotic and retroviral supplement meant to counteract and suppress abilities consistent with Type-Green entities. Upon ingestion, the symptoms have a possibility to manifest." She put her head in her hands. "Goddammit."
Brisby and Bailey both looked horrified. "You're telling me that 19 employs reality benders?" Brisby said.
"Yes."
Bailey's and Brisby's hand both met their foreheads in synchronicity, accompanied by loud slaps that made a researcher passing by the room wonder if they had dropped something behind them.
"…how many of the rumors of 19 are true?" Bailey groaned.
"I'm not even cleared to know that. Come on," she sighed, standing up. "We have to notify Sigma-10 to contain him before he does something really stupid."
"Like what?"

Meanwhile, outside the site, a man whose name could only be pronounced as a series of music notes had willed a sign into existence.

FIRST (AND HOPEFULLY ONLY) ANNUAL
S & C PLASTICS BENEFIT BAKE SALE
WE CAN'T AFFORD TO FEED OUR OWN EMPLOYEES.
WE'RE FEEDING YOU SO YOU CAN FEED US.

Along with this sign, he had summoned a dozen pans of various types of brownie, cookie, cookie brownie, cake, cupcake, miniature cupcake, miniature cupcake inside of a cupcake, strudel, danish, and potato salad. He didn't know where the potato salad came from; it always seemed to somehow show up at bake sales, even if nobody wanted it. Now all that was needed was-
"FRANCIS!"
"Right on cue," he grinned, turning to face Nina Weiss who stormed out of the site, on a warpath, flanked on all sides by members of Sigma-10 in tactical gear. He noticed about half a dozen snipers appearing on the rooftops surrounding the site as well, and felt the lasers on his skin. He just shrugged, and all the guns jammed at once. "Ah, hello director. Try the cookie brownies."
Nina's eye twitched. She'd requisitioned Scranton Devices for literally almost this exact reason, but order had been delayed for almost a year now, and they now had a goddamn Type-Green trying to sell something as abominable as cookie-brownies. It was a sin worthy of a chain pizza restaurant. "What are you thinking?!"
"I'm trying to help! The facility's in the red, so I'm holding a bake sale."
"We're a worldwide scientific NGO, not the Sandusky, Ohio PTA! This could constitute a massive breach of secrecy-"
"Director," he said, putting his hands together and sighing, "It's a Nexus. What's more, it's Sloth's Pit. It's the third-most active Nexus in the United States, falling behind only Daleport and Roadkill County, Oregon. Do you think people are going to question this? Now have. A. Brownie."
"Wojciechoski, you're a threat to the site, and right now, I trust you about as much as I trust the governor to not veto a bill that would cure cancer. I-" She blinked, and chewed on something that suddenly appeared in her mouth, before spitting it out. "Did you just teleport a brownie into my mouth?"
"He did it to me too," Bailey gagged, leaning on one of the tables to spit it out. "Brisby, I swear to god-"
"First thing I'm doing after this is resolved is fast-tracking the Scranton Device requisition order," Brisby assured, spitting out his own portion. "Fuck me." He smacked his lips and frowned. "…is that chocolate chip?"
"Yes, and you all owe me $5.00." Francis- or something very much like him- gave a rictus smile and opened his hand. "Don't be stingy. It's for the good of the site, after all."
"We're not giving you shit," Tyler growled as he took out this wallet and deposited $15.00 into Francis' hand. "What the- hey!"
"Wojciechoski," Weiss said, coming up to his face as he pocketed the cash, "You will stand down immediately, or I will personally put a bullet in your skull." As she said this, every member of Sigma-10 aimed their guns right at Wojciechoski's head.
"In front of all these people?"
"All what-" Weiss's eyes widened as she looked around her, and realized a good tenth of the town's populace had suddenly appeared there, and were browsing all the treats, except the potato salad. Nobody likes bake sale potato salad. "Stand down. Stand down!"
All of the task force lowered their weapons. Couldn't risk killing a townie.
"Calm down, they came here of their own volition." Wojciechoski rolled his eyes, which were suddenly concealed under a wide-brimmed hat. "I'm not a monster. And all of the food here is non-anomalous."
Weiss inhaled sharply through her nose, and her breath came back through her nostrils in something that could best be described as a muffled scream. "…if I hear one report of any sort of anomalous stomach flu or anything of the sort-"
"I have beryllium-lead bullets in my luggage." He tipped his hat, and twirled a ukulele in his hand. "Anyone up for some live entertainment?" The question was rhetorical, and he was already walking away.
"Wh- I-" a task force member— she thought that Ewell was his name, Nick Ewell— stared at her. "You're going to let him get away with it?!"
"He could literally punch us into last week. We don't have much choice." Weiss sighed, looking downcast. "Let's just hope that he doesn't get anyone weirder than him out here."
Brisby nodded, before his eyes went wide at something over Weiss's shoulder. "Would a giant four-eyed black cat qualify?"
"…I don't think cats have six legs," Bailey added. "Nor can they hold microphones."
Weiss felt her hair start to part with her scalp as she tugged at it. "God, the Council is going to have my ass. Hopefully their medication kicks in soon."

As the cat sang the last few notes of The Cure's Friday, I'm In Love, Bailey was offering Weiss some of his flask. "Take it," he said. "You're gonna need it."
"Do you work inebriated?" frowned Brisby. "You do realize that's grounds for termination?"
"He's right," Weiss affirmed, looking at the display with a slanted look as the cat began a rendition of an R.E.O. Speedwagon song, with the reality bender strumming ukulele alongside it. "Drink on your own time."
"It's ginger ale," Bailey rolled his eyes. "I know I feel sick to my stomach, and it's either this or baking soda mixed with water to settle it."
Weiss snatched the flask out of his hand and knocked it back, the sharp taste she could feel through her nose confirming that it was, in fact, ginger ale. She handed it back, wiping her mouth. "This is bizarre."
"I know."
"I'm going to call 19 and see if she can get a handler out here—"
"Here's a phone!"
The three professionals jumped backwards as Francis- or rather, the thing that looked like him- appeared, offering a red phone to them, with a cord that appeared to terminate underneath the hood of a car. "Feel free to call 19."
Weiss, unsure, took up the phone and began dialing the number, placing the phone on top of a table next to a plate of strudels. She began conversing with Director Moose, while Brisby just looked at not-Francis oddly. "So," he coughed. "Reality-bending can be treated with medication?"
"Indeed!" grinned the man with the ukulele. "It's a compound of fluorine, oxygen, carbon, and some selenium. Your dear director helped develop it. Oh, have a strudel."
Brisby instinctively spat, thinking that he had teleported another pastry into his mouth- only to find one being presented to him using the man's wrinkled right hand. He frowned, tilting his head. "Huh. The hell kind of strudel is that?"
"Cinnamon," he said. "That'll be three bucks."
"I've not even eaten it," Brisby frowned through a mouthful of strudel. He swallowed, his eyes widening. "That's pretty good. But can ya cut it out with this?"
"Oh, what harm did a little mind control ever do? Besides, if it tastes good, it tastes good." He held up three dollars between his fingers. "Let's see…" He produced a calculator from beneath his hat, and began punching numbers in. "What did you say the deficit was?"
"Approaching $20,000 by the end of the week."
"Well, so far, we've made almost 10k."
Brisby actually did spit out his strudel in surprise. "What."
"Yup."
"This sale has been up for an hour! How can you have made $10,000 during that time?"
"Dollars?" His nose wrinkled. "I'm speaking in terms of Yen. That's only about ninety bucks, but every little bit helps, yes?"
Brisby just gave him a mystified look. "You're insane."
"I'm a fucking reality bender! Of course I'm insane!" He grinned a grin that wrapped around his head, and opened his mouth to laugh, which displaced the top of his skull from the bottom half. "Oh calm down. No-one is going to get hurt. Except maybe by the potato salad." He leaned in, and whispered in a way that conspiracy theorists do when talking about whether or not Lee Harvey Oswald was secretly a lizard man who would go on to play Neil Armstrong in faking the moon landing, "There's a reason nobody is eating it."
"Which is?"
They were interrupted by the slamming of a receiver and a glare from Weiss. "I just spoke to Director Moose. You are to report back to Site-19 as soon as your medication takes effect. She has approved intravenous injection should the need arise."
The man just strummed a ukulele chord and rolled his eyes. "Fiiiiine. Try to give back to the community and this is the thanks I get? Tough crowd. What was I talking about?"
"The potato salad," Bailey cut in, handing Mr. Ukulele a twenty as he chowed down on a plate of brownies. Brisby and Weiss just stared at him. "What? It tastes good."
"Ah, right! Well, you see—"
"Hey, Alto!" called the four-eyed cat in a smooth baritone, "Come back on over here! I need some accompaniment for my singing, you know!"
"I'm coming!" He smirked a the three of them. "Sorry, duty calls." With that, he fled towards the giant quadrocular feline, and began strumming a rendition of Somewhere over the Rainbow.
"Call security," Weiss grimaced, one of her eyes contorting into a look of pure worry. "Tell them to quarantine the potato salad."

The potato salad was placed into the only Keter-certified containment unit in Site-87, and the entire staff felt like they had been had.
Francis— no, Clef was just having a sing-a-long and selling brownies, while their money was literally being sucked away by anomalous creatures. And the whole time, the potato salad grew more and more pungent in odor.
Weiss, Bailey and Brisby had all gone to the cell to watch through glass strong enough to withstand the force from an atomic blast, if not the heat. Within it, a D-Class was making their way over to the potato salad, and looking perplexed the whole time.
"You want me to what?"
"Have a sample of the salad," explained a researcher over the intercom. "Just eat a forkful or two."
"…'kay," the D-Class stepped forward and took up a plastic fork, noting that it could easily be made into a shiv should he want to escape. He probably wouldn't; he liked potato salad. He might just eat the whole thing, especially if it had cheese, which it looked like it did.
He dug his fork in.
Brought it to his mouth.
Chewed three times.
And spat it out. "What the fuck?!"
"What's wrong?" asked the intercom.
"That's not potato salad, it's got some kind of fish in it!" He looked at what he had spat out, seeing red meat- not naturally red, it looked like it had been cured. He took another forkful, and sniffed at it. "I think it's herring. Yeah, this- this is a buncha red herrings. Very funny, guys. Prank the prisoner. Can I go now?"
Before the sentence was finished, the entirety of Sigma-10 was scrambled out to the front gates of the site. Weiss drew her own pearl-handled revolver and loaded it with a single beryllium-lead slug.
Sigma-10 broke out of the site, surrounding Clef, the entirety of the guests at the bake sale, a large pile of non-consecutive bills, and at least a dozen dead crimataphagi— giant, bulbous organisms that resembled burlap sacks, mindless in intent. They all looked like they had been torn apart by a giant cat, who was gutting one of them and watching dollar bills and stock certificates flow out like blood from a gutted fish.
"I'm sorry, but what." Weiss stepped to the front of the task force. "CLEF!"
With a strum of a Ukulele, he popped into existence by her, grinning. "Had to distract you somehow. Couldn't very well have the crimataphagi eating your life's savings." He looked towards the pile of crimataphagi that had spilled their contents, and the giant four-eyed cat, who gave a wink (blink?) and ran off towards Blasted Woods. "That should cover everything."
Tyler Bailey rubbed his temples. "…please don't tell me this was your plan all along."
"Okay!" Clef turned away from Dr. Bailey, and looked at Jerome Brisby, saying in a loud, conspiratorial stage-whisper, "This was my plan all along. Don't tell Bailey."
Weiss, for her part, produced a syringe from her pocket, grabbed Clef by the shoulder, and jammed the needle into the largest vein she could find. The plunger went down, and a reality-restoring drug entered his bloodstream.
Francis Wojciechoski dropped his ukulele and hat, rubbing his shoulder and neck. "…couldn't you have done that earlier?"
Nina Weiss just tugged at her hair, finding another grey strand; it would match her ex-husband's eyes, soon. "Just go back to 19, Wojciechoski. Please. Before there's another incident."
"I swear I did not intend on this to happen." He slouched, removing the hat that had been placed on his head. "It just… I'll keep up with my medication more frequently from now on, I swear."
"Yes, sure. Fine." Weiss rubbed her temples. "Thank you for your services, but…"
"But what?" He frowned. "What did I really do? Try to have a little fun? Just because I'm me, you assume the worst, that I'm going to burn down the site, or take the town off the map. If one of your staff had the idea, you'd be laughing it up, but because I just happen to be a well-medicated Type-Green from 19, you assume the worst."
He shook his head and sighed. "But, whatever. I'll just be… heading back to 19, I guess. Do what you want with the food." He made his way to a car waiting for him in the parking lot. "The recipes are on the papers next to the pans of food."
As Wojciechoski's car began driving away, Brisby stood there, mystified. "…did we just get chewed out by Alto Clef?"
"Kinda makes you feel bad for him," Bailey frowned, as the task force members began returning into the building. "He'll probably be all right."
"There's a conference in Wichita in September. Career-training seminar." Weiss started back into the site. "I'll try talking to him there. His reality-bender seminar is usually entertaining."

Twenty-Three Years Later…
Nina Weiss wanted nothing more than to have time to herself. She had returned to Baltimore for a quiet night, and had decided to do what was usually reserved for college students and overworked mothers: Order Domino's.
The knock came at her door, and she looked outside, avoided all small-talk with the pimply delivery girl, gave her the payment with tip, and withdrew inside. She frowned as she realized she had ordered one pizza, but there were two boxes. She opened the smaller one, and found, on the inside lid, a note in sharpie:

Nina-
REVENGE IS MINE! (EVIL LAUGHTER)
-Clef

Nina looked in the box, and saw an unholy hybrid of a chocolate-chip cookie and a brownie within it. A sin worthy of a chain pizza restaurant.
Despite all appearances, it went well with plain cheese.


I can taste the sun.
There are no words to describe it. Not because it is beautiful or grand, but because no language has ever had a need to name it. Wherever the light touches my bare skin it feels like someone pouring heat into my veins.
They come every day and pour water and dirt down my throat. I vomit the dirt up again after a few hours but that doesn't bother them.
That I can deal with. But it's the expressions that get to me. Unflinching. Their lips pulled into gentle smiles and kindness in their eyes. I scream and struggle, try to bite them and yet they keep on smiling. They stroke my hair as if I was child waking up from a nightmare.
Jakob comes by every day. He sits on the ground and talks of little Kadri, of the rest of the island and their idyllic lives. I feel no more empathy or friendship towards him. He bears the same smile and kindness as the others. Once a man as stubborn as a mule, his lips now speak the same slithering words as the rest of them. Perhaps if he didn't look like that he could persuade me and make me lose myself.
I'm sweating red. At first, I thought it was blood but soon realized that there was no smell of iron and the fluid flowed as easy as water. My skin is beginning to show patches of green. Every time they come to me with their sweet voices and calming words I feel a niggling desire in the back of my head to give in. To surrender my will and allow their kindness to swallow me, never to let me go.
The ropes should be digging into my flesh and yet I feel no pain.
It's raining, pouring. A torrential downpour pelts me with cold water, my mind becomes sharp and focused. As if a haze has been lifted from my thoughts. Air feels like it should and I gasp for it.
The last weeks unfurl before me in perfect clarity. Every moment, mistake and action. I allow the memories to wash over me.
***
The boat hums beneath me as I arrive at the dock. No tourists this time, only supplies. Some gas, a few tools, a rather small box of food and two bags of fertilizer.
Kalev helps me load it all. He makes conversation. I tune him out and focus on the work. We're soon finished and say our goodbyes. I cast off, start the engine and leave the dock behind me. The wind hums as I ride across the calm sea. My radio blasts old songs across the waves.
After about twenty minutes the island is approaching quickly and I begin to slow down to maneuver through the few rocks that are scattered a bit off shore. I see Jakob standing on the dock with Kadri waving to me.
I smile.
I pull into the dock and step off my boat. Kadri runs up to me and reaches towards. I lift her up while she giggles. A feeling of disquiet rushes through my mind. The girl is green. A uniform light green. I look towards Jakob with a questioning gaze only to see that his skin matches hers. I put Kadri down and stroll towards my friend. We shake hands and I ask him about the situation.
He smiles. He says not to worry. I'll understand soon. The world goes dark.
I wake up tied to a post. They stand around me. Jakob, Kadri, Andrus and all the rest of them. I shout at them. They just smile at me. They rub something red on my skin.
Jakob stays behind as the other leave. He tells me that I should stay calm. I spit in his face. He smiles and leaves.
***
The downpour continues. I slacken and let my arms hold my weight. I feel the ropes slip against my skin. My mind flashes with a realization. The ropes are some sort of synthetic material. They don't soak up water in the rain, they just get slippery. I pour all my strength into trying to slip a hand out of the restraints. I don't know how long it takes, but finally, the rope gives in and a hand slips free.
I quickly untie myself and stumble forwards, only to fall face first into the mud. My legs don't obey me. So I crawl for what feels like an hour. When I think I'm far enough I crawl into the thick growths of juniper as deep as I can. I do not feel the needles. Amidst the thunder and darkness, my consciousness slips and the world with its horrors drops into nothingness for a few blissful hours.
I wake slowly, floating in a soft haze for minutes before the world come into focus. I'm still lying in the junipers, the densely packed needles and branches hide me from sight. A fact that I'm infinitely thankful for.
And not for no reason. I can hear them. They're shouting my name. The utter despair in their voices almost reaches me. Almost.
They're close. I hear the occasional bit of conversation. They're scared. Scared that I'll get off the island and turn their wretched little utopia inside out. I can't help but smile to myself. By God, if I make it off I'll make sure those predictions come true.
I lay still for at least an hour. Only by sheer luck or divine providence, I seem to have chosen the thickest patch of juniper. They pass by my hiding spot multiple times before they give up and leave. I keep hiding for another half hour.
I emerge slowly, looking everywhere and listening for even the slightest sound out of place. Soon I realize that while during the day I can definitely see better, I still have absolutely no idea about my location. I can't waste time so I pick a direction and walk.
Within ten minutes I'm on the edge of the forest. This isn't right. No way they would place me so near the shore. I look in the distance across the sea. This doesn't look like the shore of….
God damn it.
Of course, they didn't put me on the island itself. They put me here. A small islet off the northern shore of the island itself. The only way to it is either swimming or by a thin strip of land that isn't fully above the water in all places. And anyone going across it can be seen clear as day since nothing grows on the strip aside from the occasional shrub. I'm willing to bet that there's at least one of them sitting on the end of the strip with binoculars.
I orient myself based on the shoreline I'm seeing. I am now on the eastern edge of the islet and the island is south. After a few more minutes of walking through it, I can see the edge of the forest. I lay down on my stomach and crawl towards it. I position myself behind a bush and brush the leaves aside slightly.
I lay there for a while, scanning the shore. Then, finally, movement. There it is. While I see no binoculars, this one definitely is there to keep an eye out.
The options run through my head. Walking is out. They'll see me the moment I'm out of the trees.
Swimming? No. Too far. No telling how many more are lurking in the trees by the beach
Maybe during the night? If I'm lucky there'll be another storm and even if there won't, it'll be much harder to see me.
I move back into the forest. Judging by the sun I still have at least 7 hours of daylight left. I spend the time rubbing the still moist soil on my skin.
The night comes painfully slowly and brings a problem with it. A nearly full moon. My dirt camouflage can go get stuffed. The bare strip of land connecting the two islands will offer me no cover and the light will make a moving figure quite noticeable.
So swimming it is. I walk more towards the eastern part of the islet and slowly walk into the water, careful not to make a sound. I swim quietly, not raising my arms out of the water. I don't know how long it takes, but I can finally feel the seafloor. I spend a moment catching my breath. I'm quite a good swimmer but the distance did take a bit out of me.
I walk out of the water and look around. The moonlight turns the world into one of sharp contrasts. I can see the coast clearly for quite a bit. Nothing but rocks and shrubs. The forest is a wall of darkness, the moonlight reaching the ground only occasionally.
I head along the coast towards east. Another partially submerged land bridge connects the island to Saaremaa. All I need to do is get to it and this hell is over. I walk for a few minutes until light begins to flash in the forest. I swear internally and dive behind a large rock.
The sound of footsteps reaches me soon enough and begins moving closer and closer. Only one of them by the sound of it. A beam of light flashes around my hiding place and the footsteps move even closer. My hands are shaking, my entire body is like a compressed spring. A foot moves into my field of vision. And I spring towards the form.
I quickly wrap an arm around the neck. It's Terje. The daughter of Villem, the owner, and caretaker of the lighthouse. She's barely sixteen. I squeeze, allowing no air to pass between her lips to keep her from screaming. She struggles.
And keeps on struggling. She's not getting any oxygen, she's almost a child and yet she doesn't stop or even slow down. My thoughts race.
I strengthen my hold.
My other hand on her head.
Snap.
She goes limp.
I take the flashlight and turn it off, leaving only the moonlight to illuminate the world around me. I pull the body into a growth of juniper and arrange the branches so that nobody will find her for a while.
I fling the flashlight into the water and keep moving. I try not to think. To think would be to slow down. To slow down would be to feel guilt. I can do that later. Preferably never.
A walk that would have taken barely forty minutes otherwise now takes slightly more than an hour as I slowly sneak along the edge of the forest, trying to keep out of the light. The stone coast stops and a kilometer long stretch of reeds appears. I will have to go along the outer edge so nobody can hear me.
The seafloor is soft here and my progress is incredibly slow. I can see the eastern sky brightening.
Tick, tock the clock is almost up. Shouldn't have waited until dusk to move.
I'm through the muck and back on land. I turn left and begin walking to the land bridge. I come to the road, get off it as soon as possible and walk the rest of the way through the forest. I'm on the edge of the clearing when I see lights in the distance.
No. No. No!
They're on one of the islets that make up the land bridge. I'm cut off. There's no way I can get to my boat. I'll never make it before sunrise and there's no way it's unguarded.
I'm out of options. I can't move during the daytime. I can't swim that kind of distance. I'll have to wait until the next night. Maybe I can try to sneak by the ones on the connecting islets or try to fight them. Now I need somewhere to hide.
Going west would mean going right into their den. There are only two houses towards the east, however.
East it is. I cut in a straight line through the forest. My skin seems to be more resilient. The countless branches barely even bruise me.
Then I stumble upon a house.
It's nothing much, barely looks big enough for two rooms. A single window. But it shouldn't be here. I know the island quite well and I've met all who live on it. This house, I have never seen before.
I know it's a bad idea, but I'm taking my chances of being capable of overpowering whoever is inside. I doubt two people would live in a house this small. I move to the door and push on the handle. It's unlocked and opens without a single sound.
The interior is dark and my hand instinctively reaches for a light switch. Which it finds and turns on. I begin to feel unnerved. I can hear no generator and there were definitely no power lines connecting to the house.
It's quiet. I hate it. When I was outside there, I had a purpose and a goal. Now there is nothing and my mind roars with thoughts.
I explore the house to silence them. It's very basic. A kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom. The fact that there is running water unnerves me even further. Only one person has running water on the island and he lives here all year round. And this nonexistent house has it as well.
Then I see the hatch on the bedroom floor. I'm afraid. I shouldn't go down there. But at this point, something in my mind has gone unhinged. Something has been lost during these weeks.
I open the hatch. Light streams in from the basement. I climb down. I am standing in a small room. A single bulb illuminates it and a white steel door stands in front of me.
I have nothing left to lose. I open it. What does it matter anymore?
Quite a lot. I am now in a laboratory. Not a very big one, but a laboratory nonetheless. Potted plants line the walls. A large table in the center of the room in covered in countless flasks, beakers, and various other glass containers. And I'm looking into the eyes of a young man across the room.
He greets me. I return the greeting, too confused and shocked to do anything else.
He recovers much quicker and gives me a lab coat to cover myself. I put it on. He asks me my name, what I'm doing here, and so much more.
To which I respond by telling him everything. I spare none of the details.
He goes paler and paler during my story, which is rather impressive. I didn't know you could pale with green skin. Once I'm finished he rushes up to me, almost earning himself a broken nose. And then I'm at the doctor's office. He checks my eyes, my skin, my hair, my blood. He asks for some more personal samples and gets told off quite strongly.
He's like a whirlwind. Every machine in the room is soon whirring, buzzing and flashing. And with every result, they give out he gets more and more pale. And then the lab is silent and he's sitting, his eyes staring into nothing.
He mumbles something about genetic instability, the method of delivery and instincts. Then he turns to me and explains my predicament.
I feel cold suddenly. It won't stop. It could be slowed down but only up to a month or even less. I'll become like them. He keeps talking about modified group behavior but I tune him out. This is it. End of the line.
I ask him for a phone. He looks at me, guilt in his eyes. He hands it to me. I call Heino, my occasional fishing buddy. I ask if he still works at Ämari.
He does.
I tell him about what's happening. I ask him to tell everybody he can about this. And I ask him to give everyone here a shallow grave and a Viking crew cut. He tries to talk but I hang up.
I hand the phone back. We sit in silence for a while before I ask him to do me a favor. As a sort of payment for what he has caused.
He wants to argue. I see it in his eyes. But he doesn't.
I turn around.
The taste of lead is all encompassing.
***
A man sits in a small house. A body lies in the sun outside. His fellows and brothers will not look kindly upon him. Murder is nothing as there are people enough in the world. Messing with their very being, their thoughts and soul, now that is something quite different. This will be the end. They'll take everything. His knowledge will turn to ash. He will be nothing. And he will not know it.
He fidgets with the silver ring in his hands, the oak leaf motif reflecting light across the walls. He gets up and walks to the shore. The ring is cold against his palm. He throws it.
Once back, he takes a small notebook out of his pocket and pulls out a phone.
“Good evening? Agent Thorstein? This is Oliver Kristjan. We've met on occasion. No, this is not a joke. I believe I have information you would be interested in. You can collect me from Copenhagen. I'll be in Apropos. We'll discuss my terms then. Until we meet again.”
He puts down the phone and sighs. He hates betrayals.


« Former Assets |Dread & Circuses Hub | Fuller's Fantastic Fun-Lover's Funhouse »

“Ladies and Gentlmen, let's have another big round of applause for Bubble Gum, the tipsy elephant. Try not to feel too sorry for her. We can't help her until she admits she has a problem.”
While the crowd cheered and applauded as the permanently plastered pink pachyderm perambulated out of the Big Top, Ringmaster Icky cast her gaze towards the back of the stands where she had noticed a rather, well, disquieting individual.
Thanks to her many years of experience she could tell effortlessly whether or not someone was under the effects of their signature black cotton candy, and she always made sure to keep an eye on them in case they were up to something. Her circus was everything to her, and she could spot a threat to her circus from miles away.
The man she was looking at now had been watching her performance with rapt attention, but without any of the joy and wonder or disgust and horror that most people did. No, he was watching diligently, as if it was his job. She could practically hear him writing his report in his head.
Time to find out who that report was going to.
Icky signalled to the audio technician to switch the calliope over to ‘Officer of the Year'. All the Circus folk present took immediate note of this, and knew they were about to go off script.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I think we have time for one last magic trick before we get to our final act. Do you all want to see another magic trick?”
The audience of course applauded their approval.
“I want to see another magic trick!” said her assistant, who had popped out from under her top hat and was now gracefully perched on her head.
“Lolly, get down from there,” she commanded gently. Lolly did a handstand, placing the top hat back on the Ringmaster's head, then back-flipped to the ground to laughter and applause. “For our next trick, we're going to need one more volunteer from the audience. Only one! Do we have any volunteers?”
Dozens of eager hands shot up of course, but the man in the back remained as passively observant as ever.
Not that that made one bit of difference to Icky. With a flourish of her wand she cast the spotlight upon him.
“You sir, there in the back. You look like you'd be perfect.”
“What? I, uh…no. I mean, I couldn't, I…”
“Come on down!”
The audience clapped and cheered their encouragement, and the man noticed a rather large Clown had already appeared beside him to usher him down. He hastily weighed his options and decided it would be best to play along, and allowed himself to be led into the ring.
“Thanks Noodles,” Icky said, taking the man by the arm. “What's your name sir?”
“Ah…Jeremy?” he said, though it hardly sounded like he was sure.
“Well Jeremy; actually can I call you Jerry? I'm going to call you Jerry. Jerry, the reason I picked you over all these other nice folks is that I couldn't help but notice how serious you looked, and that just doesn't sit right with me. How can someone be so serious after seeing a drunken pink elephant blow gravity defying bubbles from her trunk?”
“It certainly is unusual Icky,” Lolly agreed. “Makes me think that maybe Jerry didn't come here to have fun at all.”
“What do you say to that Jerry? Are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Well I just, you know, I just saw the tents set up and I didn't have any other plans so I…Jesus Christ!”
Jeremy's pants had spontaneously combusted, engulfing his entire posterior in fire. The audience roared with laughter as he tried to beat the flames. “What the hell is this!”
“Your pants are on fire Jerry, which means you must be a liar-liar-pants-on-fire,” Icky explained with a smug smile.
“Yeah, that's why I only wear skirts so I can get away with any fibs I want,” Lolly boasted.
Jeremy had started rolling on the ground to try to smother the flames. A frantic Clown ran out with a fire extinguisher, but when he fired it he was sent rocketing around the tent to the amazement of the guests, assuring them it was all part of the show.
“Somebody help me!” Jeremy screamed.
“All you have to do is tell the truth,” Icky said, but then lowered her voice so that the audience couldn't hear her. “Why did you come here? Who do you work for?”
“I just wanted to see a circus!” he claimed.
“Fine then, let your itty bitty boy parts burn off. Hope you don't got anyone who's gonna to miss 'em.”
As if by her command, the fire actually started to move towards his genitals.
“Ah! Okay, GOC! I'm with the occult coalition!”
To his relief the flames instantly died out. His relief was short-lived though, as he immediately noticed all the Clowns staring at him with a hatred so intense it put the fire to shame.
“Freak killer!” Lolly hissed under her breath.
“No! Please, I just do recon for them and I really did just stumble upon your circus. They don't even know I'm here and if you let me go I swear they never will,” he claimed. Icky shook her head in contempt, and knelt down to speak with him privately.
“You just do recon? Every freak you ever ratted out to the Geo Sea is dead! They're literal Nazis bent on wiping my kind from the Earth! This Circus is a sanctuary for freaks, which means there's no way in hell you're getting out alive. Play along, and it will at least be quick.”
Icky rose to her full height and resumed her cheerful persona.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I do apologize for Mr. Jerry's strange and lackluster performance, but luckily that won't have any effect upon the astounding display of magic you're about to witness: the Fuller than Full Human Caramel Cooker!”
Lolly and Mr. Noodles hoisted Jeremy up and placed him inside of some sort of elastic harness, and shoved a tube and funnel down his throat. Lolly leapt to the top of the harness to hold up the funnel for all to see. A stagehand entered the ring pulling a large tank filled with pristine white sugar.
With some nonsensical magic words and dramatic gestures, Icky drew all the sugar into the air and started spinning it around the ring in a vortex. The sugar assumed the shapes of various exotic animals, elephants and zebras and tigers and the like, racing around the ring on parade as Icky cracked a whip made of sugar to drive them on.
One by one they dove into the funnel to cook inside Jeremy's stomach. His stomach swelled with burning hot molten sugar until he was sure it would burst, but it didn't. As his stomach expanded his ribs broke off and his spine was horribly deformed, but yet all his soft tissues had taken on an unnatural elasticity allowing them to stretch to horrific proportions.
His torso continued to enlarge until it was so massive his legs broke underneath him. It was at this point that the harness lifted him up to about a dozen feet off the ground. He had swallowed all the sugar and yet still he kept growing. The harness spun him around, faster and faster as Icky led the audience in some sort of chant, but he was in too much pain to care what they were saying.
Finally his skin had become taut. It could stretch no more, and yet whatever was inside him continued to push outwards. He let out one final scream, and then popped like a balloon.
Thousands upon thousands of colourfully wrapped caramels rained down upon the audience, most of whom applauded and eagerly scooped them up. Only the few who remained unaffected by the calliope music looked confused, uncertain as to what they had just witnessed.
While the light-weight candy had flown all across the Big Top, the heavier viscera had mostly landed in the front rows. Sitting in this splash zone, among others, was their VIP guest Victor Chan.
With as much reserve as he could muster, Victor took out his neckerchief and began wiping off the stray bits of flesh. He was certainly glad he had taken Icky's advice to wear some less expensive clothing.
Nevertheless, he fully intended to submit his dry cleaning bill on his next expense report.

« Former Assets | Dread & Circuses Hub | Fuller's Fantastic Fun-Lover's Funhouse »


Private content

	This area of the website is private and you don't have access to it.      If you believe you need access to this area please contact the web site administrators.

    If you already have an account, please sign in.


Even in broad daylight, the forest was still a foreboding environment. The shadows of the trees made bright daylight dimmer. Apart from the wind and some occasional birds, it was quiet. Dr. Flora Davis had never liked the quiet, and so walking through the trees, she was secretly glad for her assistant's company. Though she could do without his whining.
“How much further?” David griped. “We've been walking forever.”
“We've been walking for thirty minutes, Mr. Vadas," she said, turning around. "You weren't kidding when you said you were out of shape,” she japed. He shot her a look of good-humored irritation, but said nothing. It was true, he had said those exact words prior to their departure.
“What are we even looking for, Flora?" He felt the task of finding a specific tree in a forest to be an exercise in futility. "Are we sure it even exists?”
“We aren't on a first name basis. Based on the descriptions we got, we're looking for ‘the tree that's different.' Whatever that is. And given the five eyewitness reports and the nature of Nexus forty-three, I'm inclined to believe it exists. Verstecktedorf is a strange town."
“Oh great, a different tree. There are lots of trees here." He replied. He studied the dense foliage surrounding them. "Like, lots of species. How the hell are we supposed to know what it looks like?”
“Like a tree with different plants grafted on…” she said, stopping in her tracks as her assistant continued walking, oblivious to her discovery.
“Great. If I see that I'll let you know, but otherwise—"
“No, Vadas, look.” David turned towards where Davis was pointing.
“…That's prolly the one.”
The two walked over to the strange tree, trying to figure out what had caused the residents of Verstecktedorf to be so unsettled by it. They could already tell something was wrong with it. Though David felt unsettled by the tree, he found himself walking right towards it. He seemed unable to stop, until he was face to face with the low-hanging branches. The two spent the next few minutes observing the tree from all angles, hardly noticing they had both fallen silent.
“The main tree seems to be Juniperus Communis, the common juniper,” David explained, finally breaking the silence, “but it has almond seeds, suggesting a graft of Prunus dulcis. Additionally, it's blooming flowers from the Rosa genus, which don't even grow on trees.” He turned back to Davis' dumbfounded look, suddenly embarrassed. “I like plants, ok? Isn't that why you brought me?”
“No, I had no idea,” she said, taken aback. She realized the two didn't know that much about each other. David opened his mouth, about to ask something, but was cut off. “Do you notice any other anomalous behavior?”
“Nothing specific. But something feels off,” he replied, plucking a rose from the tree. “Seeds and flowers plucked from the tree appear to be normal. I feel drawn to the tree. Like, I need to stay near it." He began climbing the lower branches. "That's gotta be something right?”
“Maybe." She picked an almond off of the ground, wondering what was odd about the tree. She observed the almond as if it held all of the secrets of this tree. Not just of the tree, but of Nexus forty-three. For one moment, she wondered if the answers to all the world's mysteries could be contained in an almond. If all she had to do was take a bite…
"Davis?"
Suddenly, everything faded back into view. David looked concerned, but it was no matter. She had remembered their directive. "In any case, we've done what we were asked to do: we found the tree." She dropped the almond on the forest floor. "Let's report it to the Foundation and get out of here, before something really dangerous happens.” She didn't trust the forest after dark.
“Alright," he replied, jumping down, "David and Davis getting the job done.”
“That's not a thing. Don't try to make that a thing.”
But David hadn't heard her. “Davis… look.” Where he was pointing, a bird that had not been there before was perched. The feathers were vibrant, red and green, and in the sunlight its neck almost shone gold. “I don't suppose you like birds enough to know what that is?”
“No… I don't…” she said, taking out her phone. She hoped they could get some service out here as she tried to describe the bird in the search engine. A few seconds later, she had the answer. “According to the internet,” she showed her phone to the assistant, “it's a European Bee-Eater. I don't know if they're common to this region.”
“Noted… I think we've got everything we— Dammit! Should we follow it?” He said, pointing to the bird in flight.
“Mark this tree. I'll follow it.” Davis ran in the other direction as Vadas carefully marked the odd tree, hoping to make it recognizable amongst a sea of green. Somewhere in the direction Davis ran, he heard a noise. He heard a song that almost sounded human. “Davis?” He cautiously called out. The song was entrancing. “Davis why are you singing?” He felt inclined to follow it, to hear it more clearly, but he knew he had to stay by the tree. As the final notes of the song echoed through the foliage, his senses heightened. He cautiously walked a few steps in the direction Davis had run off in, when—
“Vadas!” Flora exclaimed, tapping his shoulder and causing him to jump.
“Dammit, Davis. You scared me!” He yelled.
“I thought I told you to stay by the tree.” Davis scolded.
“You didn't," he said, indignant, "but I did, it's right here—“ But when he turned around the tree was no longer there. He looked around for a few seconds in disbelief, wondering what had happened. When he finally spoke, he could only think to ask one thing. “We have to tell the Foundation, don't we?”
But Davis said nothing. What was there to say? It was gone. And now they had to walk thirty minutes back to Site-99 to fill out the paperwork and deliver the news.

Flora felt like she had failed. It was her first notable assignment, working directly with an anomaly from Nexus-43 and she had lost it in the space of a few minutes. Her main lead was a bird that had also disappeared, and had apparently led her on a wild goose chase. Or a wild European Bee-Eater chase, she thought to herself. She was instantly glad she hadn't said the joke out loud. She had been told the previous day when she returned that missing anomalies were common around these parts and that she shouldn't be too worried. But something had unsettled her about it, and she felt obligated to find out all she could about it. She was concentrating on similar phenomena, anything that might tell her where the tree was, when a familiar voice caught her attention.
"Von Dem Machandelbaum." David interrupted, triumphant.
Flora Davis looked up from her research, bemused. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Von Dem Machandelbaum," the assistant repeated, setting an old book down. "That's what we're dealing with here. I went to the library—"
"You went to the library?!" Davis teased.
"Don't patronize me." He smirked at her disbelief and sat down to join her. "And while you were doing anomalous research, I was doing folklore research. I got a copy of the Grimm Fairytales. Now, I can't read Low German very well, but there's a tale in here called Von Dem Machandelbaum, or 'From The Juniper Tree' in English. Folklore classification Aarne-Thompson-Uther type seven twenty."
"And what's it about?" she said, perusing the book to see if she understood the archaic words
"Tee-ell-dee-arr stepmother murders child, frames other child, feeds him to his ignorant father, child exacts his revenge as a bird. It's a gruesome story, I kind of love it, anyway, I think this is what we're dealing with. Not only that, but I think we may have learned something from it already."
"Hold up, what makes you so sure this is what we're dealing with? There must be other explanations…" Davis rummaged through her notes for some alternate theory that didn't sound so… bizarre.
"Well the tree we saw was juniper, for starters. The bird in the tale is described as having red and green feathers and a golden neck, just like the bird we saw today, and although I couldn't hear the song very well I think the song I heard in the forest is the one from the tale."
"Mein Mutter, der mich schlacht', Mein Vater, der mich aß…" Davis began muttering the words from the old book, surprised by the familiarity. "I heard the song only a little better than you, but I think you're right. I think this is it.
"I told you!" He gloated, pumping a fist in triumph.
"Ok, but what do you think we've learned from this?" Davis said, curious.
David's eyes lit up, excited to share his findings. "So you know there are two current theories on how Nexus forty-three works. The first is that the anomalous activity was seen by the citizens and passed throughout the country as folktales—"
"And the second is that the writings of Grimm created the anomalies."
"But we can't prove that theory because there are too many variables—"
"And we can't prove yours because most of the anomalies observed were only first written by the brothers Grimm."
"Most being the keyword there. I did some research, and it turns out Grimms' 'Von Dem Machandelbaum' isn't the first written instance of that tale. They got the story from a romantic painter, Philip Otto Runge, who published the story sometime before they collected it."
"So they couldn't have created the juniper tree phenomenon…" Davis said, beginning to understand.
"Exactly! And get this: in his version, Runge called it an almond tree."
"…This is all interesting, but it's far from disproved the other theory. Maybe Runge wrote his version while in Verstecktedorf."
"I thought you might say that, so I did some more research. Remember that classification, ATU seven twenty? While it's not the most popular classification there are some other tales like the Juniper Tree. In fact, there's a tale almost exactly like it first recorded by Joseph Jacobs."
"What are you getting at?"
"Joseph Jacobs was English, so his version of the story is different in a few ways, such as the gender of the children and the method of decapitation—"
"Decapitation? Just how dark is this fairy tale?"
"Very, it's fantastic. But the difference that we should be concerned with is the tree. He called it a Rose-tree. And tell me, Dr. Davis, when was the last time you saw roses on a tree?"
"…You're right. The anomaly came before the story. It doesn't mean all of them are like that, but it does set a baseline. We need to include this in our report."
"Davis and David: solving the mysteries of Nexus forty-three one anomaly at a time."
She smirked. "That's still not a thing."
"What? I put you first this time!"
Davis fell silent, deep in thought.
"Davis? You ok?"
"I'm realizing the ramifications of what we saw. The tree was there, and then it wasn't. And since Joseph Jacobs wrote about it in England…"
"…Oh shit, it could be anywhere. And the bird… is the story repeating itself?"
Davis looked up, determined. "We need to find that tree."

/

Schwarzwald

Verdure


Thread Space
In earlier chapters, we discussed time travel in terms of transitions between world lines, and shown how it can be used to predict the behavior of simple time loops. However, in order to understand more complex phenomena, it is necessary to generalize this.
Thread space refers to the space of all possible combinations of things that could ever occur, down to the tiniest detail of even intrinsically random events (like nuclear decay or quantum interactions). A single instance of such a combination is referred to as a thread. Note that in relativistic contexts it's necessary to consider each reference frame having its own threads, but that will not be covered in this text.
It's also useful to consider offset threads; that is, given a spacetime vector $\vec x$, then $A + \vec x$ is also a thread. We can usually consider all the offset threads of a given thread together with the first thread, but it becomes important when discussing thread distance and teleportation.
No Exercises

The Rzewski Field

The Rzewski field was named for Dr. Carlos Rzewski, who won the Dirac medal of the FTPI for this discovery in 1975.

In order to properly understand the relationships between individual threads, we also need to introduce the Rzewski field, one of the fundamental fields in the universe. (Note that in some contexts it may also be referred to as the subspace field.) The Rzewski field defines a unique value associated with each point in spacetime across every thread. It is theorized to be the underlying reason that that there are points in spacetime that are distinct from one another, as opposed to having a universe containing only a single point. This is also what makes different threads distinct from each other, and, most importantly for practical purposes, can be measured to directly determine how similar two threads are to each other.
There are a number of different ways this can be measured, but one of the most common and useful is thread distance, measured in humes. In your other coursework you may have already encountered humes, when measuring how “anomalous” something is with a Kant counter or similar device. In time travel, we use a different tool, the divergence meter. Instead of comparing to a set of fixed pocket dimensions, a divergence meter allows measuring thread distance directly relative to other threads, and is generally much more sensitive.
Note that thread distance does not directly tell us what is different between two threads, but it does tell us how different the threads are, and it can be used to help find where major changes may have occurred.
No Exercises

Algebraic Properties of Thread Distance
Thread distance, notated $d(A,B)$ for any given threads A, B, allows us to define a metric space and induces a topology that allows us to reason about thread space. While the precise details of the Rizewski field are very important for theoretical causality, for practical purposes we need not concern ourselves with it, except for a few basic concepts.
Since thread distance is a metric, we have the following properties:

$d(A,B)\in\Bbb R$ — Thread distance is a real number.
$d(A,B)\ge0$ — Thread distance is non-negative.
$d(A,A)=0$ — Thread distance from a thread to itself is zero.
$d(A,B)=d(B,A)$ — Thread distance is reflexive; it's the same measured in either direction.
$d(A,B)\le d(A,C) + d(B,C)$ — Thread distance obeys the triangle inequality; the sum of distances to some third thread will be at least as large as the direct distance between two threads. (i.e. There are no ‘shortcuts'.)

These properties are important because it allows us to use analytical tools to reason about thread space, and in particular it allows us to define the concept of thread potential, discussed in section 3.5.
Exercises

Given that $d(K, Q) = 1.5\,\mathrm{Hm}$ and that $d(T, Q) = 7.0\,\mathrm{Hm}$, what is the maximum possible value for $d(K, T)$?
Advanced Let $f(\vec x) = d(E+\vec x, E)$. Prove that $\nabla\times\nabla f(\vec x)=0$.

Thread Convergence and Time Loops

An example of a thread sequence projected into 2D converging to a world line.

In chapter 2, we discussed time loops in terms of world lines, as if each iteration of the loop was exactly identical to the previous. In practice, each iteration of a world line will inevitably have at least some small difference, stemming from Bell's theorem and the fact that it's impossible to observe anything without changing its state. As a result, it makes more sense to talk about world lines as the limits of loop iteration.
Given a time loop with a thread sequence $A^{(1)}, B^{(1)}, A^{(2)}, B^{(2)} ...$, then if we can split this sequence up into only finitely many convergent Cauchy sequences, it is possible to define our world lines as the limits of those sequences. In our example, if $A^{(1)}, A^{(2)} ...$ and $B^{(1)}, B^{(2)} ...$ are both Cauchy sequences, then we can refer to $A = \lim_{n\to\infty} A^{(n)}$ and $B = \lim_{n\to\infty} B^{(n)}$ as world lines. In other terms, if after an arbitrary number of times around the loop, it becomes arbitrarily hard to distinguish between each $A^{(n)}$ and $A^{(n+1)}$, then it still makes sense to consider them as world lines.
However, in some cases it is not possible to split up a thread sequence in this way, and any such sequence will instead converge to a set of closed curves or higher-order manifolds in thread space. These world manifolds can sometimes still be considered in a similar way to world lines, but systems containing world manifolds are not in general solvable using algebraic techniques. Some methods for solving these more difficult systems are presented in chapter 4.
No Exercises

Thread Potential
One other important property of thread distance is the way it varies over time and space. In particular, it is continuously differentiable, and ‘at infinity' it is identically zero. That is:
(1)
\begin{align} \lim_{|\vec x|\to\infty} d(A+\vec x,B+\vec x)=0 \end{align}

The thread potential for the event represented by the upper (blue) curve is 5 times the lower (red) one, meaning that it is only 1/5th as likely.

Measuring thread distances between separate threads is useful for determining how similar they are, and reasoning about convergence. However, and in some ways even more importantly, we can also measure thread distance between points that are only separated by space and time. Doing this makes it possible to define a potential field based on thread distance ‘to infinity', called thread potential and notated $\nabla^2 d(E)$, with some extremely useful properties.
(2)
\begin{align} \nabla^2 d(E) = \nabla \cdot \nabla d(E+\vec x, \infty) \end{align}
This quantity turns out to be enormously important in later chapters, because it allows us to directly relate the probabilities of different events to each other:
(3)
\begin{align} \nabla^2 d(E_1)\, P(E_1) = \nabla^2 d(E_2)\, P(E_2) \end{align}
The ratio of the probabilities of two events, is also one of the main determining factors when estimating how easy or difficult it would be to change those events via time travel. It also enables us to locate and map out nearby events that will be susceptible to modification, by following the gradient of the thread potential to its peak.

Example 1
We measure the thread potential of some event $E$ to be:
(4)
\begin{align} \nabla^2d(E)=1 \end{align}
After modifying the past so that $E'$ occurs instead, we wish to instead revert the change to $E$. Unfortunately, when we measure the thread potential:
(5)
\begin{align} \nabla^2d(E')=0.1 \end{align}
Computing the relative probabilities:
(6)
\begin{align} \frac{P(E)}{P(E')} = \frac{\nabla^2d(E')}{\nabla^2d(E)} = \frac{0.1}{1} = 0.1 \end{align}
Since $E$ is only 1/10th as likely as $E'$, it will be much more difficult to return to $E$ than it was originally to get to $E'$.

No Exercises

Chapter 2: Time Loops | Chapter 4: Aperiodic Loops and Chaos (Coming Soon!)