I <3 the Circus!
<< Pt. 1 - A Night at the Circus! | Pt. 2 - Amongst the Clowns | Herman Fuller Hub | Pt. 3 - Wherever You Go, I'll Follow >>

I wandered for a time amongst the Circus performers, unsure of what to do with the bundle that the clown had foisted off on me. I wasn't sure why no one seemed to notice that I wasn't actually a member of the Circus, no one paid me any real attention. Every so often someone would glance at me a second time before going back to whatever task was occupying their time, but that was the extent of their response to me.
The cobalt blue of the sky above us never seemed to change, no clouds swept across that vast dome, and the twin suns of wherever we were never moved from their station slightly past zenith. It was hard to gauge the passing of time in that place, and the pace of the Circus denizens certainly didn't help. At first, there was a mad dash through the gate, crowds of performers pulling carts or carrying bundles much like mine. Then the vehicles and trailers started popping through as the last of the Circus pulled up stakes and escaped whatever they were obviously running from.
After that first rush, the circus and staff seemed to just mill about as a calm sense of the everyday seemed to fall over the entirety of the Circus. After the last truck came trundling through the shining mirror of the gate, it closed with a snap, a tall man in a long coat the last to step through. He pushed something into his pocket, shaking his head as he strode purposefully through the crowd.
At first, I thought the man was smirking, his lips curled up in a way that would certainly be called a smirk on any other face, but this man's was different, somehow upside-down. His brooding glare swept over and past me, not even noting my presence, and I began to cautiously make my way in his wake.
The other cirkies pushed out of his way as he stomped across the sand, and a rustling stillness followed him as carefully as I did. Every eye turned in his direction, the conversations around us dying to a whisper as an air of expectation settled over the crowd.
He stepped up to a small-ish wagon with the Circus logo painted on the side in now-faded colors, and he banged unceremoniously on the door. “Fuller!” He shouted, his voice carrying over the muted stillness of the crowd. I barely breathed as I came to a stop next to a pair of large clowns about twenty yards away from the brewing confrontation.
“Fuller!” The man pounded on the door again, his voice even louder than before. “Open this door, we need to talk.”
Another moment passed, and then the door swung outward revealing the tuxedo'd man in his garishly red coat. He'd removed the top hat and I realized he was much shorter than I had originally estimated, and certainly shorter than the man with the upside-down face.
“Manny, my friend, won't you come in? This is no place for civilized discourse, standing out here and yelling before the gods and everyone. What would our Family think, hmm? Can't have them getting all worked up over nothing, can we?” His words and manner were conciliatory, but even in this, the magic of his tone flowed out from him like honey, and I immediately knew that he had everything under control, that this strange exodus had been planned, and that everything would be all right.
Manny seemed to pause for a heartbeat as the crowd around them began returning to whatever tasks they had before them. I had no task, and I fully intended to stay and wait for whatever happened next, but the clowns beside me had entirely different plans.
“Oy, Poodles. It lookin' like we's got ourselves a gilly!” The big clown bent down and looked me right in the eyes.
I'd never really had a chance to really look at the clowns, and face to face with one was probably not the best way to get that chance. But look I did, and I realized that there was something off about the thing gazing back at me. It looked human enough, but whatever was staring at me from behind those eyes most certainly wasn't human.
I took a few steps back from the Clown, fumbling with the bundle of cloth in a vain attempt to show it that I was supposed to be there. “I… uh, I was handed this and…” I sounded lame and I knew it, but what was I to do? Fear trembled through me, and I stumbled backwards on rubbery legs, landing in a puff of dust. I dropped the bundle in my lap, and I just… gave up.
“I don't know, I didn't mean to intrude, I just… I just followed.”
The big Clown squatted down beside me and patted my head with a surprisingly gentle hand. “S'ok, lil gilly. We was in a rush, we was, and we din't take all tha usuals. Vent'uly this was gonna appen, fo' certin'. Them damn Essie P's been gettin' real snickery, an' I's guessin that was tha third close call this month.””
The other Clown grinned a too-large grin, revealing a mouth full of way too many teeth. “Yeahhhh, Manny sure looked pissed. Fuller's gonna have a helluva time explaining this one away. Prolly not gonna have another show in Prime fer a while.” He kept grinning at me, and his sclera-less eyes seemed to glint with hunger. “I'm thinking we shouldn't bother him with our little stow-away, eh Squigly? Maybe we just take ‘im to the Fun-lovers for a bit of a row. It's been a while since we had a good'n. Manny's been keepin' that leash awful tight lately.”
“Nah.” Squigly stood and gently helped me to my feet. “Thissun's been at tha Candy. You kin see it ‘n tha eyes.” He trapped my chin in fingers that felt more like rebar than flesh, and he tilted my head up so both Clowns could take a look at my eyes.
“Ohhh, for sure. You can see the little wigglers in the white ‘n veiny bits. Ate a bunch of the Candy, I bet. Almost too much, mebbe.” Poodles looked at me, and I no longer saw the glint of hunger in the dark pools of his eyes.
“It's curious like, tho.” Squigly turned my head a bit so he could get a better view. “Thems wigglers, all right, but this gilly aint all squirmy like'n them last ‘uns. Mebbe Eugene'll know.”
Poodles hummed, and then reached down to snag my bundle off the ground. “Nah, better not bother him either. He's been all grouchy since he and Pius came back from bein' stuck in the Ways. Let's just put this one up in the Alley. We'll figure out what to do next after that.”
And that was that. The two Clowns led me through the rest of the cirkies like they owned the place, telling jokes with other Clowns as they passed. Almost no one noticed me. Those that did were quickly distracted by the antics of my two companions, and no one commented on my presence. I thought I caught a pretty girl in a black clown suit glance my way, but at a motion from Squigly, she shrugged and turned away.
At last we came to a small trailer covered with a garish mish-mash of graffiti and circus bills. Above the small door in the side of the trailer, a sign painted in bold blues and purples read “Clown Alley.”
Poodles pushed open the door and we marched inside, both of the Clowns having to bend their head and duck through the doorway to follow me in. The inside of the trailer was not at all what I expected from the outside. The walls here were also covered in graffiti, but that was the only thing consistent with the outside. Inside, I found myself in a long and very tall canyon that looked more like I was within the bowels of some gigantic container ship than the inside of a small-ish rail car.
Container after container stacked atop each other and end to end, stretching off into an endless haze. There were Clowns everywhere, scampering up rapidly gyrating rope ladders or simply jumping the awful gulf between the precariously-stacked containers. Industrial barrels were everywhere, each one filled with burning colors, and they filled the interior with a blaze of multi-hewed light.
I just stood there and gaped at the riot of color, my two companions momentarily forgotten as I lost myself in trying to see everything all at once. Poodles laughed as he scooped me up in his brawny arms, and suddenly he leaped straight up to the third level of the containers.
With a shriek I clutched tightly at the frills on his costume, and I closed my eyes tightly as the world shifted again and again as he continued his hopping ascension through the containers. Hoots of laughter and catcalls from the other Clowns followed our leaping journey through the maze. The world swam around me and I struggled with nausea when Poodles finally came to rest high amongst the stacks.
I gulped as I peered down from Poodles' shoulder, and my vision spun again as I took in the dizzying depth beneath me. This was impossible, the space just seemed to stretch out endlessly all around me, and thousands of Clowns called into the empty vastness with a cacophony of sound that seemed more like the calls of zoo creatures than people.
Poodles turned and I caught a glimpse of another container set back from the edge and recessed in shadow before he stepped up and through the open door on the side. He dropped me unceremoniously onto a pile of overstuffed pillows away from the opening in the giant metal box, and Squigly once more crouched down beside me.
“Oi, gilly. This ‘ere is Fraust's Nest, annit be yer new place, at least'n fo now. Best ya not be getin' too close to tha edge, yeah? It be a longish fall, and yous don't gots enough Milk in yas to be survivin' that kinda fall, eh?” He patted me again on my head with a chuckle before both of the Clowns turned and dropped out of sight.
Suddenly, all the events of the previous few hours came crashing in on me, and I began to weep uncontrollably, deep wracking sobs rolled through me as I gave in to the stress and shear other-worldliness of it all. I clutched one of the pillows to my chest and curled into the pile, overwhelmed by it all.
“Hello, friend.”
I didn't hear the voice at first, so wrapped up was I, in my misery and exhaustion. It wasn't until I had sobbed for a few more minutes before I realized that there was someone else that had crept up to the pile of pillows.
A thin hand gently stroked my face, and I stared out into the gloom of the unlit container. “Shhhh,” came their soft voice from the darkness as they continued to run their fingers lightly over my face. “It is not too bad, I promise.”
I struggled up to a sitting position and peered into the shadows, trying to find my companion in the murk. “I… I'm sorry.” I said, wiping the back of my hand across my face, attempting to wipe away some of my tears. “It's… it's just so m-much, you know?”
“It is ok, friend. It really is. Squigly and Poodles are really quite lovely, once you get to know them. In fact, just about everyone in the Circus is. Maybe even those creepy Freewheelers, though maybe not them, they are night spying for Fuller.” Something rustled nearby, almost like leather whispering over steel, and my companion turned lambent green eyes upon me. “You will be fine, I promise.”
I withdrew a bit from those eyes, burrowing a bit more into the pillows of the nest. As my eyes began to adjust to the darkness around me, I caught glimpses of things moving in the shadow.
“I'm sorry,” I said again, a little stronger this time. “I wasn't expecting any of this, I really just wanted to speak to Malagantius, to find out..” My voice trailed away as I drifted back over the words and visions from the Big Top performance. I glanced furtively over at my companion as the memory of those visions caused the shame to once more bubble up to the surface.
A soft laugh whispered around me, like rose-scented silk, and I felt the pillows move as something shifted closer. “Shhh. It is ok. It really is, I promise.” I could see a little better now, as the beautiful Clown smiled at me and once more stroked the side of my face.
“Get some rest. When Poodles and Squigly get back, we will all go and see Mal. Just go to sleep, and I promise that by tomorrow, everything will be better.”
A lethargy began to overwhelm me, something in the Clown's voice reaching out to gently take hold of my already exhausted brain to carry it off to sleep. I struggled for a moment against it, looking around with panic threatening just beyond my grasp. But as I failed and began to slip into slumber, I thought I could see something shifting around me. Several somethings, long and thin slowly shifting closer. Rope, maybe?
Not rope… it moved like…
Tentacles… in the dark.


Previous: Retirement Plans

Site-17, 2007
Sigurrós propped Mister Cuddles, her new stuffed bear, against the wall of her room, and consulted her new spellbook. She had gotten both as a gift for her birthday a few days ago and had had hours of fun playing with her new toys and practicing new spells, but there was one that she couldn't quite get the hang of:

Animagus

Simply point at your favorite toy and say "Animagus!" to bring them to life!

Sigurrós closed her eyes, concentrating with all her might on the spell. She imagined the bear springing to life, watched it dancing around the room in her mind, then opened her eyes and shouted as loudly as her little lungs would allow, "ANIMAGUS!"
For a while nothing happened. Then, Mr. Cuddles began to stir. First, a leg, and then another. Slowly, the toy began to rise to its feet, and for a moment Sigurrós thought that she had done it, but then the stuffed bear collapsed, lying face down on the floor.
Sigurrós threw her spellbook at the wall. "Argh!" What was she doing wrong? Was she just bad at magic? Maybe she should just give them the spellbook back, tell them it was too hard for her to use.
"Hey, don't give yourself such a hard time."
Sigurrós looked for the source of the voice and saw a man leaning against the opposite wall. He had long, white hair that reached down to His shoulders and a full beard, and He wore a light gray suit and tie.
"That's a hard spell. You should be proud you managed to get it to do anything at all." His was deep and low, like the rolling of distant thunder, but there was also a reassuring quality to it. It sounded less like the onset of a violent storm and more like the end of a long drought.
"Who are you?" Sigurrós asked.
The man paused for a bit before He replied. "I'm… Well, I suppose I'm another magic person, like you."
The stars in Sigurrós' eyes lit up. "You mean, like a wizard? Do you think you could help me with this spell?"
"I suppose…" The spellbook vanished from its spot on the floor, then reappeared in His hands. He paged through it, reading the descriptions of the spells. It was obvious that the book was meant to constraint her powers, not instruct her on how to use them. The 'spells' were mostly very simple effects, and had a lot of arbitrary restrictions on how they could be used. If He wanted anything to come of this girl, He would have to take her training into his own hands.
"Alright," He said, putting the book down. "So, the thing you need to keep in mind is that there's a big difference between making something move and getting it to move by itself."
Her eyes lit up again. "There is?"
"Oh, yes. You clearly have no trouble giving it the ability to move; it just doesn't have a reason to use that ability." He could tell from the look that was forming on her face that His explanation was in need of some simplification. "It needs a mind."
"Oh. So how do I give him one?"
"Well, I'm afraid that creating a fully formed consciousness from nothing is far beyond your skill level at the moment, but fortunately there is a trick you can use in the meantime to approximate one."
"Approxi… huh?"
"What I mean is, you can put a small piece of yourself into the bear."
"A… A piece of myself?" She looked down at her body, clearly concerned.
"I promise it won't hurt. Now, hold out your arms."
"Okay." She did as she was told. He crouched down next to her, and placed His arm gently on her shoulder. "Now, imagine yourself. Imagine yourself doing all the things you like to do, and imagine how you feel when you do them. Then take just the smallest drop of that feeling, and collect it into a ball."
Sigurrós nodded. She thought about the games she liked to play with her toys, elaborate stories about magical kingdoms in grave peril, and how she would swoop in and save them at the last minute. She thought about the time she fell over and scraped her knee, and the nice doctor who helped her to heal it. She thought about her parents, what they must have been like, and imagined all the hugs she would give to them if she could meet them.
A golden light started to form above her hands, starting out as a spark, then growing into a glowing ball. Sigurrós gasped, then gave the man an expectant look. "I think it's working, Mister Wizard Sir!"
"Good. Now, give it to the bear." The golden light drifted slowly forward, coming to a rest above the slumped-over form of Mister Cuddles before diving sharply into the stuffed bear. Mister Cuddles began to rise once again, but this time once he clambered to his feet he remained upright.
Sigurrós clasped her hands over her mouth. The toy waddled towards her, came to a stop at her feet, and looked up at her. She shrieked in excitement, picking him up and spinning him around like a father playing with his toddler.
"Thank you, Mister Wizard Sir!" She said, but when she turned around, she realized that the man had vanished. This did not strike her as particularly odd (He was a wizard, after all), but she did wonder why He would have left without saying goodbye.
"Guess he had somewhere to go." She look down at Mister Cuddles, who was still cradled like a child in her arms, looking up at her like a particularly cute puppy. She put him down on the floor, then sat down cross-legged in front of him.
"Now," she said, "how would you like to be a prince?"

Next: Coming Soon…


Between its opening in on November 15th, 1971 and the present, Site-64 has seen its fair share of staff role through its doors. From the various regional MTF agents to the dedicated scientists of the Anomalous Materials and Anomalous Electronics labs, the often-overlooked storage facility has been called home by all kinds. These are some of their stories.

+ Euclid Storage Wing, April 18th, 2010

- Euclid Storage Wing, April 18th, 2010

Walter was alone.
Site-64 had been built to serve as a glorified warehouse with little in the ways of containing animal life. The gorilla had been stuffed into a small, barren enclosure deep underground. There were no toys to play with. There was no water to splash in. There was only hard, cold concrete and bales of hay. With every passing day, it became difficult to distinguish his current accommodations from those he was originally rescued from by Wilson's staff.
He missed the gentle caress of the sun on his fur. He missed the dancing bear living in the next pen over. He missed the soft breeze carrying with it the scent of doughnuts from Boring. He missed his friends. He missed the human who sang as she hand-fed him mango slices. He missed Faeowynn.
With a loud screech, the primate rose on his hind legs and banged the cymbals, which had replaced his hands, together. He roared and bellowed, demanding to be returned to the Wilsons. Unfortunately, the Foundation's gorilla-translating technologies were non-existent, and Walter was met with resounding silence from his assigned researchers.
"I wonder what it's trying to say."
"Whatever it is, it's not food. We just fed it an hour ago."
"Hmm."
"Do me a favor and issue it the silence command."
The researcher nodded and reached for the microphone, which connected into Walter's pen.
"Thank you, Walter. That was fantastic."
A strong numbing agent ran through his veins and forced him into quiet stillness. The silence boiled into a tranquil fury beyond acceptable levels for Wondertainment products.
"Thank god Wondertainment installed a stop function."
"No kidding. Hey, wanna head to lunch?"

+ Surface Access Point Three, December 8th, 2017

- Surface Access Point Three, December 8th, 2017

A lot of people say that Oregon is a beautiful place, with vast swathes of forest butting up against a rocky shoreline. Drive ten miles in the right direction and you'll find yourself surrounded by nature ideal for hiking in. All the pictures of the place look like they're straight out of a nature documentary. Tall cliffs covered with pines and elegant rivers, all underneath a clear blue sky.
It took Sarah O'Connell a few years to put her finger on what part of those pictures had deceived her. The beauty of Oregon was a large part of the reason she took the transfer offer in the first place. When you work in a concrete dungeon for eight hours a day, coming home to asphalt and brick doesn't feel like that big of a change.
Even after she stopped smoking, at half-past two Sarah would work her way up to the surface access overlooking Miller Creek running above Site-64. She'd lean up against the handrail and just look at the sky. She told herself it was a change of scenery.
"Isn't it a bit cold to be out here?" A voice asked from behind her.
"I don't mind it."
Edgar strolled up beside her and rested his hands on the rail. He refused to put any weight on it.
"Wonderful weather we're having here," Edgar joked, "You think it's going to actually rain?"
"Nah. I think the sky just likes to be grey for the hell of it." She was certain about this. It's funny how big a difference the weather plays in the way one looks at a place. Without the blue sky, the water loses its vibrancy, and the rocks just look like rigid outlines of clouds. Depending on where you're at and the time of year, the trees can lend a little color to the scene, but around Site-64 all the flora had given up their leaves. The view didn't look much different from inside.
"How much would it cost to paint the walls?" Sarah asked.
"Not a lot, but probably more than Overwatch would like."
"What if we did it ourselves?"
"You think we can afford the man-hours?"
"Something something morale and mental health."
Edgar couldn't help but smile, "You finding a new passion for interior design?"
"Maybe some blue for the ceiling. And orange in the hallways."
"We can do the offices hot pink."
"I like it. I'll start drawing up a proposal outline."
Edgar started to laugh to himself as Sarah headed inside. He didn't take his eyes off the glowing spot where the clouds hid the sun.
"I can't tell how serious you're being anymore," Edgar said before Sarah left the surface. She paused before entering the site again.
"Honestly, I just want to feel like I can actually leave this place. It'd help if everywhere in the damn state didn't look the same."

+ Anomalous Materials Lab, March 23rd, 2020

- Anomalous Materials Lab, March 23, 2020

It was a crisp day, thought Dr. Mark Kiryu. The fresh spring air was crisp. The apple he had consumed earlier in the transport to Site-64 was crisp. The smart clicking of shoes on the floor was crisp. The new labcoats for Kiryu Labs, currently worn by himself and his former-assistant, now new co-director… well. Crisp.
Mark hid a grin as he raised a hand to wave at one of the other researchers they passed in the corridors; the motion made visible the simple dragonlike embroidery done on the right cuff of the white coat. Courtesy of his Dr. Riven Mercer, co-director of Kiryu Labs, who refused to give up his sewing hobby no matter how much fun the interns and junior researchers poked at him. Riven had plenty of practice tuning out teasing as he'd grown up following around his eccentric mostly-service-dog-trainer-kinda-hippie parents.
Riven was idly checking messages on his phone. Since both he and Mark were away from their usual Site, that meant someone else in their lab group would be feeding the lizard who lived in their break room. Riven cared about his grumpy spiky boy very much, and meant needing hourly updates.
"I think we had some good fun, don't you, Rivs?" Mark said breezily as they strode in the direction of one of the Site-64 cafeterias.
"Well… it was nice to see how Site-64 handles anomalous items processing. And I did take some notes about practices we can consider implementing into the Kiryu Labs protocols." Riven slipped his phone into the pocket of the cargo pants he wore under the lab coat.
"What did you think about the kid with the turtle?" Mark held a door open for Riven and the gaggle of interns walking behind them.
"The one who asked if we could write him a recommendation? To be lead caretaker of the turtle that blows bubbles made of sugar glaze?"
"The very one. Let us call him… Junior Researcher Happyman."
"…right. And I suppose we'll call the anomalous turtle a code name too."
"Turtle the Turtle."
Riven rolled his eyes and made some obliging "hmm" sounds. "Well Mister Doctor Person Kiryu, I believe that Junior Researcher Happyman has exhibited exceptional initiative in his care of Turtle the Turtle. He has not only been willing to devote particular care to the entity's diet, he has also taken it upon himself to make sure that the terrarium is clean and free from any unwanted contaminants that may negatively affect data collection. This shows attention to detail that is ideal in a laboratory environment."
At the entrance of the cafeteria, Riven abruptly stopped walking as they approached a vending machine. With a flourish, he withdrew his Foundation ID, jabbed it into the card slot on the machine, and made a selection for dark chocolate chip cookies.
"Aaaaand while I advise careful supervision at the start to make sure they are adequately addressing their other duties of higher priority, I believe that Happyman would make an excellent primary caretaker of Turtle the Turtle." Riven finished as both doctors watched as the package of cookies slid out from the holding rail and snagged on the side, refusing to drop into the reception slot.
Mark kicked the machine and the package dropped down for Riven to retrieve. "Sounds good, Rivs. Write that bit up, and I'll submit it to the Site-64 board. Kid had some spine to ask total strangers to do a favor for him, but he's got the makings of a good biological entity researcher and you can tell he'll treat the specimens with care and respect."
By the time Mark finished speaking, Riven had already opened the cookie package and was chewing contemplatively. "I've heard you say that about someone before."
With a sunny grin, Mark sidled over to the cafeteria menu display. "Of course, Rivs. And look where you are now. I like to think I am a good judge of character. How's your lizard doing?"

+ Staff Recreational Facility, June 11th, 2021

- Staff Recreational Facility, June 12th, 2021

Gabriel Merlo had been on the wrong end of a shotgun more times than he would like, but the empty barbell hanging over him was somehow more intimidating in that moment. He had followed the instructions on the fitness website to the letter — but it was that final step, the lifting of the barbell, that made him quiver. Thoughts of sprained arms and torn ligaments raced through his mind.
Gabe took another look around the room. The sight of so many taut, toned individuals pushing both themselves and the gym machines to their limits made Site-64's Director of Finances positively bubble with bodily envy. He wanted to slink out of the room and bury his grief in some chicken korma. But he slid back under the bench. Even more so than korma, Gabe wanted to look at these people as equals.
He also wanted to be able to lift Sasha up when they had sex.
Gabe gritted his teeth and reached up, wrapping his hands around the rough patches on the bar. Slowly, he lifted it off the bar and lowered it onto his chest. Then he pushed. Equally slowly, the bar rose back into the air until Gabe's elbows were locked. He took a breath, then lowered the bar back onto the safety catch.
"Hey Gabe. Your form's off."
Gabe looked over to the source of the voice: Agent Clarissa Shaw, leader of Mobile Task Force Gamma-13. She was wearing a plain black tank-top and sweat pants, with earphones in hand and smartphone clipped to her waist. It made Gabe, in his fleece shorts and The Breakfast Club T-shirt, feel unprepared.
"I'm doing well, Clarissa. How are you?" he said.
Shaw exhaled. "Haha. I don't wanna interrupt you too much. But if your form's bad you'll get nowhere fast. Want some advice?"
Gabe smiled apologetically. "I'd appreciate it. I'm new to the whole 'gym' thing."
"Hey, you're here." Shaw moved over to Gabe's bench and stood over him. "That's something to be proud of."
She grabbed his hands and adjusted them onto the barbell. "Keep your wrists level — no, parallel, parallel to your hands. Don't flare your elbows, that's what you were doing wrong. It'll hurt your shoulders."
She stepped back. "There we go. Feet planted on the ground, wrists parallel, elbows tucked in… Nice. Now lift!"
Gabe slowly lifted the barbell overhead. Now that he was actually lifting properly, he could feel the strain. He was afraid his arms might snap off at the elbows, but they held.
"Now hold for one second," Shaw said. "Lower it slowly 'till it's barely touching your chest. Then lift immediately. Don't keep it down."
Gabe concentrated on Sasha. With a herculean effort, he lowered the barbell down and then raised it back up.
"Nice!" Shaw said. "One more time… again… last one!"
Gabe repeated the motion three times. Each time he was sure that his arms would detach from their sockets. As the weight came to rest upon the safety bars, Gabe gave a final loud gasp and his arms flopped bonelessly towards the ground.
"Thank… you," he wheezed.
"Take three minutes break," Shaw said. "That bar weighs forty-five pounds. Good job!"
"You think so?"
"When was the last time you lifted forty-five pounds?"
"Point taken," Gabe said. "Have you got a workout for today?"
"Oh, I was actually about to head out," Shaw said. "Today's my cardio day, I ran about 3K on the treadmill."
"Nice," Gabe said. "Do you lift weights?"
"Oh yeah," Shaw said. "I have a whole routine. 6-day workout, alternates between cardio and weights. Send you a link? I got into it way back when, after Anderson wrecked my spine."
Gabe tried to hide the flinch, but there was a reason he was an accountant and not a spy.
Shaw chuckled lightly. "Hey, it's my spine that got broke, right? I can laugh about it now."
"Yeah, that makes sense," Gabe said. "You've bounced back really well."
Shaw scratched her back. "It doesn't hurt the prick gave me a new one."
"How's it been treating you?" Gabe asked.
"Bit of a pain to be honest. I gotta keep an ACE bandage around the thing, make sure it doesn't peel off. That actually happened to me a couple times when I first got it installed — fucking irritating when you sweat so much your legs drop out from under you."
She shrugged and checked her watch. "Still, I'll take it over the wheelchair any day. Alright, break's up. Back on that bar. Five reps, let's go. Keep those elbows tucked."
Forty seconds later, Gabe thought he might die. "Oh, it hurts," he groaned as he let his arms flop. "Feels like my arms are gonna fall off."
Shaw giggled. "Take three minutes, then you still got three more sets to go."
Gabe sat up and bonked his head on the bar. "What?! Auw!"
He rubbed his forehead.
"Yeah," Shaw said. "Five sets of five reps each. Then we'll move onto squats, then get you started with the barbell row. Then we'll get you started with pushups, crunches, rowing."
"Oh God," Gabe said. "There's more?!"
"Sorry to burst your bubble, bud, but you can't just do one press and get anywhere," Shaw said. "Did you even have a plan for your workout?"
Gabe hemmed for a moment, then smacked his lips exaggeratedly.
"That's what I thought," Shaw said. "Hey, having a plan is half the battle. Congrats, you've got a workout coach now."
"Are you sure?" Gabe said. "I don't wanna take up your time or anything. I'm sure you've got other stuff to do."
"On a Sunday?" Shaw said. "I was just gonna go home and rewatch The Office for the twelve dozenth time. Plus I owe Sasha like, a dozen and a half different favors. I figure getting you into shape has gotta be worth at least three of them."
"But then I'll owe Sasha for making you owe her," Gabe said. "No matter what, she still has three favors left!"
"Ye gods!" Shaw said. "She's been playing us like fiddles!"
They laughed.
"You are one lucky sonovabitch to have landed her," Shaw said.
"Don't I know it," Gabe said. "I gotta pinch myself every morning when I see her, make sure I'm not dreaming."
"Ha! Back under that bar, lover boy."
Forty seconds later, Gabe let out an exaggerated grunt and flexed his biceps. "You know, I think it's working," he said, hands resting on the barbell. "I can't wait for Sasha to see these guns."
"Make sure to tell her I'm coaching you," Shaw said. "I already owe her a bar tab, I can't owe her a favor tab too."
"Tell her yourself," Gabe said. "Why don't you come over for dinner tonight?"
Shaw waved her hand. "Ah, I couldn't — I don't wanna impose or anything."
"Oh, please," Gabe said. "It sounds like this workout is going to run at least an hour and a half. Plus Sasha's got the night off. When was the last time you two got together?"
"Well — I mean — well it sounds like you two ought to spend some quality time together," Shaw said.
"Date night was yesterday. We dropped Jessie off at my parents and hit the roller rink. That woman can do things on skates that Tony Hawk couldn't on a board."
Shaw's eyes lit up. "Oh, all right," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "I really can't refuse, can I?"
"You can't escape, Clarissa. I'm making my special chicken korma…"
Shaw narrowed her eyes. "I'm not gonna owe you a dinner tab, am I?"
Gabe winked. "Let's call this one a quid pro quo."

+ Anomalous Materials Lab, November 17th, 2022

- Anomalous Materials Lab, November 17th, 2022

"Hey, Jake?"
Researcher Conwell looked up from his desk, towards his office door and the Anomalous Materials Lab that lurked beyond. Standing in the threshold was one of the newer hires, a young woman named Sonia.
"Everything alright?" he asked, turning down the music that was playing from his computer.
"The AMAT and Paratech symposium at 81 next month," she replied. "Have you already picked what the lab is going to present?"
The older researcher leaned back in his chair and chuckled.
"The snakeskin grafting project you and Apruva are working on is pretty promising," said Conwell with a small grin. "But no, I haven't decided yet. The Director is going to want a say in what we send out so we put our best future funding foot forward."
Sonia's shoulders sunk. She frowned briefly, then gave a nod of understanding.
"Just thought I'd check," she eventually said. Without another word, she began to take her leave.
"You really want to go, huh?" Conwell called out.
"This is the most excited I've been for a project since I started with the Foundation," Sonia turned with a sheepish grin.
"Well, then I suggest you and Apruva get a rough draft of your presentation to me by Monday. If I like what I see, I'll pass it onto Holman. With any luck, by this time next month, you and Apruva will be at Site-81."
Sonia blinked, opening her mouth to speak. No sound came out.
"Well," Conwell chuckled again. "Get going."
She nodded, and quickly bolted through the door, only stopping as a moment of realization hit her.
"Wait," she called back into the office, "You wouldn't be there too?"
"As much as I would love to be in the middle of Indiana in the dead of winter, and listen to the panacea guys go on about active ingredients for the twelfth year in a row, I think I'd rather spend the holidays here, with my family," Conwell replied. "Besides, I've got a real go-getter who wants to go in my place this year."
Conwell couldn't see Sonia's face from the other room. A silence fell over the lab.
"No taksies backsies!" Conwell added. He then turned his music back on and returned to his paperwork.


By the hand of the Fifth and Final priest of the Astral Seas
The Library, more commonly known as the Wanderers' Library, is the finest source of knowledge in all the worlds. No empire or civilization has ever come close to rivaling what the Library has to offer, even that of those of the forgotten names, who know what IS and what IS NOT.
It is said that the vaults of Alagadda hold several texts of forbidden knowledge that were stolen from the Library, but I shudder to think of what price the Hanged King and his Masked Lords would demand for a mere taste.
Yet despite the wonders that lie before me, such as the texts on the demon foxes and a tome on the practices of the Howling Dark, I find myself with little to peruse on my chosen subject: that of the Serpent itself.
It sounds strange at first glance, perhaps even laughable. Even those with the newest cards would tell you that the Library was built upon the Serpent's back, and it is by his devotion that this place exists. The group of misfits known as the Serpent's Hand style themselves after it, with many worshiping it as a trickster god (some believe this is how they retain their library cards, but there is little proof of this).
A closer glance at the litany of volumes on the subject reveal many take their ideas from earlier works. One Allison Chao (a name that seems to repeat itself throughout the shelves, curiously enough) states in her book, Our Prometheus;

Gossip would have you believe that the Library is located on the Serpent's back. This is a metaphor, taken as fact. The Library was built upon the back of the Serpent, who labored to create this sanctuary of knowledge. The Serpent does not even exist as a true being, it is a Platonic ideal of knowledge at any cost

If true, it would be of great value to my works. But how did she arrive at this conclusion? Later in her text, Chao cites a series of scrolls by Sera of the Infinite Chaos, a Daevite priest of the King Adorned in Red, on the nature of divinity and true faith. The relevant passage, compiled here, details his thoughts on the Serpent.

The law of howling and the law of blood are the chains that bind him. Like the Serpent, who pursues his secrets eternally

A lazy citation by itself, but she proves her credentials. Ms. Chao cites three additional well-respected authors, who provide relevant documents and thaumalogical workings to lend credence to their assertions. All seem to agree that the Serpent is not a true being, but an aspect of knowledge to have faith in.
A closer look at these sources reveal a troubling trait. An alarming number of her sources, and her sources sources' appear to share a small group of common references. Established facts devolve into conclusions, which devolve into assumptions, which devolve into hypotheses. Ultimately, this particular strand of knowledge can be traced to the collection of writings of Xilaskar, last of the Yeren.

If we examine the Serpent from the perspective of a being composed of knowledge, with an eternal hunger that can never be satisfied

A theoretical position that had been twisted into hearsay and tempered into a fact. It is curious that the Librarians, many of themselves paying a penance for introducing falsehoods to the Library, would overlook something like this.
I may have dismissed this as a simple case of non-omniscience, had a Librarian not come up to me and inquired into the nature of the research I had been conducting. It was unable to assist me, but pointed towards me a distant corner of the Library, a hundred leagues south of the main desk, that could prove useful. Suspicious, yes, but it was something concrete.
My teleportation techniques in extradimensional spaces are woefully out of practice, so I endured the long and arduous journey. Each day of travel, I seemed to be heading into a quieter and less trodden part of the Library. The Library was ancient beyond measure, but it seemed the parts that I was travelling to were older than that, if it was even possible. Carefully constructed wooden floors turned rougher and rougher, until I was walking on dirt packed between interwoven branches.
That is where I found a most curious surprise, in a room that had been forgotten by time. A single bookshelf was all that was present within, with six books on it shelf.
I opened the first one and began reading. It was the journal of, strangely enough, Allison Chao.

Ananteshesha. Nahash. Satan. To those who know where to listen, these are the names repeated in the same breath as the mysterious god of the Wanderer's Library. But behind those, there are only rumors and conjecture.

It seemed that this Allison Chao (who must be different from my previous contact, I'm sure of it) was a wanderer seeking knowledge of the Serpent, and ended up in this curious room much like myself. I grabbed the next book on the shelf, this by a Lord Theodore Blackwood, and skipped ahead to the end.

While my inquiries about the Serpent have resulted in frustratingly little, it has led me to this odd little room, with Ms. Chao's ruminations on the serpent to add to my collection. Perhaps whoever finds this collection of musings can solve this elusive riddle.

The next four were more of the same. Each author had been an explorer searching for information on the serpent, only to arrive at the same room as I had when they fell short of that goal. Each appeared to have incorporated the previous one's work, building to a bigger, yet incomplete part of the mystery.
I must've been there for hours, adding every little scrap of their work into my own, crossing off avenues that they had already explored and debunking theories they had tentatively proposed. When I beheld the fruit of my labors, it still fell woefully short of a definite answer on the nature of the Serpent.
But hopefully, whoever came after me would have something to pass on.
I paused at that thought. Was this all by design? The web of misinformation surrounding the Serpent, the books with their woefully wrong conclusions, it all seemed to have led me to this room, for passing on my knowledge to the next generation of seekers.
If so, who was the architect of this scheme? The Librarians? Or was it the hand of the Serpent, placing a test to see who truly deserved to know the truth? Or did it never exist in the first place, and instead was tentatively forging its own history?
As I sit here now, scribbling the last remnants into my journal for whoever stumbles onto this hidden corner of lore, I leave you these words.
Good hunting.


I <3 the Circus!
Herman Fuller Hub | Pt. 1 - A Night at the Circus | Pt. 2 - Amongst the Clowns >>

Breathless, I ran like a child toward the sparkling lights and discordant sound that drifted through the night. The kaleidoscope of color that was the little grouping of tents and wagons parked in the big empty lot behind the mall called to the memory of the child I carried inside me, and I knew I had to go. It promised a way, if only for a little while, to forget the drone-like mentality that had crept into my heart, that For One Night Only! I could be a little kid again, lost in the wonder of the bizarre and unbelievable. Maybe, just maybe, it could remind me that magic still exists in this world instead of the numbing gray of endless quarterly finance reports and monotonous telephone sales calls.
From across the parking lot, the lights of the circus seemed so ephemeral, like fairy lights dancing off the clouds. Up close, the magic pulsed around me with the just off-key sound of a calliope playing somewhere amongst the tents. I drew up short, taking a moment to catch my breath and gaze upon the circus, my eyes no doubt filled with wonder and apprehension. The little voice in my head told me that this is foolish, that I am no longer a child, and now that I am an adult, I have to put away childish things. I felt torn as my inner child wrestled with my sense of responsibility.
I stepped up to the ticket booth. “One please.” My voice trembled as I tried to choke out my request and I had to clear my throat before I could repeat myself. “One ticket, please.” Louder, but still hesitant with that damnable catch in it, like I was once more a teenager and my vocal cords were playing that “not quite an adult, but no longer a child” game with my pitch again. I was so embarrassed and my face burned with shame, but the shadowy person in the ticket booth didn't seem to care when they took my money and handed over the ticket.
I don't know what I expected. I mean, it certainly wasn't going to be Charlie's Golden Ticket, but I expected something more than the faded red “Admit One” printed on thin card stock, the serial number so washed out that it was barely legible. It certainly wasn't much, but holding the ticket in my hand seemed to finally silence the wageslave in my head, and the nervous jitters spiking through my body quieted to a dull roar.
The last few steps toward the ticket taker, and I was overwhelmed by the sights, the sounds, the smells of the circus. The sickly sweet aroma of the cotton candy mixed with the stink of animal, of pungent and unwashed canvas, of the sawdust and thinly-spread mulch that seemed to be everywhere. The crowds were surprisingly thick, and I had to strain to hear the barkers over the riotous sound of screaming children and annoyed parents. The swirling chaos of the circus is exactly what I needed, and I drew in a deep breath, fully embracing the hectic wonder of it all.
“Come one come all to the calamitous cacophony that is Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting!”
A man's sonorous voice cut through the miasma of sound like a hot knife. He stood on a box just inside the circus gates, and his grand gestures encompassed the entirety of the crowd gathered before him. He was dressed in a curiously old-fashioned tailed tuxedo, colored a shockingly visceral shade of crimson. A jauntily crooked top hat was perched atop his head, and he waved a long black and white cane as he exhorted the crowd.
“Prepare to be persuaded, perplexed, nay, even perturbed by the pernicious panoply of preposterous performances that await only your perception to propel you into preternatural pleasures!”
His words rolled from his mouth like a spell and it wrapped around me like a shroud. I couldn't help but become enthralled as they washed over me, through me, as they pushed my already blossoming sense of wonder and anticipation to new heights. Trapped now in the entrancing rhythm of his cant, I stumbled forward with the crowd, my eyes never leaving the man in the top hat, and I swear that he winked directly at me as I passed underneath his outspread arms.
Everything else just faded away as I truly entered the circus grounds and the volume of the riotous sounds washed over me again. There were signs that promised a Monstrous Menagerie, a Den of Freaks, even a funhouse, but for that moment I was paralyzed with indecision at what to do and see first. Then the call of the cotton candy vendor floated to my ears, and my decision was made. Even if it wasn't the color I expected and it looked more like a thundercloud than a sugary confection, I just couldn't pass it up.
The taste was almost unbelievable once I finally clutched a stick of the xiketic cloud. Almost sickeningly sweet, it slid down the back of my throat like a living thing, as if it were eager to get inside of me. I felt the warmth of the sugar rush as it began in the pit of my stomach, and my heart seemed to flutter with the eager anticipation of finishing the confection. In moments, it was gone and I found myself reaching for another. The clown selling the stuff laughed and handed over another of the black clouds before I was once more dragged off by the crowd, pushed away by the other eager patrons waiting for their own little storm of candy.
The events of the night began to blur together. There was a small tent off to the side, and inside was simple stage and a small collection of chairs. Alone on the stage sat a figure of a man swathed in a strange and stretchy fabric. At first I couldn't understand what had drawn me into such a plain tent, but when the figure opened his mouth and my mind was flushed free of thought as the liquid tones of his voice sang into my very soul. I don't know how long I sat there, entranced by the melody pouring from the strange figure perched on the stage. I would have happily stayed all night, if not the pale girl in lavender and black hadn't shooed us all out.
For a time, I wandered aimlessly through the crowds, still caught up in the rapture of the virtuoso's melody. Even as it began to fade and the wash of sights and sounds once more impinged upon my reverie I found I could still recall every note and tonal phrase. The music had become a part of me now, I know it will never fully fade, and the magic of it all still tingles along my arms and deep into my heart.
Eventually I stopped before a noxious green tent, the inside hidden in a blanket of deep shadow. “The Den of Freaks!” the brilliant placard read, and suddenly my anxiety roared once more to the fore as I hesitated. What kind of horror hid within? What unfortunate wretch would I find presented for the amusement of both myself and the other patrons? The inner questions haunted me, caused my feet to drag, long enough for the other patrons to push past me in their rush to see the denizens within.
With a resigned shrug and a sigh, and I passed into the gloom of the Den. Almost immediately my eyes adjusted to the dim illumination that shone down upon a small dais. Perched atop a small column was a figure hooded in dark robes.
“Behold, the Penitent Man.” A voice whispered into the stillness, and another light slowly came to life, revealing the man from the entrance standing off to the side.
“He once walked upon this earth like any normal man, but his heart was awash in dark and evil desires.”
The figure on the dais seemed to shudder inwards at the tuxedo'd man's words, and he convulsed in upon himself, shrinking into the deep shadows of his robe.
“Many men have such desires, that is not uncommon, but this one fed those desires, let them flow, let them take such a deep root that it wasn't long before he acted upon them.”
Behind the cloaked figure, dim lights slowly brightened, revealing a stage awash in splashes of gore and viscera.
“Such atrocities committed by this man would cause your blood to run cold and your heart to stop its drumbeat within your chest!”
The figure twisted again, as if in pain, before it fell to its knees upon the column, its hands outstretched in supplication.
“The guilt overwhelmed him, the weight of his sin crushing him down with a weight that none could ever bear. In his guilt and self-loathing, the man called out for redemption, asking, nay pleading for penitence.”
The figure cried out, a mournful wail piercing the silent darkness of the Den. I found myself taking an involuntary step back, away from the soul on the stage that was clearly in the grip of some form of inner torment.
“But then some distant being looked down upon the man and his guilt. Was it benevolence that prompted its choice? Or was it malevolence that caused it to reach out its hand to this poor lost soul, and give to him his penance, the stigmata!”
At that, the figure abruptly stood, throwing his arms wide and dropping the occluding folds of cloth that had hidden him from view. He was shockingly thin, barely more than a skeleton, his skin stretched taut over the sharp edges of protruding bone.
But more shocking still were the thin rivulets of blood that drained continuously from wrists, forehead, side, and feet. The revelation caused a gasp to ripple through the small crowd, and somewhere a young child began to cry.
“The gift of a merciful god, a sign of redemption? Or the sign of punishment, the just rewards for his terrible sins?”
The tuxedo'd man's voice was soft as it rolled forth with the cadence of long practice, the tone of an experienced showman.
“Or maybe he's just a freak, cursed with wounds that will never heal, endlessly begging for the relief that he never showed any of his victims!”
For several heartbeats, his words hung suspended in the air, the only other sound to break the stillness were the muffled sobs of the anonymous child. Then, the lights began to slowly dim, and the heavy drapes shifted around to both block off the dais of the Penitent Man and slowly revealed another room deeper into the Den.
The experience shook me to my core, and I wandered through the Den after that in a haze, only barely acknowledging the man that vomited butterflies, or the thing with a hundred arms rolling around a kindly-looking older woman, or the comely girl with the beautiful mint-green scales.
It all blurred together with the magic of the place, intoxicating, entrancing, disquieting. It was as if the horrors of this place weren't as awful as they should be, each new and bizarre Freak was terrible and beautiful in their own way, and I found myself falling more and more in love with the circus with each gasp and cry of the crowd as another disfigured grotesquerie was revealed to them.
I couldn't help but wonder at the people that lived out their lives in this place. Was this a home for the forgotten, a place of refuge for people who society had shunned and discarded? Or were they trapped by their abnormalities into punishing servitude and imprisonment, at the mercy of some dark overlord of the circus?
The inner musings continued even after I finally exited the Den and stepped back out into the wider maelstrom of the circus. These were people that have found their place, such as it was, and who was I—
My thoughts were abruptly cut off by a sudden change in tempo of the omnipresent calliope music. What was this? All eyes in the crowd turned towards the Big Top, and once more the man in the tuxedo stood waist-high above the crowd.
“At last, the show you have all been waiting for! A dazzling and devilishly designed departure from the dull and dreary - deployed to delight and deliver a decadent and delectable daedal for you, my discerning damsels and damoiseaux!”
The man grinned broadly and made several expansive gestures as his words continued to work their magic on the crowd. For a moment there was a pause, then the man swept into an exaggerated bow, and the fabric drawn across the entrance to the Big Top was suddenly and dramatically pulled aside, beckoning for the crowd to process inward.
Gasps rippled through the crowd before it surged forward, and I felt myself drawn inside with them, my eyes open in amazement at the vast expanse revealed before me.
Maybe it was just the spell the tuxedo'd man's words had imprinted upon me, but I swear the Big Top was somehow bigger on the inside, making use of shadow and pinpricks of light to make the sweeping inner canvas resemble a brilliant sky, awash with stars. Thousands of the twinkling little motes swept across the inner surface of the tent to spill down its sides, crafting the illusion that the stands appeared to be floating in a crystal-clear midnight sky.
The great rings of the Big Top were impossibly lit by a convocation of the dancing little lights, and the tuxedo'd man somehow stood there as well, as he welcomed us all to his show with dramatic gestures and a huge smile.
How can one describe the indescribable? How can I put into words the impossible spectacles I saw that night? Acrobats danced through the air, tethered to thin lifelines as they dangled far above us, unfazed by the danger of an absent net as they seemed to simply fly free of gravity's fragile hold. The horror and slapstick antics of the clowns as they cavorted across the spaces within the rings. They twisted into incredible shapes, disgorged flowers that exploded into sprays of black confetti and glitter, danced and tumbled and caused mayhem, all while another impossible act took center stage to perform before the astonished crowd. A bear danced and sang a mournful dirge as it twirled its way across the center ring. A man rode a motorbike round and round a flaming sphere, cackling with exhilarating laughter as he risked his life over and over again.
Then, all the lights grew dim and a single beam bathed the center ring in incandescence. The tuxedo'd man stood there, his arms raised in supplication.
“My friends, tonight we have for your entertainment a very special treat. A marvelous materialization of meticulous management of miraculous millifluence and magnificent mirage! May this manifestation manipulate your merriment and motivate your meritorious mesmiration, I present to you, Malagantius the Mysterious!”
The ring was immediately plunged into darkness for several heartbeats, and the faint music from the calliope was the only sound in that vast space. Then, a murmuration spread through the crowd as a soft glow slowly appeared. It floated a dozen feet in the air above the center ring, and the figure of a man was curled within. With a snap of sound and a flare of light, the man spread his arms and legs, extending himself out like the Vitruvian Man, suspended in the air before the crowd.
Again, he paused before he began to speak in a deep baritone, and his words rolled out from him with almost gravitic force. I was glued to my chair with the sheer presence of the man, and even though I did not know the language which the man spoke, I knew he spoke directly to me. He told me of my life, of my many disappointments, of the drudgery my life had become. He told me of my sadness, my longing for something more. He told me of my dreams, of my desire.
As he spoke, he gestured with his hands, and images began to appear in the air around him. Visions from my childhood, a birthday, my first bicycle, a game of dodgeball with the kids at school, laughter with my parents. Then the images became more unpleasant, my first abortive attempt at kissing someone I liked, a small huddle of people dressed in dark clothing surrounding the open grave of my mother and my father slipping quietly into my room later that night to “grieve” with me.
I burned with shame, afraid to glance to either side for fear that everyone around me saw my humiliation on display before them. Instead, I leaned forward as I strained to hear more of the words tumbling forth from the man.
The images shifted again, more quickly than before. My father's rage as I brought home failing grades at school. The laughter of the other kids in my class as I stumbled through a problem at the blackboard, rejection after rejection of friends, family, lovers, then endless days of pointless effort and demeaning tasks given by heartless bosses.
The images in the center ring blurred together, either from my tears, or my own inability to focus as a wave of emotion washed over me. I felt alone, crushed into my seat, left to linger upon the dispair and emptiness of my life.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the visual assault on my senses abated, and once again the man floated alone in the space above the ring. He looked out at me, and I felt his eyes boring into my soul. For a moment I felt the terror of being judged, and I tensed up as I prepared for the rejection I was certain would come next.
I was held there in that moment, shame and fear and self-loathing churning in my stomach like a cancer, locked for an eternity of doubt and recrimination. Then he spoke, and with his words he removed all of that as his forgiveness and love poured into me. Warmth spread through my body in a rising torrent, and I felt the shattered pieces of my soul knit themselves together in the healing light of the man's gaze.
So enraptured as I was, I didn't immediately notice when the lights suddenly burst back into full illumination and the tuxedo'd man reappeared. Only when the majestic figure in the air above him vanished did the spell truly break, and I realized what was happening.
Pandemonium broke out around me as the tuxedo'd man shouted directions above the din. Gangs of clowns, more than I had seen during the show ran helter-skelter through the crowds, chivvying people out of their seats and then out of the Big Top itself.
I don't know how they missed me as I got to my feet and moved unsteadily down the steps towards the Big Top's floor. I didn't know exactly what I was doing, all I knew was that I had to find that man again, find out if the forgiveness had been real, if his love meant something.
Chaos swirled around me, and I did not care. I did not understand when the performers started yelling "Essie P! Essie P!" and the press got faster, more frantic. I simply followed the clowns as they slipped out the back of the tent and deeper into the Circus. Suddenly, one of them appeared out of the crowd and shoved a large bundle of cloth into my arms.
"Go on then, Fuller wants us all through the Kaleidoscope now!" He pushed me roughly toward a riot of color and flashing lights I had assumed was another of the rides.
Beams of metal shone with light reflected from thousands of colored bulbs as they flickered on and off at an ever-increasing pace. The circus performers crowded around me, and I was carried along in their wake. We passed between two shining mirrors, and suddenly I was somewhere else, stumbling out onto an endless expanse of hard packed sand under an empty expanse of blue sky.
I glanced up, startled at the sudden brilliance of a night that had become day, and I stopped dead in my tracks at the sight I beheld.
There were two suns in that cerulean sky, and their brilliance burned into me with a sudden and all-encompassing sense of dread.


…
Oh hey, Rex.
…
Yeah, I'm alright, just thinking.
…
Well, when I was a kid I had this blanket. It was big and blue, and I called it 'Fanfa'. It was everything I needed it to be; a blanket, a bag, a cape, anything. I used to take it everywhere with me back then, and we'd do everything together. Calling it my imaginary friend would be a misnomer because I knew it was just a blanket, but I chose to treat it like a living object. I'm not sure why.
I remember when I was six it got a big hole in it. I don't remember how it happened but I remember that it happened, and I was so torn up about it I was crying and begging my mom to fix it. She offered to just buy a new one but no, I wanted my Fanfa. I wouldn't take anything else. She fixed it eventually, and I remember I was extra careful with it to make sure nothing like that ever happened again.
I kept doing everything with Fanfa for maybe another year and some change. I'd had it for about four years at that point, and it was full of stains, small little holes, and it didn't quite feel like itself anymore. Because I cared about it so much, my mom folded it and put it away in a little plastic container and put it away in my room so I wouldn't lose it. If memory serves, it's still there even after all these years.
But I remember feeling miserable when Fanfa was taken away from me. I understood why it happened, I had to grow up sometime and the amount of love and…. I guess you can call it an 'obsession'… Anyway, the 'obsession' I had with that blanket was getting to be weird at my age. I was six or seven, I don't remember, but like I said, I was miserable. I think that may have been the first time I ever felt depressed. Depressed because I was being forced to give up my best friend and favorite toy.
…
I'm getting to it.
Anyway, that got me thinking about what we do now. I know we do what we're doing because we have to, and even if we didn't, we're still getting paid to do it so… you know what I mean? But I digress. When our field agents take away those kid's toys… I know they give them amnestics so they don't remember anything. But just imagine if you were one of those kids. Your parents got you this awesome new Robo-Dude from some mysterious toy manufacturer and it's the most magical thing you've ever experienced. Because it is magical. It's made by Wondertainment herself. Imagine how much more of a connection you make with something so unique over something mundane.
God knows how long it takes for our field agents to figure out who and where the people who bought these things are. A kid could have made some life-defining memories with the toy before any of our guys find out they have to nab it. And just… I don't know. I put myself in their shoes a lot. I don't know what I would have done if someone tried to steal Fanfa from me by force. Of course, I probably wouldn't remember it; I've never been amnesticized or at least don't recall being amnesticized.
But… I felt so much anger and resentment at my parents for doing what they did with Fanfa. I was mad that they were taking away my favorite thing. Imagine if a stranger stormed into your house and did the same thing. Those few moments before the amnestics were deployed and all you knew was this stranger in tactical gear had yoinked your Robo-Dude right out of your hands without rhyme or reason… it eats at me, man.
…
I know, I know. Secure, Contain, Protect. And yeah, they don't even remember it, but… the feeling is still there, you know? Buried deep down somewhere in their brains they know they've felt immense pain and they'll never be able to place it. Because that moment was gone like a candle in the wind.
…
Yeah, sorry. I'm having a weird day. I'll see you at the lab in a few minutes. I think I'm going to call my parents first.

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two-egg 12/13/19 (Fri) 01:12:59 #8675309

Doctor Webb and the Monster.

If you're looking for something to hunt and catch and brag about, this isn't your day.
The St. Augustine Monster. A gigantic mound of rubbery flesh, washed up on the beach in 1896. Gone for a hundred years, why is it worth writing about? You know, honestly, this is my city now. If I'm going to be operating out of here, there's room for the dead to be remembered. Even if the dead is a gigantic octopus.
That night, between stranding itself on the shore again, people heard something. Wasn't in the 'official record' but there were some letters to the editor. In the St. Augustine Record. It might be a fish rag, but even fish rags can be useful if you're trying to wrap up dead guts and dead ends.
It was a song.

old-greg 12/13/19 (Fri) 01:16:11 #4624774

wasn't this just a whale or something
i mean its cool an all ig
but
i dont see how its scary

two-egg 12/13/19 (Fri) 01:12:59 #8654339

Unearthing the Monster.

It was the kids that found it first, out early on their way to school maybe. Or on vacation, heading to the beach before the tourists got there and made the sand stink of sunscreen and burnt snowbird. Her body was so heavy and dense that it sank halfway into the beach sand before they stumbled on it. Dead weight.
My personal theory though, is that it wasn't dead. Least not at first. Back in '64 when Dora blew through the historical society lost a lot of records. But I did my homework. It didn't wash up ashore once. After one beaching, she swam back out. I've decided she's a she. I've got no evidence for that, but it's how I prefer the story. Moving on.
She was one of the first “Blobbies” to wash ashore in North America. Those blobs of unknown flesh that wash up in California or Virginia every few years. Sometimes they're whale guts. Sometimes, they're not.

joe-the-commie 12/13/19 (Fri) 02:01:01 #5412777

I dont really get why they called unknowable biomasses washing up on our shores blobbies.
They're little bits of eldritch abominations and sound about as eerie as a beanie baby.

two-egg 12/13/19 (Fri) 01:12:59 #2292172

A lonely carcass on the beach.

Blobbies have been reported washing up on numerous coastlines since 1896, although none have been the same creature as the St. Augustine Monster. But it's not unique.
I know there were at least two of them.
There's a little scuba community in town, tight-knit group. Got places to rent out the equipment and everything. I saved up a little bit of cash, cleaning houses and doing laundry, enough for an envelope full of money to be exchanged for a little underwater photography.
Didn't exactly give them the rundown of what I was looking for, but they found it. A cave, in the seawall far past the beach. The pictures they brought back made me wish octopus' could have bones. Evidence. Something to remember him by. This was where they made a home, before that century got stolen from them.
I know that the bits were part of him. The diver didn't agree with me. Said it was sand, or debris. But what does a Norman know?

anti-anti-pope 12/13/19 (Fri) 04:17:22 #1611681

feels a lil like ur speculating here
but
go on

two-egg 12/13/19 (Fri) 01:12:59 #2292172

Waiting.

Maybe that happened here. Hits her, she left, tried to let it all go. Current won't let her back. Comes back and he's a mess. Maybe he hits her again. Squeezes those coils around her tight until her own tentacles are in tatters.
I hope not. I hope they were happy. At least for a moment. She wasn't coming back from that beaching. Accidents do happen. The sea brought her back, for a moment, so she could say goodbye.
He waited for a long time.
I went out there a few nights ago. My guesstimate for the anniversary. It was like that glowing plant stuff, floating on the water like skim on custard. But it was jellyfish, tons of them. Just wriggling and pulsing and glowing. But only for a second. Just for a second.
Long enough that I could hear that song, too. I can't remember the tune, but it was good. It was enough. Worthy of whatever it was they had.


"Hey, Tom?"
"Yeah? What's up?"
"We keep getting complaints about, uhh…" Richard checked his clipboard. "Cheese labels glued to the inside of the Men's room stalls."
"Oh god."
"What?"
"I know exactly who did it."
"Really?"
"Yes. I have a strong hunch."
"You can't be serious."
Tom simply looked at Richard, and let the silence sink in, before Richard started again.
"… … … Oh no. Noooo no no. Just because you don't like him doesn't mean-"
"I know, I know. I think he's an asshole. But, I want you to ask yourself: who else would do this?"
"Okay. Okay, yes, I get what you're saying, but come on. He's not that stupid."
"Bet."
"I am not going to bet on my coworkers intelligence. Or lack thereof."
"Bet."
"We're not doing this."
Tom took out his wallet and retrieved a crisp twenty-dollar bill. He pulled it taut to demonstrate its presence, and slammed it on the table in front of Richard. "Bet."
"I told you, it's not happening."
They exchanged looks.
"Alright. Alright, fine."
Tom sighed and let his shoulders sag down, falling with great exaggeration into his chair. And then, with one quick stolen glance and a swing of his arm, he grabbed the microphone to the site PA and flicked it on.

"Doctor Cimmerian, please stop leaving cheese packet labels in the men's bathroom stall. This will be your first and only warning."

Cimmerian looked up with a deep scowl, brows furrowed, at this interruption.
"Right in the middle of my take? Really? I need to get 'You're Wrong About Provolone' up by tomorrow. Ugh."
He held his gaze for a minute more, indignant at the ceiling, and let out a heavy sigh before pressing stop on his recording. And right as I was getting to eating the damn thing, he thought, closing his laptop and putting away his microphone.
He looked to the fresh sticker he had placed, and decided that it would probably be for the best to scrape it off. He reached to the corner and pulled, and the plastic label ripped away from its paper backing, leaving a nasty residue resistant to all his further efforts.
"Alright, well fuck you too, then."
He took his packet of now-unwrapped cheese slices, covered the toilet seat with half of it, and threw the rest (except for one) in the toilet and let it remain there, making sure to leave the seat up.
As he left the restroom, he looked at his final cheese slice, looked up, and crammed the slice into the air dryer.

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toadking07

This is the very first piece of SCP content toadking07 ever made. Originally posted on the forums, it got passed around the internet for a few years before finally the artist decided to give it a proper page. Thanks for checking out the original.

Field codes were adopted from old hobo signs and thief symbols used to alert others in the know of dangers, marks, and obstacles in the area. Many Foundation task forces have their own set, with symbols unique to their usual assignments. At least one has refined their code to such a degree it's practically a language on its own, able to communicate multiple details with a few strokes added or changed.
It's important to keep in mind that in the field when dealing with anomalies, we never know exactly what will have to be dealt with. Reality benders and paranatural phenomena turn the chaos of entering a hostile environment inside out and upside down. Every week I read reports of teams sent on routine exploration missions only for them to wander into alternate realities, houses with warped space-time and death machines built by madmen and anartists.
Contact with command will be lost. Technology will fail. Rooms will shift. Teams will be split up. Imposters will try to pass as teammates. To not be prepared for the unexpected is suicidal and has lead to the deaths of more men and women than we have any right to forget.
When choosing symbols and what they represent, it is important for teams to agree upon their meaning together and to keep the designs simple. A stick figure with an X over its face. Two circles next to each other with a line connecting them. A half-circle ending in two parallel lines. Signs should be easy to draw in as few strokes as possible under stressful circumstances. Whether drawn in chalk, marker or blood. You may need to draw it before sprinting out of the room or with your one remaining hand.
There is no central database of field codes. It is considered best practice for teams to come up with their own symbols and to change the designs as time goes on. A lot of rookies like to point out the "symbols have been compromised," sign being the scariest to see, right along with, "do not be taken alive." While there are threats that can reach into the mind and glean the meaning of the symbols, those are few and far between. You face something like that, you're already fucked more ways to Sunday.
Most anomalies and hostile environments don't have that level of intelligence or ability. Some don't even register us as sentient beings. We're nothing more than food or material to them. Even a sentient skip watching from the shadows will be hardpressed to see a symbol and correctly assume the meaning left behind. At best they might copy what they see drawn, but without the proper understanding of the meaning, it can be easy enough to spot when a copycat is trying to sow confusion.
Signs for cleared rooms, staying quiet, strange phenomena can have wide application. The, "do not follow the little girl," symbol is a bit of a tongue in cheek joke about how many creepy little girls seem to hang out in abandoned mansions, laughing from the shadows and asking people to play with them. In actuality, the symbol is more properly explained as, "do not follow the obvious bait." Predatory anomalies often use humans or the pretense of a human in distress to lure personnel into dangerous situations and away from the main group. If someone seems out of place or is too conveniently found, there's a good chance you're walking into a trap.
Attached below is a set of codes for use as a reference by teams. While every potential threat and possible scenario can't be planned for and expressed with a few lines, taking the time to draw up shorthand for expected anomalies or common obstacles in the field can save lives. Established ahead of time, field codes bring a strategical advantage in otherwise overwhelming hostile environments.