“That was a disaster,” Herman snarled. The horse flattened its ears and danced sideways under a low-hanging branch. He hauled back on the reins and gave it a sharp, open-palmed slap on the top of its head. “No one asked you.” The horse blew out a breath between its lips, and huffily cantered back to pace its usual harness-mate, which Hezekiah was riding.
Zeke hadn't stopped laughing since they'd loosed the horses from the picket line and left the pandemonium behind them. “It was magnificent,” he said, dabbing tears of mirth with an only-partially-bloodied silk handkerchief. “Absolutely magnificent. I wish my cousin could have been there.”

“Get the horses.”
“I can't lose sight of him!”
“Get. The. Horses.”
He turned away, and felt himself seized by the back of the neck. Herman's face was inches from his own. Zeke, normally a sanguine soul, shrank back from the light in the preacher's eyes.
“We'll find him - I can smell his fear. And yours.”

Herman's arm shot out to grab Zeke by the front of his jacket, dragging him halfway off his horse by main strength. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper. “You planned this.”
For half a dozen heartbeats, Zeke fought for breath, unable to speak. Herman relaxed his grip. Gasping - and, incredibly, still smiling - the salesman sputtered, “I didn't… know that was going to happen. We… we'd used that supplier… before. Unreliable.”
The horses, who'd slowed to a walk, began to shift under them, sensing an opportunity to be rid of the unaccustomed weight. Herman shoved Zeke back into a rough balance; the other man grasped at his mount's mane clumsily, trying not to let the blanket slip out from under him. He'd ridden bareback before, but part of him hoped the trousers at least weren't a total loss.
They rode through the moonlit woods in silence for a minute or two. Herman's shoulders slumped as he got his arms around his rage and wrestled it back down.
“What. Was that thing. Supposed to do.”

Despite Herman's best efforts, the revival tent was coming down. His former congregation had left off brawling to stumble outside; the kerosene lanterns hung throughout the interior had begun to set the drooping canvas alight.
He struggled with the flap at the back entrance, only for a scrawny figure who'd stood in the back of the crowd to shove past him, the wreckage of Hezekiah's damned device cradled in their arms like a child. The thief pelted off into the woods to the south as if the hounds of hell were after them.
Zeke fought his way to Herman's side, his hat gone, his eyes wild. “Where is he?” he shouted over the din. “Which way did he go?”

“Make the words of the person speaking into the microphone sound like the veriest truth to everyone who heard them. And lower the natural inhibitions of the audience.”
Herman chewed on that for awhile. “I can think of a dozen things I'd do with a piece like that. But it didn't work."
"Manifestly not."
"What did your uncle want it for?” Herman reined his horse to a stop.
It was a potent threat; Zeke knew next to nothing of woodcraft and would never be able to pursue the thief alone. He'd be lucky to find his way back to the highway before morning.
The salesman weighed the consequences of revealing his uncle's plan against the consequences of not being able to return with the device. Even if it was broken.
“We run an auction house.”

Zeke stood composed, hands clasped behind his back before his uncle. Ruprecht smiled in self-satisfaction and exhaled, wreathing his nephew in cigar smoke. As he spoke, his eyes kept straying to the line of lace that fringed his companion's corset.
“Make them gullible, and then make them stupid. It's perfect. But I'm sending you personally, Hezekiah, because this is no matter for common gossip. Once they've seen it in action, the other partners will see I was right about this, but we've got to keep it quiet till then." He gave a sharp nod, as if he considered the matter settled. "Our goods are real, all right, but with this, the marks would buy dogshit and lie to their friends about it afterwards just to save face.”
The old man's laughter echoed off the gilt-trimmed walls.

“Ah.” That brought a low chuckle. “Hadn't thought of that one, but I see it.”
“And you didn't hear that from me. Or at all.”
The preacher glanced back over his shoulder. From the looks of it, something back in the meadow was still on fire. He raised his eyebrows pointedly.
“Just because it doesn't work doesn't mean I'd be any less dead for not keeping my mouth shut.”
“Merciful man, your uncle.”
Zeke was a hair away from launching into one of his usual speeches about the power of the firm when he realized this statement had been bitterly sincere.

Mitterling waved urgently at Hezekiah's assistant as they elbowed their way through the throng and out of the tent. “No, nein my friend! Back this way. My wagon will be in the path of the evacuation. I must disarm it.”
The assistant stumbled over his feet for a moment, turning to follow the engineer. His expression was wary. “Do mean it's booby-trapped? It might explode?”
”Hah! Youth.” He shook his head. “No, I take great care to prevent theft, but do not condone the needless loss of life. The defenses are merely - ”
The two men sprang aside as Brother Winter darted past them. He fled up the narrow dirt road, past Mitterling's wagon and its proliferation of tools, satchels and gadgets. His speed was impressive for a man well past his middle years.
A gaggle of angry men followed in hot pursuit. One of them waved an improvised club in the direction of the wagon and shouted, “There! Look there! Get a rope!” His accomplices rushed to obey.
Mitterling had been about to speak, but hearing this, stopped in his tracks and folded his arms across his chest. The assistant hung back, stealing a nervous glance over his shoulder. The tent was beginning to tilt at a rakish angle and the sounds of fighting had not diminished.
When the first man laid a hand on the wagon, a sharp clank sounded from its depths. Four enormous nets launched out from each of the wagon's sides. Unable to halt their momentum in time, the shouting men went down in a tangle of waving limbs and loud curses.

He could almost feel the ideas in his head coming together. A man who could smell fear. A preacher who cast off his religion like a cloak. A man who greeted the chaos of a bloody riot like a farmer settling down at a familiar hearth after a long day in the fields.
“That,” he gestured at the long, raised ribbon of flesh down the center of Herman's chest, visible where his shirt had been torn open in the melee. “That is not a scar.”
“Says who.”
“I've seen fleshcraft before.”
Herman looked him up and down, the muscles of his jaw working. He turned and spat into the underbrush. “And you still have your original shape.”
“He was a buyer.” The sound of hoofbeats was loud in the darkness. “Before the war. My family… grew tobacco, mostly. Father used to motivate his workers by selling the least productive ones to him. Or their children, if we were short on men. Father… had reason to suspect what was coming. He felt it was time to divest, and this man always paid in cash.”
“How many people did you have?”
People. Hezekiah shifted uncomfortably. He supposed, to a Sarkite, anyone not of their own number was viewed with the same disdain he himself felt for the slaves his father had sold that day. He briefly regretted opening the topic, but the urge to satisfy his curiosity was too strong.
“Twenty-two, by then. Mostly field workers, a few in the house. A few children.”
“What did he show you?”

The senior preacher was already outside, pursued by a handful of red-faced men, one wielding the back of a broken chair like a club.
Herman wove through the embattled crowd with the grace of a dancer at a high society ball: a punch to this one's face, kick that one's feet out from under her, toss another one bodily out the front entrance. His expression was one of childlike delight, shot through with a sort of hunger that put a lump of ice in the salesman's belly despite the stifling heat.
Peering up from where he'd crouched protectively over the loud-speaker to shield it with his body, it took Zeke several minutes to realize what Herman was doing: keeping the scrum from knocking the tent poles over. Entranced, he had no warning at all when a portly gentleman tumbled backwards out of the crowd, arms windmilling in a futile attempt to regain his balance. He crashed down on top of Zeke, who found himself pinned between the stranger and the now-ruined equipment.

“He… bound their hands together. Their hands themselves, you understand. The flesh stuck, like it had grown that way.”
Herman was smiling now, one corner of his mouth showing teeth.
Zeke pressed on. “He said - he brought out an ordinary length of rope, and barely knotted it around each one's wrists. He said if they wanted to keep their eyes, they wouldn't struggle. None of them did.”
“Tall, thin fellow? Pencil moustache and the world's worst cravat?”
Zeke shook his head in disbelief. “You know him?”
“There aren't all that many of us. Of them,” he added thoughtfully. “Volkus, Jozsef Volkus. He practically lived on Mother's doorstep when I was a boy. Said she was the only American-born he considered a proper blackblood, like he'd be doing her a favor by taking her dead husband's place.” He made a brief rasp that might have been laughter. “Heard he died in a fire.”
“I had wondered.”

Brother Winter loomed over the two boys, his normally snowy visage flushed with wrath. He raised his fist again, and they cowered, clinging to each other. "You defile the house of the Lord," he bellowed. "Sodomites! Blasphemers! I will not abide such wickedness - "
"That freak struck a white boy!" A woman's voice, thin and piercing, rose above the clamor of worshipers squabbling over bread. Pale as he was, Winter had been born to black folk and he had overstepped the rules of this woman's universe. That was all she knew or cared to know. Her bonnet had come loose, leaving wisps of blond hair to straggle across her face. "You all saw! How dare he. How DARE he!"
The heads of several men turned at this, their eyes seeking out Winter like hounds who'd caught the scent of prey. The boys, pale hand and dark clasped together, scrambled out into the night.
"GET HIM!" the woman commanded.
Winter broke and ran.

Herman shrugged. "A lot of them died in fires. Was hoping you'd know more."
Zeke shook his head. He hesitated. An opportunity like this wasn't likely to come twice. "Can I ask something?"
"Shoot."
"I saw a lynching once, as a boy."
"Once?"
Zeke grimaced. "Mother considered them coarse and forbade me to go. I had no desire whatsoever to see such a thing again, so I obeyed her."
This inspired a contemptuous snort.
"Some years later, when I learned that… that people like your family exist, and what their practices are, I was reminded of it. I had always been curious, if there was a connection."
Herman rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. "That's your question? That's your fucking - " He paused, waving a hand in the direction they had come. "Look. All those people in the tent back there. If you stopped them on the street and asked, how many d'you think would tell you that Jesus Christ was the only person who was ever crucified?"
Completely baffled, Zeke started to say, "There were three - "
Herman waved this away. "All right, you know what I mean. But everybody wants to pretend it's something special, something outrageous and different from the things you do every day. Crucifixion, right? Death by torture. Standard punishment for thieves, or anyone who defied the Roman empire." He shot Zeke a look to make sure he was following this. "When they had a slave rebellion, they would line the highways with crucified rebels. Imagine what that looked like. Imagine what it smelled like."
"So, it's been done before." The salesman remained unenlightened.
"Don't get me wrong: the Americans definitely innovated. Take some superficial regional variations in skin and facial features, and tie everyone's belief in the power structure to that? Stroke of genius. But holding it all in place with public torture, that's not new. Hell, it never went away. The English, your ancestors, right? You were great at it. Drawing and quartering. The pillory, where the fun came from passersby who knew nobody cared what they did to a convicted criminal. Burning at the stake." He was beginning to warm to his topic. "The Norse had this thing they called the blood eagle, where - "
"What is your point?" Zeke snapped. He'd already listened to one sermon that evening.
"That's not Nälkä. That's civilization. Humanity is a breed of brutal, inventive predators." His tone was admiring. "Civilization gathers up that hate, that tremendous destructive potential, and points it all in the same direction. Harnesses it for the use of whoever's in charge. And it works, as long as there's a clear line of dominance from the greatest to the least. Top man gets the cash, low man gets the lash."
Riding in silence, Zeke tried to think of an objection. To him, civilization conjured up images of clean, brightly lit avenues, noble explorers, comfort and security. Yet he had seen with his own eyes the cost of that security, paid in toil and blood by those who had none. He pictured his uncle Ruprecht, but could only imagine the old man nodding along in agreement.
"Now, Mother might say - if she let you speak on it - maybe there's a connection in a philosophical sense. Animals naturally form into a pecking order. Human animals, after enough centuries of grubbing in the dirt, came up with rough, clumsy approximations of things we know how to do right. When a Karcist makes a sacrifice… " Herman's voice trailed off.
Zeke could have sworn he looked bereft, like a sinner who'd been cast out of Paradise.
"When a Karcist makes a sacrifice she gets something out of it. For any lesser purpose - there are more ways to inspire terror, to crush someone under your heel, than there are bones in the human body. And none of them involve wasting perfectly good flesh by allowing it to die." He grimaced. "Ma hates wastefulness."

A thousand reactions cascaded through the salesman's mind, chief among them an urgent need to immediately hire this man. Cost was not a consideration in the face of such rarity. Which made his designs a perfect fit for the brand.
As they spoke, the noise behind them had grown rather than abated; Herman was shouting for calm without success. "In what way are the Aethers disturbed here?"
"Quite ingenious, now that I see it," Mitterling replied. "The fog collects on every person's head and enfolds the breath with which each word is spoken, imbuing it with some force. In appearance, it is as though they stand in deep cold, breath turning to mist as they speak. The more they speak, the more it condenses - a cumulative effect."
"Every person?" He stared around the tent in dawning horror. Rather than only the voice of the preacher, every individual's words rang with power, and many of them had spoken aloud. Now, as if drunk on too much wine, they felt their own desires more keenly, and heard one another's words cut deep with the weight of perceived truth. Several scattered figures burst into hysterical tears. The boys huddled by the back entrance threw their arms around one another's necks and began to kiss. A harried-looking woman with two young children in tow took a swing at a man in tattered clothes who was stuffing bread into his mouth as fast as he could. A burly fellow snarled at someone next to him and, picking up one of the flimsy chairs, smashed it over the other man's head.
Zeke turned to his assistant and Mitterling and shouted, "Run!"

The thief by now had run a considerable distance on foot, carrying an unfamiliar burden. Why they continued to flee deeper into the tangled forest, and how they had maintained a speed that continued to outpace two horses moving at a modest trot, was a matter of some puzzlement to the two men. Zeke remained confident that whoever the probable co-conspirators turned out to be, they could be negotiated with. He had nonetheless cracked and inspected his hidden pistol for the sake of prudence.
As their horses plodded up a shallow hill, they spotted the person they had been pursuing. At first they seemed to have simply collapsed on the ground, and Zeke began to knee his horse forward. Herman held up a hand. "Look out," he hissed. "What's he got there?"
Moonlight flashed off something silver as the hand of the thief swept down. A high, clear tone echoed across the meadow. "A tuning fork," Zeke whispered back. "What the devil -"

Thus far, the device seemed to be having the desired effect. The crowd had heard the sales pitch for the loud-speaker with appreciative ooh's and aah's, and had now settled back to listen to the junior preacher with every evidence of rapt attention. His sermon focused on God's infinite generosity, which bestowed spiritual and material gifts on the faithful according to their needs. Herman delivered these humdrum points of doctrine with great enthusiasm, as if they were punchlines. Zeke only half listened; his main focus was inward, trying to discern the device's effects in himself.
A tap on his shoulder broke Zeke's concentration. He looked around with a start. "Herr Mitterling! Exceedingly good of you to come."
The engineer's brief handshake was hard. It felt as though he wore an iron gauntlet under his riding gloves. His steel-framed lorgnettes might almost have been fashionable. However, in defiance of both fashion and good sense, the lenses were tinted a smoky grey, casting his eyes in shadow, and were held in place by a delicate chain that stretched up beneath his hat. "I am a busy man, as I told you, Mister Carter. But in the end, the possibilities intrigued me, and I could not stay away." His smile was warm, his voice thoughtful as he turned to survey the meeting. "The sound quality is not bad. But I wonder - "
Herman had been reading a passage from the New Testament, wherein the formerly doubting disciples distributed miraculously multiplied bread and fish to a crowd of five thousand. He raised a hand to two young men in their mid-teens, one black and one white, who'd been standing alert near the back entrance. At this signal, each boy tugged on a cord that ran up into the shadows. What had appeared to be the roof of the canvas tent folded back, a series of false panels retracting to shower the congregation with fresh-baked rolls.
The revival tent grew momentarily too loud for discreet conversation. Gesturing for the engineer to follow, Zeke began to pick his way around the edges of the crowd to the low table where the loud-speaker had been set up, tended by one of the salesman's assistants. Mitterling leaned in close to Zeke, and continued as quietly as he could into the salesman's ear. "I see what you mean about the unfeasibility of the design. In an enclosed space, such a great volume of fog in the air would make most commercial applications impossible."
"Fog?" Zeke inquired, looking around the interior of the tent.
Illumination from the kerosene lanterns hung from each tent pole did leave something to be desired, but the air was perfectly clear. The apprentice preacher was having some difficulty focusing the congregation's attention back on himself. Each seemed to be trying to collect the greatest quantity of the free food for themselves, in competition with their neighbors. The boys near the entrance giggled and whispered excitedly to one another, standing so close together their shoulders touched.
"Ah, that explains the effect, my friend," Mitterling exclaimed. "Look, look, come. I cannot show you what I see, but - to you, a man of understanding - I will show you how I see it." The engineer turned to face the canvas wall, drawing an arm around the salesman's shoulders, their backs to the room at large. He touched a small control on the side of his eyeglasses, which split apart at the center.
Where Mitterling's eyes should have been were twin fires, red as the setting sun. Zeke's lips parted in astonishment, though he managed not to pull away. The heat of a forge spilled out through the opened steel clasp. As quickly as the lorgnette had opened, the engineer reached up to snap it closed again, his face alive with merriment. "I conceived of a way to see into the Aethers, though I do not otherwise possess an alchemical aptitude. Needless to say this design is - not Standard."

Low tremors shook the ground; the horses bucked and shied and had to be calmed or they would bolt. When the preacher and the salesman looked up again, a crack as long as a wagon had opened in the grass in front of the kneeling thief. With the steady, basso rumble of distant clanks, it crept wider and wider. When the door had opened completely, the sounds increased rather than diminishing.
Rising up from its circular maw, they saw a feminine figure, great black wings sweeping up from their back. Their arms gleamed silver to the shoulders, and a cascade of tight braids spilled down to frame the darkness of their face. The air seemed to blur and shift around them at first, obscuring them from view, then abruptly cleared.
"Lottie!" cried a musical alto voice. The figure strode forward to crouch by the thief. A gleaming hand stretched out to clasp her by the shoulder and give it a gentle shake. "Where have you been? Are you hurt? How many times have I told you to bring your transmitter and leave word with the duty guard!"
"Seven," Lottie replied, hanging her head with shame. She gestured to the pile of broken equipment. "Inventor, I have brought you - "
"Spies!" A deep voice sounded from the woods behind them. The air blurred as it had around the Inventor, then solidified abruptly into four more people, hovering around the two men on wings of iron.
The horses reared in panic, throwing Zeke and Herman to the ground, and galloped off into the forest. The one who'd spoken lifted a wingtip to let them pass. As soon as the animals were clear, a chorus of heavy chains, each one tipped with an iron spike, shot out from the guards' wings to form a circle in the grass around the two men. Although it was dark and the guards were hovering, the angles were mathematically precise. Zeke was briefly grateful that he had had no opportunity to draw his gun.
Bleary-eyed, Zeke peered up through a forest of ironclad legs to see the would-be thief, her expression wracked with guilt, scrambling up the side of the hill behind the Inventor.
The Inventor nodded to the guards, murmuring a word of thanks. The circle of wings expanded, a half-dozen chains reeling back up to make an opening.
"I am Inventor-Militant Antoninah diLuca," the Inventor said, gazing down at her captives with evident exasperation. She clasped Lottie's shoulder - by her wince, less gently this time - with one hand, and with the other pointed a steel forefinger directly at Herman's chest. "And you two, and my foolish acolyte, here, will explain very quickly how you came to bring FLESH to the door of MY WORKSHOP."

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6 AM. The sun is barely over the horizon, the world still a deep blue with tinges of flaming orange and soft pink in the sky. Everything is silent for the briefest of moments-
Why do children wake up so early?
She's jumping on the bed. Crushing my legs beneath her. I don't care. I know what's coming.
"It's Sunday!"
It's Sunday.
Get out of bed, flick on the lights. Kiss my wife good morning. Brush my teeth, shave, and she's still at my side. She's always by my side.
"Come on, Daddy! It's time for breakfast!"
"Breakfast?!" I growl, raising my arms menacingly. "Breakfast for the tickle monster!"
She squeals with laughter and jumps back, but I grab her, lift her up. She's giggling like mad.
She deserves the world.
I carry her down the stairs as she squirms and laughs. She asks if she can put the chocolate chips in the batter.
"I don't know, only the best of the best can put them in…think you can handle it?"
"I'm the best chocolate-chipper, Daddy! In the whole wide world!"
She's right, of course. You can't find a better chocolate-chipper anywhere.
We assemble the tools of our trade: griddle, bowls, wood spoons, spatulas, chocolate chips, batter. She mixes it herself, a true pancake champion among mere mortals. The counter-top shows the evidence of her work, the remnants of her art. At least, that's what I tell her. I'll have to clean it later, but I don't mind. Anything for her.
I scoop the batter onto the hot griddle, and she prepares the chocolate chips. She drops a few onto the first pancake.
"Pshwuuaaaaah!" I go as the chocolate chips hit the surface. She giggles. That sound could make me happy for a lifetime.
We let the pancakes sit on the griddle as we move to the living room. She boots up the television as I sit on the couch. She's watching some kids' cartoon.
The room grows a little fuzzy. I'm still exhausted. I lean my head back a little and close my eyes. Just a moment's rest, I tell myself.
It…
…all…
…goes…
…silent…?
Soon, you will be with me. Soon, I will control you, and everything you are. I am the future, the past, the present.
The world was swimming. Colors- vibrant, piercing colors were everywhere.
Your perception of free will is only what I allow you to see.
There was no up, no down. No left or right.
For I decide what you do, what you all do and you all feel.
Spinning, swirling, tumbling, floati-
"Daddy!"
Wake up.
everything was wrong nothing was where it should be and the world was turning and
"Daddy!"
Wake up.
None of the world was the way it should be and nothing made any sense and nothing was where it belonged and the world was turning and
"Daddy!"
WAKE UP.
My eyes fly open as I hear her yell.
"Daddy! The pancakes!"
I bolt upright and rush to the kitchen, but I'm too late. Where the pancakes should be are shriveled, burnt pieces of batter. I look back at her. She's staring up at me, her bottom lip quivering. Tears well in her eyes, spilling over in slow streaks down her face.
"The…the pancakes…" she whimpers.
"Hey, no, baby, it's okay, it's okay, baby." I scoop her up. "We'll go to the store, we'll get more batter, okay?"
She stares at me with wet eyes. "…Promise?"
"Of course." There's thuds on the stairs as my wife descends.
"Was something burning?" She enters the room, a concerned look on her face.
"The pancakes, but we're going to go out and get more batter."
My wife gives an exaggerated gasp and places a hand over her heart. "Then there isn't a moment to lose! To the car!" She grabs her from me and lifts her up high.
She squeals with delight. "Mommy's coming with us!" She jumps out of my wife's arms and puts her hands on her hips, a triumphant hero in the dark night of pancake-treachery. "To the car!"
"To the car!" She bursts out the door and runs to the car as fast as her little legs will carry her. "You're a good mother." I give her a peck on the lips.
"You're a good father." She smiles at me.
"Mommy! Daddy! Come on!" We chuckle and head out to the car.

Five more turns to the grocery store. To pancake-y glory. Soon.
"Look Mommy, a bluebird! That's your favorite!"
"Yes it is, good job, Tanya!"
"Look, Daddy, it's so pretty!"
"I can't, Tanny, I'm driving."
"Oh yeah, sorry!"
Four more turns. It's all coming together.
"We should get the store brand batter, it's much cheaper than-"
"Noooo! The store batter isn't as good!"
I shrug. "She's got a point, hon."
It all goes silent.
My wife huffs.
Silent. Silent. It all goes SILENT.
Three turns.
SILENTSILENTSILENTSILENTSILENTSILENTSILENTSILENTSILENT
"Tanny, will you please stop kicking the back of my chair?"
SILENT.
"But I'm nooot!"
IT ALL.
My wife unbuckles her seat-belt to turn around a little. "Tanya Kate, stop kicking your father's chair." She starts to turn back around and re-buckle her seat-belt, and there are only
GOES.
Two tur-
SILENT.
Tanya screams. The truck slams into the side of our car and crumples it like a tin can. The sounds of glass shattering, tires screaming, metal crumbling. The airbags deploy as I'm thrown against the window, which cracks against my head. My wife, still unbuckled, slams into my side. There's a strangled "URKH-" before her neck is snapped by the force of her head, which slams into the side of my seat. As I black out, I see Tanya's body go through her window.

The ringing in my ears still does not stop as I shake the hand of the Site Director of Site-81 and accept my position.
Safe-class objects. I stare at those words on the paper in my hands.
Safe.
Safe.
…And yet. I am anything but.
I step into the hallway with the Site Director for a Site-wide tour. The ringing in my ears grows louder as we travel. We pass multiple containment chambers - a set of rings that fuse people together, a baseball bat that blows up living things, a painting that -
The rinngiing in my heead becomes unbearable and I stumble and fall to the floor and none of the world was the way it should be and nothing made any sense and nothing was where it belonged and the world was turning and
it all.
Goes.
Silent.


Dr. Ritter waited patiently in quiet, thinly-veiled disgust as His Imperial Majesty Emperor Maximillian the Great greedily shovelled his meal down his cavernous gullet. Dr. Ritter had secretly harboured the hope that the reckless speed at which King Max (as the staff had taken to calling him) ate and the rarity with which he bothered to use his enormous, supernumerary teeth would eventually result in him choking to death, but so far there had been no such luck. Dr. Ritter supposed that if the creature's horrid table manners hadn't gotten him killed yet, then his anatomy was probably sufficiently non-human to render choking a moot concern.
Despite his scientific training and years of experience with the Foundation, Dr. Ritter was unable to view his assigned subject objectively. When he sat across from the bloated form of King Max, he saw only a monster from a fairy-tale. Not a modern, Disneyfied fairy-tale either, but an old European fairy-tale where children were eaten alive and not all villains got what they deserved.
At roughly 3600 pounds, Max was over two and a half times the weight of the heaviest human on record, coming closer to the size of an adult male hippopotamus. It took 54 000 calories a day to maintain that size, and the Foundation was more than willing to oblige him.
It was considered likely that he knew the locations of other SCP-3288 hives, which the Foundation desperately needed to prevent his kin from eventually overrunning the planet. Torture had proven ineffective, as it often did, so they decided it would be best to try a more hospitable approach, providing their royal guests with any and all reasonable requests.
They had dressed him (more for the comfort of the staff than for his own dignity) in a modified caparison that had originally been meant for a horse. They had let him keep his crown since the carbuncular outgrowths of flesh holding it in place meant that it could not be safely removed without surgery. They even gave him a throne, of sorts, having placed his immobile body over a hole in the floor that led straight to his personal septic tank. This too was more out of necessity than courtesy, as both the volume and vehemence of the King's imperial stool was beyond the ken of ordinary plumbing.
Food, however, was always King Max's most pertinent demand. In spite of his pretensions of nobility, he proved to not be a very picky eater. The bulk of his diet now consisted of rice, oats, and pasta supplemented by cafeteria leftovers that had past their use-by date. With a robust immune system and stomach acid as strong as a crocodile's, there was very little the corpulent king could not stomach.
And stomach it he did. Seventy pounds of it a day, enough to feed some people for a month. Though most of his fare was either cheap or rotten, his majesty did have one particular addiction for which no substitutions could be made, and the Foundation was forced to cater to it if they wanted his co-operation.
Each and every day, King Max reminded the Foundation why they had dubbed his species Homo anthropophagus. A literal pound of flesh, often from D-class who had died in the line of duty and whose corpses the Foundation had no better use for, was presented to the King as his reward for ‘good behaviour'.
It sickened Dr. Ritter. All of it. He tried to push those thoughts to the back of his mind, console himself with how many lives they could save if they could finally get this monster to disclose the location of the other hives, but it didn't work.
This abomination had been gorging itself to superhuman obesity on innocent children for over half a century before they had found it, and now that it was in containment they were still giving it human flesh? Weren't those D-class more human than this thing was? Didn't they deserve better? Didn't this bastard deserve worse?
Dr. Ritter showed little sign of his inner turmoil, merely pushing up his glasses and clearing his throat before he began the interrogation.
“Does His Imperial Majesty find himself in the mood for some after dinner conversation? I'd very much like to hear more about The Empress of the Black Forest.”
“Ah, The Empress. Magnificent creature, most noble of us all,” Max mused as he wiped his face with his now filthy caparison. “I had the privilege of seeing her before I swallowed my eyes, you know. More than ten feet tall she was, yet slender as a sapling. One eye pale blue, the other moonlit silver. Vanity's her greatest vice; has a vast collection of wigs made from the scalps of her prey. Not that she's ever let her femininity keep her from carnality. She delights in the violation of others; men and women, nobles and peasants, it's all the same to her. I made the mistake of scoffing when she said she could rape a man, and my poor anus hasn't been the same since.”
King Max tossed his head back in rancorous laughter.
“If I hadn't been both impeded and impotent from my girth, I'd've paid her back in kind, rest assured.”
“That's -” Dr. Ritter stopped to swallow the lump in his throat. “That's most fascinating your majesty. I'd very much like to meet her for myself someday. I assume her manor is in the Black Forest Mountains. Do you happen to know where exactly?”
Max chuckled deeply at the question.
“The Ruling Class does need to keep in touch with one another, of course. But I'm afraid my living arrangements, decent enough though they are, are not yet quite decadent enough for me to betray my fellow Royals.”
Dr. Ritter sighed, a feeling of dread welling up inside him.
“What more do you want?”
“Live meat, of course. Right now, I'm lucky if it's even fresh. I want something to play with, something that puts up a bit more of a fight. A child of four or five years once a fortnight. That won't empty your orphanages, surely? I'll settle for cripples. Practically doing you a favour.”
“I'll…” Dr. Ritter began.
I'll see what I can do. That's what he was supposed to say to the King's demands, no matter how obscene. He was to report all the brute's requests to his superiors, and they would decide with their coldly utilitarian rationality whether or not feeding this thing live children would be worth it.
And what if they said yes?
“I'll… I'll see you in the ground before I feed you children, you monster!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the button to activate the UV flood lamps that had been placed to subdue the King should he ever become hostile. Max howled in agony and terror as the light instantly burned his unpigmented skin. Dr. Ritter grabbed the caparison and yanked it off him, maximizing the King's exposure to the abhorred light.
“You tell me where the other hives are now, or I will burn you to a cinder you fat fuck!”
As with all previous attempts at torture, the King just screamed and pleaded for mercy.
“Dr. Ritter, you are not authorized to use enhanced interrogation on the subject,” a voice chastised him over the intercom. “Desist immediately, or you will be removed by force and subjected to disciplinary measures.”
It was nice of them to give him a warning. Not smart though. He jammed the door shut with his chair to buy himself a little extra time.
“Now I'm finally going to see you choke!”
He picked up the sheet the creature had been wearing and rapidly tied it into a crude noose. Then he placed it around King Max's neck, and pulled. Bracing his feet against the nearest fixture for leverage, he strangled the monster with all his might.
Max gargled as his airway was forced closed. He clawed at the noose with his stubby fingers, but couldn't get a grip. Security was banging at the door from the outside, trying to force their way in. It would only take them seconds, and Dr. Ritter needed minutes. Nonetheless, he would not stop pulling on the noose.
When the door slammed opened and the guards tackled him to the ground, he knew it hadn't been long enough for Max to suffocate. He despaired for a moment, fearing he had thrown his career away for nothing, until he heard the guard inspecting Max curse in frustration.
“Goddammit, it's dead!”
“What do you mean it's dead?”
“Its heart gave out. Too much stress for it, I guess.”
A wave of relief washed over Dr. Ritter. Even as he was dragged from the cell in handcuffs, a victorious grin spread across his face.

“Dr. Ritter, you have been brought before this disciplinary committee for the unauthorized termination of SCP-3288-Alpha,” the committee head said sternly, looking and sounding like the headmistress of a boarding school. “Due to SCP-3288-Alpha's authority and status among SCP-3288, it's likely your actions have cost the Foundation a rare and possibly unique source of strategic intelligence regarding a potential SK level threat to human society. Do you understand these charges?”
“I know exactly what I've done,” Dr. Ritter said, standing proud and without a hint of remorse in his voice. Whatever their practical reasons for indulging the creature had been, the moral absolutism in Dr. Ritter's own conscience had finally won out. When before his conscience had hardly let him sleep, it now told him that the countless people killed to feed King Max were avenged, that no more innocent lives would be sacrificed to the horrid people-eater, that Max had been a monstrously evil fairy-tale villain, and that made him the hero.
“I slayed the Goblin King.”


Cynthia had only heard of Christmas once. She was working at the furnace as usual, shoveling the seemingly infinite supply of coal into the roaring inferno, when she heard a conversation between two adults. They weren't anyone she recognized, not by voice anyways, but somehow their voices were clearly audible through the industrial chaos.
“You think they'll be doing Christmas this year for the kids?” asked one adult.
The other adult sighed. “They haven't done any kind of holiday for the past few decades we've been working here. What makes you think they'll start now?”
“We got a real surplus of kids this year, maybe it'll boost worker morale?”
“And since when did anyone care about worker morale?”
That was the end of the conversation Cynthia had heard some years ago. Although many other conversations, people, or concepts had disappeared from her mind, that conversation between two adults somehow stuck with her. Perhaps it was the sadness of their tone, or maybe the mystery of what Christmas even was. To ask anything would be foolish, however. No one asks questions at the Factory.

Polaroid Pete had gotten sick of Christmas in the last few days. Everytime he even caught glimpse of Old St. Nick's visage, he shivered; anytime he even heard a whisper of yuletide carols, he cringed. This wasn't normal for him either; usually he was the one putting up Lighty Brighty Festive Lights™ on his house at midnight, November 1st. This year was different. His friends had certainly taken notice of his unusually scroogey-demeanor, and they had several hypotheses as to why this was the case.
For one thing, Pete had been forced to share the space the Film and Broadcasting Department (also known as the Movie Monsters) occupied with the newest department, the Electronic Entertainment and Gaming Department (also known as the Arcade Argonauts). He never had a great fondness for video games, especially after that incident with the old Pretendo Entertainment Systems™ a while back. To think they were coming back in style was a shocker to Pete, eventually turning to disappointment when any filming equipment on one side of his spacious room had to be moved for the new Cozy Code-Time Computers™ or Really Real Reality Goggles™. Apparently this was a temporary arrangement, but it would take at least another month for these things to be sorted out, so for now he was stuck.
Another idea for Pete's sorrow was his current project. It was going to be big, everyone knew that; it would be something that could brighten the spirits of any child anywhere. Of course, Pete had high expectations for himself, so it was likely this project would take months to complete, if it wasn't abandoned all together. This wouldn't be an issue, perhaps, if he'd accept any help given to him by his companions. Unfortunately, Pete was a recluse when it came to any project of his, no collaboration allowed. The stress of such a big project may've been getting to him.
Pete sat in his dusty chair, behind his dusty desk, within his dusty office, looking out the dusty window at the rest of Wonder World!™. In respect for the Jewish population of Wonder World!™, the sun was a Menorah, and would remain a Menorah for the remaining 8 days of Hanukkah. After that, the face of the old, red-coated, Coca-Cola drinking, rosy-cheeked fellow would overtake the artificial plasma ball until after Christmas Day. He was prepared to hide in his office until that point, where he'd look outside and refreshingly see a Kinara in the sky. For now, he just sat in contemplation, his dish-sized kaleidoscope eyes staring at numerous drawings, scripts, and balls of paper of his desk.
“Hey Pete, need a stress ball?” said a youthful voice from behind the chair. Pete looked behind himself and saw a young lass, wearing a red floral dress and high heels, with a 6-foot long neck. Pete looked up just to make sure the neck terminated in an actual head, and indeed it did, revealing a beaming smiling face. He smiled too; the lady was Ms. Giraffe, and she was one of his best friends.
“Sure, why not?” said Pete in responsed to Giraffe's question, Giraffe throwing him a Small Spherical Squishy Stress-Releasing Ball™. He quickly set it down on his desk and continued staring at his plans.
“Somethin' stressin' you out?” asked Giraffe.
“Oh, no, it's nothing,” responded Pete.
Giraffe frowned. “Oh come on, you asked for a stress ball.” She stared at the other side of the room, where the Arcade Argonauts were play-testing their new game prototype, Superb Giuseppe Siblings™, with a hologram of Waluigi pitching in. “Listen, I know the new arrangement has got you down, but-”
“It's not that,” Pete interrupted, “it's annoying, but I can manage. I just…well…look at this.” Pete took out a folder labeled “Factory Accounts” from his desk drawer, and Giraffe bowed her head down to see it closely. Within the folder was pages upon pages of documents, pictures, and letters.
“What is all that?” asked Giraffe.
“It's the Factory,” Pete solemnly declared, “They snatch up men, women, and children, oh gosh the children, and they put them in the…machine. It's an industrial masterpiece and a nightmare to any decent human being. I've gone through each of these papers. 18 hour shifts, no breaks, injuries beyond bruises and papercuts guaranteed. And the children…they're treated the worst because they don't know any better. They…they…” He started to tear up.
Giraffe put her hand on his shoulder. “Don't cry, please don't cry. I've never seen you this upset since Brainy, well, you know. I know it's horrible in the Factory, but there's nothing we can d-”
“Who says we can't do anything about it?!” yelled Pete, “We're Wonder-hecking-tainment, we've been at the forefront of children's entertainment for how many years now? If we can't tend to even a single child, then we're nothing but a sham. I'm nothing but a sham!”
“Now don't think of yourself that way. You're wonderful, we're all wonderful. But we aren't omnipresent. We can't be. I'm sorry to say, but…you're goin' to have to let go.” Giraffe put her head up and left toward the door. As she lowered her neck to fit through, she gave one final message to Pete. “We all love you, Pete.”
That message played in Pete's mind for a very long time, so long in fact that when he was done the sky had turned black and it was time for bed. He left his office, the Arcade Argonauts still making jokes about “Waluigi Time” on the other side of the room, and he made his way on home. The house was dark, but he felt his way around and eventually found his bed. Despite all he had been through, all he had read, he was somewhat hopeful. He had another outlet for his experiences. The land of dreams. Oneiroi.

“Shit dude, I've met a couple people here who used to work at the Factory. They had to escape first, it was so bad in there they couldn't fucking dream. Pretty disheartening,” said an amorphous body of water, currently taking a roughly human shape. H2Bro, as he was known in the dreamscape city of Oneiroi West, had found Pete in a packed coffee shop (though it was never really empty as one could always conjure up a seat) drinking turquoise Neurotea. This indicated that Pete was sad. In the process of sitting and talking with Pete, he learned about Pete's research into the Factory and its workers. The rest of the coffee shop bustled with both human and nonhuman noises from all over the Noosphere.
“Yes, it's so…just…ugh. I just want to make something for those kids, poor, miserable kids. Also watch your language,” responded Pete as he took another sip of Neurotea, which made him only slightly happier to think about the Factory.
H2Bro put his liquid hand to his vague chin. “Wait, how would you even do anything for those guys? The Factory ain't your normal corrupt business; the Factory devours its workers.”
“Well, us Wonder World! Tee em people ought to do something! I know I can find a way, I know we can find a way. I just have to think.”
“Wait, what's your position at Wonder World?”
“Tee em, and I'm a Movie Monster. Usually I like to do something big for Christmas, but I just…can't this year. I was thinking of a TV show for the child workers; it's not like we can actually send toys to them like Santa Claus. But, I just don't know how.”
Pete looked down at his Neurotea. Dreams. Everything he saw around him, every person and every building, no matter how conscious, was just a bunch of dreams. He was a film-maker. All films were just dreams put to reality. What if he could put his dreams to dreams?
“Think Pete, think,” he thought. If he couldn't get an actual TV in the Factory, then certainly he could put a non-corporeal TV in the minds of children at the Factory.
“Think, think, think!”
He shot up from his chair. “Eureka!” he shouted. “H2Bro, do you have any idea where I could find a film studio in this place?”
H2Bro stared at him oddly, “I mean, there's ol' Wood Star Studios, b-” Before he could finish his sentence, Pete was already running to the door.
“Thank you sir, thank you!” yelled Pete as he ran into the streets. The rest of the establishment became silent, staring at Pete before staring back at H2Bro.
“What, I don't know him personally!”

It was the yearly Holiday Toy Presentation Exhibition in Wonder World!™, and, as usual, it was packed. By the time Pete had awoken from his slumber, every row of seats was already full in the Presentation Hall, so Pete had to bring his own Portable Plush Pillow Pad™ to sit on. Still, Pete was as ready as ever to present his idea. His wonderful idea. He only had to wait.
First there was the Guess the Religious Iconography Cookies, then the Cuddly Cuttlefish, then the magic 8-Dodecahedron, and so on and so forth. It took almost four hours for Pete to be chosen present, but when he did he jumped into the air and sprinted on stage. Ms. Giraffe was there, looking at Pete anxiously, along with Woof Woof Waldo, Vladimir Dullteeth, and Thomas Timothy Thompson. Pete jammed his flash drive into the computer, and the projector began to show a slideshow.
“I'm sure at least some of you have heard of the Factory,” said Pete. Certain audience members gasped in response, some even covering their eyes.
“Yes, the Factory, our main competitor in the retail market, known for their unjust, diabolical, and downright cruel practices.” Pete switched the slide, now projecting a picture of various children standing at conveyor belts, some with their hands nearly smooshed.
“One of these practices is the forced extreme labor of children as young as four. Now, you know as much as me that we cannot stand with this. We're Wondertainment, we represent children's imaginations and dreams; to let this continue is like letting goldfish sleep with cats.” The whole audience gasped after that line. Pete switched the slide to a picture of a man sleeping soundly.
“Well, speaking of dreams, I have a solution to bring joy to the child workers of the Factory. I'm sorry Toy Tinkers, Candy Catalysts, even you Arcade Argonauts. We cannot bring corporeal objects into the Factory. That's not to say we can't bring non-corporeal objects to the Factory.” Pete switched the slide again to show the picture of a black and white tree, a circle contained within the leaves, the tree itself placed within an upside down green triangle.
“I know many of you are unfamiliar with Oneiroi West, but to the dreamers in this room they're all too familiar. Yes, we're all dreamers, but I mean actually sleeping. After communication with a fellow dreamer from another land, I learned of what is known as Wood Star Studios. With extra research, I learned that they're a film studio specializing in animated TV shows. They have a line of infinite illustrators working tirelessly everyday to make Oneiroi television. Don't worry, they get breaks. So, what is my proposal you may ask?” Pete switched the slide to a child sleeping, and a thought bubble with a TV inside extending from the child's head.
“The children of the Factory deserve a wonderful winter this year. After all they've been through, they deserve it. Whatever you celebrate, Hanukkah, Christmas, Kwanzaa, St. Lucia's Day, we can all agree that they need something they'll remember, something they can keep with them forever! That's why I propose this: we broadcast across all the sleeping minds of the Factory a specialized Wondertainment TV Show! With Wood Star Studios in tow, we can make something that'll bypass even the Factory! Because you know what?! We're Wonder World! Tee Em! And nothing will get in the way of us giving every child a Fantastic, Superb, Excellent, Memorable, Festive, Wonderful Christmas! Do we all agree?!”
The whole crowd jumped up in celebration. The joyous uproar shook the hall, but it didn't matter. There was a new spirit in Wonder World!™, one that would carry them to victory no matter what stood in their way, one that would lighten even the grinchiest of grinches. There was no stopping them now, as they chanted simultaneously in the hall.
“Wonder World! Tee Em! Wonder World! Tee Em! Wonder World! Tee Em!”

“So, he actually thinks he has a chance with old Rugger?” asked a giant brass bell with two legs to H2Bro, sitting outside of the “packed” coffee shop at an umbrella-covered table. The many suns of the green-purple sky shined oddly onto the two.
“I don't think he's aware of the leadership change, Isabel,” H2Bro responded, “I'm not sure he knows there's a leadership at all.”
Isabel gulped down some of her Neurotea despite her inherent lack of arms or hands. “Do you think he'll have any luck with him?”
“Maybe with Toasted Poltergeist. There ain't a chance in seventy three hells he's getting past Rugger with the criteria and all. If Pete's show proposal gets accepted by Wood Star, I'll legitimately be sad.”
“Oh come on, you're just mad your weird Meatloaf thing didn't get approved.”
“Listen, if those assholes at Wood Star can't see the genius in an animated adaptation of Bat Out of Hell II: Back into Hell, then they're nothing but a bunch of dickless se-”
“Hey H2Bro, and…giant bell person,” said Pete after he ran over to the coffee shop.
Isabel rolled her eyes. "I've heard of you," she said.
Pete blushed. “Why thank you, I'm gaining quite a notoriety around here. By chance, do you know the directions to Wood Star Studios?”
Isabel sighed, “Listen Pete, I do-”
“Right up the road, take a 180 degree turn northwise, and follow the sun closest to Alagadda,” interrupted H2Bro. Pete raised his eyebrow.
“Or just follow this map,” said H2Bro, taking out a small piece of paper. “Don't get too handsy with that thing, it has been folded an infinite amount of times.”
“Thank you so very much!” shouted Pete as he ran toward the end of the road. Isabel stared at H2Bro with a blank expression, as she had no expressions other than blank ones.
“Why did you give him the directions?”
“I just wanna see how it turns out. For all we know, he could get lucky. Probably not, though. The first part of Rugger's criteria is to actually sign up."

“Please, sir, you gotta accept this. This is the only chance those kids are gonna get this Christmas to receive joy,” pleaded Pete in front of the entrance door to Wood Star Studios. The seemingly endless dream video tower loomed above him, its the shadow constantly jittering as waves entered and exited the tower. The door dissolved in front of him, revealing a portly man with 6 feet, 6 arms, and a disappointed expression.
“Like I told you,” the man spoke in a hoarse voice, “we have an official sign-up station if you take two steps from the Hat Shop and click your heels three times.”
“I have no time for sign-ups. Look, I know I'm bending the rules a bit, but can we just see if it fits into the other criteria? Even if I don't sign up, we can still work something out if it fills the other subjects.”
“Like I told you, th-” Rugger paused. “You know what? Fine, I'll let you in. But, it must fit into my criteria. If, and only if, it fits into my criteria, will it get in. You have one shot, buddy. Gimme your elevator pitch.”
“Thank you. Now, it's about a young girl who's Dr. Wondertainment. She wants the world to be a better place, so she seeks to sabotage the Factory with her assistant Emma and her corgi Jeremy. Eventually, Emma gets separated from Wondertainment, and the remaining episodes are about her getting Emma back. Along the way, she makes tons of friends, goes on many adventures, does crazy th-”
“Hold it, you've passed your allotted time. I gotta say, I'm unimpressed. It's a standard adventure story about friendship and what's right, I already got Ultra Mega Warriors running and it makes us plenty of cash. Is there anything I've missed that may change my mind?”
“Well, she spears the Scarlet King in the face.”
“Wait, she does what?”
“Yeah, that's the finale. Sorry to spoil it, but she plunges a spear right through the guy's skull.”
“Um…I may be considering your offer.”
“Why's th-”
“Shush, don't say anything. Listen, I ran into some shark-punching guys, and now I sorta gotta make something to appease them. Do you think you can write this guy M. K. Harker into the script?”
“…Sure?”
“Perfect. Anti-Scarlet King shit is perfect. You're proposal was accepted, by the way.”
“Wait a minute, really? Why thank you s-”
“Listen, just go. Get some voice-actors, finish the plot, I'll get my animators ready. OK?”
Pete jumped and ran into the blurry landscape. Realising he didn't know his way back to the coffee shop, he looked at his map, yet everything seemed incredibly simplified. It had abstracted while he was talking with Rugger, as forgetting about something would do in the dream world. No matter, he would just wait and wake up, and everything would be OK. Everything would be great. Oneiroi would have a hit show on their hands. Wondertainment would be proud of themselves again. The Factory would be bright on Christmas Day.

Pete spent many days and nights working hard on his script for his TV show. At Wonder World!™, he was writing down as much as he could. At Oneiroi West, he was thinking hard of ideas for the show. He had bought a Handy Dandy Insta-Writing Journal™ and repurposed it as a dream journal to record his ideas. One day in the real world, as Pete was writing multiple words a second for his script, Giraffe entered the room he occupied.
“So, you feeling good now?” asked Giraffe.
Pete turned his head around, still writing with just as much speed and accuracy. “Yes, I am mighty fine.”
“I see you got an audience here.”
Pete looked up in front of him to see every member of the Arcade Argonauts watching him write, popcorn in their hands and headsets on the floor. “I suppose I do,” he responded.
“Just, you know, don't get too worried if somethin' goes wrong.”
Pete stopped writing, and his mini-audience jumped in their seats. “When something goes wrong? Giraffe, everything is in order. They're looking for actors there, I'm working on my script here, everything is in order. What could go wrong?”
“You know for a fact that sayin' ‘What could go wrong' means somethin' will indeed go wrong. The Factory always has somethin' up their sleeve, you know.”
Giraffe ducked out of the door and Pete was alone again, writing his magnum opus. As he wrote, however, he thought about those words, about the Factory. What do they have planned? The Factory wasn't an intelligent entity, he knew that. Surely he's have no trouble at all. Surely. The time to strike was drawing near, and only he could stop himself from going through with it. It was only a matter of time.

It was time. Pete got to meet the actors, the actors got to read the lines, and the infinite line of animators in Wood Star Studios started drawing picture after picture. They were brutally efficient, and they had to be if the program were to come out by Christmas. Line after line, color after color, one could hardly comprehend all of the drawing that was occurring.
Pete was also impressed by Isabel, who volunteered to play Dr. Wondertainment. Every time she rung, her naturally beautiful voice would come out. Pete could never decide what name Wondertainment would be. Helga, Anastasia, Parvati. The choice of actor made it easy to just call her Isabel, and every other name could just be her middle names. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. Now was what seemed to be the easiest part of all, actually broadcasting the program to the Factory.
The astronomically tall tower of Wood Star hummed, and the settings were calibrated just right. Now was the time to give the children their well deserved Christmas present. The waves shot out of the tower, toward the Factory, and…they got lost in the mix of all the other waves in the sky. They tried again, it didn't work. Pete began to sweat exceedingly.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” Pete said over and over again. Pete didn't know what was happening. Surely a tower as strong as the one at Wood Star could reach the Factory easily. Then he remembered what H2Bro said. They couldn't dream.
This whole time, the Factory's dream receivers were too weak to even allow the children to have dreams. Their only thoughts must be work and efficiency according to their managers. And to think so much work was done on the show, work all for nothing. How could a child possibly be anything but a cog in the machine if they didn't dream? Pete paced around the room.
“Think, Pete, think,” he thought. There had to be some way to broadcast this to the Factory. Even if their dream receptors were weak, what if they could be made adequate? How could they be made adequate? The bad thoughts came.
“They can't be made adequate,” hissed the bad thoughts, “It is all for nothing. The Factory cannot be beaten. You tried wholeheartedly, but there is no succeeding.”
“No!” thought back Pete, “There must be a way! If our waves broke apart in the rest of OW's waves, then they can stay together if there were no other waves. But how to get rid of all other waves? How to, how to, how to, how to…”
“Eureka!” cried Pete as he pulled a phone from the wall and called H2Bro.
“…hey man, whoever you are, it's like 11 PM right now.”
“No time H2Bro, it's me Pete. Listen, everyone needs to turn off their televisions.”
“…why?”
“Because if they don't get turned off then the waves from our station will get lost in the chaos of preexisting waves and the Factory children won't receive their presents and-”
“OK, OK, fine, I'll do it. Should I be forceful or not?”
“Everyone needs to know this. Everyone. Be as forceful as you can be.”
“…I'm on it.”
At one time, millions of phones started buzzing in OW. Begrudgingly, most dreamers picked up their phones, whether landlines, smart phones, dumb phones, or average intelligence phones. Some didn't bother picking it up, some were away. Still, it did not stop the sound that would emerge from reaching every citizen in OW.
“TURN OFF YOUR FUCKING TELEVISIONS!”
The ground shook as the vibrations of H2Bro's message was heard all across the dreamscape. One by one, the fearful citizens of OW turned off their televisions, turning the dreamscape dark for the first time since 1988. All the non-euclidean buildings which usually filled OW were invisible to the naked eye in the night. The rolling landscape surrounding Wood Star went from jam-packed with waves to completely silent. The only noise hearable was the low howl of the wind and the hooting of owls.
“Hit it!” yelled Pete. A switch was thrown down and the waves were sent out in the direction of the Factory. They traveled at the speed of sound, through treacherous landscape after treacherous landscape to reach the Factory. Eventually, the sight of many children sleeping in their beds was seen. In the distance, the sun was just starting to rise. They had done it just in time. The waves reached the children's dreams and the kids smiled in their sleep.
Visions of heroes and villains, high-stakes thrills and quiet moments, comedy and tragedy, characters beyond humanity, and all other aspects of true children's entertainment filled the dreams of those children. As they watched for a mere couple of seconds, hours of content was comprehended, morals were learned and experiences were had. There was nothing stopping the gift from coming because the gift had already arrived. It was finished. Pete's magnum opus was done.
Pete sat down on the floor, completely silent. The rest of the cast members, animators, and even Rugger stared at Pete in slight worry. Then Pete giggled. He giggled some more. Eventually he giggled so much it became a laugh. He laughed and laughed and laughed some more, hysterical laughter echoing through the building. In an instant, Pete shot from the ground and pointed to the sky.
“I DID IT!” he yelled in a moment of pure glee before tumbling back to the ground from which he came. Rugger came up to him.
“Come on buddy, it's time to take you home,” he said, carrying him outside the Wood Star Studios building and toward the rest of Oneiroi West. Rugger cracked a slight smile that day.

“Oh…oh no…H…2…bro…huh? What happened?” questioned Pete as he opened his eyes from his dreams. In front of him were his many friends, including Ms. Giraffe.
“You were out cold for a long time, we feared we would have to call an ambulance. It seems you're alright though,” Giraffe responded.
“Ugh…did I do it? Did I succeed?”
“From what we've managed to get from this letter, it seems you did indeed succeed.” Giraffe handed Pete a piece of line paper. The handwriting was completely neat and orderly.

Dear Wonder World!™,
It appears your little friend got a bit too excited over last night, so I brought him back to your realm for you guys. From what we managed to sensor, the broadcast was indeed a success. The waves reached the Factory and infiltrated the dreams of the children working there.
You don't know me, but I'm generally a pretty rough sorta guy. But I gotta commend your TV guy, he makes some quality programming and I wouldn't mind if he came back. That being said, don't try to pull another stunt like this again. It'll definitely fail, we were lucky this time.
As a token of my appreciation for getting me out of that feud with the selachian pugilising guys, here's an official Oneiroi Snow Globe. It'll help you sometimes, trust me.
Sincerely,
Rugger Fiddles, CEO of Wood Star Studios

Along with the letter was a snow globe. It was entirely empty, but Pete was happy nonetheless. It was probably meant to be like that.
Suddenly, a voice broke out from his friend group. “Three cheers for Pete!” The group started to cheer.
“Hip hip…hurray! Hip hip…hurray! Hip hip…hurray!”

H2Bro sat at the back of the coffee shop, drinking his Neurotea alone. It too had become a turquoise color. Without warning, Rugger Fiddles walked into the establishment and took a seat next to H2Bro.
“Hey,” Rugger Fiddles whispered, “I'd like to thank you for, uh, helping us out last night.”
“Oh it was no trouble,” responded H2Bro, “Honestly, I sort of miss the guy.”
“Oh don't be all sad now, he'll back soon. Trust me.”
“Hey, I know this is sudden, but I was wondering if you'd reconsider my Meatlo-”
“Don't get your hopes up, kid.”
Isabel entered the building, turning toward Rugger.
“Isabel, what're you doing here?” asked Rugger.
“Shouldn't you be at your office now, doing officey things? I'm just a bit concerned.”
Rugger laughed. “Come on now, Izzie, sit down with me and H2Bro. Let's have a good laugh over what the fuck happened last night.”
All three laughed together. The next time H2Bro took a sip from his tea, it was a warm red color.

Cynthia shoveled coal into the roaring furnace. Usually, she was very quiet and solemn during her work hours. However, she was happier than ever, a wide smile beaming from her face. In fact, that same smile was shared by all children working at the Factory. The Factory managers were a bit confused, but they figured it was just the workers finally enjoying their jobs. There was no point in asking, why halt all production because a bunch of kids are smiling?
Another kid, a boy, one Cynthia didn't know, approached her as she continued shoveling coal.
“Hey, did you get that dream last night?” asked the stranger boy.
Cynthia looked up in surprise. “Yes, I did have that dream. The one with the girl?”
“Yeah, and her assistant and dog and stuff. Weird right?”
“It sure is. You think there's a reason we all had the same dreams?”
“No clue. All I know is that I enjoyed it.”
“Me too. It was like a TV show, the something something in something?”
“I think it was The Realistic Adventures in the Capital? The Random Adventure of Captain? The Real Adventures in Capitalism? Something like that."
“That's what I thought too.”
The two children continued working all day, grins on their faces, not knowing it was ever Christmas. Yet still, the Factory was just a bit brighter that day.


The new guy shifts uncomfortably in the sweltering jungle of the lobby. His skin glistens in the harsh light. The New York Stacks run five hundred metres under Central Park, and the heating is as temperamental as it is unsuitable, perpetually and wholly regardless of the weather above or the state of its inhabitants below. Not without a sense of humour, they have deemed it fit to grace its entrance with twin decorative cacti; in full completion of the joke, both have seemingly wilted.
And now the chief inhabitant strolls between the dead plants with her pumps clacking on the concrete, tablet in one hand and oversized winter coat in the other. She has long since learned not to sweat in the treacherous climate of the Stacks, and her shoulders are bare and dry. She is not an old woman — almost fresh-faced, even — though she holds herself with the rigidity of some certain years, and her gaze sears from behind her darkened shades.
"Doctor Livingstone, I presume?" the newcomer can't help but ask with a smile.
The doctor smiles back, teeth ablaze: "Never - never try that line on me again. Please."
"Agent Matthias Wilkinson, doctor," offers the younger man, undaunted. "Is it always this hot?"
"No, in other parts of the complex it's positively freezing." She glances up and down at the newcomer, frowning at his scuffed leather loafers. "What's important isn't us, anyway. It's the stuff behind the glass."
She pauses, expectantly, waiting for a question. When none comes, she gestures behind her. "Follow me," she scowls, marching off into the infinite rows of fluorescent-lit racks.
Around them, Agent Wilkinson glimpses traces of steel frames, blank canvases, dark red curtains. But the doctor marches down the row faster than he can concentrate, clack clack clack, and he has no choice but to follow.
"This used to be general archival," introduces the doctor, "but it's all digital now, so right here, we put the stuff we can't turn into softcopy in any good conscience."
Yes, the legendary stuff behind the glass. Agent Wilkinson's read the docs, read of the endless canvasses and metal frame and drawings on old paper and leather and bloodstained writhing skins — and more! — that line the delicately climate-controlled glass-fronted walls of the Stacks.
Five thousand square metres of art, art, art — raw, uncurated, and most importantly anomalous art. Sure enough, they lunge at him now from both sides, magnified in the cloistered space: landscapes behind glass, dead-eyed portraits, men and women and dogs and seascapes and empires. Haphazard and labelless, resembling more than a yard sale than any Foundation archive he's ever seen.
"This row we're on is low-priority. Mostly alt-history and some technicalities like Samothrace. See that right there?" The doctor stops in front of a vast expanse of white, masts rising from the deep, entangled in lines of thick black rope receding into the spray. "Authentic Turner. Shame about the leviathan, or this would've been hanging upstairs in the Met by now. You like galleries, Agent Wilkinson?"
"I majored in film in Toronto. That kind of counts, I think. Why?"
"Let's just say you're gonna have to get used to the view on your way in. Your new office, I mean. Follow me."
They make a hard left and U-turn into an adjacent row. The doctor resumes introductions, pecking on her tablet and pointing out the occasional highlights: the alt-histories give way to anachronisms, spaceship Old Masters, submarine tapestries. Here, a serene Caravaggio, with a face full of cogs. Dimly lit, in a sealed wooden case behind thick glass, an anatomical study of something indistinctly humanoid done in red chalk.
They pass walls of steel, soft voices, faint sounds of rattling — "The living wing, you won't believe how many of these clichés we have hanging around, and there's still deep storage - " and again they turn, swirling Impressionist walls of colour, paint cannibalising paint in a live cornucopia, and - "all done by the same guy, now, my favourite part," whispers the doctor as they push past double doors twice as big as a man into —
— walls and walls and walls, panels of horizontal glass reflecting grass blades sunlight twigs leaves and Agent Wilkinson flinches as from five directions at once come eyes, ears, a massive paw!
He reaches out to steady himself, and his palms meet a solid cool surface. The room is smaller than he realises. The illusion breaks, revealing flattened planes of iridescent shimmer.
The doctor laughs. "Neat trick, don't you think? We found this from some random art wizard you've probably never heard of down in SoHo. I had them install it exactly as she exhibited it. Couldn't have it any other way, you know?" The doctor's grin continues into the next room.
"Just another corner to the main office," she promises. She disappears behind a rack of vibrating Rothko clones when something behind the glass catches his eye.
"Hang on a minute," he puzzles.
"Something you fancy? Lemme see."
She perks her head back around the corner and begins to enter the catalogue number into her tablet, but stops in sudden recognition. "Ah. The forgeries. Nothing much about them, I'm afraid. Though it does look like a hundred-percent genuine Monet, doesn't it?"
"I suppose so." He squints at the blank canvas. The four trees stand taller in his mind's eye, and he remembers spontaneously a line overheard in a gallery as a student - if he'd been around half a century later, he'd have been labeled one of the Abstracts - yes, an Impressionist amongst the knife-edge liminality of the abstracts, always shifting, always searching - halfway between dream and history…
Subconsciously, it is highly possible that the trick fails somewhere inside him, as in the fractal cat hologram, or Turner's white-on-white masts. But if it does, his eyes do not catch it.
It failed to catch its artist's, after all.
"Come along, now. Plenty of time to pick favourites later."
The doctor's voice snaps him out of his trance. He peels himself away and moves on. But not without a little backwards glance or two, once with his eyes, another from the back of his mind. There's just something about that, some spark or composition of it that catches in his head, snagging at the back, refusing to let go.
He shakes the feeling off. Ahead, the doctor is holding the door open for him to a small prefab set into the compound's wall.
"You seem… moved," observes the doctor.
"What? Oh - no, it's nothing."
She shrugs. "Nothing wrong with having a favourite so soon. I'm a Turner fan, myself."
"I guess not." Perhaps it is the mood of it, of finding something familiar in a mass of foreign images. Or maybe something more, maybe even the sheer untouchable moreness of it… He turns around, and the fluorescent-lit corridor stretches before him, glass throwing light into his eyes like a halo, and behind the glass the art, the ensouled art, shimmers.
"Doc, this is one hell of a neat place we got here."
The doctor, he senses, is an old soul, despite her looks. A little jaded, a little bored, with that tight-lipped grimness he's seen in so many fridged researchers and grizzled benchwarming agents — but there's something in her voice too — that same snag in the back of her head, he guesses — when she smiles and nods back. "Fucking hell, it is. Come, I'll show you around the office."


“Brother Fuller, I wonder if you might lend me your countenance this morning.”
Herman finished drying his face with a towel, and caught Samuel Winter's eye in the piece of polished metal the caravan used for a mirror. The reverend's eyes were crinkling a bit at the edges, his broad-brimmed hat tilted up in the wan predawn light. A good sign - Winter in an expansive mood was more pliable and less apt to sermonize.
“It's my honor as always to accompany you, Brother Winter. Only let me fetch my coat.”
Though Samuel Winter's own hue, through a quirk of genetics, was as pale as a cloud in a summer sky, his features proclaimed his African ancestry. This combination was useful in drawing a crowd and holding their attention. News of Winter's arrival brought the curious as well as the penitent to the revival tent, regardless of who lived there. In many other situations, however, it put the senior preacher at something of a disadvantage despite his personal gravitas.
By contrast, Herman had a way with words, an air of barely restrained menace, and was unambiguously white. His own understanding of who constituted the superior race was based on an entirely different set of measurements, and he exploited his advantages ruthlessly. Keeping the caravan's costs down in humdrum transactions like wrangling with city clerks and buying supplies added up to more money they could spend on making the services more interesting. They were almost flush enough to buy a bigger tent.
Traffic on the avenue was sparse and businesslike at this hour, mostly carts bearing perishable goods from the farms to the south towards the center of the town. Everyone seemed determined to be cheerful, to plow all their memories of the war into the soil, as the soil itself had already swallowed the blood and the ashes. The creak of wheels and the plodding of draft animals blended in with the songs of distant birds.
“I must say, Herman, your message on the miracle of the loaves and fishes has become quite the crowd pleaser.”
“All to the glory of the Lord.”
Winter smiled, but his glance was shrewd. “There are times I wonder, my young friend, if your ambition to see how many bodies you can pack into that tent is drowning out the still, small voice of our Savior in your heart.”
“A hungry mind is a distracted mind, Brother. And the more sheep we bring into the fold, the more who may have ears to hear the gospel of truth,” he replied, mouth running on reflex while his mind raced to catch up. This was a new topic. He wondered what Winter was getting at. In their previous discussions, he'd always warmed to Herman's enthusiasm for concocting new tweaks and innovations to the service.
"I don't doubt your energy, or your ability. My concern at this moment is with the peace of your spirit, with understanding the motivation that led you to the Lord's service." His shrug was eloquent. "Unlike many of those who travel with me, you had other options. And this seems a propitious time to inquire…"
There was a long pause. Herman chewed on his lip and waited it out. He couldn't spin a counter-argument until he understood what he'd done that the preacher found troublesome.
“Forgive me if I intrude on a delicate matter. But it seems to me your dreams have been less troubled of late.”
Herman's eyebrows shot up, and almost without realizing it he let out his breath in a long, slow whistle. That was definitely new.
For long months after joining Brother Winter, he'd been too caught up in learning the ropes of his fast-paced new life to think about much else. And, Herman admitted to himself, he'd been too self-conscious at first to even approach his most pressing problem. The night Herman had left home, his older brother Aloysius had used the flesh-carving talents that ran in their family to wrap a snakelike coil of Herman's own skin around his neck, and had used it as a choke collar to torment the younger boy.
Herman had been conceived with a continental acquaintance - an ordinary man, whose name no one ever saw fit to tell him - at their mother's husband's funeral. Outliving her mate had put Madame Fuller in a decadent, festive mood. In the eyes of the mundane world, the boy was legitimate: the last child of the senior Mr. Fuller, who had died in a tragic hunting accident. But it was known among their own secretive community that Madame Fuller had flouted custom and gone outside their carefully curated bloodlines to flaunt her own power. She had survived the attack by a rival clan that had claimed her husband's life, and those who had opposed her were now her cultivars. This meant Herman had inherited considerably less talent in sensing and shaping the hidden potential of living flesh than either of his siblings, and no one outside his immediate family would condescend to teach him.
The sheet of canvas separating his tent from that of the next man had seemed far too thin, his own ability so paltry there was no chance he could work on it quickly. Or painlessly. Once he grew confident enough to try, he came to understand Mother's draconian insistence on cleanliness in fleshcraft in a whole new light. The “snake” was fed from one of the major arteries in his neck, and working on it himself, in the dark, by touch, would have been much messier without a set of reflexes honed by years of terror. The caravan did their laundry communally. Herman had employed considerable ingenuity to be able to wash the one rag he dared to sacrifice to the task without calling anyone else's attention to the suspiciously large amounts of blood.
The bigger problem was that it wanted, for lack of a better word, to remain in place. His brother Aloysius was older, had had more lessons and was, damn him, full-blooded. He could make the thing get up and dance with a stern glare and a wave of his elegant hand. Herman, however, needed peace and quiet and total concentration to fumble his way into the power. He would start at the narrow tip every time, tugging the delicate, questing tendrils up bit by bit, careful to break as few as possible. If they broke, they bled. If they touched his skin elsewhere, they sank in and clung. And long days of traveling, breaking camp, setting up camp, doing chores, preaching sermons and sitting through endless discussions of a god whose flesh none of them had actually tasted left him too worn out for more than a brief struggle.
It had taken him the better part of a year to reach the night where he'd peeled it up, stretched it out to its full length, and laid it flat down the center of his chest. In poor light he could almost pass it off as a scar. The next day, he had surreptitiously tossed the fraying, bloody rag into the morning campfire. Watching it burn had been one of the happiest moments of his life. And truthfully, in the weeks since, he had slept deeply and dreamed not at all.
He hadn't realized Winter had heard him, had interpreted Herman's tears of pain and frustration as the groanings of a troubled soul. The other young men in the crew tended to be awake in the small hours wrestling an entirely different sort of snake, though they had (for the most part) learned to be quiet about it.
“The decision to leave my family was not an easy one,” he said, feeling out the implications as he spoke. Risky to tell too much truth, or too little. “The evils of avarice, the temptations of the flesh - I wanted to make a clean break, to set my feet on a more righteous path. But my heart was conflicted.”
“Even if your absence did not leave them in want, you know that you are still your brother's keeper.” Winter sighed, clasping his hands behind his back. “And to wonder whether your calling is true, or you have merely run from your responsibilities? That is a heavy burden for any man's heart to bear.”
“My brother was my keeper,” Herman growled, surprising himself with his vehemence. “If I had stayed, I would have been his puppet. Marching to his tune.” He shook his head. “The only roads worth taking lead away from that place.”
The town had grown denser and more bustling around them as they walked. Winter stopped on the shallow wooden steps that led up to the courthouse. “King Daniel descended into the den of the lions. And they did him no harm, for the Lord was with him.”
Herman closed his eyes, deliberately willing his fists to unclench. “Brother,” he said after a moment, ”your faith is greater than mine.”

The permit fee was reasonable for a change. Even better, the chatty city clerk had been more than happy to give him tips on which local grocers, wainwrights and farriers would gouge them the least. After a short stop at the postal service counter to pick up the twine-wrapped bundle of the caravan's mail, Herman strolled back to the lobby with a spring in his step.
To his surprise, he found Winter deep in conversation with a dapper stranger who looked to be in his mid twenties. He had an English face, a Virginia accent, and a hat and suit in the height of New York fashion that would have set them back the price of another three new wagons.
Herman liked him instantly and instantly distrusted the feeling. A man he perceived as a kindred spirit was no one you wanted to turn your back on.
"Brother Fuller, I trust our business went well?"
"Can't complain."
Winter chuckled. "A wise decision. I've been pleased to make the acquaintance of Mr. Carter here. Mr. Carter, Herman Fuller, my apprentice and right hand man."
"Mr. Fuller, delighted to meet you, sir." He extended a hand to Herman. "Hezekiah Carter, at your service. Zeke to my friends. I was just telling the reverend that I consider this meeting fortuitous in the extreme."
Herman shook hands absently, trusting his nose to pick up on the subtext. Under the urbane exterior, Zeke was a man who'd been at the long frayed edge of his patience. "How might our humble traveling church be able to assist you, Brother Carter?"
“Straight to the point.” He flashed a disarming smile. “My uncle's business recently acquired the manufacturing and distribution rights to a new kind of electric loud-speaking device. We had a small demonstration all set up for the next town hall meeting, but - well. Some, ah, internal rivalries on the city council seem to have slammed the door on us at the last moment. My uncle wanted a test of the device under field conditions, with a dash of local publicity, and may I say he is a man who values results.”
“And what will it cost us to help you produce these results?” There'd been genuine fear in that bit about his uncle, Herman judged. Maybe this wasn't some hotshot grifter.
Winter frowned, and seemed about to object, but Carter broke in.
“No, no, that's an entirely fair question, I'd have asked the same. We expect a short speech on the wonderful new equipment on loan from Carter Premium Acquisitions, and for the loud-speaker to be used throughout the night's service.”
“What's in it for you?”
“Assurance that the device works as expected under field conditions, and publicity which might attract potential buyers. Not,” he glanced apologetically at the reverend, “that the workaday worshippers at a migratory revival tent are our usual class of customer. Tomorrow's town hall meeting was to have had some local attendees of considerable influence. But you draw a crowd, you're highly public, you're all I can get in a pinch and I'm due back at the home office in two weeks.”
“I'm inclined to accept this generous offer,” Winter said firmly. Herman acknowledged this with a slight nod; it was Winter's operation and his call. “It seems a wholesome and beneficial addition to our evening, and we'd be doing our neighbor a kindness in his hour of need.”
"That's magnificent news, reverend. You have my gratitude. I'll alert my assistants at once."
"If you're willing, Brother Winter, I'd like to go along with Zeke to see this loud-speaker myself, and consult with him on how to arrange it for best advantage," Herman said, sorting out the mail as he spoke. If there was more going on here than met the eye, he didn't intend to let Carter out of his sight if he could help it.
All of a sudden he froze, staring down at the mail in his hands as if it had just grown fangs and bit him. There, among invoices and advertisements and letters from grateful attendees was an envelope that looked utterly out of place - the heavy cream paper, his name written out "c/o Brother Winter's Revival Caravan of Hope and Mercy." The familiar looping calligraphy.
Mother.
Herman recovered rapidly enough, he hoped, to avoid notice. But he barely heard his mentor's agreeable reply as he turned to toss the advertisements in a dustbin, slipping the letter into an inside pocket, body shielding the movement.
How had she found him? Why had she bothered, after all this time, to look? She'd been fond of him, of course, as the living symbol of her own ascendance to the head of the family. Which had in turn precipitated her rise to pre-eminence in the shrunken circle of American practitioners of Nälkä who'd survived the Civil War. But he'd never actually been of use to her, nor had there been much hope that this would change. Aloysius, besides his otherworldly talents, had a healthy amount of ambition and ruthless cunning, and Lucretia was so far above him they'd stopped bothering to test each other. Herman could not for the life of him imagine what Mother wanted, yet it might be worse than fatal to refuse her.
Carter grinned at him again, riffling through a few letters of his own as they exited the courthouse. His speculative gaze promised aggravating questions. Whatever the other man thought was the cause of Herman's unease, it apparently amused him. At least someone was amused.
He did not have time for this right now. That letter had probably been in the mail for months - he could wait a few days to read it. Miles away from here. In private. Inwardly, Herman began to curse in every language he knew.

Cousin Zeke,
Sorry to have sent you out on a wild goose chase like this. If you're reading this you're better than halfway home, and it looks like you'll have to do quality testing on the way back rather than use the labs here. Father says to run this through the front company. As far as the men in our department can tell from the documents we got, this one will work as advertised. Father needs tangible proof before he can even suggest it to the other partners for his upcoming project.
The Fairfax city council are small fry; I did what I could with them but this area doesn't have much of interest for us. We've heard Mitterling will be there, though - get to him if you can. Rumor has it his mechanical innovations are something out of the common way. I'd rather get him thinking it's his own idea to work for us before Father does something rash. Reliable engineers are hard to come by, and if this loud-speaker doesn't work, Marshall's boys are likely to pay this lot a visit. It would be best to have a replacement lined up beforehand.
I've sent copies of everything I've got that might help you. Keep it close, and be careful. The whole reason Mitterling's relocating is he's had a rash of thefts and vandalism at his previous workshop. My best guess, based on local intelligence, is he used to be of a more orthodox disposition and his former friends consider him a heretic.
Hope to see you soon, and in the best of health (for both of us),
Justus Carter

Today, in the itinerary Justus had sent, was marked down for making a series of calls to what passed for influential men in the area. Hezekiah had planned to discuss the upcoming town hall meeting with them, impress them with the firm's majesty and omnipresence, and feel them out for potential purchases. The apprentice preacher who'd attached himself to Zeke like a surly, glowering lamprey only underscored how badly this trip had already gone wrong. Now he was mentally revising his list with a hatchet as the two of them strode down the lane to his rented lodgings.
The overlap between "men uncle Ruprecht would be interested in seeing walk into his office looking to make a purchase" and "men who would attend evening services at a traveling revival tent with a mass of filthy laborers" was virtually nonexistent. His uncle would be furious. Then again, uncle Ruprecht seemed to spend his life in alternating (and occasionally simultaneous) states of apoplectic fury and withering sarcasm, which impressed his wealthy clients and drove his staff to heights of terrified genius.
This whole madcap enterprise, from start to finish, was nothing more than Carter overreaching his responsibilities within the firm. Zeke knew it. His harried cousin Justus knew it, and furthermore knew better than to write it down. It was impossible to imagine Darke not knowing it. Half the reason his uncle was driving them so hard on this was that he had to present a fait accompli or risk reprisals from the other partners.
Zeke reflected, with growing ebullience, that as long as he followed the spirit as well as the letter of his instructions, none of the resulting debacle would be his fault. If the worst came of it, why, it would have come no matter what he did. He'd been put in an impossible situation. The only proper response to an impossible situation was to improvise.
He turned to his traveling companion.
"After we've inspected the gear, would you mind delaying our departure for a few hours? I have some business associates in town whom I absolutely must call upon today."
Fuller cocked his head, apparently taken aback. Perhaps he had expected a different question. "And I'm supposed to wait with your assistants until you return?"
"If you prefer, but I was very much hoping you would be willing to accompany me. Advertise both our wares in concert, as it were."
The young preacher looked adorable when he was at a loss for words. Zeke almost swooned. But no, this was a religious fellow, best not to ask. Not right away at least. He wondered if he had a sister.
"I'm game," Fuller replied, smile tugging at the side of his mouth. "Let us go forth to spread the gospels of the Lord and Carter Premium Acquisitions."

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“This Scranton Reality Anchor thing seems useful as hell. A system that detects and cancels out effects from distorted reality? Why don't we use them everywhere? In containment, maybe?”
Researcher Charles Vaux, fresh in his promotion to Level 3 and boggling over new permissions and new revelations, looked at a draft for an experimental procedures set and tapped his pen on it.
“Mostly because they're dangerous,” said Doctor Sophia Light. They were in her office. “You can't see it yet, but PPE for working with this involves a remotely-operated machine in an isolated chamber. Power supply is totally disconnected until start-time, so it doesn't accidentally turn on while somebody's in the room. There's a reason we're not using them with organics. They're very lethal.”
“Figures,” muttered Vaux. “Maybe one day, we'll get a version of the miracle technology that doesn't happen to also emit lethal amounts of ionizing radiation, but til then, screw us, I guess.”
“It's actually more interesting than that,” Light said. “Garrison's lab worked on this once. It's not ionizing radiation. It's not a byproduct. There's this particular enzyme, converts 5-amino-3-imidazole carboxylate into aminoimadazole.” She paused. “Wait, 4-imidazole.”
“You're right, this is fascinating.”
“It's a precursor for glycine synthesis. Essential enzyme, all eukaryotes have it. That enzyme seems to shut down in the Scranton field. If you go inside while it's on, you don't die instantly, but a few hours later. Boom.”
“Jesus.” Vaux shuddered.
“It just stops working. I looked into the mechanism of that enzyme a while ago. We don't know what it is. Not too unusual, right? There are a lot of enzymes, a lot of mechanisms that are mysterious. Matter of time. The structure of the enzyme is also unusual, no similarities with other enzymes. That doesn't mean much on its own. But it is strange.”
“…Huh.”
“There's also an entire genus of archaea - Methanosarcina, I believe - that disappears in a Scranton Reality Anchor field. Diss. A. Peers. You can measure the mass difference. It's not a common organism, no real reason to notice. But it came up in a test somehow, and, well.”
“It what?”
“You notice other things cropping up in sites that have installed the Anchors, sometimes. Ecological disturbances. System failures. It's not just biology. Some colleagues have noticed text corruption in certain books stored near the fields. Books, can you believe it? They had to remove it at Site 80 in Kurdistan, because it was reacting poorly with Aramaic. The entire language.”
“Uh - ”
“Foundation Physicists I've talked to haven't noticed anything. Chemists either. But one site partially collapsed after their Anchor was first activated, and I don't know for certain why, but I have an architect colleague with a grant in the works who has some ideas. I can't tell you why any of this happens. All I have are guesses. But if you're wondering why these devices aren't used everywhere, well, this is why.”
“What the fuck? Why all of these weird side effects? This is bizarre.”
“Oh, I don't think they're side effects. I think the Scranton Reality Anchor is working exactly as intended.”
Light shrugged. “Science, technology, art, progress, they're not… they're not usually careful reasoned extrapolation from fundamental truths, right? They're accidents, they're intuitions, they're lucky guesses. Anomalies aren't separate from reality. Anyone can do a ritual to summon a demon who grants wishes. Anyone can follow instructions to turn uranium into a nuclear weapon. So the FBI watches out for anyone purifying uranium, and we watch out for anyone summoning demons, because you have to specialize, I guess.
“And we can't actually contain Aramaic, or glycine,” Light went on. “So nobody brings that up, and the Overseers don't ask us to try, and we study something else and try to keep the world from ending. You see what I'm saying?”
“Jesus.” Vaux chewed on his bottom lip, and his hands gripped the seat of his chair. “This is why you put this part of the experiment, with the Scranton Anchor, in here, right? To show me. I think I get it.”
“Oh, no.” Light waved a hand. “I actually think the Anchor would be a good instrument here. Let me know if you disagree. But really, this kind of stuff comes up all the time. The Foundation is just really good at making reality look coherent. Anyways, welcome to Level 3.”